The Body at the Tower

by Y. S. Lee

  As her second bath in the space of a week, it was a thorough betrayal of the authentic worker’s life. Baths ought to be infrequent luxuries for Mark Quinn, not regular affairs, and they ought to occur in shallow tin tubs by the kitchen fire, never in purpose-built temples to cleanliness. But this afternoon, Mary didn’t care; she’d never revelled so much in soap and water in her life. On climbing out, she found that Mark’s grimy clothes had vanished from the other side of the privacy screen. Laid out in their place were a fine linen nightshirt, immaculately pressed and fragrant with cedar, and a light dressing gown. They were much too big for her, the nightshirt billowing around her ankles and the dressing gown trailing on the floor. James’s familiar scent settled around her, warming her and making her shiver at the same time. She felt bold and scandalous; almost fallen. Exactly the sort of woman she’d never been.

  She brushed her hair – an odd sensation, the bristles scraping her bare neck. And then Mrs Vine appeared to conduct her downstairs once again. The stark formality of the drawing room – James and George were not, apparently, devoted to knick-knacks and cushions – made her curl a little into herself. Much of her awareness was focused on the two flimsy layers of fabric that swathed her body, her only barrier against nakedness in this unfamiliar masculine domain.

  James was reading a book, his long legs unfolded over the length of a sofa, but he leapt to his feet when she entered. For once, there was no acerbic comment. Instead, he looked almost shy. “Mrs Vine will bring tea shortly.”

  She sat gingerly in the space he indicated, beside him on the sofa. “She must think it so strange, my arriving in boy’s clothing, and having a bath, and her providing fresh things, and a nightshirt at that!”

  “I imagine the nightshirt is the only thing I have that comes even close to fitting. And even that buries you.”

  “Well, perhaps you ought to keep a stock of women’s clothing on hand, just in case.”

  He grinned at that. “D’you plan on returning often? Or are you trying to work out how often I entertain half-naked young ladies?”

  She blushed furiously. “Neither!”

  “Really? Because it sounded like one or the other, to me…”

  This was the James she knew. Despite his teasing – or rather, because of it – she was suddenly much more at ease. “I’m sure you meet any number of half-naked young ladies, but daren’t bring them here for fear of what your brother would say.”

  “Extraordinary. That was meant to be your cue to fly into a jealous tantrum.”

  “I thought I’d already covered that the other night at your offices.”

  “I suppose you rather did. You’re not worried about Nancy any more?”

  “No.” She truly wasn’t. At this moment, in his presence, it seemed ridiculous that she ever had.

  He’d had a wash, too, and removed his tie and jacket. She’d no idea whether this was to put her at ease in her undressed state, or whether he expected to undress further. The idea made her tremble, although she wasn’t afraid. Not in the usual sense, at least.

  “Your hair.” He touched the shining strands. “Were you sorry to cut it?”

  She shook her head, a tiny movement, lest he withdraw his hand. “I didn’t think about how it felt. It had to be done.”

  “Will it take long to grow back?”

  “I don’t think so. It grows so fast.”

  “Mmm.” His fingers slipped down to explore the curve of her neck. “This was a weak point in your boyish disguise, you know.”

  “What – my neck?” Even her disbelief sounded breathless.

  He smiled. “Too long. Too slender. And” – he leaned down to plant a light kiss on her collarbone – “not nearly grimy enough.”

  She exploded with laughter. “Is that a complaint?”

  Mrs Vine entered, balancing a heavy tray. She set it down and turned to Mary. “I beg your pardon, Miss Quinn, but in preparing your trousers for laundering, I found this in your pocket. Do you wish to retain it?”

  “This” was the twisted paper she had filched from Reid that afternoon; the thing she’d been trying to remember before tipsiness and James pushed all logic and strategy from her mind. She seized it with an over-loud “Yes, thank you!” Her horror must have been evident in her face. But Mrs Vine remained as carefully expressionless as ever, merely inclining her head before leaving the room with swift, noiseless steps.

  “What is it?”

  In answer, she unfolded it carefully and showed it to him. “It fell out of Reid’s pocket at the pub this afternoon.”

  “It fell? Or did you help it?”

  She grinned. “No, I didn’t steal it. But neither did I restore it to him.” She turned it over and pointed to the dark pencil marks that seemed to grow from one corner of the envelope. They formed a simple design of tall, narrow triangles, every other one of which was shaded in. “Is this familiar?”

  James swallowed hard. After a frozen moment, he nodded with obvious reluctance. “It completes the circle.”

  “Does it?” She hated the expression of misery on his face.

  “Of course it does,” he snapped. “It wouldn’t convict him in a court of law, but those marks – they’re inarguable. Harkness can’t help but draw them when he’s thinking with a pencil in hand. They’re all over the accounts ledger, and his working drawings, and now they’re here. This envelope is proof that he’s connected with the bricklayers’ thefts.”

  “Reid may have pinched it.”

  “What would Reid want with an old envelope? No, never mind that. Think of it the other way: Harkness’s involvement explains how the bricklayers could steal so much for so long.”

  She was silent. The envelope markings showed clearly enough that it had passed from Harkness’s hand to Reid’s, at the very least. It wasn’t a pay packet, so that could safely be ruled out. And it was a dainty piece of stationery – much too small to contain architectural drawings, for example. She smoothed the envelope under her fingers. It was well-worn, dented at the corners and grubby with finger marks. It had never been addressed, never stamped – and that was logical enough, since who would trust illicit information to the penny post?

  As she stared at this bit of evidence, a new sense of dismay rose within her. If Reid and Keenan had become reconciled this afternoon, Keenan would now be aware that she, too, knew about their scheme. And even if Reid and Keenan were still at odds, Keenan might still have extracted the information from Reid. Mary had no doubt that he was ruthless enough to turn on his friend and colleague; perhaps even to use violence to gain his end. Either way, a dangerously angry man would be after her. And she doubted that Harkness would be present to rescue her, this time.

  She shivered. This was her fault. Her own foolish, overconfident doing. She ought never have tried to press Reid for information. What had got into her? And her inner voice immediately returned the answer: it was more that she had got into the pub. The beer had emboldened her, and the sociable ease of the place had given her licence to utter things she’d never have dared on site. What had she done?

  “What’s wrong?” James’s voice was sharp with concern.

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me, Mary. You must.”

  “‘Must’?” Ah: the authoritarian aspect of his character. She’d nearly forgotten.

  “Yes, ‘must’. Things are different now, between us.” He seized her hands and shook them, but gently. “We both feel that, now.”

  She looked into his eyes for the briefest of moments and their expression made her tremble. She was exultant, blissful, terrified and, half a second later, utterly in despair. Only her emotions were true, here: everything between her and James was still a lie. And she would never be able to tell him the truth about herself. Not without betraying the Agency and the women who had saved her life and made everything possible for her in the first place.

  “Mary.”

  Her name again, on his lips. The very thought of it made her want to weep, but she
hadn’t the luxury. Instead, she drew a deep breath, nodded, and told him of her confrontation with Reid. She could reveal that much. When she’d finished, she glanced at his face again, reading the concern – no, alarm – she saw there.

  “We must report this to the police.”

  “Report what? That I accused a man of theft?”

  “That a man with a violent temper, whom we strongly suspect of theft, may have cause to do you harm. You’re too clever not to see that whatever Reid knows, Keenan soon will.”

  “The police can’t do anything about that. What d’you propose – having a bobby trail me about the site on Monday?”

  His lips tightened. “You’re not going to site on Monday.”

  “There! Again!”

  “What?” He was genuinely mystified.

  “Ordering me about, like a dim-witted child.”

  “I don’t think you’re dim, much less a child.”

  “But you’ve just told me what to do.”

  “I’ve just told you the sensible thing to do!”

  “But that’s just it – you’re telling me!” Could they have a lovers’ quarrel when they weren’t truly lovers? It seemed so. “You’ve no right to make decisions for me.”

  His jaw tightened. “This isn’t about rights; it’s about common sense.”

  “So you’re saying that if our positions were reversed, you’d accept my command not to go to work on Monday?” Her temper was rising fast, but at that moment she didn’t care.

  “There’s no need to be theoretical about this. The difficulty is what it is.”

  “And you are what you are!”

  “Pray tell,” he drawled, coldly angry now.

  “Arrogant, high-handed and controlling!”

  “Rather that than arrogant, impulsive and irresponsible.”

  She flung herself up from the sofa and stalked around the room. “It’s my life, not yours! Can’t you understand that?”

  “What I understand is that you’d rather risk your safety on Monday than admit I’m right.”

  “Untrue! You may well be right about Keenan, but I don’t agree with your method of dealing with it. And I certainly won’t permit you to give me orders, simply because – because—”

  He’d risen when she did, as a gentleman ought. He stood now with his arms folded across his chest. “Go on – say it. ‘Because…’”

  Here she floundered, unwilling to articulate just how she felt about James. Unable to assume that he felt the same way, now that he was staring at her with those cold, angry eyes. As she struggled, her sense of righteous indignation began to seep away, leaving only despair. It didn’t matter how this argument ended. Suddenly, she felt bone-weary. Deep behind her temples, a headache was blossoming. “Because,” she said wearily, “you’re concerned for my safety. I know that, and I am too, and I’ll not be cavalier about it. But I refuse to go to the police just yet.”

  He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “What about Monday?”

  “I’ve not decided.”

  “What do you propose to do now?”

  “Well, what about working out the precise nature of the link between Harkness, Keenan and Reid?”

  Instead of replying, he pushed the tea tray towards her and said, “Will you pour?” The familiar rituals helped to smooth things between them: tea, cream and sugar, sandwiches, cakes. Once their hands were occupied with small matters, it was easier to pretend their thoughts were, too.

  “We might be jumping to conclusions about Harkness,” said Mary at last, when it seemed that James intended to stare into his teacup for ever. “As you said before, Reid might have filched the envelope from his desk.”

  He nodded slightly. “But if Harkness is truly innocent, I don’t understand why he hasn’t reported the thefts. Or sacked Keenan and Reid. He’s involved with them, and it seems personal.”

  “Well, he does seem to feel a sense of responsibility towards the men. Towards Mark Quinn, for example – trying to teach as well as employ.”

  “True.” James crumbled a scone with his long fingers. “So perhaps he’s trying to lay a trap for them, or persuade them to give up their bad ways?”

  “Possibly. All I’m saying is, why not try to learn more about their connection before assuming the worst? If you report your suspicions to the police and Harkness turns out to be blameless, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  “Neither will he,” he said with the faintest of smiles. The clock on the mantel chimed six o’clock in silvery tones. Both looked at it, then at each other, with surprise. “I’m dining at Harkness’s home tonight. I might learn something there.” He drained his teacup, set it down decisively, and flashed her a charming grin. “Care to join me?”

  “Wearing your nightshirt?” she laughed.

  “Oh, you won’t need it.”

  “I beg your pardon?!” She felt the blush wash over her in a swift, comprehensive wave.

  “Tut tut, Miss Quinn – not as pure of mind as a young lady ought to be.”

  “You must be terribly disappointed.”

  He laughed aloud at that, a sound of pure joy. “Never less so in my life.”

  Another great roll of warmth rippled through her body and she couldn’t stop smiling. “Go on, then – how am I to join you this evening?”

  “As Mark Quinn, of course. I’m surprised you had to ask.”

  Twenty-one

  Leighton Crescent, Tufnell Park

  The Harkness home was a broad, blocky villa in Tufnell Park, part of a tightly packed estate built a decade before. Viewed together, the houses reminded Mary of nothing so much as a row of false teeth plonked into a field. Or perhaps that was simply her jaundiced eye. Despite tonight’s promise of adventure and discovery, she was exhausted. And even after a large dose of willow-bark powder, her headache continued to swell, pounding against her temples in time with her footsteps. Her mouth was dry and thick. Either she was falling ill, or these were the after-effects of too much drink. Perhaps there was something to Harkness’s teetotalling gospel, after all.

  She pulled her cap lower over her eyes and considered the house before her. Despite the lingering dusk, for it was not yet eight o’clock, the house was brightly lit, as for a party. A neat row of carriages lined the street just outside. The first-floor curtains were still open, and ladies and gentlemen in evening dress paraded back and forth in the large windows. As she strolled past the house, a fourth carriage drew up and disgorged a stout mother-and-daughter pair. They were quite spectacularly alike, from their bulging eyes to their jewelled silk slippers. Although the evening was far from cold, each had a stole wrapped about her neck, the fur slightly wilted now in the humid evening.

  The mother frowned at the house. “Well, I suppose it’s not a bad size – but my dear! The location!”

  Mary paused to watch as a footman opened the door to them. The hall blazed with gaslight and she received a fleeting impression of plenty of highly polished ornaments before the door closed once again. Quickening her pace now, she walked to the corner of the road and turned into the back alley. Even if she hadn’t known which house was Harkness’s, it would have been evident from the extraordinary level of light and noise emanating from its grounds.

  The hum of conversation floated out of the first-floor windows, punctuated by barks of masculine amusement and the occasional bright squeal. At times, this was nearly drowned out by the clatter and half-panicked exclamations of servants on the lower levels. As Mary stopped to listen again, there came a smash of crockery and a cry of dismay, followed by ugly haranguing and then, perhaps inevitably, the wail of a slapped woman. Nearer her, the stable was alive with the whickering of horses and the rustle of hay, and even the quiet whistling of a man at work. He had by far the best job this evening. The atmosphere in the house was clearly fraught, she could tell even from here.

  The noise and chaos were to her advantage. She’d been worried about gaining access without lock-picks or a skeleton key; people were gen
erally so careful about keeping doors and windows locked. But tonight, the first window she tried slid up quite easily. She found herself inside the darkened breakfast room. The door had been left ajar and, in the corridor, feet pounded swiftly up and down with rather less grace and discretion than generally desired. One could almost measure the distance between the private and public spaces of the house by listening to the point at which the footsteps slowed, the hissed instructions ceased, and a harried expression was smoothed to a mask of impassive calm.

  This was all very well, thought Mary, crouching behind the door, but if the servants didn’t stop scampering past, she’d never be able to leave the breakfast room. The clock on the mantel, a squat thing heavily embellished, ticked off the minutes. Five. Ten. A quarter-hour. And then came a different sort of stampede – languid of pace, brightly chattering – down a staircase near the front of the house: the guests going in to dinner. Another five minutes and through the wedge of open door, Mary saw a pair of footmen bearing soup tureens, moving with perfect sangfroid – a denial of the frantic scurrying she’d witnessed earlier. When the dining-room doors closed, Mary peered out into the hallway. Empty. She had a good interval while this course was served. If she didn’t move now, she’d be caught in the changeover between soup and fish.

  The corridors were wainscotted in dark wood and papered in a smudged floral design that looked a peculiar greeny-brown by gaslight. The house, so far, seemed a testament to someone’s violently rich tastes: ornate rosewood breakfast table and chairs, enormous tiered chandelier in the entry hall, walls jammed with paintings in gilded frames. Mary’s eyes widened as she noticed a suit of armour – an actual suit of armour! – standing sentry by the broad staircase. It seemed a far cry from Harkness’s rather puritanical posture on site. She walked on, wide-eyed. Surely this faint, stirring queasiness owed as much to the decoration as to all that beer this afternoon…