The Body at the Tower (14 page)

But not too weary to beat his pregnant wife. Mary’s mouth twisted in disgust, but there was no point in pressing the issue if Mrs Wick was only going to defend her husband’s brutality. And what would such an admission prove? Only that Wick was like thousands of men across England. “I ask,” she said in a conciliatory voice, “because I wonder what else I might be able to do for you. What do you need, Mrs Wick?”

A prouder woman would have refused, at this point. A pragmatic one would have made a request. But Jane Wick merely shook her head, uncertain. “I don’t rightly know, ma’am, for all you’re so kind…”

“The funeral’s tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am, and there’s my mourning to finish … I been that busy, I ain’t yet put the bodice to the skirt.”

“Who will watch the children?”

Three sharp raps on the door interrupted them.

Mrs Wick looked anxious once again. “I ain’t never had so many callers,” she said apologetically. “Johnny, do you answer that, there’s a good boy.”

Johnny left the table still chewing, a hunk of bread-and-butter in one hand. The hinges were rather stiff and he had to pull on the door with his body-weight in order to open it. What he saw on the other side caused him to gasp and let go of the doorknob, dropping onto his bottom with a thump. His bread-and-butter tumbled to the floor and he made no move to retrieve it.

“Good evening, young man,” said a low masculine voice. “Is your mother home?”

For the second time that evening, Mary froze with a combination of panic and disbelief. But this time, it was much, much worse. This time, she had no hope at all of going unrecognized.

This time, the man was James Easton.

He hadn’t thought himself all that terrifying to look at. But judging from the little boy’s expression, he was the bogeyman himself. It was rather late to be paying calls, of course, but he couldn’t help that. He needed to build a picture of the dead man in his head. Was Wick the sort who’d flout safety precautions while in the belfry? Or was he a steady, cautious sort whose fall was inexplicable except by violence? Part of the answer lay here, in his home, and the Wick family would just have to believe that he wasn’t a tax-collector, bailiff, or worse.

“Well, lad?” When the child continued to gape up at him, James glanced past him into the house. And what he saw made him stare too.

Two women stood at the centre of the room, interrupted in deep conversation. One was pallid and emaciated – obviously the widow Wick, surrounded by her enormous brood. The sight of the other made his pulse kick hard, the blood rush to his head, his hands go weak.

Mary advanced towards him, a complicated expression in her eyes. “Mr Easton,” she said in a high, affected voice. “How very kind of you to call on the Wick family, too. You remember me, of course: Mrs Anthony Fordham, from St Andrew’s Church.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then swallowed. “Mrs Fordham.” His voice was rusty, but at least words were coming out. “What an unexpected surprise.” Belatedly, he managed a clumsy bow.

“Wholly unexpected,” she agreed emphatically, inclining her head. The long, dyed-blue feathers in her hat swayed each time she moved. “I’ve just been having a conversation with Mrs Wick – woman to woman, you know – but I shan’t detain her any longer. I’m sure you have business to transact.”

“Hardly business,” he protested. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. And he certainly disliked the voice she was using as Mrs Fordham. But she wasn’t attending. Instead, she turned back to the young widow and murmured a few rapid sentences. Mrs Wick nodded, apparently rather bowled over – by Mary? By the sudden stream of do-gooding callers? By life in general? – and bobbed a string of curtseys, nodding all the while.

The sitting room was narrow. On her way to the door, Mary passed so close that her wide skirts brushed his trouser leg and he caught the fragrance of her lemon soap. He inhaled gently, surreptitiously.

Mary bowed once again, a faint flicker of mischief in those hazel eyes. “Good evening, sir.”

“Allow me to help you to your carriage.”

Slight alarm flared in her eyes. “How kind of you, but it isn’t necessary.”

Alarm. He could deal with that. He rather liked that. “I insist.” He turned to Mrs Wick, who was watching with dazzled confusion. “If you could be so kind – two minutes’ indulgence…” James turned back to Mary and offered his arm, his eyes daring her to flee.

She looked as though she’d rather walk with the devil himself, but she placed her extreme fingertips on his right sleeve. He clamped them in place with his left hand, and her eyes widened. Still, she said nothing. The moment the door closed behind them, he expected her to wrench free.

Instead, she stopped demurely on the pavement. “Thank you, sir. This is my carriage just here.”

He pressed down on her gloved hand, wishing he could feel her skin. “What are you playing at, Mary?”

“I beg your pardon?” The voice was still Mrs Fordham’s, but there was a slight quiver at the end that he quite enjoyed.

“I think you’d better tell me what you’re up to.” He paused, looked into her eyes. “Both here
and
on site.”

Her eyes widened.

He grinned.

“I – I must be on my way.” She glanced quickly at her coachman, a young fellow who watched them with undisguised interest.

James scowled at him and he merely smirked in response. Insolent. “Well?”

“Did you follow me here?” The voice was all Mary, now – not Mark, not Mrs Fordham. He’d not realized how much he’d missed hearing it.

“Answer me first.”

She glanced towards the carriage again. “We haven’t time right now.”

“So out with it.”

With a sigh, she tried to pull her hand away.

He curled his fingers around hers and gripped hard – hard enough to hurt.

“Carter!”

The young coachman hopped down from his seat. “Yes, Mrs Fordham.”

James promptly relinquished her hand. “Until tomorrow, Mrs Fordham.”

She didn’t reply. But he caught a glimpse of her expression as she mounted the steps to the carriage, and it was both worried and cross. Good.

At least there, they were even.

Fourteen

The early hours of Thursday, 7 July

The Agency’s Headquarters

T
he drive back to the Agency was swift and tense – on Mary’s part, at least. She couldn’t see Felicity, perched atop the carriage, but her imagination was vivid. She saw herself shamed, scolded, sacked. And she had little to say in her own defence, except the stupid-sounding “He didn’t seem to recognize me.” How could she have been so naive as to hope that? So foolish as to conceal James’s presence from the Agency?

Once in the attic office, though, the conversation took an unexpected turn. Rather than reprove Mary, Anne sighed. “I must confess, I worried about your ability to blend invisibly into a building site.”

“I thought we did well, considering the pressing nature of the assignment,” said Felicity smoothly. A trifle defensively.

Almost without pause, Anne asked Mary, “Have you any suggestions as to how you might explain yourself to Mr Easton now?”

Mary nodded slowly. “I had an idea … not an especially good one, I’m afraid, but it’s plausible.”

“Wait a moment,” drawled Felicity, leaning forward. “Even with a beautifully turned, utterly plausible background story, we’re rather missing an opportunity here.” Both Mary and Anne turned to her with some surprise. “This is the second time you’ve encountered James Easton. He was rather helpful to you during the Thorold case, was he not?”

“He was.” Mary cursed the warmth in her cheeks that must signify a blush.

“And he’s certainly curious about your current activities. Even I could see that.”

Mary nodded, remembering the smirk on “Carter’s” face as she and James bickered on Mrs Wick’s doorstep.

“I think no matter how perfectly you performed as Mark Quinn, he would always have recognized you. He probably knew you straight away, but was keeping silence for his own reasons.”

“I expected him to know me. But when he didn’t let on, I thought it best to leave it alone.”

“And he’s just returned from India. This isn’t the sort of small job he’d normally bother with.”

“That’s right.”

“Clever, discreet, and underemployed.” Felicity made an elegant gesture with her hands. “Why not recruit him to work for the Agency?”

“What?!” gasped Anne.

Mary stared. It was either the best or the worst suggestion she’d ever heard. It might be both.

“Of all the absurd, impulsive, inappropriate schemes!” Anne nearly spat the words. “How utterly nonsensical!”

Bright flags of colour appeared on Felicity’s cheeks. “How so? Easton demonstrates all the traits we seek in candidates.”

“He’s … why, he’s—”

“Male. Is that the problem?”

“Well, it’s certainly a problem for the Agency. We were founded on the Scrimshaw Principle: women, who are undervalued and underestimated at every turn, have the advantage when it comes to intelligence work.”

“I’m well aware of the Agency’s history,” said Felicity. “But in this case, Easton has the advantage. He has experience of building sites, and a position of authority.”

“That’s because we had no business accepting this case! We strayed outside the Agency’s area of expertise, and this confusion is the consequence. James Easton, whatever his virtues, can play no part in the usual work of the Agency.”

“The ‘usual work of the Agency’,” drawled Felicity, “bears reconsideration. The current case demonstrates that perfectly. If we cannot accept work – interesting, well-paid, important work – we ought to question our self-imposed limitations. Male agents may be just what we need in order to grow as an organization.”

“The current case is not just beyond our scope! It is inimical to our aims.”

“Please!” interrupted Mary, standing awkwardly. Anne and Felicity stared at her, startled. They seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely. “I must return to Lambeth. I’ve a decent story to tell James Easton for the moment, until you – until a decision is made.”

Anne swallowed and said, in something approximating her usual tone, “It’s very late, Mary. Why don’t you stay here until morning? It’s quite safe for you to do so.”

Mary nodded reluctantly. She had already compromised her seamless existence as Mark Quinn. James Easton had destroyed her cover. It seemed she had nothing to lose by staying one night in her old bed, here at the Agency – while it was still the Agency she knew.

Thursday, 7 July

A long evening, a fierce quarrel, an impending confrontation. Given these three, sleep for Mary came only towards dawn, and she was nearly late for work as a result. Running the last few hundred yards into Westminster, she dodged round a gent in a badly ironed suit, realizing only at the last second who it was.

Octavius Jones tipped his hat to her with a flourish. “Hello, laddie!” he called loudly. “What have you for me today?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Come, now – a clever boy like you? Tell me something. Anything.”

She backed towards the site entrance, step by slow step. “Er – funeral’s today, sir.”

“You won’t get paid for that!” he said with good-natured contempt. “Tell me something that’s not public knowledge.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Well, tell me this: what’s the new engineer got to say about site safety?”

The wooden fence pressed up against her shoulder blades, but still Jones advanced. It was far from subtle, his trick of standing too close in order to pressure one, but it was effective none the less. “Still working, sir. Hasn’t told me aught.”

“And in all the time you’ve spent with him, you’ve surmised nothing?”

Mary wrinkled her brow. “Sur-what, sir?”

“Surmised: observed. Guessed.
Reckoned
.”

“There’ll be a reckoning, but not the sort you had in mind,” said a caustic voice behind them.

Mary squeezed shut her eyes. Rescue and trouble at the same time.

“I told you to clear off!”

“Mr Easton!” Jones had his party voice on. “What a pleasure to see you again; I don’t believe we were properly introduced yesterday.”

“We never shall be. Now get off my building site.”

“Would it be overly pedantic of me to point out that we’re not, in fact, inside the building site?” Jones grinned at James’s expression. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in giving us an exclusive, sir. No? A pity. Well, I must be off. You mustn’t blame young Quinn for talking to me, y’know – I waylaid him, not the reverse. Well, cheerio, then.”

The sudden hush as Jones sauntered away was entirely in Mary’s head. The street itself was as raucous as ever but her primary awareness, as she followed James through the site entrance, was of his uncharacteristic and ominous silence. She remembered perfectly well what he’d said yesterday: if he caught her talking to Octavius Jones again, she would be disciplined. He hadn’t then let on that he’d recognized her, of course. But she doubted that would make the slightest difference.

James marched into the tower entrance without a glance over his shoulder. Mary followed meekly. It wasn’t as though she had a choice. As soon as they were alone, she blurted out, “I can explain.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, he stared hard at a spot a few inches over her head and said in a low, taut voice, “Tell me, who the hell are you, really?”

She opened her lips to reply, then paused. It was an excellent question – and right now, she had no idea how to answer him. She was Mary Quinn, of course. But also Mary Lang. Secret agent. Orphan. Ex-thief. Ex-teacher. Englishwoman. Half-caste. And she was none of the things she’d represented to him in the past. He had every right to be livid.

“You can’t even tell me that?” His voice was bitter. “At least answer me this: is there really a Fordham?”

She blinked, startled. “No. Of course not.”

The tension in his jaw eased a little. “And Jones – he’s really a journalist?”

“Of sorts; he writes for the
Eye on London
.” This wasn’t what she’d expected. James’s lines of questioning were usually focused, rational. These questions made no sense, unless he was actually jealous … and that seemed more like a preposterous hallucination than lucid observation.