The Body at the Tower

by Y. S. Lee

  The conversation moved on, the characters of James Easton and Mrs Wick being of only passing interest to the other men.

  But Reid wanted to keep talking and he buttonholed Mary across the table. “You ain’t done building work before.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No,” said Mary. She offered him the same explanation she’d given Harkness: orphaned, no money for an apprenticeship, living in lodgings.

  “But you been to school,” said Reid, his brow creasing.

  She nodded reluctantly. “For a little.”

  He ignored this. “’Cause after I seen you yesterday, looking in the window, that Mr Jones – Octavius Jones” – he sounded out the given name with care – “said you’s a right clever little fart, and for to watch myself around you.”

  Beer made her bold. Rather than cringing and trying to minimize herself and her story, Mary grinned broadly. “You got so much to watch?” A flash of panic crossed Reid’s face and she added, hastily, “You, like, the ghost of the clock tower, or something?”

  He relaxed. “Not me, laddie. But that Mr Jones – I reckon he knows what’s what.”

  So he was sounding her out. Trying to work out what she knew. “Suppose he must, writing for the newspaper and all.”

  Reid nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “Keeps a sharp eye on that site.”

  “I don’t see him round that much.”

  “He’s got his ways.”

  It was like a game of cards with high stakes. Each trying to push the other closer to a confession, while both tried to keep their own secrets. “You mean, like paying people to tell him stuff?”

  Reid exhaled slightly. “Yeah. Like that.”

  “I ain’t told him nothing, yet,” she said candidly. “Does he pay as good as he says?”

  “Oh – naw. I dunno. I ain’t got nothing to tell.” But he flushed at this, and unconsciously pushed a hand into his trouser pocket. Presumably, that’s where Jones’s little bonus was tucked. “I got no secrets.” It was the most unconvincing denial Mary had heard in some time – so incompetent it made her wonder anew at Reid’s involvement with crooks like Wick and Keenan. Or whether she was meant to enquire further.

  “Keenan does,” she said boldly, draining her tankard.

  Reid looked sly – or perhaps that was just the effect of the cut under his eye, which made him appear quite raffish. “Maybe.”

  “He talks to Harky like he’s the boss.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And him and you and Wick, you’re all up to something.”

  Reid blushed, half-ashamed, half-defiant. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  “’Course you do.” She paused and leaned forward slightly. The other men paid them no attention; this was a perfect opportunity. “Tidy lot of money it pays you, too.”

  He gaped at her, his beer-pinked cheeks slack and quivering. Panic made his round blue eyes even rounder. “That bit ain’t me!” he yelped, drawing a lazy glance from his nearest neighbour. “I never meant it to go that far,” he muttered, leaning towards her.

  “But you know,” she persisted, encouraged both by the expression on his sensible, naive face and by the booze. “You know, and you told Octavius Jones.”

  “I got to piss,” he said, and stood abruptly. As he pulled his hand from his pocket, a twist of paper tumbled out, bouncing onto the bench and then to the floor. Reid’s anxiety was such that he didn’t notice: a moment later, he was through the back door into the alley, which served as a generalized chamber pot. Mary slipped the paper into her own pocket and, when Reid reappeared after a few minutes’ absence, accepted the offer of another pint.

  As though mention of him had conjured his real presence, the pub door swung open and Keenan himself walked in. Reid, half-way to the bar, blanched and steadied himself against a table. He stood still, waiting.

  Keenan looked to be in his usual foul mood. He’d been at work that morning, though uncharacteristically quiet, and Harkness had made rather a point of ignoring him. He’d not been reprimanded for his unexplained absence yesterday. Now, his gaze settled on Reid, and although the pub was dimly lit, he narrowed his eyes. The silence between them was rich with accumulated tension. Finally, Keenan said in a low tone, “Let’s take a walk.”

  Reid gulped and stared at him. He’d been drinking swiftly, downing two pints to Mary’s one, and the beer seemed to have fuddled his brain. Or perhaps it was the expression on Keenan’s face.

  Keenan twitched impatiently. “Have a heart, man – I ain’t like to kill you.” It was a poor choice of words and Reid’s face blanched. His fingers tightened around the tankard in his fist. Then, as if thus reminded of its presence, he lifted the drink to his lips and drained it in one swallow. His eyes were wide and wary, and the ruddy colour of his cheeks seemed to sit atop his skin like a painted mask. Then, setting the pot on the nearest table, he followed Keenan out of the pub like a man going to his death.

  Mary gave them a full half-minute’s lead before standing to leave. Suddenly, the world tilted sideways, the faces of the men around her blurring and warping crazily. Her knees buckled. She clutched at the table for support. Something solid struck her hand, making her knuckles ring. What the devil…?

  A large hand grasped her shoulder roughly and she flailed against it. He mustn’t feel her back. He mustn’t know. Something smacked her bottom, hard, and she struggled again, uncertain now which way was up. What was wrong with her eyes? Blood roared in her ears. She gasped for breath. It was like drowning on dry land. She was still on dry land, wasn’t she? At that, all the liquid sloshing around her stomach began to roll and churn. Oh, no. Not that.

  The pressure continued against her bottom, flat and hard and impersonal. Not a man, then. Slowly, she became aware of a general sort of guffawing. Gradually, the world resolved into a blur of likely browns, yellows and skin tones, eventually coming into focus. She was in the pub, of course, sitting on the same bench, surrounded by the same labourers.

  The pounding in her ears quieted.

  Queasiness receded.

  She found herself taking long, shaky breaths.

  “You look fit to faint,” chortled one of the joiners.

  The man next to her released his grip on her shoulder and grinned. “You ain’t much of a drinker, hey sonny?”

  Sonny. She was relieved to hear that.

  “It’s the sitting down what does it,” said another sagely.

  “Aye,” agreed another. Then began a chorus of advice, all just a few pints too late. It seemed that she’d committed two beginner’s errors: she’d not eaten before coming to the pub, and hadn’t known that suddenly standing up could transform the sensation of merry ease to that of fall-down drunkenness.

  This was all helpful. And when she tried again to stand, slowly this time, the room rocked only a little, although the floorboards were damned uneven. Funny. She’d not noticed that earlier. She took a cautious step, then another, and a third, before bidding her new mates a friendly goodbye. Next came the pub door, which swung open with hazardous ease; she stumbled into the street, but that was certainly the fault of the door, which banged loudly behind her. At least now she was outside, where the rich and complex smell of London’s streets could help to clear her brain.

  What time was it? There were few street vendors about, so she was in the lull between the early ones closing down and the late ones opening up. Late afternoon or early evening. There was some passing traffic, too – carriages and whatnot – but they were moving at a smart trot. In fact, even the pedestrians seemed to be moving quickly: men in suits, still conducting business, and labourers, footsore and intent on getting home. Only a few of the poorer sort of prostitute idled along, half-heartedly angling for custom. One blew her a kiss and shrugged a not very come-hither shoulder, then laughed unkindly at her startled response.

  The suggestion of movement: it stirred something in the back of her mind. There was something she had to do … but she couldn’t, for the life
of her, recall what it might be. Never mind. She had a good walk ahead of her. Likely as not, she’d remember along the way.

  Twenty

  On the road from Palace yard to Bloomsbury

  James was deeply perturbed. His request to inspect the project’s financial records, which he’d thought a matter of form, had been met by Harkness with prevarication, procrastination and, finally, reluctant accommodation. Once he’d finally gained access, James expected to spend an hour; instead, it had consumed his entire day. Now, sprawled in the carriage on his way home to Bloomsbury, he stared sightlessly out of the window, considering the unpleasant suspicions he’d entertained all week. They were fast becoming certainties.

  He was in no rush to return home. On a Saturday afternoon, George would be out, and the prospect of being alone in the large house was rather daunting. It would only mean more brooding about this damned situation of Harkness’s and what, if anything, he could do about it. Going home also brought him one step closer to the evening’s duty: a dinner party at the Harkness home. He’d accepted the invitation some days ago, more from duty than with pleasure. But given today’s events, neither he nor Harkness could possibly be looking forward to the meal. Indeed, the only thing that prevented his fabricating an excuse and cancelling at the last minute was his own ludicrous sense of hope. If he could dine with Harkness, if he could look his father’s old friend in the eye, things might not turn out as dire as they promised.

  These were his thoughts as the carriage drove along the northern embankment, rocking gently on its springs. He stared moodily at the streetscape. The threat of rain still pressed down on the town, making the air thick and sticky, the skies a weary grey. His eyes focused on a figure trudging unsteadily up the street. It tacked a bizarre course from lamppost to pillar box, stepping with excessive caution, as though afraid of slipping and falling. The figure was instantly, subcutaneously familiar: the last person he’d expect to see in such a plight, but the first he’d recognize anywhere, in any circumstances. He rapped on the carriage roof, two solid thumps, and they slowed to a plod alongside the staggerer.

  Slight. Rather grubby. Very rosy cheeks.

  James smirked. He couldn’t have imagined a better diversion. “Lost your way?” he called through the open window.

  Her head whipped round, causing her to stumble. It took her a moment to focus on his face. When she did, however, it was with a transparent delight that turned his heart to water. “You!”

  He beamed like an idiot. Any sort of clever quip was now impossible. “You look as if you need a lift.” The carriage slowed very gradually and came to a halt. Barker carefully averted his face as he opened the door and let down the steps, but James could well imagine his carefully arranged expression of distaste.

  Mary’s upturned face, framed by the carriage interior, looked small and slightly perplexed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Going home. Climb in.”

  She put one hand to her forehead, as though trying to remember something.

  “Still worried about propriety?”

  “No…”

  “The authenticity of your disguise?”

  She frowned. “I – well, I suppose…”

  “Oh, stop dithering.” He leaned out, grabbed her by the upper arms and hauled her bodily into the carriage, steps and propriety and authenticity be damned. Tense with surprise, she was light, and yet his own weakness startled him. A year ago, he’d not have thought twice about the effort; today, he required all his diminished strength to lift her. Nevertheless, he managed to plop her beside him on the bench with only a small thump, and by the time she stopped sputtering and giggling, they were away. “Phew. You reek of ale.”

  “I thought you liked ale.”

  “I do.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her soundly on the lips. She made a small sound of surprise and her hands came up, as if to push him away. Instead, they settled on his chest and relaxed there, and she returned his kiss with sweet enthusiasm. Beneath the malty ale she tasted delicious, familiar. But it was better than last time, infinitely so, and what he’d intended as a single embrace unravelled into a long string of kisses.

  Deep.

  Hypnotic.

  Luxurious.

  Kisses that threatened to blot out the world.

  Time passed, in some arbitrary fashion. He became aware of it only very gradually as a cessation of movement, as an unexpected stillness. With some surprise, he realized the carriage had stopped. More specifically, they were in the lane behind his house in Bloomsbury.

  “What’s wrong?” murmured Mary. Her voice was languorous, remote.

  “We’re—” He cleared his rusty throat. “We’re at my house.”

  “Oh.” She tensed, then swiftly untwined her limbs from his. There was an awkward pause, which they broke simultaneously:

  “I ought to go.”

  “Won’t you come in?”

  Her eyes widened, and he realized how it must sound. “For a cup of tea. Or a chat. Or – I mean, I didn’t have anything in mind. In particular. I only meant, there’s no reason for you to go.”

  She passed one hand over her hair, looked down at her boy’s rags. “I don’t think I possibly could.”

  “George isn’t home,” he said eagerly. “It’s only me.”

  She leaned over to the window and sized up the house. “You must have servants.”

  He looked surprised. “Of course. But they don’t talk.”

  She looked amused. “Much you know. Servants always talk.”

  “Does it matter what they say?”

  “I—” She seemed unable to explain.

  James thought he understood. “I know: you’re still a young lady, despite the costume. But you’re also half-cut, and I absolutely refuse to take you back to a rough lodging-house in this state.”

  “I’m not that drunk,” she said indignantly.

  “Well, I hope you’re not utterly foxed; that wouldn’t be very complimentary to me. But you’ll stay until you’re sober.” He couldn’t help grinning. Her surprise was so very readable, when normally he struggled to guess what she thought.

  It was a curious experience, bringing Mary home. He found himself excessively aware of the daily surroundings he had generally ceased to notice: the rattle of his key in the lock, the stiff springiness of the doormat beneath his boots, the way his voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall. James stood aside to let her enter but she hung back, looking about the garden with a frank curiosity he found impossibly endearing.

  The house was fragrant with beeswax polish and baking. Mrs Vine, the family’s housekeeper of some thirty years, stepped into the hall. “I’ve been expecting you these last two hours, Mr James,” she said, examining his face with critical eyes. “Though you don’t look so worn-out as I expected.”

  He smiled. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me all week.”

  She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Go and tidy yourself, for heaven’s sake. The scones aren’t getting any warmer.” Her gaze shifted to something behind him and, while her features didn’t move, her voice turned formal and courteous. “Shall I lay a place for this young man in the kitchen?”

  With a calm he didn’t feel, he said, “Actually, Miss Quinn will take tea with me.” He sensed, rather than saw, Mary tense behind him. “Mrs Vine will show you where you can, er, wash your hands.”

  Not a muscle moved in Mrs Vine’s face. She merely nodded and said, in that same neutral voice, “Please follow me, Miss Quinn.”

  James watched them down the hall. Mrs Vine sailed ahead, tall and regal, while Mary followed three steps behind, quieter than he’d ever seen her. He wasn’t at all certain he’d done the right thing in bringing her here. What on earth was happening to him? A kiss or two was one thing; what had passed between them in the carriage quite another. She had no right to overturn his world so easily, and perhaps not even realize she’d done so. And here he was, inviting her into his private domain. It wasn’t wi
se to allow her so much insight into his life when he scarcely knew anything beyond her name. But it was much too late for such caution now.

  Mary followed the Amazonian housekeeper up two broad flights of stairs, struggling with equal measures of disbelief and amusement. The disbelief was at being here, in James’s house, the private expression of the man. He was such a guarded character, and this suggested a new degree of intimacy she was reluctant – even afraid – to consider. The amusement was more straightforward. Mrs Vine, charging ahead, was a perfect music-hall servant: hatchet-faced, razor-tongued, and the rest. She’d probably served the Eastons since James was a wee fat baby (impossible to imagine!) and didn’t even blink when James brought home a scruffy little boy who turned out to be a woman.

  The beer was beginning to wear off. She was certain of that, if little else. Her limbs and movements were much more her own, she was fiercely thirsty, and she had a desperate, cramping need to pass water. How many pints had she drunk – two? Three? More than she’d ever had before, that was certain – and she’d thought she was being so careful. Evidently, she still had everything to learn about men, whether they were hardworking labourers or arrogant gentlemen.

  Mrs Vine paused on the second-floor landing. “I hope I’m not presuming too much, Miss Quinn,” said the housekeeper in her formal, public voice, “but would you care to perform a more thorough toilette?” At Mary’s mystified look, she added, “I could draw you a bath…”

  Mary ought, she knew, to have been mortified. What must this woman think of her, tumbling into the house with James, filthy and dishevelled and demanding food and baths! Instead, Mary could think only about the magic word “bath”. “Oh yes, please,” she said rather fervently. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

  It was an absurd thing to say. Baths were trouble, plenty of trouble, what with the boiling of water and hauling it up three flights of stairs, never mind taking the slops back down and laundering the towels. But the corners of Mrs Vine’s mouth seemed to suggest majestic approval and Mary soon found herself in a special room designed just for bathing. It was a rather swanky idea, the separate bathroom with its glazed tiles, piped-in hot water and self-draining tub, and she was rather amused by the notion of James as a bath-obsessed modernizer.