by Y. S. Lee
For answer, she fished in a pocket and offered him something with an apologetic look. "I also found these."
He took the items with some puzzlement. They didn't look like much: a long strip of thick blotter paper, much used and re-used; a blank sheet of writing-paper. As he studied the scrap, though, the sinking dread that had attended him all evening came into sharp focus. His stomach rolled queasily and he cursed under his breath. "You tore this from his blotter?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry."
"Why should you be?" he said fiercely. Turning his attention to the blank sheet, he stroked the watermark with tingling fingertips. "Confirmation," he said softly.
It wasn't a question but she nodded nevertheless. "It could be an accident…"
"The First Commissioner's signature neatly blotted on Harkness's pad – that's an accident?"
"He could have called upon Harkness," said Mary quickly. "Borrowed his desk to write a letter."
"He could have borrowed a sheet of paper, if it comes to that."
"That's true," she said slowly. "It would be simple to verify a visit to Harkness's house."
Abruptly, he crumpled the page he'd been holding so carefully. "False hope. If the Commissioner was in such a rush to appoint me to the safety review, he'd never have driven all the way out to Tufnell Park to write a letter. He'd have done so from his office, beside Palace Yard. No. This is clear evidence that Harkness forged my letter of appointment. And if he's forging letters from the Committee of Works, God only knows what else he's up to." He looked at Mary's reluctant expression and groaned. "Oh Lord – you've more to say, haven't you?" Mary's gaze dropped towards his hands, and he wished she'd look up again. As much as he hated this conversation, it was easier when he could see her eyes.
"Tell me about Harkness," she said quietly.
James paused for a moment. "A friend of my father's. A decent engineer, but not a brilliant one. Devout Christian. Wife. Children – four, I think, about my age and younger. Bit of a clot, but well-meaning, and a sound man." His mouth twisted. "Or so I thought."
"Has he money? Or rich relations?"
James shook his head, mystified. "Don't think so. He's always made a virtue of being a professional man, not an idle aristocrat. You know."
"So he's unlikely to have a private income."
"Just what are you suggesting, Mary?"
Her gaze was still averted, slim hands clasped tightly against her knee. "What did you think of his house?"
"What is this?!" He grasped her arms and tried to make her look at him. "What are you insinuating?"
"I'm looking for motive," she said calmly, not the least frightened of his explosion. "Tell me what you thought of his house. Its contents. The decorations."
He looked at her blankly. "It was just a house. A bit oppressively frou-frou, but Mrs Harkness has always been like that. A dozen lace doilies where none is needed, that sort of thing. Bad taste isn't criminal."
"But the cost of their furnishings… didn't you notice? All those brasses, and faux-medieval statues, and carved wooden furniture, and gold-plated everything? What about the dinner service and the candelabra? Could an engineer's salary pay for all that?"
James frowned. "I don't shop. I don't know the cost of things."
"Trust me, James – they're dear. Even if hired or bought on the cheap, the contents of that house are worth a small fortune because there's so bloody much of the stuff."
He closed his eyes for a long moment and listened to the silence in the carriage. Beyond it, there was the clop of horses' hooves, the racket of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the swelling sounds of the town as they neared the city lights. Just now, the quiet within was more oppressive than all of these. "So we have motive: greed."
"Or desperation." Mary's voice was careful, gentle, as she made her point. He almost wished she'd be brutal about it. "Harkness's study was entirely different: bare, uncarpeted, underfurnished and utterly uncomfortable. Doesn't that suggest a man who disagrees with his family's expensive tastes?"
James considered. "His children have large allowances. Son at Cambridge, daughters at finishing school. And Mrs Harkness was spattered with jewellery, now you mention it."
"So we've a man trying to accommodate his family's desires…"
"And failing. On his salary, at least."
"But it seems rather forced on him. The study, at least, suggests that Harkness doesn't share their tastes and would live differently, given the choice."
James felt a sudden, deep weariness. "Every man has a choice."
"But if it means denying his family, or making them unhappy…"
"Then it's his responsibility to do so," he said severely. "A man must live by his values. Especially when he's as public and do-gooding about them as Harkness was. Is."
There was a silence. Then Mary placed a hand on his and said softly, "It's a fine philosophy. But perhaps he realized what was happening only when it was too late. He's clearly a man under enormous pressure – his behaviour at dinner, for example."
"Why are you so intent on defending him?" asked James, suddenly irritable. "We're talking about a man whose greed compromised the safety of a building site; who may have caused the death of one of his labourers, all because he wanted some gold-plated candlesticks."
"What if he didn't? What if Wick jumped, or was pushed by Keenan or Reid, and the compromises Harkness made didn't have a thing to do with Wick's death?"
"Then Harkness is still morally culpable. And when I turn in my safety review, the authorities and the world are going to conclude the same, no matter what excuses you concoct."
She withdrew her hand swiftly. Sat back, shoulders straight, spine erect. "I'm not excusing anything, just searching for the real cause of Wick's death. And perhaps a little compassion is in order here, as opposed to…"
"Go on. You may as well say it."
"Unbending sanctimony."
"You would condone his actions? Theft? Endangering men's lives owing to inadequate equipment, and God knows what else?"
"Of course not. But no man – no person – is perfect." She looked at him for a long moment, but her expression was shuttered. "Except, perhaps, you."
There seemed nothing else to be said. Twenty-three Sunday, 10 July Gordon Square, Bloomsbury
She was angry with him; that much was clear. But he couldn't remember what he'd done, what he'd said, what she'd expected. He couldn't see her face, only her slim back as she walked rapidly away. They were in a park of some sort – a field, perhaps – he couldn't tell – he'd no idea where – and night was falling. He tried to keep up, to speak to her, but no matter how fast he ran, she remained ahead, always ahead. How could she move so swiftly?
He called after her but she didn't hear. And he kept on chasing, stumbling. He was gasping for air now, each breath stabbing his lungs, and the air around him was hot, so very hot and sticky, like the stifling, blanketing heat of Calcutta. He heard the whine of a mosquito in his ear and then another, and it was too cold in England for mosquitoes, he knew that, so Mary must be in India, which meant that he, too, was back in India…
The mosquitoes whined on, looming close, then receding in great swoops. He didn't have a net. Foolish to sleep without a net. But he was walking, wasn't he? Not sleeping. Couldn't be sleeping. He was covered in sweat, shirt sticking to his back, lungs aching with the effort, and Mary was no longer in sight, the meadow was gone, and those damned mosquitoes began to cackle, to giggle hysterically, louder and louder, even when he stopped his ears it didn't go away. If only it would stop…
"Mr James."
Why couldn't someone – anyone – make it quiet?
"Master James!"
Anybody at all?
"Jamie! Jamie-lad!"
Rough hands about his head. He swatted at them irritably but they persisted, those hands, doing something to his head, smothering him. And that voice kept repeating his name, his name – his childhood nickname.
He struggled against the
assault. "Stop! Stop it!"
"I'll stop," said a voice with cool clarity, "once you wake up."
With a shudder and a gasp, he was suddenly awake, blinking in the pale glare of what passed as daylight in London. He looked about. He was in his bedroom, of course. It was bitterly cold. And two pairs of eyes stared down at him: Mrs Vine and George.
"Who called me that?" he demanded. He had a sour taste in his mouth.
"What – Jamie? I did," said George.
"I hate being c-called 'Jamie'. D-don't do it ag-gain." Damn his chattering teeth. Why hadn't they laid a fire, if it was so cold?
"Yes, I'd say he's himself again," said George to Mrs Vine. He heaved a dramatic sigh. "More's the pity."
"You were hallucinating, Mr James." She placed a cool hand on his forehead. "Feverish. I knew it."
"N-not feverish. F-freezing."
"Chills," she said matter-of-factly, sweeping a hand over his sheets. "And night sweats too."
"Oh Lord – it's a relapse, isn't it?" said George, beginning to pace the room. "I'll send for the doctor. He warned you against this, James."
"Don't b-be an ass. I'm n-not having a relapse. I just need a fire."
"It's July, not November."
"It's still f-frigid. A fire, please, Mrs Vine."
She shook her head gravely. "Not with that fever, Mr James. You're too warm as it is."
He threw back the bedclothes in a gesture he knew to be pathetic and childish. "Then I'll make it myself." Each leg was weak and felt heavy as lead. The rug beneath his bare toes prickled and burned and when he tried to stand, his thigh muscles buckled. "Damn it."
Mrs Vine shifted him to the centre of the bed as if he was still eight years old. "Wiser to lie down, Mr James. I'll send up a pot of willow-bark tea."
Why was she always right? He glared at her retreating back. Then as it disappeared through the door, he shifted his attention to George. "Why are you still here, then? I thought you went to church with the Ringleys."
"When Mrs Vine heard you shouting in your sleep, she thought I'd better know about it."
"I – what?" Suddenly the room was stiflingly hot, and he threw off the counterpane. "What did I say?"
"A lot of nonsense about wine and forged letters and hyenas." George's mouth broadened into a sly, rosy smile. "Or did you mean wine-drinking hyenas who are also skilled forgers?"
Remembrance came flooding back with a speed that took his breath away. Or perhaps that, too, was a symptom of malarial relapse. "I – you'd not believe me if I tried to explain." He needed to be alone. To think. His temples throbbed with a vicious headache. "I'm sorry you missed the Ringleys, old man."
"Don't worry. I'll call on them this afternoon. If you're feeling a bit better by then, of course."
"I'm sure I will be." The tea tray arrived and James eagerly gulped down a cup of the bitter brew. "You've not really sent for Newcombe, have you? The man's a perfect quack."
"He's an excellent physician," said George with reproof. "You just don't like his advice."
"'Lie in bed all day and play cards. One guinea, please.' It's the same for every case – just that the rest of them are old ladies, and so they enjoy it and think he's a genius."
"Well," said George wearily, "malarial fever hasn't improved your temper, at any rate."
James was wrong about Mr Newcombe, who did indeed recommend complete bed-rest but charged one pound ten shillings for this advice, as today was Sunday. Yet this verdict pleased George, especially as James offered not the slightest protest.
"You know," said George, popping into James's room on his way out to the Ringleys', "it's a great load off my mind, knowing that you value your health and want to look after it. I was always against that Indian venture, you know, and it's done us no good as a company. But once you're completely recovered, we can look forward to bigger and better jobs right here, in jolly old England. Cheery-ho!"
James offered him a sarcastic wave, the value of which was lost as George returned the salute with pink-cheeked good humour. As the bedroom door closed on his brother, James lay back against his many pillows, encased in fresh new linens. He drank two cups of willow-bark tea. And then he rang for writing-paper, pen and ink, and a portable desk. Sunday, 10 July Noon My dear Harkness, Having completed my review of the safety of the St Stephen's Tower building site, I should like to present my findings to you before their submission to the First Commissioner of Works tomorrow. I shall call upon you today at your earliest convenience.
Yours sincerely,
J. Easton, Esq.
He composed this letter swiftly and without hesitation, and dispatched it by messenger. Then, arranging a second sheet of paper before him, he dipped his pen and let it hover over the page for a long time. He made several tentative pen strokes, all without putting nib to paper. Frowned. Flung down the pen, then took it up once more. Changed his mind yet again. Ten minutes, then twenty, ticked by. Finally, with a groan of frustration, he packed up the writing-table. It was senseless. Some things simply couldn't be written. Twenty-four Coral Street, Lambeth
Reid. She had to find Reid – and quickly. Last night, she'd not got as far as telling James about the memorandum book; they'd fallen out before she'd had a chance, and she'd no specific idea how to interpret it, anyway. But it left with her a sense of urgency, and the conviction that whatever Harkness envisaged happening would take place today. Whatever Harkness and the bricklayers were doing, Reid was the key. He was the least hardened, the most remorseful, the most malleable. His love for Jane Wick meant that he had the most to lose. If she could persuade Reid to confess, that was the Agency's best chance of solving this case. Otherwise, they would be forced to rely on any scraps of evidence Harkness and Keenan failed to destroy.
Mary left by the front door – one of Miss Phlox's rules was that lodgers had the privilege of the front door on Sundays only – and set off down the Cut towards the baker's. Collecting a message from the Agency was awkward on Sundays, when so many businesses were closed. But it wasn't impossible. A small alley ran behind the row of closed shops, and with a quick glance over her shoulder – not that she expected to see anyone – Mary turned into this narrow passage. The baker's dustbin had, of course, been tipped over. Unsold goods were used by the baker's family, but things they deemed inedible – stale crusts, floor sweepings, weevilled flour – were still prizes for the very poor, who scavenged through the bins at dusk. Mary had often seen fist-fights break out over the privilege of digging through the scraps. In her long-ago childhood she herself had fought, more than once, over a carelessly discarded bun or trimming.
Beside the back door, the third brick in the fourth layer from the ground was loose. Prising it from its place, Mary ran her fingers around the gap it left. Frowned. Swept the space again. Odd. There'd been a message every day so far. She examined the brick carefully, then the wall, and finally, on hands and knees, sifted the loose earth below. Still nothing. And no indication as to whether it simply hadn't arrived, or it had been intercepted. Damn, damn, damn.
She had to find Reid, somehow, and didn't much like her choices, right now.
James was out of the question.
She could return to the Hare and Hounds and try to trace Keenan's route of yesterday. But, her fear of Keenan aside, such a project seemed foolish in the ever-changing city streets, and anybody still at the Hare would be in no condition to remember anything short of a riot, and perhaps not even that.
Her only option – waiting passively for Monday morning – was impossible, given Harkness's mysterious deadline. But at the very least, she could send another urgent message to the Agency. Accordingly, she began to walk towards the Pig and Whistle, a newish public house less than a quarter of a mile from Westminster.
She stalked, at first, at her usual brisk pace – modified, of course, to accommodate Mark's boyish bounce-and-slouch. But as her irritation cooled, she slowly became aware that something felt wrong. Someone was watching her. Following her, even. She co
uld see nobody likely in front or beside her. Yet…
On the Baylis Road, she slowed her pace. Her pursuer remained behind. She continued to stroll, considering who might be following her. James? Unlikely, given the way they'd parted last night. Besides, today he had to finish his report and struggle with his conscience: work enough for any Sunday, without his tagging after her.
If not James, then her pursuer was Keenan – a thought that chilled her even before she acknowledged it. Her chances of evading him were low. She was in a part of London she knew only moderately well. It was neither raining nor particularly foggy. And, in truth, she was bone-weary. Late nights, high tension and a bedmate who snored hard enough to shake the foundations of Miss Phlox's flimsy house: this was not a recipe for rest. If she was going to face a pursuer, Mary reasoned, she had better do so in this peopled street. Especially if it was Keenan.
She spun about before she could think better of it. Looked straight into a pair of eyes not five yards behind her. Dark eyes. Familiar eyes. After a long, incredulous moment, Mary found her voice. "Winnie?! Why are you following me?"
The girl was quaking, her cheeks a solid pink. "I – I'm sorry." She tried to gather herself, without much success. "I – I only – I thought-"
"You thought what?" Mary all but shouted her question. Then, at the look on Winnie's face, she moderated her voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." Now there was irony: the prey apologizing to the stalker. But Winnie still didn't reply – only stared at her in a timid, spellbound way, her colour deepening from pink to red. "You surprised me, that's all," Mary said as gently as she could manage.
Winnie nodded. She fidgeted with her sleeve, summoning the courage to say something. She was no longer wearing her usual dress, a brownish affair that was too short in the sleeves. Today she was in Sunday best, a bright, stiff blue that suited her ill. "You going to see your friends?" she asked in a small voice.