by Y. S. Lee
Mary watched, waiting for Keenan to plant his climbing-grip in the wooden fence. Tonight, however, he hesitated. Glanced about. Walked the length of the wooden fence with an air of suspicion. As he neared her hiding-spot not far from the corner, Mary readied herself to run. Her only chance of eluding Keenan was to gain a head start; large though he was, he was also swift. But he wasn't looking towards the street. His frown was concentrated on the fence – or rather, on something beyond. He turned back again, walked to the site entrance and examined the padlock. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder, he simply lifted the latch and opened the gate.
Mary stared. He'd not used a key, which meant that the site was already unlocked. But that itself seemed impossible. Only Harkness – and perhaps the First Commissioner himself – would hold a key to the site. Unless…
The rumble of carriage wheels made her tense again. This time, however, the moment she recognized the driver, she relaxed. She couldn't say she was precisely glad to see Barker, but she was relieved not to be seeing someone else. The same was not true for him: as she stepped out of the shadow of the pillar box, his frown deepened until his eyes all but disappeared. The carriage rolled to a reluctant halt and he jumped down, nodding to her curtly. Unfolding the steps, he opened the door and offered his hand upwards with the solicitous gesture of a nurse to a child. "Mind your step, sir."
"You say that as though I've never climbed down from a carriage before."
"I say it because you've clearly taken leave of your senses, sir."
"I don't know how long I'll be."
The speaker finally emerged, leaning wearily on Barker's arm. His dark gaze scanned the street, coming to a startled, almost guilty halt as he saw Mary, not ten yards away. Mary's eyes widened and she felt a stab of alarm – anguish, even – at the sight of him. Yet from the set of his lips, she knew the worst thing she could do was express concern. Coming towards the kerb, she said in passably casual tones, "We do seem to keep meeting up."
He gave a brief huff of amusement and climbed down. "You followed Harkness?"
"Keenan."
"Seen him go in?"
"Just now. But not Harkness. Are you certain he's here?"
"I'd stake my appointment as safety inspector on it." He grinned ruefully.
Mary understood that he was offering a truce. "Come on, then – the gate's open, as though they're only waiting for us to begin."
"Pity; I was looking forward to scaling the fence."
"Very funny," she said severely. "If you can walk at a normal pace, you'll have done enough."
"Oh, not you, too. I've already been warned, you know, about the importance of complete bed-rest."
"Glad to hear it." As she followed James towards the gate, she glanced back at Barker. He looked grim. On impulse, she said quietly, "I'll take good care of him."
"Suppose you can try," came the glum reply.
Through the palings of the gate, Mary and James saw Keenan emerge from the site office. His usual scowl was intensified and he appeared to be muttering something – curses and maledictions, probably. Eventually, with an audible snarl, he stormed back into the site office. He remained there for perhaps half a minute and when he re-emerged, he was no more content. With a final growl of exasperation, he stalked towards the tower entrance, leaving the office door ajar – an unusual piece of carelessness for a thief. As he vanished into the base of the tower, Mary glanced at James. He nodded, and together they entered the site.
Mary paused for a moment to examine the padlock. It was intact, rather than smashed, and when she pointed to it, James nodded again. "Harkness has the only key." His voice was taut.
Their boots rang loudly on the cobblestones in the quiet courtyard. Although the building was so nearly complete, the site had an air of desolation that made it seem more like an abandoned ruin than a triumphant architectural landmark. Or perhaps that was her imagination, once again.
James pushed the office door wide open – or as far as it would go. It was blocked by something on the other side and Mary's first thought was of Harkness. James's too, judging from the speed with which he darted inside. "Papers," he said gloomily, turning to Mary. "It's always papers." The light was dim in the little office, now, with the sun plummeting low in the sky.
She looked carefully around the room, trying to match the chaos with her most recent memory of its contents. Things had certainly been shifted, but… "Has it been ransacked?"
James shrugged. "Who'd know? It's looked like this all week."
"Although…" Her gaze lingered on the desk. Its top left drawer was open by an inch, and she couldn't remember having seen it like that before. Carefully, she pulled the drawer out: it was completely empty but for an envelope – the same sort of envelope, she noted automatically, that had fallen from Reid's pocket. Harkness's personal stationery. On it was scrawled a simple message: This week's payment is here. Beside it was a sketch – a few lines, really, clumsily scrawled – of St Stephen's Tower. A harsh black X marked the belfry.
"What have you found?"
"Come and look."
He stood just behind her shoulder, his breath lightly stirring her hair. "Damn, damn, damn," he said quietly.
"Melodramatic, isn't he?"
"I was thinking of the stairs."
The envelope was empty but Mary pocketed it nevertheless. "Would you – might it be better if you-"
"Stayed down here?" He was already walking steadily, grimly, across the yard. "Not a chance."
"Just how ill are you?"
"Well enough. Are you a girl or a boy at the moment?"
"I think I'd better be Mark."
"Good. If you ask again about my health, I'll smack you, Mark Quinn."
With a resigned sigh, she opened the small door to the tower stairs. "After you, Mr Easton, sir." Twenty-nine
It was a slow, torturous climb – much worse than the last one. Although James was quite ready to lean on her, they stopped to rest every twenty steps, then every dozen, then every few. He was breathless and shaky, with a pallor that couldn't be blamed entirely on the yellowing distortions of gaslight. At the one-third point, he collapsed onto the cool stone floor and remained there, in a huddle, for several minutes.
"James."
"Just a minute." He fumbled in his breast pocket and brought out a narrow parchment envelope. Tipping his head back, he poured the contents – a powder of some sort – into his mouth, swallowed, and made a face. "Gah. All right. What?"
She stared at the paper in his hands. "What – what the devil was that?"
"Willow-bark powder, of course. What did you think?" Amusement flickered across his weary features. "Some dangerous poison brought back from my Oriental travels?" He grinned at her sheepish expression. "Powdered opium? The demon that's sapping my youth and beauty?"
"Listen," she said rather more severely than necessary, "we're losing time. I'm going up ahead, to see what's happening."
He shook his head. "We're going together."
"That will take another hour, if not two. We can't wait that long. Keenan's already at the belfry and I don't want to meet him on his way down."
He climbed to his feet, a trifle unsteady but already looking more energetic than when he arrived on site. "It won't take that long. I feel much better."
She examined his face suspiciously. "You don't look quite as ghastly, that's true."
"Still rubbish at flattery."
"Willow bark wouldn't have that kind of effect. Especially not such an immediate one. All it does is ease pain and fever."
He shrugged. "All right, so it wasn't pure willow bark. But let's not waste time bickering. Come on."
She couldn't argue. They resumed their climb on the narrower flights of stairs, winding their way higher into the hazy air, the sunset, the rapidly falling night, none of which they could see. James seemed to gain strength as they went. His hand on her shoulder became lighter, his breathing easier, his step quicker.
"What exactly wa
s in that powder, James?"
"That's 'Mr Easton' to you, Mark Quinn."
"Oh, stop dodging the question."
He sighed. "Mainly powdered willow bark, as I said. And something a friend of mine picked up in Germany, a mild stimulant derived from a tropical leaf. Nothing to be concerned about."
"Doesn't seem very mild to me. How much did you take?"
"What a nagging old granny you sound. Enough to get the job done."
"And after that, I suppose I'll have to scrape you from the cobblestones."
"Oh, I have Barker for that."
They climbed in silence until the final stretch, when James placed a hand on her arm. "We ought to have a plan."
"We don't even know what to expect. We'd need to know that before making a plan."
"Well, here's my theory: Harkness and Keenan are up there, conducting their business. I'd like to know whether Harkness is truly involved with the thefts, and to what extent. Let's get close and listen for as long we can before having to act."
"Of course. But what do you intend to do, at that point?"
"Hold him until the police arrive."
"Hold Keenan? Good luck."
"The two of us together – three, perhaps…"
Mary looked at him. His eyes were very bright, even by gaslight. Glittering with suppressed fever, perhaps – but more likely the effects of that stimulant. He was vibrating with impatience and excitement, a rather un-James-like condition. She suddenly wondered if he'd be the steady, intelligent ally she had assumed – and then set aside that doubt. There simply wasn't time for it. Whatever happened, whatever he did, she would simply have to improvise and hope for the best.
As they crept up the final few steps, Mary was very glad she'd been up once before. The sun would now be low on the horizon and she was uncertain of how well lit the belfry might be. Without a rough idea of its dimensions and layout, she'd have no idea what she was seeing and almost no chance of remaining unseen. It hardly counted as an advantage, but it comforted her nevertheless.
"Mary?" James was so close behind her that his whisper tickled her ear.
"Yes?"
"My physician warned me sternly against excitement of any sort."
She almost giggled. "Shut up, James."
"Can you see anything?"
"No, and I can't hear, either!"
But suddenly, she could. Male voices, clear and close by.
"You paying or not? I ain't got all night."
"Neither have I, Keenan." Harkness sounded oddly calm. "Neither have I."
The voices were so near that Mary instinctively shrank back into the warmth of James's body. He placed a hand on her shoulder. If it was meant to comfort, it did rather the reverse: his fingers trembled, very subtly and very quickly, and she wondered again about those powders he'd taken. She'd never noticed his hands shake before – had marvelled, rather, at their steadiness under pressure. Tonight they vibrated.
"Well then?"
"Oh, you'll get what you deserve, Keenan. I'll make sure of that."
"You ain't threatening me, Harkness. I ain't afraid of you."
"Ah – and here is what's interesting: I'm no longer afraid of you."
There was a pause.
"You didn't think of that, did you? What happens when silly old Harkness is no longer frightened of you?"
Another pause.
"No smart rejoinder from you, Keenan? You're not generally short of one."
"Stop your blathering: you paying up or not?"
"I'm not." Harkness took a deep breath, and Mary heard the smile in his voice. "Did you hear me? I'm not going to pay you any longer, you blackmailing devil."
James sucked in his breath sharply. Mary tensed – it sounded loud in her ear – but Keenan and Harkness continued, fully absorbed in their exchange.
"I did a few sums earlier today," said Harkness conversationally. "D'you know how much you bled me for, Keenan? The total of what I've paid you and Wick both, these past ten months?" He didn't wait for a reply. "It seemed quite manageable, at first, one pound a week. Then two. Even five. I could manage five, although I expect it was divided between you three, so to you it didn't seem so splendid after a while. It was ten pounds – ten pounds a week! – that broke me. Such a paltry sum, really: a couple of new dresses for my daughters, the cost of a party given by my wife. But all told it came to more than two hundred pounds.
"And here's what I'd like to know: I can see how I'd have spent it. I've a wife and family. Daughters are expensive and sons even more so. And I suppose Wick had a family, too – poor souls. But what did you do with your eighty pounds, Keenan? That's what I can't understand."
"Go to hell," snarled Keenan. "If you don't pay up, you know what'll happen to you."
"The question of hell is in the hands of the Almighty. But you might have gathered by now, Keenan, that I'm no longer afraid of what you might do to me. In fact, I'm almost looking forward to it."
There followed a long silence, during which Mary carefully leaned past the doorway at the top of the stairs. James did likewise. The two men were, as she'd imagined, in a far corner of the belfry. Harkness had his hands braced against the half-wall, as though he were admiring the effects of sunset over the London streets. His posture was deceptively casual but the set of his shoulders, hunched and stiff, revealed his underlying tension. In contrast Keenan, who stood facing him, leaned slightly forward, poised for a physical struggle. Yet there was a curious rigidity in his stance, as though he didn't know how to manage the situation before him. Harkness's desperate serenity robbed him of his most effective weapon: the threat of violence.
"Then why'd you call me here?" growled Keenan. He clenched and unclenched his fists as though he could feel Harkness's soft, loose neck between his fingers.
"Why, to tell you of my decision, of course."
"Up here? What's wrong with the office?"
Harkness smiled and looked out over the city. "It's a beautiful evening. I wanted to enjoy the view."
"I don't give a damn about the view."
"You might, if you consider what your future holds."
"What's that, then?"
"Breaking stones, at best."
For just a moment, Keenan blinked with surprise. Then, he gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You outdone yourself there, Harky. Don't you know if I go to gaol, you're going too? I'd lie myself black in the face to see you get more time than me."
Harkness, too, was smiling – a curious bend of his lips that had as little to do with humour as Keenan's laugh. "You're not as clever as I'd expected, Keenan. I confess to a touch of disappointment. You know," he went on, straightening now and leaning against the edge of the belfry, "you've a certain low, criminal cunning not uncommon to your class. But your problem, Keenan, is that you lack imagination. You can't possibly imagine what I'm thinking or feeling right now. And that will be your downfall."
"Rubbish," growled Keenan, swinging away sullenly. "All rubbish. How the hell you going to get me in trouble while covering over your own part? You took half the profits; you fixed the bloody books."
Harkness's gaze, intent on the glowing horizon, never wavered. That intense serenity transformed his entire face, returned to it colour and even a little youth. And then Mary became aware of the greatest difference in his appearance: the twitch was gone. Harkness's left cheek was entirely still and smooth. "I've no interest in covering my own guilt. Far from it: I've left a letter detailing the entire scheme." He swung to meet Keenan's surprised face. "Yes, everything from the time I caught you thieving. I've set out why I agreed to turn a blind eye and even falsify the accounts, in exchange for half the profits. Also how your friend Wick discovered our plan, and began to blackmail me. It took me a while to work out that you were behind that neat trap, you know – setting him onto me like that. Such crookedness was entirely beyond my experience."
"No more, though," sneered Keenan.
"You're quite correct." Harkness's tone was austere, schoolmas
terly. "I've done wrong, grievous wrong. And I shall atone for it."
"How?" Keenan's tone turned suspicious. "What's this letter, and where is it?"
"Ah: the low instinct for survival, coming once again to the surface. Suffice to say, the letter's in a safe place. You'll not find it. But the authorities will, you may depend upon it, and they'll know precisely what happened."
"All right. Supposing this letter's real, and supposing some copper finds it, and supposing he believes all your rot. What's to say he'll find me? It's a big town, is London – supposing I stays in it." He stared at Harkness, who stood, unmoving, staring out over the darkening streets. "Eh? Supposing all that?"
Harkness blinked and smiled, as though emerging from a reverie. "D'you want to know what happened to Wick?"
Keenan's face became very still. "I know what happened. He fell."
"But how?" persisted Harkness. "And when, and why?"
"He just did, all right? Accidents happen – specially here, it seems."
"I suppose they do. But you must wonder why he was up here."
"No. I don't." The voice, cold and stony, also held just the suggestion of a quiver.
Behind her, Mary could feel James holding his breath. If Harkness did intend goading Keenan into an explanation, this was a desperate and foolish method. It couldn't last. It was only remarkable that Keenan hadn't already exploded.
She crept forward another few inches, angling for a better view of Keenan's face. She would now be almost entirely visible to them in the doorway. There was no cover in the belfry, no small nook in which to tuck herself unnoticed. And over them all, the great bell loomed high in the tower's peak. Black inside, monstrous in scale, it hung there like a lofty, judging god, waiting for the puny humans below to do something definitive. To act, rather than talk.
"I'll tell you."
