The Body at the Tower (27 page)

“Wait a moment. Stay with Mrs Harkness until the doctor comes, you and her maid both. Once the doctor’s here, then fetch Mrs Phelps.” The man nodded. He was accustomed to taking directions and, once instructed, showed something of a return to the footman’s orderly manner. James turned to Mrs Harkness, who lay motionless and silent on the sofa. Her eyes were closed and she looked so still and calm James felt the need to touch her wrist. It was warm and her pulse, though rapid, was strong. “Madam. I’m going in search of your husband. I’ll send word once I find him.”

No response, not even a fluttering of the eyelids.

James’s hat still hung neatly on a hook in the hall, and it seemed peculiar that it, of all things, was undisturbed and in the right place. Climbing back into the carriage, he touched his breast pocket and felt the reassuring presence of that foreign envelope. He didn’t need to consider where Harkness might have gone in the seven hours he’d been absent. There was only one possible destination.

“Home, sir?” asked Barker, without much hope.

“No. St Stephen’s Tower.”

* * *

Jenkins was still suffering as a result of Keenan’s thrashing: that was obvious to Mary, although he tried to deny it. The best pace he could manage was a steady walk that soon slowed to a hobble. It cost him enormous effort: he was sweating profusely, his complexion grey, trying to suppress a wince with each step.

“Almost there,” said Mary encouragingly. “Aren’t we?” While Jenkins hadn’t asked how much she knew or why she was curious, it was still safest to play the role of sidekick for as long as she could.

He nodded grimly. “Just round the corner.”

“Shall I go ahead and see? It’s number nine, right?” This second visit to the Wicks was pure optimism on Mary’s part. She doubted Reid was there, but for once she would be happy to be wrong.

He nodded. “Go on.”

As she scanned the row of houses, a couple of curtains twitched: nosy neighbours, once again. But Wick’s house had no curtains – and who washed curtains on a Sunday? – which gave the house an abandoned feel. The black crape bow was gone, its absence a vivid suggestion of how quickly a life could be forgotten.

“You moving in?”

Mary turned. A solemn, red-haired girl of about nine regarded her from the door of the house opposite. “Where?”

“There. Number nine.”

“It’s – empty?”

“They went this morning.”

“Wasn’t that quite sudden?”

“I seen them packing up, all night.”

“Where did they go?”

She shrugged.

“Did the woman – Mrs Wick, that is – pack everything on her own? Or was there a man helping her?” There had to have been. Jane Wick was neither decisive nor quick-moving, by nature. Any sudden removal must have been at someone else’s behest. The real question was, had Keenan or Reid moved the Wick family?

“Quinn! Quinn! What you doing?”

Both Mary and the girl jumped at this interruption: Peter Jenkins, of course, bearing down on them like a limping wolf. With a slight squeak of alarm, the girl promptly vanished into her house, the door thumping decisively behind her.

Mary sighed. “Jenkins.”

“This ain’t a time to muck about! Don’t you understand?”

“I understand, Jenkins. That girl just told me that the Wicks moved out early this morning.”

“That’s rot! He’d have told me!”

Mary shrugged. “See for yourself. And after that, go back to your lodgings and see if your rent’s been paid in advance, and how much.”

Jenkins stared at her. “Why? What’s it to you?”

She sighed. “If it’s paid up, it means Reid knew he was going and he probably packed up the Wick family. If it’s not paid up, it’s likely Keenan got rid of them all, quick.”

He stared at her, slow wonder blossoming in his face. “I – that – you – why, you ain’t so stupid as you pretend!”

She half-smiled. “And when you’ve done that, come down to the building site. Hitch a ride on a cab, or something.”

His eyes went even rounder. “Palace Yard?”

Mary nodded. “I’ve a feeling the real answer is there.”

Twenty-eight

A
round 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.”

Twenty-nine

I
t was a slow, torturous climb – much worse than the last one. Although James was quite ready to lean on her, they stopped to rest every twenty steps, then every dozen, then every few. He was breathless and shaky, with a pallor that couldn’t be blamed entirely on the yellowing distortions of gaslight. At the one-third point, he collapsed onto the cool stone floor and remained there, in a huddle, for several minutes.

“James.”

“Just a minute.” He fumbled in his breast pocket and brought out a narrow parchment envelope. Tipping his head back, he poured the contents – a powder of some sort – into his mouth, swallowed, and made a face. “Gah. All right. What?”

She stared at the paper in his hands. “What – what the devil was that?”

“Willow-bark powder, of course. What did you think?” Amusement flickered across his weary features. “Some dangerous poison brought back from my Oriental travels?” He grinned at her sheepish expression. “Powdered opium? The demon that’s sapping my youth and beauty?”

“Listen,” she said rather more severely than necessary, “we’re losing time. I’m going up ahead, to see what’s happening.”

He shook his head. “We’re going together.”

“That will take another hour, if not two. We can’t wait that long. Keenan’s already at the belfry and I don’t want to meet him on his way down.”

He climbed to his feet, a trifle unsteady but already looking more energetic than when he arrived on site. “It won’t take that long. I feel much better.”

She examined his face suspiciously. “You don’t look quite as ghastly, that’s true.”

“Still rubbish at flattery.”

“Willow bark wouldn’t have that kind of effect. Especially not such an immediate one. All it does is ease pain and fever.”

He shrugged. “All right, so it wasn’t pure willow bark. But let’s not waste time bickering. Come on.”

She couldn’t argue. They resumed their climb on the narrower flights of stairs, winding their way higher into the hazy air, the sunset, the rapidly falling night, none of which they could see. James seemed to gain strength as they went. His hand on her shoulder became lighter, his breathing easier, his step quicker.

“What exactly was in that powder, James?”

“That’s ‘Mr Easton’ to you, Mark Quinn.”

“Oh, stop dodging the question.”

He sighed. “Mainly powdered willow bark, as I said. And something a friend of mine picked up in Germany, a mild stimulant derived from a tropical leaf. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Doesn’t seem very mild to me. How much did you take?”

“What a nagging old granny you sound. Enough to get the job done.”

“And after that, I suppose I’ll have to scrape you from the cobblestones.”

“Oh, I have Barker for that.”

They climbed in silence until the final stretch, when James placed a hand on her arm. “We ought to have a plan.”

“We don’t even know what to expect. We’d need to know that before making a plan.”

“Well, here’s my theory: Harkness and Keenan are up there, conducting their business. I’d like to know whether Harkness is truly involved with the thefts, and to what extent. Let’s get close and listen for as long we can before having to act.”