The Body at the Tower (23 page)

Cheque book and register.

Bank book.

She paused to listen to the dinner party under way. The rumble of polite conversation swelled and ebbed like a tide, interrupted occasionally by laughter. One man had a high, yipping, nasal sort of laugh which sliced through the rest, through the walls of the house, so that Mary felt as though she were seated next to him at table. She wondered who that might be, and whether he would ever be asked back. She wondered how James was faring, as a reluctant guest at the Harkness table. She wondered—

She hadn’t time to wonder, and abruptly opened the cheque book. Harkness wasn’t a man for writing cheques except to cash, and if the monthly sums were surprisingly large, they were also fairly consistent. Although … Mary flicked back a page or two in the register. There had been a steady increase in the amount of cash Harkness had required over the past year. Increased household expenses, she supposed; the cost of supporting a large family. Or perhaps the redecoration of the house, or new clothing for all the family. The Harknesses certainly seemed to enjoy shopping. Although the numbers seemed high to her, Harkness might have private means to supplement his salary.

However, the bank book told a different story. The last entry, dated perhaps six months earlier, showed Harkness to be two hundred pounds overdrawn. Two hundred pounds would be – what? A third, or even half, of his annual salary. It was certainly more than most men earned in a year, and much more than Peter Jenkins could ever hope to see in his lifetime. And there were no further entries showing it as paid off.

She began to rifle through the remaining drawers now in earnest, looking for other documents. If Harkness had gone into overdraft six months ago and not repaid the money, there would be other loans. Loans from family members or friends, loans from banks, perhaps even a loan from the sort of private moneylender who served only the desperate. All her reluctance had fallen away, now, and she had to force herself to slow down. To search methodically. To handle only what was necessary. After all, one couldn’t scrabble quietly.

In the end, she found only a memorandum book. It was large and quite empty, with the occasional appointment (“Dr Fowler, 11”) or family anniversary (“Amy’s birthday”) recorded. But as she flicked through the pages to July, a genuine sense of urgency surged through her veins. The last remaining page in the book was Sunday, 10 July: tomorrow. It, too, was blank. But every following page had been torn out. According to Harkness’s diary, there was no future. She stared at the book, possible interpretations flooding her brain. It was clearly the end of something: the end of his involvement with Keenan’s gang. But apart from that obvious starting-point, there was no sign of what he intended.

She stood and stretched muscles stiff from long crouching. As she did, a squiggle at the edge of the blotting pad caught her eye. It was so unlike all the other marks on the pad: a looping, dramatic flourish that stood out in contrast to Harkness’s tense, scratchy penmanship. It looked like somebody else’s handwriting, yet it was the only indication that a second person had used this blotter. She bent to inspect the ink mark, frowning. Ran a finger over it, mentally reversing the letters. At that, her eyes widened. Good Lord. Could it be? It seemed rather far-fetched, but it was certainly possible. Yes.

Although it was a large risk, she tore away the edge of the top sheet of paper, removing the mark in question, and slipped it into her pocket. She turned to leave, then had a second thought. From the stationery drawer, she carefully withdrew a single sheet of writing-paper and pocketed that, too. Another rumble of laughter erupted from the dining room, that same hyena laugh making goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. As she eased out of the study window and dropped quietly into the shadowy garden, Mary hoped that James enjoyed at least part of his evening here. For what she was about to suggest to him would certainly spoil his night.

Twenty-two

T
hat laugh! That piercing, grating, hysterical
yipping
. James had seldom heard anything like it, and certainly not from Harkness. The man had always been sober. Earnest. Pompous, even. And now the sound of his mad laughter rang ceaselessly in James’s ears as he and Barker drove through Tufnell Park, on the lookout for a small lad in the dark.

Mary was at the meeting point they’d arranged, a few yards from a quiet-looking pub in Leighton Road. She’d been all for somewhere less noticeable – a park or a church, say – but James had prevailed, saying it would be easier for her to blend in near a busy shop-front. He’d not dared admit he was worried for her safety in a dark, deserted park. She was a tricky, stubborn proposition, Mary Quinn, and despite his anxiety, at the thought of her a deep excitement stirred within him.

“Good dinner?” she asked, as she climbed in. The carriage, which hadn’t entirely stopped, now accelerated smartly towards Bloomsbury and home.

He shrugged. It had been a good meal, as far as food was concerned, although the total absence of wines and spirits had been strange indeed. The sweet, fruit-flavoured drinks accompanying the meal had made it seem rather a children’s party, and eating Stilton without a glass of port had seemed rather pointless. “I’m worried about Harkness. He seems to have gone completely round the bend.”

Mary’s eyes went round. “The mad laughter – that was Harkness?”

James nodded. “Telling desperately poor jokes, and then laughing at them. His wife hadn’t the faintest idea what to say or do, and neither did the rest of us.”

“Any idea what…?”

“What made him behave like that? Well, he wasn’t tipsy, that’s certain.”

“The pressures of the building site…”

“They’re not new. He’s been on that job for years, now.” She was silent, then, looking at him with concern in those luminous eyes. He felt a sudden impulse to bury his face in her neck and weep. Instead, he looked out of the window, concentrating on the gaslamps as they whizzed past. Each light was surrounded by a gauzy yellow halo that vanished when he blinked. “His behaviour. The account books. Everything points to his guilt, doesn’t it?”

For answer, she fished in a pocket and offered him something with an apologetic look. “I also found these.”

He took the items with some puzzlement. They didn’t look like much: a long strip of thick blotter paper, much used and re-used; a blank sheet of writing-paper. As he studied the scrap, though, the sinking dread that had attended him all evening came into sharp focus. His stomach rolled queasily and he cursed under his breath. “You tore this from his blotter?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be?” he said fiercely. Turning his attention to the blank sheet, he stroked the watermark with tingling fingertips. “Confirmation,” he said softly.

It wasn’t a question but she nodded nevertheless. “It could be an accident…”

“The First Commissioner’s signature neatly blotted on Harkness’s pad – that’s an accident?”

“He could have called upon Harkness,” said Mary quickly. “Borrowed his desk to write a letter.”

“He could have borrowed a sheet of paper, if it comes to that.”

“That’s true,” she said slowly. “It would be simple to verify a visit to Harkness’s house.”

Abruptly, he crumpled the page he’d been holding so carefully. “False hope. If the Commissioner was in such a rush to appoint me to the safety review, he’d never have driven all the way out to Tufnell Park to write a letter. He’d have done so from his office, beside Palace Yard. No. This is clear evidence that Harkness forged my letter of appointment. And if he’s forging letters from the Committee of Works, God only knows what else he’s up to.” He looked at Mary’s reluctant expression and groaned. “Oh Lord – you’ve more to say, haven’t you?” Mary’s gaze dropped towards his hands, and he wished she’d look up again. As much as he hated this conversation, it was easier when he could see her eyes.

“Tell me about Harkness,” she said quietly.

James paused for a moment. “A friend of my father’s. A decent engineer, but not a brilliant one. Devout Christian. Wife. Children – four, I think, about my age and younger. Bit of a clot, but well-meaning, and a sound man.” His mouth twisted. “Or so I thought.”

“Has he money? Or rich relations?”

James shook his head, mystified. “Don’t think so. He’s always made a virtue of being a professional man, not an idle aristocrat. You know.”

“So he’s unlikely to have a private income.”

“Just what are you suggesting, Mary?”

Her gaze was still averted, slim hands clasped tightly against her knee. “What did you think of his house?”

“What is this?!” He grasped her arms and tried to make her look at him. “What are you insinuating?”

“I’m looking for motive,” she said calmly, not the least frightened of his explosion. “Tell me what you thought of his house. Its contents. The decorations.”

He looked at her blankly. “It was just a house. A bit oppressively frou-frou, but Mrs Harkness has always been like that. A dozen lace doilies where none is needed, that sort of thing. Bad taste isn’t criminal.”

“But the cost of their furnishings … didn’t you notice? All those brasses, and faux-medieval statues, and carved wooden furniture, and gold-plated everything? What about the dinner service and the candelabra? Could an engineer’s salary pay for all that?”

James frowned. “I don’t shop. I don’t know the cost of things.”

“Trust me, James – they’re dear. Even if hired or bought on the cheap, the contents of that house are worth a small fortune because there’s so bloody much of the stuff.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment and listened to the silence in the carriage. Beyond it, there was the
clop
of horses’ hooves, the racket of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the swelling sounds of the town as they neared the city lights. Just now, the quiet within was more oppressive than all of these. “So we have motive: greed.”

“Or desperation.” Mary’s voice was careful, gentle, as she made her point. He almost wished she’d be brutal about it. “Harkness’s study was entirely different: bare, uncarpeted, underfurnished and utterly uncomfortable. Doesn’t that suggest a man who disagrees with his family’s expensive tastes?”

James considered. “His children have large allowances. Son at Cambridge, daughters at finishing school. And Mrs Harkness was spattered with jewellery, now you mention it.”

“So we’ve a man trying to accommodate his family’s desires…”

“And failing. On his salary, at least.”

“But it seems rather forced on him. The study, at least, suggests that Harkness doesn’t share their tastes and would live differently, given the choice.”

James felt a sudden, deep weariness. “Every man has a choice.”

“But if it means denying his family, or making them unhappy…”

“Then it’s his responsibility to do so,” he said severely. “A man must live by his values. Especially when he’s as public and do-gooding about them as Harkness was. Is.”

There was a silence. Then Mary placed a hand on his and said softly, “It’s a fine philosophy. But perhaps he realized what was happening only when it was too late. He’s clearly a man under enormous pressure – his behaviour at dinner, for example.”

“Why are you so intent on defending him?” asked James, suddenly irritable. “We’re talking about a man whose greed compromised the safety of a building site; who may have caused the death of one of his labourers, all because he wanted some gold-plated candlesticks.”

“What if he didn’t? What if Wick jumped, or was pushed by Keenan or Reid, and the compromises Harkness made didn’t have a thing to do with Wick’s death?”

“Then Harkness is still morally culpable. And when I turn in my safety review, the authorities and the world are going to conclude the same, no matter what excuses you concoct.”

She withdrew her hand swiftly. Sat back, shoulders straight, spine erect. “I’m not excusing anything, just searching for the real cause of Wick’s death. And perhaps a little compassion is in order here, as opposed to…”

“Go on. You may as well say it.”

“Unbending sanctimony.”

“You would condone his actions? Theft? Endangering men’s lives owing to inadequate equipment, and God knows what else?”

“Of course not. But no man – no person – is perfect.” She looked at him for a long moment, but her expression was shuttered. “Except, perhaps, you.”

There seemed nothing else to be said.

Twenty-three

Sunday, 10 July

Gordon Square, Bloomsbury

S
he 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.