The Body at the Tower

Twenty-three





Sunday, 10 July



Gordon Square, Bloomsbury





She was angry with him; that much was clear. But he couldn’t remember what he’d done, what he’d said, what she’d expected. He couldn’t see her face, only her slim back as she walked rapidly away. They were in a park of some sort – a field, perhaps – he couldn’t tell – he’d no idea where – and night was falling. He tried to keep up, to speak to her, but no matter how fast he ran, she remained ahead, always ahead. How could she move so swiftly?

He called after her but she didn’t hear. And he kept on chasing, stumbling. He was gasping for air now, each breath stabbing his lungs, and the air around him was hot, so very hot and sticky, like the stifling, blanketing heat of Calcutta. He heard the whine of a mosquito in his ear and then another, and it was too cold in England for mosquitoes, he knew that, so Mary must be in India, which meant that he, too, was back in India…

The mosquitoes whined on, looming close, then receding in great swoops. He didn’t have a net. Foolish to sleep without a net. But he was walking, wasn’t he? Not sleeping. Couldn’t be sleeping. He was covered in sweat, shirt sticking to his back, lungs aching with the effort, and Mary was no longer in sight, the meadow was gone, and those damned mosquitoes began to cackle, to giggle hysterically, louder and louder, even when he stopped his ears it didn’t go away. If only it would stop…

“Mr James.”

Why couldn’t someone – anyone – make it quiet?

“Master James!”

Anybody at all?

“Jamie! Jamie-lad!”

Rough hands about his head. He swatted at them irritably but they persisted, those hands, doing something to his head, smothering him. And that voice kept repeating his name, his name – his childhood nickname.

He struggled against the assault. “Stop! Stop it!”

“I’ll stop,” said a voice with cool clarity, “once you wake up.”

With a shudder and a gasp, he was suddenly awake, blinking in the pale glare of what passed as daylight in London. He looked about. He was in his bedroom, of course. It was bitterly cold. And two pairs of eyes stared down at him: Mrs Vine and George.

“Who called me that?” he demanded. He had a sour taste in his mouth.

“What – Jamie? I did,” said George.

“I hate being c-called ‘Jamie’. D-don’t do it ag-gain.” Damn his chattering teeth. Why hadn’t they laid a fire, if it was so cold?

“Yes, I’d say he’s himself again,” said George to Mrs Vine. He heaved a dramatic sigh. “More’s the pity.”

“You were hallucinating, Mr James.” She placed a cool hand on his forehead. “Feverish. I knew it.”

“N-not feverish. F-freezing.”

“Chills,” she said matter-of-factly, sweeping a hand over his sheets. “And night sweats too.”

“Oh Lord – it’s a relapse, isn’t it?” said George, beginning to pace the room. “I’ll send for the doctor. He warned you against this, James.”

“Don’t b-be an ass. I’m n-not having a relapse. I just need a fire.”

“It’s July, not November.”

“It’s still f-frigid. A fire, please, Mrs Vine.”

She shook her head gravely. “Not with that fever, Mr James. You’re too warm as it is.”

He threw back the bedclothes in a gesture he knew to be pathetic and childish. “Then I’ll make it myself.” Each leg was weak and felt heavy as lead. The rug beneath his bare toes prickled and burned and when he tried to stand, his thigh muscles buckled. “Damn it.”

Mrs Vine shifted him to the centre of the bed as if he was still eight years old. “Wiser to lie down, Mr James. I’ll send up a pot of willow-bark tea.”

Why was she always right? He glared at her retreating back. Then as it disappeared through the door, he shifted his attention to George. “Why are you still here, then? I thought you went to church with the Ringleys.”

“When Mrs Vine heard you shouting in your sleep, she thought I’d better know about it.”

“I – what?” Suddenly the room was stiflingly hot, and he threw off the counterpane. “What did I say?”

“A lot of nonsense about wine and forged letters and hyenas.” George’s mouth broadened into a sly, rosy smile. “Or did you mean wine-drinking hyenas who are also skilled forgers?”

Remembrance came flooding back with a speed that took his breath away. Or perhaps that, too, was a symptom of malarial relapse. “I – you’d not believe me if I tried to explain.” He needed to be alone. To think. His temples throbbed with a vicious headache. “I’m sorry you missed the Ringleys, old man.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call on them this afternoon. If you’re feeling a bit better by then, of course.”

“I’m sure I will be.” The tea tray arrived and James eagerly gulped down a cup of the bitter brew. “You’ve not really sent for Newcombe, have you? The man’s a perfect quack.”

“He’s an excellent physician,” said George with reproof. “You just don’t like his advice.”

“‘Lie in bed all day and play cards. One guinea, please.’ It’s the same for every case – just that the rest of them are old ladies, and so they enjoy it and think he’s a genius.”

“Well,” said George wearily, “malarial fever hasn’t improved your temper, at any rate.”

James was wrong about Mr Newcombe, who did indeed recommend complete bed-rest but charged one pound ten shillings for this advice, as today was Sunday. Yet this verdict pleased George, especially as James offered not the slightest protest.

“You know,” said George, popping into James’s room on his way out to the Ringleys’, “it’s a great load off my mind, knowing that you value your health and want to look after it. I was always against that Indian venture, you know, and it’s done us no good as a company. But once you’re completely recovered, we can look forward to bigger and better jobs right here, in jolly old England. Cheery-ho!”

James offered him a sarcastic wave, the value of which was lost as George returned the salute with pink-cheeked good humour. As the bedroom door closed on his brother, James lay back against his many pillows, encased in fresh new linens. He drank two cups of willow-bark tea. And then he rang for writing-paper, pen and ink, and a portable desk.

Sunday, 10 July


Noon


My dear Harkness,

Having completed my review of the safety of the St Stephen’s Tower building site, I should like to present my findings to you before their submission to the First Commissioner of Works tomorrow. I shall call upon you today at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,


J. Easton, Esq.


He composed this letter swiftly and without hesitation, and dispatched it by messenger. Then, arranging a second sheet of paper before him, he dipped his pen and let it hover over the page for a long time. He made several tentative pen strokes, all without putting nib to paper. Frowned. Flung down the pen, then took it up once more. Changed his mind yet again. Ten minutes, then twenty, ticked by. Finally, with a groan of frustration, he packed up the writing-table. It was senseless. Some things simply couldn’t be written.