Traitor and the Tunnel (31 page)

Mary stared. She’d seldom asked Anne a personal question. Even “How do you do”

sometimes seemed intrusive, depending on Anne’s demeanour. Yet this scene was so startling that the words tumbled from her mouth. “Miss Treleaven, what’s wrong? Are you unwel ?”

Anne shook her head. “I am quite wel , my dear.

But – there’s something we – I – ought to tel you. Sit down.”

Al thoughts of Queen Victoria, explosives, James Easton and even Lang Jin Hai drained from Mary’s mind. She lowered herself mechanical y into the closest chair. She wasn’t going to like what she heard – of this much she was certain. “I’m listening, ma’am.”

Anne did not sit. Instead, she paced the width of the room, from her desk to the bookcase and back again. And as she pivoted, Mary noticed that half an inch of Anne’s slip peeped from beneath her skirt hem. This, for Anne, was the equivalent of near-nakedness in others.

Mary sat in tortured suspense. And now that she had leisure for visions of doom and tragedy, a cold hand clutched her heart: something had happened to Felicity Frame. It was the only answer. Anne would never, otherwise, be alone in such a time of distress.

And the obvious disorganization around her – it was no wonder Mary’s requests for information had gone unanswered. “What’s happened to Mrs Frame?”

Anne’s smile was weary. “You always were fond of unanswerable questions.” She stopped pacing and laced her fingers together, as though about to recite a poem. “My dear, I expect you’ve been aware of undercurrents and tensions for some time. The day-to-day running of the Agency is a complicated affair, and Mrs Frame and I have worked together for nearly two decades. It’s quite common for col eagues, in such situations, to fal out, and you’ve already seen some evidence of differences of opinion between the two of us.”

Mary nodded but did not speak. There was nothing to say.

“What has happened recently, however, is of graver import. There is no clever or subtle way to say this, Mary: after a fundamental disagreement about the future direction of the Agency, Mrs Frame and I have agreed to part ways.”

Mary stared. She’d expected to hear of Felicity dead or missing. Or of a case gone badly wrong.

She hadn’t expected this – a nasty spat, the dissolution of a business arrangement. It was both dreary and petty, adjectives she’d never associated with the Agency. So much for her childish notions of

“home”. “What—” Her voice was rusty and she cleared her throat before trying again. “What are the consequences for the Agency and its operatives?”

Anne sighed. “Both simple and complicated, I’m afraid. Mrs Frame has, for some time, been keen to change the scope of her work. She has wanted to admit men to the Agency and to cultivate certain powerful contacts she made in government. You’ve been privy to some of her suggestions – for example, that we invite your friend James Easton to join the Agency. She was also responsible for committing the Agency to the case you worked on at St Stephen’s Tower, which was so very nearly disastrous.”

“Bad-mouthing me behind my back, Anne? I didn’t expect that from you.” The voice – rich, dramatic, slightly amused – came from the door. It was Felicity, of course – extravagantly dressed, as usual, in a garnet-coloured silk gown. A scarlet woman, walking away from her home, her friends, her dependants. “Good afternoon, Mary. I see I’m just in time to balance the picture.” She waved a dismissive hand at Anne. “Oh, don’t ruffle up. It’s best for her to hear it from both of us.”

Anne swal owed something – likely her temper –

and said, “True. I’ve just explained your desire to make changes: adding male agents and chasing your Westminster contacts.”

“There’s no need to make it sound grubby.”

Felicity turned the force of her charisma onto Mary.

“Everything’s changing, Mary: London. Politics.

Society. The empire. Everything except the Agency. I don’t think that’s right, and I’m damned worried about being left behind.

“As you know, Anne and I differ on this matter.

This break has been coming for some time –

although I apologize if it is a complete shock to you –

and I’d hoped there would be a minimum of disruption and resentment.” She looked meaningful y at Anne. “But I suppose it’s always difficult, breaking apart an organization.”

Mary didn’t like this. Of course, she hated the idea of the Agency changing. But she specifical y disliked the way Anne and Felicity were sparring, sniping at each other like petty girls, rather than conversing as intel igent adults. “I thought the Agency was a col ective,” she said. “That’s how you described it to me before I even began my training.”

Anne nodded. “You are correct. But over the years, Mrs Frame and I have been its day-to-day managers. We maintain contact with clients, organize contracts, do al the background research that is so essential for the agents’ success.”

“In practice,” cut in Felicity, “we’ve a choice: whether to chart a new course for the Agency, or to continue straight on.”

“Shouldn’t you have asked al the agents for their positions? It’s not right to leave us in the dark, then present this fracture as a fait accompli.” She’d never spoken in such a tone to the two women; wouldn’t have dreamt it possible an hour earlier.

Anne’s smile was tight. “You make an excel ent point, Mary. That’s precisely what we ought to have done, had we been aware of the magnitude of Mrs Frame’s change of heart. I, for one, am ashamed of and disappointed in the way matters have played out.”

Felicity’s scowl was fleeting, almost immediately replaced by a look of regret. “My darling girl, fractures are just that: sudden and irreversible.

Unavoidable, even. But you’re quite correct, in that al you agents are autonomous and free to choose.

And that’s what I want to explain to you now.

“I shal be leaving the Agency to establish my own intel igence organization. It wil , as I’m sure Anne has mentioned to you, take a different approach to intel igence work – one that does not exclude men, but treats them as al ies; also one that seeks to expand its current field of expertise.

“As a ful y trained agent, you are free to choose whether you wish to stay with the Agency, which wil continue under Anne’s direction, or to fol ow me. You needn’t choose immediately, of course. But as our philosophical differences are quite clear, we hope this parting of ways wil be swift, if not painless.”

It seemed so simple, so very tidy, in Felicity’s words. And yet what she was proposing was nothing less than an undoing – an undermining of the Agency’s founding principles. If this reflected Felicity’s real interests, the truly astounding fact was that she’d remained at the Agency for so long.

“We understand, of course, that you’l have questions,” said Anne. She seemed more settled now that the news was out. Perhaps she was even buoyed by Felicity’s clear, cal ous explanation, which said much more about its author than it did about this new, shadowy rival to the Agency.

Mary had plenty of questions – but not the sort Anne imagined. Now that the initial shock was fading, she realized she had already seen the hairline fractures in Anne’s and Felicity’s united front.

The disputes had begun during the case at St Stephen’s Tower, as Anne had said. Sending Mary onto a building site disguised as a twelve-year-old boy had been a large step sideways for the Agency, and Anne had deplored it. And when Anne had assigned Mary to the Buckingham Palace case, Felicity had grumbled at its pettiness, its insignificance, while Anne had defended it as classic Agency casework.

But despite her anger and disappointment in Anne and Felicity, it made her path clear. She’d spent her whole life longing for family. Had found one here, at the Academy. A second, even more exciting one in the Agency. And now it was breaking up.

Even had she doubted the decision to al y herself with Lang, her choices were slowly, inexorably being removed.

Thirty-two

“What are you thinking?” asked Felicity.

Mary sat up straight. Organized her thoughts. “I ought to report on the assignment.” She gave the briefest of summaries; it hadn’t, after al , been a complex or convoluted case.

Anne and Felicity listened attentively enough. “So the reason the thefts stopped wasn’t because of gossip or excess caution – it was because the Prince was back at Cambridge for a spel .” Anne shook her head. “Sometimes the simplest explanations are the most difficult to credit.”

Mary nodded. “Yes. I spent so much time thinking about Palace politics and trying to work out the servants’ schedules, when al the time it was just a spoilt child who wanted a bit more pocket money.”

“Bit of a waste of time and resources, don’t you think?” said Felicity, her voice a lazy drawl.

Mary spoke quickly, before Anne could become defensive. “Seen narrowly, perhaps. But my presence there – combined with James Easton’s –

helped to avert a major disaster.” As she briefly narrated the story of the Earl of Wintermarch, Honoria Dalrymple and the crates of nitrocel ulose, she watched her soon-to-be-former managers.

Felicity listened with a quizzical smile that spoke of great satisfaction. Anne, more circumspect, listened with a neutral expression, head tilted at a thoughtful angle.

When Mary finished, there was perfect silence for several seconds. Then Anne said, “We were remiss in not conveying to you the background information you requested. However, I’ve now gathered some details that may help to explain such a bizarre series of occurrences.”

Mary shifted in her chair. There wasn’t time for this. She wanted only to return to the Tower, her father, her future. Yet failing to show interest now might sabotage her sudden disappearance. No, everything had to seem entirely normal if her escape plan was to work. “An explanation of Wintermarch’s actions?”

“Nothing so clear-cut as an explanation; more a possible interpretation,” said Felicity.

Anne bridled at such a dismissal. “The earl, as you know, has a reputation as an extremely conservative man; his voting record in the House of Lords corroborates this. I’ve learned that in his own circle, and in private letters, he expresses open dissatisfaction with the idea of a female monarch.

He’s also strongly prejudiced against Germans and has, again, written to his intimates denigrating the royal family because of their origins. He believes them insufficiently English to reign, and even questions their loyalty to the country.

“However, Wintermarch lived abroad until roughly ten years ago, when his elder brother died. He was then forced to give up his military commission to assume the title. Most of these remarks were made before he became earl, and thus were, I suspect, discounted by most. It’s also notable that his scurrilous remarks were never accompanied by action. It seems that only when he retired and returned to England did he have time to become bored and thus dangerous.”

Mary frowned. She’d not wanted to listen, but her training was sound and she absorbed the information without conscious effort. “Are you suggesting that Queen Victoria’s advisers knew of the earl’s remarks but simply didn’t take them seriously?”

Anne tilted her head. “Or hadn’t sufficient grounds to pursue them. After al , she must be wel accustomed

to

aristocratic

tittle-tattle

and

backbiting.”

“But his intent has changed dramatical y over the past decade. His actions were those of a zealot or a lunatic, rather than a disciplined military man.”

Anne nodded. “That is the most troubling thing about today’s events, now the danger has been averted: there’s simply no rational explanation for his actions. I can understand his attempting regicide. I could also imagine a frightening sort of prank, designed to expose Her Majesty’s vulnerability. But to construct what was truly a suicide mission goes beyond any sort of logic.”

“Except,” said Mary, “for the logic of the mad. Just before the Queen appeared, he faltered. He didn’t seem to know what to do next, although he’d been very efficient up to that point.”

Anne nodded. “It certainly sounds it. A portion of the plan was carried out with logic, but amidst utter chaos. And frankly, history shows that those who plot against a monarch are typical y unbalanced – if not unhinged, then blinded by ideological fervour.

Certainly the young men who shot a pistol at Her Majesty’s carriage two decades ago were declared insane.” She paused. “However, we’l never know for certain. The person best positioned to know is Mrs Dalrymple.”

This wasn’t nearly as dissatisfying as it ought to have been, realized Mary with a glimmer of dark amusement. She would have enjoyed a thorough and rational explanation for Wintermarch’s actions, but ultimately it mattered not.

“As for Honoria Dalrymple,” said Anne, “hers seems to be a simple case of blind hero worship.

She adores her stepfather, would do anything to please him. She married her husband purely to do so, and that marriage was a misery. After Dalrymple died, she had time to devote to the earl once more. I doubt she’s stil a danger, now that he’s dead.”

“Executed,” murmured Mary.

Anne’s brow wrinkled. “Yes. Wel , in the circumstances one could hardly be surprised. If ever a man met his just deserts…”