The body at the Tower a-2

by Y. S. Lee

  "I know."

  It was a slow ascent, and when they reached the landing at the one-third point, he stopped to wipe his forehead and neck again. She stood quietly, unsure what to do. Showing concern or offering advice would doubtless result only in the same mulish denial. Not that she was in a position to criticize; it was a trait she recognized in herself. So she simply leaned against the wall and didn't look at him.

  James's breathing, rapid and shallow, was the loudest sound in the room. The belfry was still some two hundred steps above them, the artisans and labourers in Palace Yard several storeys below. The rough brick was cool against Mary's cheek and she closed her eyes for a moment, letting her thoughts drift. Bricks – mortar – Keenan – thrashing. Her eyes popped open again and she glanced around the landing, seeing it properly for the first time. It was surprisingly spacious, apparently designed as a sort of resting-place, although there was no seating yet. After this point, the stairs seemed to narrow and – yes, of course… why hadn't she thought of this before?

  She whirled around to address James. "Has anyone said what Wick was doing in the belfry?"

  His eyes were pinched shut, as though against pain. "No." Then, with a certain reluctant curiosity, "Why?"

  "Look at the next flight of steps: the walls are built of stone. If that continues, there's no reason for a bricklayer to have been working up there."

  His eyes snapped open. "That continues, all the way up?"

  "We'll see. But none of the brickies works this high up."

  He nodded, animation returning. "Certainly. And the glaziers should be able to give a fair account of how they left things that night." He looked warily at the narrow staircase curling upwards, out of sight. "Er – perhaps you ought to go up ahead of me."

  "I have a better idea: lean on me as you go up."

  He seemed nonplussed. "But – I – you – "

  She took his hand and set it on her shoulder. "Like a walking-stick; so."

  He jerked his hand away as though scalded. "I can't!"

  "Why? Because I'm female?"

  "I can't just use you as a prop…"

  "Of course you can; think of me as a twelve-year-old boy named Mark." She captured his hand and replaced it. "I'm fairly strong for my size, you know."

  He recoiled once again. "That's hardly the point."

  "I thought the point was to get to the top of the stairs," she said, not bothering to hide her impatience. "How else are you going to manage that?"

  "I'll just have to try harder."

  "Ooh yes – sheer stubborn stupidity should certainly carry the day."

  They glared at each other with genuine irritation. Then, after several long moments, James sighed ruefully. "Pot and kettle, hey?"

  She offered him a half-smile. "I'd be the same, if our positions were reversed."

  "I know."

  There was an awkward pause and then he said, "Well. Shall we?"

  He followed her up the first few stairs, his hand barely resting on her shoulder. As they ascended, Mary felt him begin to lean into her frame. It was subtle at first, mainly on the step up. With each storey gained, though, the weight of his hand became heavier, his breathing more laboured. Their pace slowed and, eventually, he began to rest every few steps.

  "Don't worry," he rasped, when they came to one such stop. "'S not contagious."

  "I know."

  "Desperately unfit. Been on bed-rest for months."

  She nodded. He must have been gravely ill; James wasn't the sort to tolerate bed-rest unless he was actually too weak to crawl.

  "Soon be back to normal."

  Incredible – the most arrogant man alive was actually apologizing for his weakness. Not directly, of course, but the sentiment was there. She was half-afraid to think of what it might – or might not – signify.

  They climbed. And climbed. And continued to climb. It was a shock, finally, to round a curve into a large room filled with dazzling light. Mary squinted and blinked, and as her eyes adjusted she realized she was looking at a wall of glass and wrought iron – a vast mosaic, with each pane of glass thick and pearly-bright, the smallest of them about the size of her head. They were beautifully ordered, pieced together in a balanced, intricate circle. As she tilted her head back to take in the full pattern, she gasped.

  It was the back of one of the clock faces! From the ground they appeared flat and white, like painted surfaces. But seen from behind they were astonishingly luminous, refracting and softening the stingy yellow-grey daylight into something quite unearthly. She stared dreamily, forgetting where or who she was. When she came to with a start, she had no idea how long she'd been entranced. Half a minute? Half an hour?

  And there was still so much to see. A long table at the centre of the room supported a sprawling engine, a complicated tangle of gears, cranks and shafts which drove the clock. It was surprisingly quiet; it didn't tick, in the manner of a wrist-watch, although there was the constant whisper of well-greased metal parts turning against one another.

  The final flight of steps, numbering perhaps fifty, took them up to the belfry. There, suspended from an enormous framework in the rafters, were the bells; the reason they'd climbed the tower. All of London remembered the embarrassment and disappointment the previous year when the great bell was first tolled. There had been a glorious parade in which "Big Ben" was brought to New Palace Yard, drawn by sixteen white horses. But soon afterwards it had cracked and was taken down, broken up and recast. Its replacement – still dubbed "Big Ben" – had been installed. But given the recent question of site safety, it was James's responsibility to inspect everything once more before it could be rung.

  The four quarter-bells were enormous, judged by human scale. But they, in turn, were dwarfed by Big Ben. From Mary's perspective, this massive central bell was a dark cave large enough for several people to hide in. She blinked and instinctively stepped back, out of its span. It ought to be firmly fixed in place, of course, but James's very presence here suggested otherwise. And there was something sinister about the bell, too – this metal beast that had cracked, been melted and recast, and raised again only to witness a man's death.

  A strong breeze wafted through the belfry and Mary moved towards its source: the huge open arches, one on each side of the tower, which allowed the weather in and the sound of the bells out. What she saw made her gasp and instinctively steady herself against the stone half-wall: the city sprawled before her in all directions, vast and miniaturized at the same time. It was recognizably London – the buildings, the cobwebs of streets, the rowdy bustle that rose, almost visibly, from the place. But it was also London as a toy village; an exquisite map. Here, all the familiar monuments were scaled down to the size of her fingernail, yet retained every detail. A slight dizziness consumed her as she gazed out over the roof-tops, reluctant even to blink lest the magical sight dissipate. She had never seen the like before and doubted she would again.

  Glancing at James, she saw her own expression reflected in his face. He smiled at her and she could see he would have spoken – something tender, something intimate. She collected herself. It was too dangerous to play with James this way. It wasn't just fear for her cover as Mark Quinn, but her entire existence as a secret agent. She stepped back from the ledge, reeling. It wasn't the height at all, but he didn't need to know that.

  "How on earth was the bell raised?" Her voice sounded over-bright.

  He looked at her. Hesitated. Then said, slowly, "Pulley systems and manpower. Straight through there."

  "There" was a square opening, perhaps eight feet wide. Mary peered inside. It appeared to run the height of the tower. "Is this for ventilation?"

  "Yes – the central air shaft. Certainly not intended for the purpose, but I don't think the original designers had any idea how large the bell would turn out."

  She nodded. "It must have been an enormous task."

  "It took days, with teams of men working in shifts. But you know all this, don't you, Mary? As part o
f your background research?"

  She shrugged. "It's better to hear it from someone knowledgeable."

  "And to fill silence, when you'd rather avoid conversation?"

  She couldn't meet his gaze. "I need to understand this job fully. And hadn't we better get on with things?" Fifteen

  For someone of her age, Mary's experience of funerals was slight. There were always funeral processions in the streets, of course: immaculate hearses drawn by glossy black horses and followed by a train of crape-swathed carriages. Depending on the cost of the funeral, there were often mutes – paid mourners – marching stolidly beside the hearse, and precarious heaps of hothouse flowers about the polished coffin. There were humbler funerals, too – perhaps a hearse pulled by a single horse, with only a couple of carriages following. Although such a display was considered meagre, the cost could still bankrupt a working family, consigning its survivors to the workhouse. This happened often, yet the tradition continued. The poor, especially, were reluctant to forgo in death what they could not afford in life.

  While some enjoyed taking notes, totting up the cost of a dozen long-faced mutes plus six dozen forced white roses, Mary was not among them. Her mother had refused to give up hope for her father, lost at sea, and refused any ritual that presumed his death. And when her mother's own turn came, a few short years later, they hadn't had the means for a coffin, let alone a funeral. She'd been shovelled grudgingly into a pauper's grave, the site marked only by a pathetic wooden cross made by Mary herself. Back when she thought such things carried significance. So she'd lost both parents and seen hundreds of funeral processions in her life, but had somehow escaped attending a funeral service. It was thus with some trepidation that she slipped away from the building site and towards Southwark. Although the inquest had been adjourned, still awaiting James's safety report, the coroner had seen fit to release the body. That was fortunate. For although this July was cool, unlike the heat wave last year that led to the Great Stink, it was still midsummer.

  The street on which the Wick family lived – for how much longer, now its breadwinner was dead? – looked grimy and diminished in the presence of the rather splendid hearse. To this were hitched a pair of black mares, their bridles a suitably dull black, and an oddly jaunty headdress of black feathers atop each horse's mane. Behind the hearse waited two large carriages. The door of the house stood open, its crape bow renewed and enlarged for the important day.

  The neighbours were all at their windows, of course – she could see curtains twitching all up and down the street – but none would take note of a nosy lad behaving like a nosy lad. The Wick house was already full of women, she could see that much, wearing sombre colours rather than mourning. Friends and neighbours, then, who wouldn't attend the funeral itself but were there to help with that formidable pack of children. Mary found a spot on the corner that afforded a good view of the house and its approach, and settled in there.

  She hadn't long to wait. In half an hour or so, a small company of men made their way down the street, walking in single file at a dignified pace. Their leader was a tall, angry-looking, dark-haired man whose black suit, a good deal too small, stretched painfully across his broad back: Keenan. Reid followed in sombre grey, his fair hair slicked down with pomade which made it appear much darker. The hod-carriers Smith and Stubbs were, like Reid, not in full mourning.

  At the door, Keenan hesitated before stepping inside. He had the air of a man about to enter a new place, where the only thing he could be sure of was danger. It was odd, considering what great friends he had been with Wick. Or so one assumed. Mary realized that Keenan alone, in the brickie gang, seemed affected by the loss of Wick. Reid had his own motives, of course: his obvious affection for Mrs Wick meant he was still the prime suspect in any theory of Wick's death involving violence. But the hod-carriers seemed little moved by the man's death – outwardly, anyway. It was possible that in private they were deeply shaken while maintaining a brave facade. But the marked contrast between Keenan's black mourning and the other men's Sunday suits suggested otherwise.

  The door closed behind them. After another half-hour's delay, it swung open again and the four men reappeared, this time shouldering the coffin between them. They marched smoothly, in step, as though they'd rehearsed this precise manoeuvre with care. Perhaps they had; perhaps it was the unintentional result of their labouring together every day. They transferred the coffin to the hearse with a minimum of fuss, placing it on something of a dais surrounded by bunches of greenery. Fixed to the top of the coffin was a small arrangement of white roses in the shape of a cross.

  Coffin in place, the men returned to the doorway of the house but this time remained outside until the widow Wick came into view. Mourning dress made her appear paler and thinner than ever, and even from Mary's distance it was clear that she was feeling unwell. She took a few faltering steps, then paused. The sight of the coffin, mounted on the hearse for its final journey, seemed to make an impression upon her. She stared, eyes wide, mouth working. A moment later, she sank soundlessly towards the ground.

  Reid caught her before she fell, his arms flashing out to raise her before the other men had even noticed her distress. Keenan's habitual scowl spasmed with strong emotion – anger? – then smoothed out into a carefully impassive expression. He waited while the neighbours revived Mrs Wick with fans and smelling-salts, taking her from Reid's arms and supporting her wasted frame against their shoulders.

  Then, another attempt. The girlish widow set her face, clenched tight her black-gloved fists and walked to the first carriage, where she was helped up by the hired attendant. Following respectfully, the four men climbed into the second carriage. And that was that. Within a minute, the entire procession was under way.

  Following the funeral train was rather more awkward than it sounded. To begin with, the hearse and carriages moved at a glacial pace, much more slowly than other vehicles and pedestrians. There was the difficulty, too, of showing proper respect. Most people turned to acknowledge the passing of the hearse, hats removed and heads bowed. At the very least, they stopped their activity, whether furious or lackadaisical, for the minutes it took the hearse and carriages to pass. And through these motionless tableaux, Mary had to move. It was as well that she was still dressed as a child, a boy who couldn't be expected to behave properly or empathize with the scene he was witnessing. All the same, she worried about drawing attention to herself. She was bound to be recognized if spotted by one of the bricklayers, and didn't like her chances of explaining herself to Keenan yet again.

  Had it been raining, her task would have been easier: general vision obscured, pedestrians skulking beneath umbrellas. But this afternoon, the dirty grey skies only pressed down upon the roof-tops, promising rain at some unspecified time to come. The horses plodded on, enforcing a relative quiet in the streets through which they passed. Even in Southwark Bridge Road, where the breadth of the avenue dwarfed the coffin, the hearse, its followers and, by implication, its entire significance – even in such a busy road, there was a discernible slowing of activity. Such general courtesy would be rather gratifying, if the mourners were the sort to take note of such matters.

  Eventually, the procession wound its way into narrower streets once more. When it halted before a small Methodist chapel, Mary realized with some surprise that they were only a few streets from Wick's house. Apparently, the procession had been largely a matter of form, to satisfy the desire for proper rites – or perhaps to squeeze some value from the expensive hire of a hearse and two carriages. But they were now outside the church nearest the Wick house. From what she'd learned of Wick, he hadn't been the church-going type. But perhaps his widow was: any woman burdened with such a family would surely have need of prayer.

  Mary watched with genuine interest as the attendants prepared to let down the carriage steps. Although ladies did not view funerals, being too delicate, too emotional, too easily undone, to witness such scenes, working women were different – at least, acco
rding to popular wisdom. If Mrs Wick was strong enough to prepare her husband's body for burial, she was capable of attending his funeral.

  However, only the bricklayers stepped onto the pavement, solemnly straightening their Sunday suits, and shouldered the coffin once more. Instead of carrying it into the chapel proper, the four men walked it around the building towards the graveyard. Their smooth progress faltered at the gate. One of the hod-carriers – Mary couldn't tell which, from behind – seemed to waver a little, and the coffin bobbed slightly, its floral wreath slipping to one side. There seemed to be some hasty muttered conference between the pallbearers, during which Reid glanced back towards the carriages, an anxious expression creasing his face. Then, with renewed solemnity, they marched forward once more.

  It wasn't until they passed through the gate that Mary saw the cause of this disturbance: a portly figure in a dark suit, clutching an umbrella. He stood beside the open grave, a strange, shuttered expression on his broad face. She couldn't cross to their side of the street without becoming conspicuous. But she could see that no words passed between Harkness and Keenan, despite the compounded rage on the latter's face. The four men placed the coffin on a sort of table erected for the purpose, then spaced themselves widely around it, allowing for a meaningful gap between them and Harkness. As an attempt to make the group seem larger, this failed dismally. It was pathetically clear that few cared to see John Wick into the next world.

  The minister, trotting neatly down the walk with a bible clasped between his hands, seemed struck by the sparseness of the gathering. He slowed and peered for just a moment before resuming his sedate pace, his sombre expression. As he cleared his throat to begin, Reid glanced fleetingly towards the carriages once more. He couldn't have seen Mrs Wick. It could only have been a nervous reflex, suppressed the very instant it was enacted. But Keenan scowled at him none the less.

  The service was brief. A short speech, an even shorter reading – New Testament, judging from the open place in the book – and no hymn. In rather less than ten minutes, two attendants were expertly looping lengths of rope about the coffin and slowly lowering it into the open grave. The four – no, five – mourners watched the first shovelful of earth drop onto the casket, damp and clumpy. There was no echo, of course, but it looked as though there ought to have been. After a suitable pause, the gravedigger tugged his cap and nodded once. This was the point at which the affair ended, leaving him to his solitary task.