The Body at the Tower

Thirty-two



She walked roughly westwards. Walked carelessly and blindly, not minding which road she was taking, and oblivious of the sights and smells about her. From time to time, when the shimmering wall of tears threatened to blind her entirely, she swiped at them with a glove. She needed a handkerchief. She never seemed to have a bloody handkerchief when she needed one.

Some minutes later, she realized somebody was keeping pace with her. A fair-haired man – tobacco-brown suit, rather rumpled – to her right, proffering a large square of clean linen. She stopped and gulped. “Octavius Jones.”

He made an elaborate bow. “Miss Quinn. May I be of service? It does so trouble me to see a lady in distress.”

“Does it? You must see rather a lot of them, in your line of work.”

“Your line, too – isn’t it?” he asked, alert eyes belying his casual tone.

“Perhaps I’m not suited to it.”

“Surely you’re not booing your eyes out because you’ve lost your post as Mark Quinn.”

“No,” she admitted, resuming her walk. “I’m not.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

“Certainly not. I notice you completely broke your word to me about publication.” The story of Harkness’s inglorious end had been the main feature – eight pages of “exclusive” coverage! – in Monday’s Eye.

“I should hardly say so,” he protested. “The circumstances were so different. You didn’t tell me that Harkness was going to be killed that night.”

“No.” Mary slowed, thinking about James again. She’d not asked how he was managing after Harkness’s grisly death. He must be troubled – and further grieved to know that Harkness’s suspected failings were all true, after all.

“Cheer up,” said Jones, chucking her under the chin with a cheeky smile. “Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”

“Don’t touch me,” snapped Mary. “You haven’t the faintest idea why I’m upset.”

“Oh, it’s almost always the same thing: affair of the heart, dreadful misunderstanding, things will never be the same again,” he said glibly. “What you’ve got to do is look ahead. Think of what’s to come!”

She blew her nose. Impossible to feel miserable in the face of such relentless obnoxiousness.

“That’s it. You’re a clever, energetic young woman. Lots to see and do. Well, this is where I turn off.” He indicated the street. “So long for now, Miss Mark Quinn. I’ll be seeing you again.”

“I doubt it.”

He swung back, offering his most charming, lopsided grin. “Oh, I don’t. Not for a minute.”

He vanished into the crowd. It was a trick that made her wonder whether he was merely a gutter-press journalist, as he claimed. Surely he was too sharp, too knowing? She would make a point of finding out, if they met again. Not that they would, despite his smug certainty. She detested bright-eyed know-it-alls who only talked and never listened, and Jones was no exception.

Energized by irritation, she resumed her usual brisk pace. As she came towards Regent’s Park, a drop of rain struck her shoulder. Another splashed the brim of her hat. And then a proper light rain began, sending pedestrians scattering and costermongers to pack up their wares. She hadn’t an umbrella with her. She didn’t care. She began to walk again, returning to St John’s Wood by the quickest route. It wasn’t the storm everyone was calling for, but that would come, too.

In its own time.


Y. S. Lee was born in Singapore and raised in Vancouver and Toronto. In 2004, Ying completed her PhD in Victorian literature and culture. This research, combined with her time living in London, inspired her to write a story about a top-secret women’s detective agency – the starting point for the Mary Quinn novels.