Free Traitor and the Tunnel by Y. S. Lee

doubt it for an instant.

    Eight
    That afternoon, as Mary approached Her Majesty’s private drawing room carrying a tea tray, the first thing she heard beyond the improperly closed door was the Prince of Wales’s voice, raised high in a querulous whine. “I tel you again, I cannot remember exactly what happened, Mother!”
    The Queen’s voice was cold and precise and quiet. “You were there. The dead man was your friend. You were surely concerned for his safety.
    Why can’t you remember, Edward?”
    “Because … because…” Prince Bertie, as he was known to the servants, heaved a sigh. “Because I was blind drunk, Mother, and – and – hysterical. I was screaming like a woman, because I was so afraid. There. Are you happy now?”
    “I am far from happy, Albert Edward Wettin.”
    “It was a figure of speech, Mother.”
    “I am aware of that. I am appal ed to discover that my son and heir is not only a sot but a hysterical coward.”
    Sul en silence.
    “You must try harder to remember. It is al there, in your brain.” She paused. “Even such a mind as yours.”
    The Prince made an explosive sound. “For the love of God, Mother!”
    “I do love my God, Edward. Your behaviour, however, suggests that you do not love yours as much as you ought.”
    “Oh, what is the use in trying to talk to you?!” The Prince’s words were so anguished that Mary felt a moment’s pity. Spoilt and selfish as he was, he was in an impossible position.
    “How dare you speak to me like that? I am doing my best to shelter you from the consequences of your own actions! I desire only to protect your good name, spare you the shame of public exposure, eliminate the anxiety of your testifying publicly – and you would speak so to me!”
    A long silence. Mary dared not set down the tray, dared not move or even draw a deep breath. “Not before the servants” was an ideal, of course, impossible to uphold in a busy and heavily serviced household such as this. But she very much doubted that this particular conversation would have continued had either mother or son realized she was on the threshold.
    Final y, Prince Bertie spoke. His voice was weary and contrite. “I beg your pardon, Mother. I shal try to remember what happened.”
    “Do your best, my son. It is vital y important.”
    Another brief pause. Then the Prince asked,
    “Mother, this sailor kil ed Beaulieu-Buckworth. He’l die regardless of what I remember. What does it matter whether it’s a traitor’s death or a murderer’s?”
    The Queen’s tone sharpened slightly. “Does it matter to you, Edward?”

    “Er – wel … not real y!” An awkward pause. “I mean, yes, I suppose it could. Does, I mean. The truth wil out, and al that… That’s in the Bible, isn’t it?”
    There was a long, taut silence. Then the Queen’s voice came again, distant and precise and cold.
    “ ‘And ye shal know the truth, and the truth shal make you free’: the book of John, eighth chapter, thirty-second verse. I believe that is the quotation you sought.”
    No response.
    “You are correct in supposing that whichever is the case, this man wil die. He is a bad man, of course: a violent opium-smoker. But if he is also a traitor, we must make an example of him. An attack on you is, in effect, an attack on this nation. To permit a foreigner to threaten the crown is unthinkable –
    especial y a Chinese, in the current state of affairs.”
    She paused. “Sift through your memories, Albert Edward Wettin. It is no smal thing to be the future King; to have a hand in laying the path for justice.”
    “I… I do not know what to say, Mother.”
    “Do you understand what I’ve told you?”
    Prince Bertie’s tone was resentful. “Yes!”
    “Then there is nothing more to be said.” Her skirts rustled, and Mary heard the Prince scramble to his feet. “I have a headache, Edward. I shal not take tea this afternoon.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “I expect to see you at both supper and at