Traitor and the Tunnel (11 page)

Honoria searched methodical y from left to right, from top to bottom. When she reached a smal cupboard in the darkest corner, she paused, her sudden stil ness as clear as any announcement. She selected a smal jug – it was glazed white earthenware, with a scene painted on it in blue –

and, holding her candle closer, peered closer at the shelf on which it had stood. The candle’s wick was long and it produced a high, bright flame that il uminated her features beautiful y. Mary was surprised to realize that Honoria Dalrymple was a handsome woman – at least, while her features were lit with excitement and anticipation, as they now were. Whatever she’d sought was very near. She smiled – a feline look of satisfaction.

Mary took three careful steps back round the nearest corner, preparing to retrace her steps with some speed. Once Honoria had her prize, she would leave as swiftly as possible and the last place Mary wanted to be was in her path. Such caution had its difficulties: she could no longer see what Honoria was doing. She heard a distinct click, and then a low scraping sound, rather as though something heavy was being dragged over flagstones.

Honoria took two audible steps, then gave a sudden, high gasp. Mary tensed, ready either to fly or to confront her. There came that scraping sound once more, punctuated by a second metal ic click.

Time slowed in inverse relation to Mary’s wild impatience, and she strained her ears for more information. Yet as the seconds crawled past, she heard nothing more. Incredible as it seemed, the kitchens fel stil and quiet. The perfect silence was marred only by the faint sounds of mice scurrying in the kitchens’ deepest recesses. Mary waited ten seconds, and then another ten. This might wel be a trap. If Honoria suspected she was being watched, this was a classic strategy for flushing out an inept fol ower. Only after a ful five minutes did Mary feel secure enough to inch forward again, moving slowly and poised to freeze at any moment. When she gained the corner, she took a moment to focus, to listen with renewed attention to the peculiar stil ness of the room. Then, taking a smooth, quiet breath, she peered round the corner – to discover the impossible.

Honoria Dalrymple was gone.

Mary blinked, reluctant to believe the evidence of her senses. Honoria was a tal woman – not the sort who could tuck herself neatly into a cupboard. Yet the herbarium was undeniably empty. There was only one logical explanation, and Mary approached it with caution. She knew about secret doors, of course –

there was one in the attic of the Agency, for heaven’s sake, that had impressed her no end when she’d first been recruited. Yet it seemed far-fetched in this context.

In grand houses of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it was not uncommon to have a “priest hole” – a special y-built hiding-place for persecuted Roman Catholic priests. But Buckingham Palace was a new “Palace”, and Queen Victoria the first monarch to live in it. Even these kitchens, original and unmodified, were only a hundred and fifty years old – nearly new, in comparison with most other palaces and châteaux. So an old-fashioned escape route – built in times of religious conflict and dire need – was impossible. Yet there Mary stood, in the herbarium, very much alone.

With a careful, light touch, Mary found the shelf that had so fascinated Honoria, and the blue-and-white jug she’d inspected. It was a coarse piece of pottery

– the type used for food preparation, but never service, in a house as grand as this. Without more light, she couldn’t decipher the scene, but surely it wasn’t the jug that had caused that clicking sound.

The jug was merely a signal; a place marker. She lifted it careful y from the shelf, noting its precise angle and placement. One had to assume that everything was a snare. The shelf was unpainted wood, somewhat dusty – another potential trap, Mary realized, since it would render visible even the slightest touch. Yet Honoria had already disturbed the shelf. It was worth the risk.

She felt about delicately, unsure of what she was seeking. But the instant her fingertips met something sharp and metal ic – colder than bare wood – she smiled. It was a latch, invisibly mounted at the very edge of the shelf. In her experience, that meant a simple sort of door – nothing that would fool a team of professionals out for blood, but a concealed entrance al the same.

She pressed gently against the shelf. Nothing.

But when she pul ed it towards her, instead, she immediately felt it give. It was only a smal shift – a fraction of an inch – but it moved, al the same.

Mary’s pulse, already rapid, leapt so strongly she felt it throb in each fingertip, in her throat. A secret door in Buckingham Palace! And Honoria Dalrymple had just walked through it. She control ed a ferocious impulse to dash after her in pursuit. Not now, when she hadn’t a clue, or even a candle. Mary replaced the blue-and-white jug with care, turned and left the kitchens.

Eleven

Five minutes later, she was properly equipped: coatless and wearing soft-soled shoes, carrying a candle, a box of lucifers and her hairpin lock-pick.

As she came back down the service stairs, with more than usual care, a distant clock struck midnight. It was early yet, she told herself, trying to contain her sudden simmering anticipation at the prospect of adventure. It was quite likely that Honoria would remain behind the secret door for some time.

She couldn’t just blunder in. She would have to improvise. Yet that was one of the things that made her happiest, and so it was with a very real lightening of spirit, if not physical discomfort, that Mary settled in to wait, at the other end of the kitchens near the larder.

It was a deeply familiar situation – sitting on her haunches, in the dark. She’d spent countless hours on “watch training” at the Agency, learning to maintain her sense of time’s passing without even the skies for reference; remaining alert but not overfocused; keeping her limbs from fal ing asleep, without the privilege of movement. It was, on the surface, a simple matter but one she had struggled with. Her propensity was either to remain so furiously alert and stil that she found her joints stiff and seized just when she most needed them, or to ponder the possibilities of each case so intently that she lost track of time. As Anne and Felicity noted, she was a creature of extremes.

Neither of these occurred tonight. Instead, she committed a new and astonishing error: fal ing into a daydream. It was something she’d never done before,

and

something

she’d

never

quite

understood. It had always seemed impossible to become so distracted in uncomfortable, high-tension situations where nearly al questions remained unresolved. But this evening, Mary was a few miles and many years away, sifting through fragmented memories of Limehouse and her father, when she became aware of the scraping sound of the hidden door. She started and, compounding her error, gasped slightly.

There was a second gasp, like a magnified echo of her own. Then, Honoria’s voice: “Who’s there?”

Mary was instantly awake and furious with herself.

However, there was nothing to do but remain perfectly stil and silent.

“I know you’re there,” said Honoria, after another pause. Bold words, but her voice was higher and thinner than usual.

Mary’s tension eased a fraction. Fear was good –

for her, at least. The next few seconds must have stretched endlessly for Honoria, but Mary’s internal clock was working once again. She heard an uncertain shuffle, and then another. Impossible to know in which direction.

“Show yourself, if you’re there,” said Honoria, and this time her voice held a distinct quaver.

Perhaps half a minute ticked silently past. She could see little of Honoria – primarily the dazzle of her candle, and her general shape behind that. But she was safe enough: as long as Honoria continued to hold that candle at arm’s length, al beyond it would appear black. And even if she extinguished her flame, Mary would have time to move away silently before Honoria’s eyes adjusted. So Mary remained poised but relaxed, now, and waited for Honoria to act.

The lady-in-waiting hesitated a minute longer.

Took a half-step, as though to investigate. Mary tensed, readying herself for action. But after another pause, Honoria turned on her heel and hurried away.

She had sounded thoroughly rattled. And she was snooping about a part of the Palace she’d no business being in, going through concealed doorways. Mary wondered, again, about Honoria Dalrymple’s position within the ranks of the ladies-in-waiting, and made a note to check with the Agency about her history. Come to think of it, they’d not come back with information about Honoria’s possible connection to Beaulieu-Buckworth, either…

When Honoria’s footsteps had receded and she was definitely alone once more, Mary moved decisively towards the secret door. She loved these moments, when endless possibilities of action and adventure stretched before her. It was tempting to savour them, to play at heightening her suspense.

But this wasn’t a game, and she, like Honoria, was trespassing. They both risked severe punishment if caught, although it was a fine debate as to which was the graver penalty: social disgrace for a lady-in-waiting or loss of livelihood for a housemaid.

Mary shook her head, both figuratively and literal y.

She was wasting time. And, she reminded herself sternly, it was possible that nothing of real interest lay behind that secret door. Neat rows of jams and pickles, perhaps. Or a child’s play-closet. Yet even as her fingers found the catch, she didn’t real y believe that…

The door swung open with a faint creak. A new smel , thin and cold and sharp, fil ed her nostrils. This was a surprise – she’d expected claggy damp, perhaps mildew or mould. But not this aroma, which was more reminiscent of riverbanks than anything else. She frowned into the darkness, unable to discern any sort of depth or detail. Even so, she was reluctant to strike a light. As Honoria had just demonstrated, a candle in the darkness il uminated only the things nearest. And it alerted possible observers for hundreds of yards al around.

Instead, she stepped through the doorway and felt about the frame with her fingertips. One of the Agency’s first rules was Secure your exit. Her fingers moved swiftly, careful y over the unpainted wood. There: set into the top of the frame was a sturdy metal latch that, when depressed, would release the door. Mary tested the catch. Then she swung the door closed behind her and pressed it again. So far, so good.

Now, inside the secret door, she listened for clues as to what sort of hiding-place this was. The floor gave slightly beneath her shoes – not packed earth but wooden floorboards, springy and rotting with age. How old did that make them? Perhaps thirty or forty years, depending on what lay beneath and how damp it was. Safely during the reign of George I I, at least. Mary’s mind whirled. The old King George and Queen Charlotte were reputed to have had an ideal marriage – congenial and affectionate and dignified

– and had had fifteen children, if she remembered her history lessons correctly. It made a concealed entrance of this sort less likely than ever – unless it had been built for someone other than the King.

A smal sound – a rattle or a trickle of some sort –

recal ed her to the present. It wasn’t an echo, but it sounded distant – as though where she stood was merely the starting-point of a long corridor. And so it was. Certain now that she was alone, Mary lit her candle and, blinking against its sudden dazzle, was astonished to find herself in a narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel. The cobwebbed brick wal s curved up to become the ceiling, which was scarcely tal er than Mary herself. She touched the ceiling thoughtful y: a film of greasy dust coated her fingertip. The floorboards were indeed rotting but bore no particular signs of heavy use: the edges were nearly as worn as the centres, so she could at least discount the possibility of tens of thousands of urgent footsteps wearing them down.

She moved careful y through the tunnel, the yel ow glare of her candle skittering wildly off the wal s, making her dizzy. It was her hand, she realized: it was shaking with excitement and nerves. She relaxed her fingers about the smal grips she used to carry the candle – the only sensible way to avoid being continual y burnt by hot wax – and its light steadied perceptibly. Better.

Her progress through the tunnel felt timeless. She couldn’t be more than fifty yards from the secret door, yet the stil , stale atmosphere made it seem endlessly distant. It was the tunnel’s shape, too – a series of short, straight lengths with sudden forty-five-degree turns that seemed designed to disorient its occupant. Then, quite suddenly, she came to an end – or, as she quickly realized, a beginning. It was a large hole in the tunnel floor, neatly circled with brick. It was much too large and distinctive to fal into, unless one were tumbling pel -mel through the darkness. On peering inside, Mary saw an ancient, rusting iron ladder set into the bricks that lined its wal s. It was a vertical continuation of the tunnel, nothing more. What troubled her was that with a sole candle, she couldn’t see its end – only the ladder disappearing into blackness. She paused for only a moment. Then, transferring her candle to her left hand and accepting philosophical y the inevitable damage to her dress, she began her descent.