The Agency: A Spy in the House, Page 2

  “For a year; I began when I was about sixteen.”

  “And you have lived here at the school since you were twelve, of course.”

  “From the day you rescued me from the Old Bailey.” Mary flushed. “At least, I was roughly twelve . . . as you know, I’ve no birth certificate. But I’m certain I was born in 1841.”

  “Nearly one-third of your life, then, has been spent with us.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes. I know I must sound terribly selfish.”

  A faint smile passed over Anne’s lips, but it was gone in a moment. “Let us leave the question of gratitude to one side. You have reached the age of seventeen. You find yourself . . . stifled . . . by the routine of the schoolroom.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to return to your life as it was before you were imprisoned? Housebreaking and picking pockets?”

  “No!” Mary realized that she had half shouted the word. She moderated her voice. “Not in the least. But I long for a little independence . . . for a different sort of work.”

  “Ah.” Again, that satisfied gleam passed over Anne’s features. “What sort of work do you envision?”

  Mary shook her head miserably. “That is what I do not know. I hoped you would be able to advise me.”

  Felicity spoke for the first time. “Are you quite certain that you wish to work at all? Many girls try to marry in order to escape poverty.”

  Mary shook her head firmly. “No. I have no desire to marry.”

  “Other women find lovers to provide for them.”

  Mary nearly dropped her teacup in amazement. “Mrs. Frame? You are surely not recommending . . .”

  Felicity smiled faintly. “I am not recommending anything. But I wish to set aside conventional morality and speak of practical possibilities. You are not beautiful, but you are intelligent and rather . . . striking. Exotic, even. Being a mistress is a possibility.”

  “I hate being looked at! People are forever asking whether I’m foreign, just because I haven’t got yellow hair and round blue eyes.”

  “That’s my point: unusual looks are sometimes better than mere prettiness.”

  What a preposterous thing to say. And just what was Felicity suggesting, talking about her “exotic” looks? Did she suspect . . . ? Mary struggled to find her point. “Besides, a mistress is just as dependent as a wife.” As the words left her mouth, she remembered hearing a rumor about Mrs. Frame’s own colorful personal history . . . but it was too late to retract her remark — were she so inclined.

  Felicity arched one eyebrow. “You have been well trained in the philosophy of the school, Mary. We do not encourage girls to build their lives on the whims of men.”

  Anne spoke again. “Very well. That is your view. Tell us, now, about your early life and your family.” At Mary’s look of surprise, she smiled. “We do know the details, but I should like to hear it from you once more.”

  So this was a test of perspective. “I was born in east London — Poplar,” she began. She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. Could she trust these ladies with the full truth about her past? About her family? How would they respond? They thought they already knew everything about her. . . .

  “Is everything all right?” asked Felicity.

  Mary blinked, unaware that she’d halted. “Of course.” She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue. “My father was a merchant sailor and my mother an Irish-born seamstress. Although my father was frequently at sea, I remember that my parents were happy together. Their only real grief was that my two younger brothers both died in infancy.” She paused and swallowed hard. “When I was seven or eight years old, my father’s ship was wrecked and the entire crew reported dead. The shock and grief made my mother very ill, and she lost her job as a seamstress through her illness. She was expecting another child at the time, and she lost that, too.

  “When she was a little better, Mother tried to get piecework so that she could work at home. But the piecework paid next to nothing. She then tried going out as a charwoman, cleaning houses, but she only got twopence a day for the work. It wasn’t enough to keep us both.” Her voice was detached now, toneless. “Mother didn’t care about herself, but she had me to look after. She soon had no choice: she became a prostitute. Late at night, when she thought I was asleep, she brought men back to our lodgings. That is how I learned to steal. Sometimes they would fall asleep, and I would take coins from their pockets.” She drew another long breath and looked up at the two women defiantly. “It was never very much; I never took notes — only coins. I must have thought . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought.

  “It’s an old story, I suppose. Mother soon became ill. We didn’t have enough money for medicine from the apothecary, and the neighbors kept away. All I know is that even with the bits I’d stolen, we hadn’t enough money to live.” She paused. “I don’t remember much about the time immediately after Mother died. A few months later, I had learned how to pick pockets properly, and then someone taught me to pick locks as well. I dressed as a boy; it was easier and safer.

  “I became quite good at housebreaking for a time. Then I began to take larger risks, foolish risks, really, and I was not terribly surprised that I was caught. The only mystery is that I was not caught earlier. And you know the rest — that I was sentenced to hang.” Mary flashed the ladies a grateful look. “You saved me.”

  There was a minute’s pause. When Anne spoke again, her tone was unusually gentle. “Thank you, Mary. It is to your credit that you are able to tell the story of your early life so clearly and without extreme bitterness.” She half smiled. “As you know, we at the Academy place great emphasis on strength of character.

  “Well, my dear?” Anne turned to Felicity, her voice crisp once more. “How do we assess Mary’s professional prospects? That she is intelligent and ambitious is evident.”

  “She is loyal and capable of great discretion,” Felicity added with approval. “She is also brave, tenacious, and decisive. And she strives to do what she believes is right.”

  Mary glowed under their warm and wholly unexpected praise.

  “However, she has a bad temper,” Anne noted coolly. “She dislikes correction and goes to great lengths to avoid being in the wrong. She is shy of strangers, particularly men. That is understandable, given her childhood, but a fault nevertheless.”

  Mary’s proud glow became a flush of shame. They were all too correct.

  “Mary, you look heated,” observed Anne. “Do you wish to continue this conversation?”

  Mary swallowed hard. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Very well. We understand your philosophy and know your character.” Anne looked at Felicity, who nodded once, very slightly. “As it happens, Mary, we have a post in mind that we think will suit your abilities very well.”

  Mary looked up eagerly.

  “But before we continue,” said Anne sternly, “you must give me your solemn word that you will never reveal any part of our conversation, or hint thereof, to any other living being. Do you understand me?”

  She swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Swear it.”

  “I give you my solemn word that I will never reveal any part of what you are about to tell me to another soul.”

  Anne’s features relaxed, and she nodded with satisfaction. Stepping to one side of the fireplace, she slipped her fingers behind the polished oak mantel. There was a barely audible click. Then, on the wall to Mary’s left, one panel of faded wallpaper swung aside to reveal a dark, narrow opening in the wall.

  Mary’s mouth dropped open in amazement, and she dragged her fascinated gaze back to Anne’s face, which wore a small, triumphant smile.

  “Let us enter the headquarters of the Agency.”

  Shaking with excitement, Mary rose and followed the women into the narrow opening and through a short tunnel. Although the tunnel was not lit, its bricks were dry and free of cobwebs — evidence of regular use. They emerge
d in a large, plain room containing a round table with four straight-backed chairs. Anne and Felicity set down the oil lamps they had been carrying. The yellow light flickered over the exposed bricks and rough wooden floorboards, making the room seem oddly cozy.

  The women each took a seat round the table, and Anne smiled at Mary warmly. “I always hoped you would come to us one day, my dear — and you did. But I have talked too much already, perhaps giving you the impression that I am in charge. I am not; the Agency is a collective, although only two of us are present this evening. Felicity, would you care to explain to Mary what we do here?”

  Felicity cleared her throat; she had been unusually quiet thus far. “As you know, the goal of Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls is to give young women the means to achieve some form of independence. Marriage is an uncertain gamble, and the primary types of work open to women depend upon the good nature of one’s employer. That is why most governesses and domestic servants are so shamefully abused.”

  Anne vigorously nodded her agreement. “Precisely. Although a few professional opportunities for women exist, it is our aim to train women to do more than teach children and serve meals. But you know this already, and you have been helping to prepare young women in this way, too.” She paused and glanced at Felicity. “I beg your pardon, Flick. Do go on.”

  Mary bit back a smile on hearing the affectionate nickname. She had never before heard the grave, thoughtful Anne Treleaven speak so informally.

  Felicity turned her marvelous eyes on Mary, her gaze almost hypnotic now. “The Agency complements the Academy. Here, we turn the stereotype of the meek female servant to our advantage. Because women are believed to be foolish, silly, and weak, we are in a position to observe and learn more effectively than a man in a similar position. Our clients employ us to gather information, often on highly confidential subjects. We place our agents in very sensitive situations. But while a man in such a position might be subject to suspicion, we find that women — posing as governesses or domestic servants, for example — are often totally ignored.”

  She permitted herself a small smile. “We also find that well-trained women tend to be more perceptive, as well as less arrogant, in their observations. They are often, shall we say, less prone to error — not because they are cleverer or more fortunate but because they make fewer assumptions and take less for granted. And, contrary to stereotype, they are often more logical.” She looked at Mary keenly. “Have you any questions thus far?”

  Mary nodded. Her fingers clenched hard on either side of her chair. “How many members does the Agency have? Do your clients know that your agents are female? When was the Agency founded? And by whom? Is Miss Scrimshaw involved?”

  They laughed at her eagerness, and again it was Felicity who answered. “The Agency was founded some ten years ago, and Anne and I were among its first operatives. We are now its official heads and daily managers, although major decisions are made collectively. However, for reasons of security, you will almost never meet other agents face to face.

  “We do not discuss our operatives with our clients. They are attracted by our reputation, but we disclose to them very little beyond the information they seek. We find that to be in the best interests of all involved. We are also highly selective in our clients. We decline to work for criminal organizations or those whose activities we find undesirable or dubious. And no, Miss Scrimshaw is not involved with the Agency . . . although we believe she would approve of our actions.”

  Mary’s eyes were wide. “And you really think I might be fit for this sort of work?”

  Felicity’s voice was deep and rich. “We had been debating for some time whether or not to approach you. We were each convinced that you had the potential to become an agent, but we were equally concerned that the work might remind you too much of your past. We had no desire to make you unhappy, and we did not want you to attempt the work simply to please us.” She smiled brilliantly. “But you have come to us, instead.”

  “Let us not congratulate ourselves prematurely,” Anne announced in her usual brisk manner. “Mary, you must still listen to the assignment we propose and decide whether or not you wish to undertake it. And before that, we must turn to the question of skill.”

  “Skill?”

  “We are interested in your skills of observation, Mary. Close your eyes and picture the room in which we received you. Can you tell me how many lamps there were?”

  Mary found it easy to summon a detailed image of the room and her employers. “Three,” she said with confidence.

  “What are the dimensions of that room?”

  “Roughly eighteen by twelve; the ceiling is about ten feet high and plastered smooth.”

  “And the table that was to your left?”

  “It is round and made of walnut — about three feet high and eighteen inches in diameter. It has three legs. There was nothing on it.”

  “What jewelry am I wearing today?”

  Mary paused to consider. Again, a mental image of Anne clicked into place. “An oval brooch made of gold and amber. It has a filigree border.”

  “And what time do you estimate it to be now?”

  “I came to meet you at half past four. It must now be a little after five o’clock.”

  “Thank you, Mary.” Anne nodded as though checking off an item on a list. “You did well — unusually so. I also believe you know something of the art of pugilism.”

  “Boxing?” Mary smiled at her employer’s delicate phrasing. “I have no technique, and I fight dirty. But growing up near the docks, I learned to protect myself. I believe that all young women should know how; that is why I began teaching some elementary maneuvers to the older girls.”

  Anne nodded briskly once more. “The first phase of training, involving observation skills, self-defense, and a few other useful techniques, normally lasts for several months. However, given your background, this may feel like unnecessary repetition. Mrs. Frame and I have agreed that you may — if you choose — compress the initial training period into one month. It will mean a great deal of intensive work, and you may prefer to undergo the usual training period, which allows for a little more leisure and a greater margin of error. The choice is entirely yours.”

  Mary paused, suddenly dizzy at the prospect. In the space of an hour, her entire life had been transformed by these women, much as it had five years ago. She gazed at them but couldn’t read their expressions. Felicity appeared casually unconcerned. Anne’s gold-rimmed spectacles hid the expression in her gray eyes. And Mary thought she understood: their expectations didn’t matter. It was entirely her decision. “I should like to begin as soon as possible,” she said, her voice firm and clear. “I choose the intensive, one-month training.”

  “If we start tomorrow morning,” said Felicity suddenly, “you’ll be ready to commence practice fieldwork in May. The timing is excellent!”

  Mary sat bolt upright. “Why is that?”

  A look of amused resignation rippled across Anne’s face. “Felicity, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  Felicity bit her lip. “I’m sorry; I thought we talked about this: that if Mary knows what she’s training toward, she’ll be better able to focus and prepare.”

  A sharp tingle ran up and down Mary’s spine, making her scalp prickle.

  There was an appreciable pause. Then Anne began to speak, her voice dry and dispassionate. “During the mutiny in India last year, a number of Hindu temples and homes were robbed of precious jewels and sculptures. In at least two instances, these very unique items have made their way into private British collections. We have been asked to investigate a merchant who is believed to have handled a significant number of the smuggled artifacts. He is suspected of selling them to crooked antiquities dealers in London and Paris.”

  Mary frowned, disciplining her thoughts away from the sheer excitement of the situation and toward the problem described. “This task is beyond the scope of the police?”

  “Yes and no,” sa
id Felicity. “These crimes did not occur on English soil and there is still no evidence linking our suspect to them. As such, Scotland Yard cannot act. Instead, the Yard has engaged us to find the connection and retrieve the evidence. It is a freedom available to us, as an independent agency.

  “Our suspect’s name is Henry Thorold. He is connected with the East India Company, the Far East Trading Company, and a number of American interests. Although he has warehouses in Bristol, Liverpool, and Calais, his operations center primarily in his London warehouse, located on the north bank of the Thames.

  “Thorold has, in the past, been suspected of financial crimes — evading import taxes some eight to ten years ago and, more recently, defrauding his insurers — but nothing was proven. We believe that our agent will be more effective. She describes it as a straightforward job that is likely to take a month or so. Of course, international trade is always precarious and subject to extreme weather conditions; ships might be long delayed, and our priority is to collect a significant and conclusive amount of evidence.”

  Mary nodded, trying to appear calm and patient. “I see. But you — you did mention that there might be a role for me in this case?”

  Felicity smiled. “Not a major role, certainly. We already have an agent on the case who is conducting the bulk of the investigation. But there is a second post we thought might serve as a training ground for a new agent.” She glanced at Anne. “Perhaps, Miss Treleaven, you could describe the post?”

  “Certainly. Mrs. Thorold is an invalid who believes that her daughter, Angelica, requires a companion. She would prefer to engage a younger woman — not so much a chaperone as a paid friend, close to her daughter’s age. The daughter, I gather, is rather spoiled and accustomed to having her own way.” Anne paused, a glint of humor in her eyes. “I expect your classroom experience will prove useful to you, in that respect.”

  Mary thought of the month-long training period. “But won’t the post be filled by someone else in a month’s time?” she asked.