The Body at the Tower

Twenty-eight


Around Westminster the streets were dusky and deserted. There was little here on a Sunday to attract pleasure-seekers, and few residents to come and go. And in the unusual, magnified stillness of the place, the broad-shouldered man skulking in the shadows was highly noticeable. Mary stopped and tucked herself against a convenient pillar box the better to observe his progress. Yet she already knew where he was going.

The man was familiar – doubly so. That square head on those burly shoulders belonged to Keenan, she was certain. And not only that, but she now had an identity for the man who’d broken into the building site on Monday last. The man who’d rifled Harkness’s office, chased her out into the street, and nearly caught her. He and Keenan were one and the same. And with that realization, she also understood why the theft hadn’t been reported. If Harkness was working in cahoots with Keenan, it was part of their arrangement. If Harkness was trying to solve the problem of the site thefts, it was probably some sort of trap he’d laid. Either way, there was no use in involving the police. Not yet.

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.”