The Body at the Tower

Six





“Bit slippy out here,” said the coachman as he unfolded the carriage steps. He held out his arm, much as he would to a lady.

The boots that swung out of the carriage were distinctly male, as was the hand that waved him away. “I’m perfectly able to descend three steps unassisted, Barker.” To prove it, he climbed down quickly and slammed the carriage door himself. He was far from old – his hair was dark, unmixed with grey, and his face was unlined – but he didn’t move like a young man. There was something stiff about his gait.

Barker was unperturbed. “Very good, sir.”

The gentleman scanned the building site, a deep frown drawing his brows together. The Palace, still unfinished after all these years, loomed over the workers like an ungainly child squatting over an anthill. “You may go; I’ll get a cab when I’m done.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll wait. It may be difficult to find a cab in these parts.”

Difficult to find a taxi, in front of the blasted Houses of Parliament? His head swivelled sharply towards the coachman. “George told you to wait?”

Barker didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish. “Yes, sir.”

He sighed. There was no point in making a scene now. But once he got hold of his infernal, domineering, bleating nanny of a brother, he would create such a stinking row that no one would doubt he was entirely recovered. “I’ll be no more than half an hour.”

“Very good, sir.”

The young-old man stood on the pavement, taking in the scene. It was strange to be back on an English building site. In the smoggy London daylight the workmen looked pale and drawn, their tools dull. It was a chalky light, a light that greyed everything it touched. For a moment, despite all that had happened in India, he found himself longing for the hectic tropical sunshine that polished objects to brilliance and made colours glow. He hadn’t fully understood the meaning of “illumination” until he’d gone east.

He shivered automatically, then glanced over his shoulder to see if Barker had noticed. As well as being grey and sooty, London was damp. Although he would never admit it to George, he was perpetually cold these days, even in his winter suits. Never mind. He straightened, walked through the site gate with a firm, even step, and rapped twice on the door-frame of the flimsy office shed.

“Young James Easton! My dear fellow!” Philip Harkness sprang from his chair and shook his hand enthusiastically. “How absolutely delightful to see you once more. How long has it been?” He was talking very loudly, in the way people often do to the elderly.

James knew he was rather altered since he’d last seen Harkness, but the man’s look of pity was still disheartening. “Hello, Harkness. I believe it’s been a little more than two years.”

“Yes, yes – I believe you were engaged in an Oriental venture until quite recently!”

This was disingenuous; the man knew very well what had taken him abroad, and why he was back in England. It was probably why Harkness had asked him to call; everyone wanted to hear the tale first-hand. “For less than a year.”

“Then you’d had enough, hey?”

He’d not oblige. “They got what they needed from me.”

“I heard about the malarial fever. Bad luck, old chap – all that nasty swamp air, was it?”

“I don’t know, really. But I’m quite well now – fully recovered, in fact.” He paused. “You’re looking, ah, prosperous.” Since James had seen him last, Harkness had gone bald and grown distinctly fat. It wasn’t a rosy, jolly-country-squire type of fat, but a pasty, bloated look – a rim of extra face framed his features, and his neck overflowed his boiled collar. His complexion was as grey as the London sky. Stress, James supposed, from this cursed job. That intermittent twitch could be put down to the same cause.

Harkness laughed over-heartily and pushed the sole chair towards him. “Do sit down, dear boy. You’re looking rather peaky, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

He did mind. “I feel fine, thank you. I’ll lean on this desk.” Perhaps it had been a mistake to call upon his father’s old friend. In years past, Philip Harkness had been a regular visitor to the Easton household. But since their father’s death, James and George had rather lost touch with him. Harkness seemed awkward and blustering today, quite unlike the kind, competent man James remembered from his childhood.

“And how’s your dear brother?”

Awkwardly, they navigated the basics of the missing years: James’s education and apprenticeship, past projects, George’s interests, the brothers’ personal lives. James was eager to question Harkness about the site: how had he come to accept the job? What were its challenges? And, most tantalizingly, why the hell was it twenty-five years behind schedule? As soon as he turned the conversation, however, Harkness’s tension doubled. He stammered, talked around questions and fidgeted with his elegant new fountain-style pen until his fingers were stained with ink. The more James persisted, the more evasive Harkness became, until pity finally curbed James’s curiosity. Obviously, Harkness’s nervous condition was directly related to this disaster of a building site.

He checked his watch. He’d been with Harkness only a quarter of an hour, but it felt much longer. “I had better not keep you,” he murmured, taking a step towards the door.

Harkness jumped up eagerly, holding out a restraining hand. “So soon? Why, I’d expected to take you to luncheon. At my club, you know. They do a rather decent roast.”

James’s face froze. Kind as the offer was, he couldn’t imagine anything he’d like less. “Er – well, you must be absurdly busy. A site like this…”

Another forced laugh. “That’s precisely what I want to talk to you about, my dear young man. A site like this, indeed!”

If the site was such a challenge, how could the man think of taking a protracted luncheon? Such negligence was unworthy of Harkness – or, at least, of the man his father had esteemed. Today’s visit had definitely been a mistake. “Perhaps another day,” he parried. “Or come to dinner sometime. George’d be delighted to see you.”

Harkness leapt towards the doorway, blocking his exit. “Actually…”

Forced to a halt, James stared at him blankly.

“I’d like to suggest – well, not to put too fine a point on it – I’ve a proposition for you.”

“A proposition.”

Another of those dreadful chortles. “Sit down, sit down, my dear young man. No need to look so suspicious!”

James sat with great reluctance. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Harkness made a few false starts but eventually managed to say, “Well, then. You know about the dreadful accident that occurred last week…”

James nodded. There had been a sentence about it in The Times. “A bricklayer fell from the tower, after hours. No witnesses.”

Harkness flinched. “Er – yes. Tragic accident. The man was young, had a family… It’s been ghastly.” He mopped his forehead with a large, crumpled handkerchief. “Absolutely ghastly.”

James waited a few moments, but Harkness didn’t go on. “Is there to be a review or an inquiry of some sort?” he guessed.

Harkness grimaced. “You were always a bright young chap. The First Commissioner of Works wants an independent engineer’s report as to the safety conditions on site. He gave me to understand that no blame attaches to me,” he added hastily, “but the Committee of Works wants the matter to be absolutely clear. If the man was there after hours, and the equipment was all safe… You see what I mean,” he finished.

James did see. If they could prove that the man had died of his own carelessness, it cleared Harkness and the Committee of responsibility. That was the critical point, and it should have been obvious even to a child. Yet he could also understand Harkness’s agony, and why he should dance around the subject. A man was dead; while one wanted desperately not to be at fault, one could hardly go about proving one’s own innocence. The only useful report was that of a neutral and qualified inspector. “Whom have they appointed?”

Harkness tittered nervously. “My dear fellow, they’ve left the appointment in my hands!”

“But that’s a conflict of interest! How could such a report ever be deemed impartial?” James realized he’d jumped up and was pacing the length of the tiny office. He was slightly out of breath, which annoyed him greatly.

Harkness looked pained and that little muscle below his eye began jumping so vigorously he was forced to still it with his hand. “I was an idealist at your age, too.”

And now what are you? James repressed the sneer: too cheap, too obvious. Harkness clearly considered himself a realist – although, from the look of him, this exerted an unhealthy strain on his conscience.

After a minute, Harkness spoke again, choosing his words slowly. “The Commissioner has made it clear that from his perspective, and that of the Committee of Works, I am not to blame for this man’s unfortunate death. But the Commissioner wishes to confirm that the death was, in fact, an accident. A most tragic accident, but an accident none the less.” As he spoke, Harkness’s voice gained conviction. “He is also under a great deal of pressure to begin an inquiry immediately. There simply isn’t time to appoint an engineer through the Committee – so many meetings, so much discussion, you understand. And time is pressing on.”

“So the Commissioner has left things in your hands for the sake of efficiency?” And a sure outcome.

“I won’t pretend that it’s not a deeply awkward task. It certainly goes against the grain.”

James nodded. He could agree with that statement, at least.

“You are too intelligent not to see what I’m asking, James, so I’ll be blunt: are you willing to conduct this review?”

His immediate instinct was to refuse. It was a curious task, and a distasteful one, too. Even setting aside the question of impartiality, his findings would damage someone wherever he found fault. He drew breath to say so – and the rasping sensation in his lungs made him pause, reminding him in one breath of both malarial fever and professional failure. He had fallen gravely ill in Calcutta; had come close to death. He’d learned an equally brutal lesson in local politics, finding his work obstructed and his projects undermined because he lacked important sponsors.

He was quick to learn. Even in England – perhaps especially in England – it would do Easton Engineering good to impress the First Commissioner of Works. The man was enormously influential, both in his official capacity and in his private life. If James had learned only one thing in Calcutta, it was that connections were paramount. Perhaps he, too, was becoming a realist.

And yet. And yet. He couldn’t possibly accept Harkness’s offer.

Could he?

Harkness smiled once more, the first natural smile he’d shown since the real conversation began. “You’re thinking too hard, young James. It’s a plum job; the sort of job you and your brother could use. Just think of it: a spot of work, a short report, and the heartfelt gratitude of the Commissioner.”

He didn’t need the older man to tell him that. He looked about the office, taking in the careless heaps of papers spilling from cabinet to desk to floor; at the grubby walls and makeshift furniture. Did he really want to conduct a professional review of this old family friend? How could he find against him? Yet how could he not, if that was what conscience dictated?

But what a cowardly reason to refuse the work. If he took the job, he wouldn’t be Harkness’s lapdog. He’d be precisely what the Commissioner had specified: an independent engineer. His own professional pride demanded that he be impartial, even if he didn’t care about justice and truth.

Fine words, he taunted himself. Justice and truth might sound very well, but who would believe him once they learned of his long-standing family connection with Harkness? That was why he must decline the work, no matter how tempting. He’d find another way to build important connections.

“You’re a first-class engineer, Easton – you and your brother, both – and I thought it might be useful to you in the future, to have made the acquaintance of such a man as the First Commissioner of Works.”

Why was Harkness trying to sell him the job? How many candidates had already declined, and for what reasons? James knew he wasn’t the pre-eminent engineer of his generation – not yet, at any rate. Easton Engineering was still a small firm, his reputation not yet made. He couldn’t have been anybody’s first choice. “Why me?” he said slowly.

Harkness looked startled. “Well, I’ve just said you’re a sound man, a top-class engineer … and of course, our long friendship and my affection for your father’s memory make me glad to do you a good turn. Why, you don’t doubt your ability to conduct a simple assessment of the safety precautions on site, do you?”

“I don’t,” said James. His brain was turning rapidly. Too rapidly, perhaps. He wasn’t normally the dithering sort, but today he was both tempted and repelled in equal measure. And then a solution came to him. “I’d welcome the job if I were independently appointed by the Commissioner himself.”

“But my dear young man, it’s the same thing: as I said earlier, the Commissioner has left the matter entirely with me. My choice is his choice.” Harkness’s over-patient tone suggested that James was being obtuse.

“With respect, sir, it’s not the same thing at all.”

“You always were stubborn.” Harkness showed him a smile, but it was strained. “But you’re not foolish. Are you willing to risk the benefits this job will bring to you and your brother, all for a mere formality?”

James drew a deep breath. “Yes, sir. I am.” The compromise was far from perfect, said his weary conscience, but it hurt less than rejecting the enticing offer outright.

Harkness looked nettled. “Very well. I shall mention your … scruples to the Commissioner. For your sake, young James, I hope he’s inclined to accommodate your whim.”

On his way back to the carriage James lingered by the entrance, observing the builders at work. It was difficult to pinpoint what was wrong on a building site simply by looking, but he had a strong impression that all was not right in Palace Yard. Many mocked the idea of instinct, but he’d learned years ago to trust his. This appointment – if he got it – would not be a straightforward one.

He shivered, then glanced over one shoulder to see if Barker had noticed. Just at that moment, a dark-haired lad ran lightly down the length of the yard. James’s eye followed him automatically – and then with deliberation. He frowned. The lad was oddly familiar. Was there something distinctive about the way he moved? No. Perhaps the profile – had he encountered the child before? But he was out of sight a few seconds later, and James blinked and shook his head. Impossible to pick out a twelve-year-old boy in a city of millions.

The only reasonable explanation was that the lad had something of Alfred Quigley about him. Ever since the murder of his young assistant over a year before, James had been haunted by echoes of the scrappy, resourceful boy wherever he went. The sharp treble of a boy’s voice; a thatch of mousy hair; that funny, bouncy way of walking particular to pre-adolescent boys. All these things followed James, and weighed on his conscience. They probably always would.

He shook his head again to clear the fog – and then realized the fog was all around him. Alfred Quigley was a memory that invariably led to another, one on which he couldn’t afford to dwell. Over the past year, he’d succeeded in thinking less and less about Mary Quinn. Yet even now, if he let his imagination stray…

Well. There was no point.

Absolutely none.

James climbed back into the carriage, waving off Barker’s helpful hand. But as he settled into the padded bench, he shivered once again.

Instinct.