I thought she-"

Her sentence was interrupted by the sound of a teacup smashing and more: "That's it! I've had enough! Why can't everybody just leave me alone?!"

Mary whirled back round the corner. Half a moment later, the door banged open and the tearful Prince charged down the hal . Within the drawing room, there was only silence.

Mary retreated below stairs, there to await her summons. The Queen's position was transparent enough. So was the Prince's. But what was Honoria Dalrymple playing at?

Nine.

Evening prayers were always brief below stairs, at least. The domestic staff, weary from the day's labour, general y wanted nothing more than to retire for the night once the late-night supper had been served above stairs, the royal family settled quietly for the evening, and the kitchens swept and scoured.

Amy looped her arm through Mary's as they climbed the narrow service stairs to their attic quarters, her giddy chatter a high note amidst the otherwise sighing, grumbling throng.

Mary listened with patience. It was a genuine puzzle as to what Octavius Jones wanted with giddy, gossipy Amy. There was the al -too-obvious, of course, but he needn't have chosen Amy for that; a woman in service was difficult to visit and had little free time. No, he must be after information and it was Amy's place of employment that captured his real interest. But about what?

Of course! She was a b.l.o.o.d.y fool not to have seen it immediately. Octavius Jones was entirely capable of bending a girl like Amy to his wil . And he'd chosen wel : not only was Amy mal eable and infatuated, but she was the maid who cleaned and dusted the public drawing rooms. n.o.body was better poised to steal those ornaments than she. It was simple enough for Amy to carry a snuffbox or a smal china figurine in her handbag when she went out to meet Jones. And with Amy running al the risks, Jones would likely be safe even if she was caught. He might even be able to count on her loyal silence under questioning.

This theory led to new possibilities and new motives for the thefts. Mary had always a.s.sumed that common avarice was the reason: the items stolen were of good quality, although far from the finest examples of their kind. They would fetch a decent price without cal ing undue attention to their provenance, and Mary had always a.s.sumed they'd long since been sold to unscrupulous antiques dealers. But what if the Palace thief was no ordinary thief? What if he was calculating and subtle, and interested in far more than a smal profit on a couple of Dresden shepherdesses? If Octavius Jones was the mastermind behind the thefts, there had to be something else to it. The question was, what was he planning?

She could imagine a sort of shril expose about the laxity of Palace security. Or perhaps on the corruption of antiques dealers no, too rarefied for readers of the Eye. A scandal-mongering piece about the obscene riches amidst which the royal family lived? No, too socialist-republican for Jones.

Or perhaps he was after the questionable characters of the royal domestics decrying the corruption below stairs. That would be a hard blow for Amy, though; was that perhaps too unconscionable a betrayal even for Jones? It would mean significant personal risk, if Amy took umbrage. No. It had to be Palace security, then, or something similar.

"It's a delicate thing to ask," Amy was saying, already blushing in antic.i.p.ation.

Mary returned to the present with a jolt. "You can ask anything of me," she said.

They had gone into their shared room, now, and Amy closed the door firmly behind her. "Wel , Mrs Shaw wouldn't give me leave to go out tomorrow night," she said, rol ing her eyes. "The old ninny. Said she reckoned I could go and visit my mother on Sunday afternoon, same as always."

Mary grinned. "Do you visit your mother of a Sunday?"

Amy shot her an indignant look. "Course I do. I just make it quick, like, so's to leave time to meet Mr Jones. Anyway, there it is: I've an appointment to see my gentleman friend, and I ain't al owed out."

"That's a shame."

"Maybe. But I thought again, and perhaps it's for the best. And that's what I wanted to ask you..." To Mary's surprise, Amy blushed again, deeply. "Would you d'you think I could wel ..."

"Do you want me to help you slip out?"

Amy shook her head and went from pink to scarlet. "To help Mr Jones sneak in. And to let us have the room for a bit." Mary's face must have reflected her surprise, for Amy rushed on. "I been thinking, right, and this is the thing to do. He's a lovely man, is my Tavvy, but he's a bit on the shy side." Mary tried not to show her utter disbelief at this description. "And I reckon a little encouragement is just what he needs."

Mary shook out her ap.r.o.n, inspecting it for dirt.

"Encouragement to what?"

It was Amy's turn to stare. "Why, to pop the question, you goose! What else?"

Instantly, Mary's thoughts turned to the thefts. "Was this Mr Jones's idea?"

"Of course not!" Something in Amy seemed to snap. "Ain't you been listening? It's my idea, you dunce, because Tavvy's so blooming slow. If I had permission to go out tomorrow, he'd take me to stupid Astley's to see them stupid horses again, or for another freezing-cold walk in the freezing-cold park, and al I'd get for my troubles'd be a cuddle in a corner and a dress that's al over mud. No, ta not again."

Mary's lips twitched. She had, indeed, been sluggish on the uptake nearly as slow as Jones.

"So by giving you a bit of privacy..."

Amy smirked, al embarra.s.sment evaporated.

"Right you are. A little encouragement and a nice warm bed, and I'l be the future Mrs Octavius Jones by Wednesday morning."

"Sounds as if he hasn't a chance."

"Not even half." Amy wrestled mightily with her corset and pul ed it off with a groan of relief. "Oh, that's heaven, that is." She waved the giant pink lobster's tail at Mary with a disgusted air. "He ain't never even seen this, y'know; that's how behindhand the man is."

Mary grinned. "I'd never have guessed." Amy's plan was far from original but her brazenness was endearing.

Amy rubbed soap onto a flannel and washed herself with brisk, decisive gestures that spoke of her determination. "I once suggested you know, coy, like going to his place, but he says his landlady's a right old sourpuss, and he daren't cross her. We'l move into a proper house, of course, once we're married."

Mary knew better than to chal enge Amy's fantasy of escape: a woman intent on freedom through marriage wouldn't listen to a naysaying spinster.

Amy was only fol owing the usual script. Yet Mary couldn't resist a gentle question. "D'you think you'l be happy, married to Mr Jones?"

Amy looked at her, al astonishment. "I'l be the lady of the house, and never wipe out a chamber pot again. If you don't cal that happy, I don't know what's wrong with you."

"I meant with Mr Jones."

"Oh, Tavvy. Aye, he's an al -right sort, I reckon. But he's a gentleman, and that's what's important."

Mary gave a philosophical shrug. At least Amy wasn't blinded by visions of romance... "Wel , then about tomorrow night. What d'you want me to do?"

It was only after Amy had rol ed herself into a bal and fal en into the sleep of the just schemer that Mary's amus.e.m.e.nt faded. She'd been dreading her next task al evening. The habits of discipline she'd learned at the Academy were strong, though, and so she pul ed a thin folder from beneath the bed, took out a sheet of cheap paper, a pen and a bottle of ink, and prepared to write a letter.

Her father could read and write adequately. His reply if he replied would be an immediate first test of his ident.i.ty. Unless, of course, he was too weak to write and had to dictate a letter. Or the opium had addled his brain. Or they didn't trust him with a pen. The possibilities were several.

Nevertheless, she would begin with a letter.

Dear Mr Lang She stared at the words, and then at the expanse of blank notepaper beneath. She could hardly start with I may be your daughter. She gazed at the page until her eyes lost focus, until she could see and smel the bittersweet poverty of her childhood home.

A loud snore from the other side of the room made her jump, and she returned to the present.

Final y, she dipped her pen again and wrote: I may have information that could help your case. Please reply as soon as you are well enough to receive callers.

Yours sincerely, A friend She blotted the page in one swift gesture, not pausing to re-read the letter. A moment later it was sealed, direction written, penny stamp applied, and she was pul ing on her coat and hat. Slipping out to the nearest pil ar box after hours was a risk, but a far lesser one than keeping that letter overnight. And if she got the response she needed, it was the least of the risks she'd have to run in the next few days.

Leaving the Palace without Mrs Shaw's permission was strictly forbidden. But, like many forbidden things, it was also rather easy. At night, as was the custom in grand houses, the footmen slept outside the store-rooms, the better to guard Her Majesty's valuable plate. Any thief who evaded the Yeomen of the Guard outside the Palace should then have to bypa.s.s at least one large, cricket-bat-wielding manservant before getting near the royal candlestick-holders. However, Mary had discovered early on that the footmen nearest the service door were the youngest, the newest, the hardest-worked and thus also the deepest sleepers. One could tiptoe past them with perfect confidence. In fact, she'd wager that if she lit a string of firecrackers beneath their trundle beds, the commotion would only cause them to push their faces deeper into their pil ows.

So Mary let herself out through the servants'

entrance without much concern for the inner guardians of the Palace. Outside, however, were the real sentries the Queen's Guard, whose duty it was to protect their sovereign, not her silverware. They were trained, armed, disciplined. Mary shivered. At this moment, she stil had a choice. The first possibility was to play the dizzy, naughty maidservant, tripping out after dark to post an il icit letter. Her success in that case, however, would depend on the character of the soldier in the guard box. If he was lenient, he might let her get away with it. But that route left far too much power in the hands of one unknown man. What if he was dutiful? Worse, what if he required payment for his silence?

It was too uncertain. She set out westwards into the gardens, away from the grand entrance gates. In the open courtyard, fat raindrops thudded heavily against her hat, fel startlingly cold onto her cheeks.

Between the dark and fog and steady sleet, it was difficult to see anything. The ma.s.s of shadows in the middle distance, however, was certainly a stand of densely-grown hawthorns, perhaps twice the height of a man. She had seen the young Princes and Princesses playing in front of them, using a natural hol ow as a sort of playhouse. And she knew that they grew against the tal iron fence that encircled the Palace grounds.

The night was unnervingly stil . In the elegant streets beyond, there was only silence not even the clatter of a dustman's cart and the outlying parks fil ed with carriages only during the fashionable hours. After her early years around Limehouse and Soho, Mary had thought St John's Wood home of the Agency quiet and peaceful at night. But the northern suburbs positively bustled compared with her current streetscape. It was al about density, she supposed. In east London, it was common for several families and their animals to share a pair of rooms in a ramshackle tenement. Here, one family with its domestic staff occupied a few acres of Palace and park, making for a peaceable hush at night. Yet the hol ow emptiness of Westminster made her feel edgier than did the seedy violence of Soho or the Haymarket. n.o.body about. No one to hear her scream.

A slight rustling in the hedge made her start. She stared furiously into the shadows, wil ing whatever it was to move again. It did not. A change in the wind, perhaps or a bird. She would not permit herself to speculate further. She moved steadily, holding herself in readiness for what she didn't know.

Perhaps that was the point. As she reached the play-hol ow, she stopped and listened again.

Nothing. Was it possible she'd imagined the first rustle? She was certainly jumpy enough. After waiting a ful three minutes, she pressed on. The branches were long and tangled, and although she could shield her face with one hand, their thorns caught at her hat and sleeve, pul ed at her skirts.

She'd be a fine mess when she got in. With time and patience, however, she pushed through. In a way, the tearing thorns affirmed that no human, at least, could be lurking within the hedge, for al her vivid suspicions.

The fence was surprisingly low, a wrought-iron affair perhaps one-and-a-half times a man's height.

It was details like this that reminded Mary of the Palace's history as a grand home and pleasure palace, but not a state residence. It was no wonder that the occasional lunatic managed to wander into the grounds. One could hardly expect a fence like this, ab.u.t.ted with shrubbery, to keep out the determined. Or to keep them in.

Mary found a toehold at waist level, pul ed herself up, and balanced with care over the rather spiky top.

It was a simple matter of using her arms, and hoping her petticoats didn't catch as she went over. When she dropped down on the other side, she wasn't even breathless. The hawthorns had been the greater chal enge. From here, it was only a hundred yards or so to the nearest pil ar box. Then back over the fence. In ten minutes, she'd be in bed.

She fought her way through the brambles for a second time, cursing the tiny hooks that gripped at her clothing with such tenacity, and emerged annoyed but warmed by her little adventure. Then she looked across the garden towards the Palace, at the yel ow lights winking from the odd exposed window, and felt suddenly cold. Al the feelings she had long suppressed overcame her at last, making her stagger. It was like a physical blow: she was not just alone, but lonely.

The solitary state was nothing new, of course. But she was lonely now for different reasons. She was lonely despite the possibility of family perhaps because of that very likelihood. Because she might not be absolutely, truly alone, after al , and she might have preferred it so. Her fingers went to her throat, touching the rea.s.suring lump of her pendant. She found it uncomfortable to wear now. Not literal y, for the pendant was smal and weighed very little. But each time she touched it or felt the slither of its chain about her neck, she writhed and tried not to think of the man who might be her father.

She'd considered taking the necklace off, of course. Or throwing it into the river. She had the power to erase the last tangible link to her past, just like that. But she couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

Too frightened to face the truth. Too afraid to bury it.

When had she become such a coward?

Mary stopped short. She'd always despised cowardice. Found it difficult to understand in others, much less sympathize with it. But here she was now, sidling away from the real problem. A man cal ed Lang Jin Hai was locked in a prison cel , old and il , likely abused by guards, awaiting trial for murder and al she'd done was write him a letter. What a stupid, useless thing she'd chosen hoping he'd not reply, hoping she could salve her conscience by saying that she'd tried. When she considered the problem in theory the injustice of a man falsely accused she burned with anger. Yet the shame of being related to such a man a kil er, an opium addict made her shrivel. She was wasting her time, tiptoeing about the Palace and hoping that Prince Bertie might remember something, that his mother might extend leniency to this foreign criminal.

But even if they did a vast and unlikely a.s.sumption such so-cal ed success would bring her no closer to the real problem. Whatever happened to Lang Jin Hai, she wouldn't have come anywhere near dealing with him as she ought to. As she needed to.

She had to confront Lang Jin Hai. She would have to gain access to his gaol, somehow, and speak with him. Only by seeing him could she know whether he was in fact her father, or whether it was al a grotesque coincidence. She'd no idea which scenario she might prefer.

Ten.

As she re-entered the Palace, Mary was cold, distracted, brooding three reasons why she nearly walked into the furtive figure creeping along the servants' corridor. It was only her training that saved her had her stopping behind a door-frame, even before she knew why. For this was no ordinary prowler. Not a footman investigating a strange noise. Not another maid on an il icit errand. The tal figure was instantly recognizable, her elegant posture thrown into relief by the candle flickering in her hand. It was, of al people, Honoria Dalrymple.

Mary gave her a short lead, then fol owed with soundless steps. The lady-in-waiting had no reason to be in the servants' quarters. Even in the unlikely event that she had wanted a cup of hot milk before bed, she had only to ring for her maid. Yet here she was, picking her careful way past the butler's pantry until she reached a flight of stairs. She paused, as though summoning courage. Then she opened the heavy door and began her journey into the subterranean kitchens.

Mary rubbed her eyes. It was almost too perfect to be true, as though her tortured brain had produced a hal ucination spectacular enough to distract her from thoughts of Lang Jin Hai. Yet even as she paused, she heard the soft clop of Honoria's shoes against the rough stone steps. Honoria had left the door slightly ajar, rather as though she didn't expect to be long. Mary thought about her choices but only for a moment. Nothing in the world could have kept her from fol owing the Honourable Honoria Dalrymple into the bowels of the Palace.

She waited a few seconds longer, then peeked down the stairs. Smiled widely. And descended. The stone floors were worn smooth, here in the heart of the original Buckingham House. It had undergone generations of renovations, including very recent ones to create nurseries for Her Majesty's young family, but the kitchens had remained unchanged. It was perhaps a shame they were dank and smoky, desperately smal for the large staff, and, Mary imagined, a positive inferno in the warmer months. In present circ.u.mstances, though, they were cosy and warm, the coals from the banked-down fires offering just enough light for Mary to track Honoria's movements across the sloping flagged floor.

As the heel of Honoria's shoe sc.r.a.ped loudly against an uneven section of flagstone, she glanced down and sniffed. Tense as she was, Mary couldn't repress a smile. So the sn.o.bbery wasn't an act put on for the Queen's benefit: even a humble square of stone could be found remiss. Honoria halted before what Mary thought of as the herbarium not that any of the staff cal ed it by such a grandiose t.i.tle. It was a smal s.p.a.ce, like an open room, near the two vast bread ovens where al the Palace baking took place.

At summer's end, the cook-maids hung large, bushy bundles of thyme, rosemary, sage and tarragon from the ceilings. These dried in the heat of the nearby fires, then were packed into dark cupboards for the winter. Now, the smal s.p.a.ce was empty, although perfumed by the ghosts of those aromatics.

Holding her candle aloft, Honoria began to look about not suspiciously, but with earnest enquiry.

The upper halves of each wal were fitted with open shelves where less frequently used equipment jel y moulds, especial y large basins were stored.

Below were cupboards that held, presumably, the dried herbs and other goods. Her large, elegant hands skimmed the shelves and she peered into cupboards as though searching for just the right cake tin. It was a most unlikely sight.

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 antic.i.p.ation, 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 cla.s.sic 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 chateaux. 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 coa.r.s.e 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 a.s.sume 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.