Traitor and the Tunnel (30 page)

For answer, he waved the pistol. “Up.”

First she, and then James, hauled themselves up into the room. The earl remained in the tunnel, smirking up at them. “Would you like a hand up?”

asked James.

Wintermarch snorted. “I may be old but I’m not a fool. You want to push me off balance, or at least wrest the gun from me. No, thank you, Easton: I’l do very wel standing right here.”

“But what are you going to do?” asked Mary.

“You’l not achieve much by blowing up the Palace and murdering a couple of commoners. And in present circumstances, you can’t even manage that without kil ing yourself, too.” She was scarcely able to keep her voice from shaking, from fury rather than fear. She thought of Lang, sick and alone in Cradle Tower, waiting for a visit that would never happen.

He would assume she’d changed her mind, turned coward, broken her promise. Disastrous reversals seemed to run in the family.

Wintermarch scowled. “That’s enough. If you were my wife, I’d beat some civility into you.”

The idea was enough to make her snort. “Asking logical questions is hardly uncivil.”

He frowned and turned to James. “You want to teach her some respect.”

James smiled and shrugged. “She’s entirely correct.”

The old man growled, set down his lantern and muttered something unflattering about the present generation. Al the same, he seemed off balance for the first time since his sudden appearance – rather as though their joint impertinence had robbed him of momentum.

Mary’s muscles twitched with long tension. Could she simply rush him? Would he fumble the gun, be reluctant to fire – especial y at an unarmed woman?

Reactionary noblesse oblige could work to her advantage here, but only if Wintermarch behaved in a logical fashion. With a rational vil ain, she stood a chance of anticipating his next move. Wintermarch’s utter unpredictability, however, kept her frozen.

It was during this lul – gun wavering, Wintermarch gnashing his teeth, Mary and James watching, calculating, doubting – that a most unexpected thing occurred. It was perhaps the most surprising development possible. For a new pair of boots dropped rather heavily from the ladder onto the guncotton-room floor. An extremely familiar but utterly improbable voice said, “Oof.” And the smal , plump form of Queen Victoria appeared from behind the crates.

The three of them gaped, too startled to speak or even make a sound. In this subterranean cavern, lit by a single wavering lantern, the sound of trickling sewage in the background, the Queen’s familiar face seemed most likely to be a hal ucination brought on by fumes and tension.

Yet even as they stared, the apparition spoke. “A rather clever false alarm, Wintermarch, but we don’t see what you hope to accomplish with this stunt.”

The earl blinked and stammered, “I sh-should have thought it rather obvious.”

“No,” said Her Majesty decisively. “Not at al .”

“Wel , I’ve proven that you’re vulnerable. That your defences and security practices are inadequate.”

“That wil always be the case, Wintermarch; our security is ever at risk. But our life is in God’s hands, and we endeavour our best to rule despite these constant, remote possibilities.”

“It’s not so remote now,” he sneered. But it was a weak sort of jibe.

“It is true that an individual monarch’s life may be snuffed out at any moment. But what have you real y achieved?” asked the Queen. “After our death, we have four male heirs to the throne; the continuation of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha is assured. The Prince Consort would make the finest of regents, and is a young man yet; his advice shal be available to the future king for decades. You may kil a single monarch, Wintermarch, but you achieve nothing in the act of regicide.”

Her Majesty paused, but Wintermarch appeared unable to reply.

“Furthermore,” she went on, “dare you imagine your treachery so subtle, so utterly original, that we have not been aware of your treasonous desires for some time? It is the reason your stepdaughter has been so recently elevated and honoured, for we keep our enemies close. As our predecessor, Queen Elizabeth, famously said, ‘I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England, too.’ Have you so forgotten your history, Wintermarch?”

The revolver flashed again, held in shaking hands but aimed directly at the Queen. Instinctively, Mary and James both moved to stand between the monarch and her would-be assassin, but she waved them away.

“Fear not: the earl’s time is past. He has long whispered against our authority, complaining of rule by a woman. The ruination of a kingdom and an empire. Yet his own scheme is irrational. Ineffectual.

It wil achieve nothing, leave no mark.”

“Won’t it?” shrieked Wintermarch, bracing his arm to shoot. “I’l prove you wrong, you—”

A sharp, hissing sound.

A sickening thud.

The earl’s face contorted and a moment later he toppled forward, his body crumpling as though the legs were made of rags. The lantern barely tottered, coming to rest on its base, its smal flame wavering but unextinguished.

Mary and James stared at the Queen, then whirled to face Wintermarch’s body. It lay slumped and prone, a long stick planted in its back like a flag. An arrow, Mary realized, her fuddled senses slow to interpret the evidence of her eyes. Behind her, the Queen gave a smal sigh – the only indication of emotion she’d shown throughout this swift, strange unravel ing.

And now Mary heard a pair of boots splashing swiftly upstream towards them: the archer who’d kil ed Wintermarch. He knelt by the body, assessing his work. Glanced up at the Queen and saluted. “The shot went through the heart, Ma’am.”

“A fine piece of marksmanship, Captain Mathers.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. If you’l pardon the noise, Ma’am.” The archer bowed deeply and whistled shril y three times down the tunnel. In response Mary heard a whistled reply and the marching of boots.

How long, she wondered, had the army been poised and waiting?

Queen Victoria sighed again. This time, Mary noticed her weariness, saw evidence of strain in the tiny beads of perspiration that dotted Her Majesty’s forehead. “A bad end for a proud and foolish man.”

James appeared speechless stil . Eventual y, Mary said, “Yes, Ma’am.” But her mind whirled with questions. How had the Queen learned of Wintermarch’s treachery? Where was Honoria Dalrymple now? And what had inspired Her Majesty to come down here herself? Despite her fine rhetoric about the royal line continuing, she’d risked her life in order to confront a madman. Had she died, the tragedy would have changed the arc of history.

“We shal thank you both for your loyal efforts at a suitable time,” said Queen Victoria. “For now, Miss Quinn…”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“We should be grateful for your assistance in climbing this rather rudimentary ladder. We are not so agile as we once were.”

Thirty-one

On the road to St John’s Wood

Mary couldn’t have felt more bewildered had the Queen turned her upside down and shaken her vigorously. As she walked north through the relative tranquil ity of Mayfair, she found it difficult to stop thinking about Queen Victoria’s astonishing arrival in the sewer. Her Majesty had behaved less like a doughty monarch and mother of nine, and more like a member of the Agency! Even her handling of Wintermarch – the clever conversation, stal ing him until the archer was in position to fire – was extraordinary. Not to mention the speed with which she’d organized the army and the judgement she’d shown in anticipating Wintermarch’s attempt at high treason.

It had been tempting for Mary to forgo al etiquette and bombard the Queen with questions. In the end, she’d not had the chance: Her Majesty was anxious to be reunited with her family, and to establish a measure of normality at the now-overrun Kensington Palace. She expected the removal of the nitrocel ulose to be swift, and to return to Buckingham Palace by nightfal . And so, very little the wiser, Mary made the journey back to the Academy.

It was to the Academy she needed to return – not the Agency. She was in no state to report to Anne and Felicity. What she sought was a quiet room with a lock on the door; a place where she might think, without disruption. There were distractions enough in her thoughts. She slipped in through the kitchen door, putting a finger to her lips and smiling when she met El ie, the Academy’s long-standing cook-maid. El ie smiled indulgently. She was accustomed to the girls’ comings and goings, and blessed with an utter lack of curiosity.

Despite al that had happened today, it was stil only late afternoon and the girls were stil in their classes. Mary gained her room without meeting a soul, locked the door, and began to col ect what she needed. From beneath a floorboard near the wardrobe, she extracted an envelope stuffed with pound notes – the fruit of her nearly two years’

wages at the Agency; next, a letter of character written on fine onion-skin paper, testifying to the good temper and patience of Miss Anne Hastings as lady’s companion. She changed her dress for a dark blue wool en gown, the warmest and plainest she had, and put on her stoutest boots. And then she was ready.

Except, of course, that she was anything but. She sat down heavily at her desk, staring at its scarred surface, its uneven varnish. Generations of girls had used this desk, leaving on it their marks. She’d always loved the sense of continuity suggested by the Academy – that she was part of a new tradition, a brave enterprise on the part of impoverished young women. Was she ready to abandon this life, this identity, entirely? For that was what she’d promised Lang.

She’d meant it with her whole heart. Yet now, sitting in her bedroom in the only home she’d known in over a decade, she wondered what it meant to abandon one family for the sake of another. Anne and Felicity had proven their devotion to her. They’d educated her, housed her, trained her. They had given her life purpose. Her loyalty to Lang was born only of history, of an irrational desire to feel a blood-bond with someone, even if he refused openly to acknowledge it. It was true that the Agency had failed her in smal ways, on this most recent case.

Yet its silence was a minor failing, especial y when compared with Lang’s spectacular record of absence and violence. She could hardly expect perfection of Anne and Felicity when she herself was so far from faultless. And yet.

And yet.

She stood and pushed back her chair. Looked about the room one last time, in farewel . There were no personal effects missing, nothing that would suggest her disappearance had been planned. She knew this room so wel she could have sketched its every detail – the ancient washstand, the trim about the window, the shadows cast by the window-panes by moonlight. Yet these memories would never be required, and it was best to let go of such intimate knowledge. It was as wel that she had experience of starting over so many times.

A phoenix suddenly came to mind: the mythological firebird that, every five hundred years, burned its nest to nothing and rose again from the ashes. She was no phoenix, she thought with something that came near a smile, but she could do the same. Aged six or seven. Aged twelve. Aged twenty. And, she realized, once more after her father’s death. His second death, she noted, with a ghost of amusement. A family of phoenixes.

She unlocked her door, drew a deep breath and walked out – straight into Anne Treleaven’s hand, upraised to rap on the door.

Anne blinked. “Ah, Mary. El ie told me you’d come back. Were you on your way upstairs?”

“Upstairs” referred to the Agency’s secret headquarters in the Academy’s attic, where agents always reported upon their return. Mary gaped for a very long moment. Eventual y, she said in a choked voice, “Yes.”

She trailed behind Anne as they climbed the stairs, steeling herself for the usual report. She hadn’t a great deal to say – stil hadn’t much insight into Wintermarch’s actions, let alone Honoria Dalrymple’s involvement – but she’d tel them what she could. And then she’d leave, having at least completed her first real assignment. It was better this way, she told herself without much conviction. She touched her reticule, knowing that her future was tucked inside its lining. A strange sort of talisman, but it was enough for the moment.

As she entered the room, Mary’s eyes fel on the first, most incongruous item: Anne’s desk, usual y a vision of order with a lone sheet of foolscap floating on its oak surface, was heaped with folders and slips of paper. Her gaze flicked to the bookcase, which looked ransacked. Final y, she turned to Anne and noticed details she ought to have seen plainly three minutes ago – and surely would have, but for her emotional distractions.

Anne Treleaven was the first person Mary had met at the Academy, the Agency manager she felt closer to. She was a thin, tidy woman with a prim, dignified air – a born governess, to look at. Mary had seldom seen her show emotion or look less than immaculate. Today, however, her usual y neat chignon was loose and the front of her hair ruffled as though she’d been running her hands through it.

Behind her spectacles, her eyes were suspiciously bloodshot. She summoned a brief, tight smile. “Do sit down. I expect you’re here for answers. It’s taken us – me – some time to get the information you requested.”