The Body at the Tower

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 wise 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.

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.”