The Body at the Tower

Twenty-two





That laugh! That piercing, grating, hysterical yipping. James had seldom heard anything like it, and certainly not from Harkness. The man had always been sober. Earnest. Pompous, even. And now the sound of his mad laughter rang ceaselessly in James’s ears as he and Barker drove through Tufnell Park, on the lookout for a small lad in the dark.

Mary was at the meeting point they’d arranged, a few yards from a quiet-looking pub in Leighton Road. She’d been all for somewhere less noticeable – a park or a church, say – but James had prevailed, saying it would be easier for her to blend in near a busy shop-front. He’d not dared admit he was worried for her safety in a dark, deserted park. She was a tricky, stubborn proposition, Mary Quinn, and despite his anxiety, at the thought of her a deep excitement stirred within him.

“Good dinner?” she asked, as she climbed in. The carriage, which hadn’t entirely stopped, now accelerated smartly towards Bloomsbury and home.

He shrugged. It had been a good meal, as far as food was concerned, although the total absence of wines and spirits had been strange indeed. The sweet, fruit-flavoured drinks accompanying the meal had made it seem rather a children’s party, and eating Stilton without a glass of port had seemed rather pointless. “I’m worried about Harkness. He seems to have gone completely round the bend.”

Mary’s eyes went round. “The mad laughter – that was Harkness?”

James nodded. “Telling desperately poor jokes, and then laughing at them. His wife hadn’t the faintest idea what to say or do, and neither did the rest of us.”

“Any idea what…?”

“What made him behave like that? Well, he wasn’t tipsy, that’s certain.”

“The pressures of the building site…”

“They’re not new. He’s been on that job for years, now.” She was silent, then, looking at him with concern in those luminous eyes. He felt a sudden impulse to bury his face in her neck and weep. Instead, he looked out of the window, concentrating on the gaslamps as they whizzed past. Each light was surrounded by a gauzy yellow halo that vanished when he blinked. “His behaviour. The account books. Everything points to his guilt, doesn’t it?”

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.