The Traitor and the Tunnel.
Lee, Y. S.
To the LW Quartet.
Prologue.
Sat.u.r.day, 11 February 1860.
Off Limehouse Reach, London.
The old man was al but barefoot, with only a mismatched pair of leather flaps, much eroded by time and wear, bound to his feet with strips of rags.
The feet themselves seemed scarcely worth protecting: grotesquely swol en, purple with cold, the toenails entirely torn off and yet they kept moving over the slick, rain-soaked cobbles. He shuffled crabwise, shaking as with a palsy; a leathery stick of a man rol ed in shreds of rotting cloth. Beggars and vagrants were a common enough sight in the seedier parts of the city, yet there was something about this one that made al recoil. Some stared after him. Others, wiser, kept their eyes averted.
None of this signified to the man. He couldn"t have told the date of his last meal, his last bath, his last night"s peaceful kip. But he knew what he needed. It was just round this corner the last, endless, filthy corner in this city he detested with al he was and had been. Hate was the only subject that meant anything; the only emotion that lit his eyes, on occasion. But tonight was too cold even for that.
With a last gasp of effort, he turned into the al ey.
The entrance he wanted a hole, rather than a doorway had a smal sign above, for those who cared to read it: AWAN SURGAWI HEAVENLY CLOUD, in Malay. Funny. He"d always known it was here. Scarcely remembered a time when he"d have walked past it with indifference. Tonight, though, he paused and read the sign for the first time. It was a d.a.m.ned lie, like everything else in filthy, freezing, G.o.dforsaken London. In England.
The coins were knotted into the hem of his shirt.
He"d felt their weight like a promise al evening, every time he moved. Now, he stumbled down the narrow, uneven stairs into a murky hel that couldn"t have been less like heaven. Of that much he was certain. But it was good enough for him.
Sayed saw him through the gloom and, with a flick of the eyes, directed him to a straw mat. The man stumbled to it, as close to grat.i.tude as he"d ever come, and his old bones cracked loudly as he settled himself, as though praying to the battered hookah on the floor. Sayed squatted patiently while the gnarled fingers struggled with rotting fabric.
Eventual y, the coins dropped into the waiting hand.
"Not much here, Uncle," said Sayed dubiously.
The man didn"t reply. He"d come with less, in the past.
Sayed sighed and pressed his lips together. "I"l see what I can do." He measured a parsimonious amount of opium heavily cut with cheapest tobacco into the hookah"s bowl. After a brief pause, during which he refused to meet the old man"s gaze, he added a little more. He covered the bowl with a smal metal disc, then lit a match. Once the flame caught, he pressed the snake-like smoking tube into the old man"s trembling palm.
"Wait," he said in a warning tone. "Not yet."
The old man kept an impatient vigil as the water heated, sufficient steam built up. At long last, it was ready. Raising the mouthpiece to his lips, lungs hol ow and aching for the thick smoke, he felt a very specific sense of calm amidst his frantic need. This was new an omen. He disliked both those things intensely. Yet as he sucked on the pipe, welcoming the fragrant poison into his body, it was the calm that remained with him. As though his troubles were nearly over. As though tonight, in some way, he would meet his fate.
Pipe dreams, he thought, and drifted away.
One.
The same evening.
Buckingham Palace.
Her Majesty Victoria, by the Grace of G.o.d, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, had a lampshade on her head. Again.
"A lamp!" shouted Prince Leopold. Aged six, he was of a literal disposition.
"You"ve already guessed that, Leo," said Princess Helena. "Give somebody else a go."
"A hot-air bal oon?" asked Prince Arthur. He was sprawled across the rug, keeping half an eye on the game of charades while building a model ship.
"A fine guess, but rather disproportioned, don"t you think?" said the Queen, a twinkle in her eye.
"There isn"t a lampshade in the Palace big enough to turn me into a Montgolfier."
"One more guess," said Helena. "Bea, shal I give you a clue?"
Princess Beatrice nodded vigorously and quickly pul ed her finger from her nostril. Helena bent to whisper in her sister"s ear. In a moment, the toddler"s eyes lit up. "A Christmas tree!" she shrieked, to the family"s amus.e.m.e.nt.
There was a vigorous round of applause for the tiniest Princess, and her father smiled indulgently.
"Wel done, children especial y for guessing before your mother set her hair on fire."
"And before our guests arrived to find me wearing a lampshade," laughed Her Majesty. "Think of the gossip! The scandal!"
At her station in the corner of the Yel ow Drawing Room, where she was arranging a tableful of sherry gla.s.ses, Mary bit back a smile. Queen Victoria"s public reputation was for demure virtue and domestic bliss. In private, however, her casual high spirits sometimes reduced her family to tears of laughter. In the six weeks Mary had been posted at the Palace, she"d heard Her Majesty tease her children, banter with her husband, and even engage in wild games of hide-and-seek which seemed always to end with shrieking laughter as the Queen was discovered beneath a piano, crouched on a window-sil , or once, memorably, inside a suit of armour.
The Queen moved between her roles with ease, and this early-evening gathering was a perfect example. After the young Princes and Princesses had had an early supper in the nursery, they came down to the drawing room to see their parents before going to bed. It was quite common for Her Majesty to invite a handful of extra-privileged dinner guests to join them at this time, for sherry, before bidding her children good night and proceeding to her state dinner, resplendent in silk train and tiara.
Clearly, she was determined to emphasize her domesticity as a central feature of her character as sovereign.
Mary finished arranging the sherry table and glanced about the room. No other alterations seemed necessary, as tonight"s dinner was a relatively intimate affair with only two dozen guests.
She slipped into the corridor, pa.s.sing an under-butler bearing a drinks tray. Her progress was arrested, however, when a lady-in-waiting rounded the corner.
Like a wel -trained servant, Mary instantly stopped and turned to face the wal becoming, as it were, part of the furnishings. It was a serious breach of domestic discipline not to do so, and Mary had once been delayed for nearly quarter of an hour when two of the elder Princesses had stopped in the Long Gal ery to examine a painting.
This particular lady-in-waiting, though, spoke to her. "Who is that?"
Mary turned and curtseyed. "It is Quinn, ma"am."
"Quinn. Tel the butler that the Earl of Wintermarch is prevented by il ness from dining with Her Majesty this evening."
"Very good, Mrs Dalrymple. Is there anything else?"
"What? No, of course not. Why do you ask?"
"No reason, ma"am. I shal tel Mr Brooks immediately."
"See that you do."
Mary watched Honoria Dalrymple stalk away with faint amus.e.m.e.nt. She was a greyhound of a woman in her late thirties thin and elegant, with cold green eyes and a habit of sniffing whenever she entered a room, as though mistrustful of what might lurk in its corners. Such suspicions were probably wel founded: it was general y servants who occupied room corners, and they universal y detested Mrs Dalrymple.
It was no mystery why. Her peremptory ways were normal enough (although the royal family managed to speak with civility to their servants), but she was a known troublemaker. On one of Mary"s first days in service, the a.s.sistant pastry-cook pul ed her aside to warn her: the lady-in-waiting changed her mind, and blamed the servants; ordered boiled fowls, then pitched a fit and insisted that she"d said roasted. It was impossible to please Mrs Dalrymple, and no one tried seriously. The trick, said the pastry-cook, was not to let her put you in the wrong before the family.
Mary returned below stairs and presented herself to the head butler, Mr Brooks. As she delivered her message, the top of his bald head turned scarlet.
"Did she say what il ness he had?"
Mary was startled. "No, sir. Just "prevented by il ness"."
Mr Brooks muttered something extremely impolite. The Earl of Wintermarch"s absence put a hitch in the seating-plan. So did Mrs Dalrymple"s report of his indisposition, as it was only moderately reliable. Would it be worse to have an empty place at table when the company proceeded into the dining hal , or to have laid no place at al for such a high-ranking guest? "Get up there," said the head butler, final y, "and tel Richardson to keep his eye out for the Earl. If he"s miraculously recovered, I need to know instantly."
"Yes, sir."
"And tel Potter, too, in case the Earl slips into the pen." The "pen" short for "cattle pen" was the staff nickname for the White Room, where less privileged dinner guests were given their pre-dinner sherries.
"Yes, sir."
"Quinn, why are you dil y-dal ying there? I expected you back ful y ten minutes ago."
Mary spun about to see the housekeeper, to whom she official y reported, standing at the end of the corridor, arms akimbo and lips pressed tight.
From this angle, she looked not unlike an awkward reproduction of Mrs Dalrymple. "I"m coming immediately, Mrs Shaw."
Mr Brooks may have shared Mary"s impression.
His tone was frosty as he said, "You mustn"t blame Quinn, Mrs Shaw; she was charged with a message for me, and I have only just finished giving her further instructions."
"I am surprised you should so forget the chain of command as to give orders to one of my domestics, Mr Brooks." Mrs Shaw"s military language was habitual, and seldom failed to inspire eye-rol ing when her back was turned.
"It is a matter of urgency," he replied. "Quinn wil return the very instant she"s relayed my message."
Mary seized her opportunity. "Indeed, sir. Thank you for understanding, ma"am." And she fled.
It was going to be a long evening.
Two.
Midnight, the same night Below stairs at Buckingham Palace One of the last rituals each night, after al duties had been completed and staff prayers conducted, was the doling-out of hot-water bottles. The servants, weary and eager for their beds, queued in relative silence outside the housekeeper"s room. Mrs Shaw cal ed them in one at a time, inspecting their uniforms and appearances for the last time before permitting them to take a large stoneware bottle fil ed with boiling water and tightly stoppered. The hot-water bottles were heavy, c.u.mbersome and pure heaven in an unheated attic room in midwinter.
This evening, when Mary presented herself, Mrs Shaw had an envelope on her desk. "Quinn, there"s a little note here for you. I don"t know when it arrived.
From your mother again, I presume, though it"s a bit early for her weekly letter."
Mary tried not to scowl at the housekeeper"s presumption. "It looks like her hand, Mrs Shaw." Al letters and parcels directed to servants were first delivered to their supervisors. Although this was, in theory, for efficiency"s sake, Mary had heard from other servants that Mrs Shaw occasional y opened and read her underlings" letters, citing "morals" as her justification.
Mrs Shaw paused before placing the letter in Mary"s open hand. "Have you laid the breakfast table ready for morning?"
"Yes, ma"am."
"How did you fold the napkins?"
"Into fans, as you said I should, ma"am."
A sniff. "Are there fresh candles in the candelabra?"
"Yes, ma"am." It had been such a cold, dark winter. And Her Majesty breakfasted early often before sunrise, during these dark months.
"Your ap.r.o.n is dirty." This last was in a tone of satisfaction.
Mary looked down at the tiny smear of orange that marred the edge of her ap.r.o.n"s crisp whiteness.
From the lily stamens, she supposed, whose dye was indelible. She ruined an ap.r.o.n every other time she changed the flower-water. "I shal replace it immediately, ma"am."
"See that you do." Mrs Shaw dropped the letter into Mary"s hand and nodded; Mary was dismissed.
As she climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the servants" quarters, a scalding hot bottle tucked into the crook of her arm, she wondered again what she"d done to offend Mrs Shaw. The woman was an exacting housekeeper, an older woman with rigid ways of doing things. But that didn"t account for the angry joy she exhibited when Mary was in error. It was quite possible that she resented Mary"s sudden appointment; perhaps she"d had a favourite in mind for the plum position of upper housemaid. It was rather a change in the Palace, for a newcomer to be placed so high. Of course, Mrs Shaw had no way of knowing just why it was so.
It had been someone high up Mary wasn"t permitted to know who, for her own safety who"d first approached the Agency about the delicate matter at the Palace. Smal ornaments and trinkets were going missing. The first, a tiny tortoiseshel snuffbox that had belonged to Queen Victoria"s uncle, the Duke of York, might have been gone for some time before it was missed in the densely ornamented White Drawing Room. But the second, a Dresden shepherdess, had been prized by Her Majesty"s mother. Its disappearance inspired a spring-cleaning and general inventory of the Palace"s domestic decorations. Yet despite the heightened safety measures inst.i.tuted by the Master of the Household locking of drawing-room doors at night, for example the thefts continued. No obvious suspect emerged. There was, apparently, no trail to fol ow.
Cal ing in the Metropolitan Police was impossible, of course: much too sensational, and inclined to stir high-society gossip. And without clear evidence, the Master of the Household declined to sack individual employees. And so, for this pettiest of crimes, Mary found herself posing as a seasoned housemaid in the Queen"s own household. It was her first a.s.signment as a newly elevated ful member of the Agency; she"d completed her training just before Christmas. And while she stil dreamed of complex a.s.signments, a hint of danger and a twisty problem to puzzle out, she accepted this staid little case philosophical y. She was content to pay her dues.
It was a soft landing, as far as domestic service went. Food was plentiful, uniforms provided and some upper servants even had their own tiny bedrooms in the attics. It didn"t prevent them from grousing, however. The food was too plain: Her Majesty was suspicious of French sauces and pungent herbs. The evenings were dul : Her Majesty had abstemious ways, and so fine wines and spirits were served only to guests. And gossip was forbidden. It was this last stricture that Mary found most frustrating. After nearly six weeks at the Palace, she"d heard nothing of use about the thefts.
The servants were banned from even mentioning the fact, and so Mary"s weekly report to the Agency i.e., her mother was very thin indeed.
With a sigh of relief, Mary entered the chil y bedroom and closed the door behind her. It hadn"t a lock. Amy, her new roommate, would be up soon, but the current silence was a rare pleasure. The envelope was stil sealed. Unless Mrs Shaw had taken the time to re-gum it, her "mother"s" words were stil private.
My dear Mary, I had a letter from my cousin Alfred, who you recall was married last year. He is now father to a little boy called Edwin. The birth was difficult but now all danger is past and the baby is, by the midwife"s own report, a healthy babe. Will you travel down to Wimbledon this Sunday to help out?
Your loving Mama They"d agreed to use the simplest of codes, for speed: every eleventh word contained the Agency"s real instructions. What she read now recall; little danger; report Sunday was utterly surprising, and perplexing.
The Agency seldom recal ed its undercover agents. If it did, it was usual y because of grave personal danger: a disguise gone wrong, or a new and volatile element of risk. But this message was the inverse of what she"d been trained to expect. If there was so little danger, why not permit her to stay and achieve what she could?