The Body at the Tower (3 page)

Was she even still a “girl”? She was eighteen sometime this year – that much she knew, although the exact date was lost to her precarious, unhappy childhood. She was a woman now, and if she’d hoped that wisdom, perspective and confidence would come with that, she’d been sadly mistaken.

Three quiet raps at the door interrupted her brooding. She kept silent.

A pause, and then the three raps came again. “Mary?” The voice was female, of course, but muffled by the thick wooden door.

Three – no, six – deliberate knocks. She remained mute.

The brass doorknob turned, and Mary scowled. Naturally, she’d forgotten to lock the door. Some secret agent she was. “This is a private room,” she said in her iciest voice as the door began to swing open. “Kindly shut the door.”

Anne Treleaven’s thin, spectacled face appeared in the gap. “I’d like a word with you, Mary, later this evening if not now.”

Mary leapt up so quickly that she felt dizzy. “Miss Treleaven! I’m so very sorry. I thought you were one of the girls – not that that’s an excuse, either – but if – I mean, had I known…”

Anne waved her into silence. “No need for that, Mary. I just want to speak with you.”

“Of course.” She scrambled to pull out the desk chair.

They sat facing each other, Anne on the chair and Mary on the edge of the bed. It was Anne who broke the heavy silence. “It can be difficult to find privacy in a boarding school.”

Mary’s fierce blush ebbed a little. “I’m fortunate to have a single room; I know that.”

Anne leaned forward abruptly, folding her hands together in her schoolteacher’s manner. “My dear, I want to talk to you about this assignment.”

Mary’s gut clenched. “I thought it was all arranged, Miss Treleaven.”

Anne nodded. “It is. But it’s clear to me that this assignment holds special difficulties for you. We’ll discuss those now.”

Mary immediately opened her mouth to argue the point, but something about Anne’s look stopped her voice. In the end, all she managed was a toneless “What do you mean?”

“I’d like to venture a theory, Mary. You’ll do me the favour of hearing it out before pronouncing judgement?” It was a courteous command, not a question.

Mary swallowed and bowed her head.

Anne spoke slowly, quietly. “Your childhood was, by any standards, a tragic one. You lost your father and witnessed your mother’s painful death. By the age of ten, you knew hunger, danger and violence. In the years that you were homeless, you passed yourself off as a boy for reasons of safety. It was easier to move about the city, and to avert rape, and it gave you a better chance of survival. It wasn’t until you came to the Academy that you were free to conduct your life as a girl without fear of ill treatment or exploitation. Am I correct?”

Mary managed a single nod.

“A return to boy’s costume…” – Anne appeared to choose her words with great care – “…must evoke a return to the same dangers and privations.”

Mary forgot her promise to listen quietly. “It’s not the same thing at all! I’m well aware that it’s a temporary, theoretical return.”

Anne nodded. “Of course; you are too intelligent to believe otherwise. However, what I am suggesting is that somehow, at the back of your mind, those fears are still with you. The suggestion that you relive those days – even strictly as an assignment, with every certainty of returning to your ‘real’ life – may distress you.” She made a small, frustrated gesture. “I am not phrasing this well. I mean that, even seen as play-acting, the idea of passing as a boy must be an extremely unpleasant reminder of your past.”

The backs of Mary’s eyes prickled and she dared not look at Anne when she spoke. “During my first case … at the Thorolds’ house … I had some boys’ clothing. I didn’t mind running about in trousers then.” She bit her lower lip. “I – I quite enjoyed it.” Her voice cracked on the penultimate word.

“True. Is it not possible that you saw the act differently, then? As an adventure, or a game?”

“Unlike this one?”

“Possibly. Or perhaps it was different because you chose to do that, and this time it is an assignment.” Anne sighed. “Mind and memory and emotion are so complex.”

Mary stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Their outlines blurred, and then doubled, but it wasn’t until the first hot tear splashed down that she understood why.

“My dear.” Anne offered her a clean handkerchief. “Regardless of the assignment, you are our first concern here. We would not require you to do anything that made you…”

“Afraid?”

“Yes.”

Mary sniffled and wiped her eyes. She had no idea whether Anne was correct. Her surmises seemed … airy. Mystical. Preposterous. Yet she couldn’t reject them outright.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The light coming through the window was a rich gold that warmed and softened everything in the room: the waning of an unusually glorious summer day. It was warm, but Mary’s hands were cold and numb.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” said Anne eventually. “And I’ll have a dinner tray sent up.” The dinner hour: that was what the bell had announced.

Mary nodded. “Thank you.”

Anne stood and rested her hand lightly on top of Mary’s head, just for a moment. “Don’t stay up all night thinking,” she said. “Trust your instincts.”

A moment later, Mary was alone.

Three

Sunday, 3 July

The Agency’s headquarters

W
hen Mary re-entered the office the following afternoon, again dressed as “Mark”, she had the distinct impression she was interrupting. It wasn’t clear what: Anne and Felicity sat in their customary chairs and greeted her with their usual brevity. Yet there was something in the careful blankness of Anne’s expression, a latent glitter in Felicity’s eyes, that made her hesitate. A moment later, it was gone.

Anne motioned her to sit down. “What made you decide to accept the assignment?” Her voice was dry, almost neutral, yet tinged with concern.

Mary sat up straight. “I thought a great deal about our conversation,” she began carefully. “I hadn’t been able to identify my fear until you suggested it to me. I didn’t want to think about it, and I certainly didn’t want to believe your theory – but I think you were right.” She met Anne’s eyes freely and offered her a small smile. “I must learn to conquer my fears, rather than try to ignore them.”

Felicity shot a quick glance at Anne, then looked back at Mary.

“So you’re still afraid,” said Anne.

“Yes. But now I know it – and with that fear in mind, I choose to accept this assignment.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

There was a long silence. Anne and Felicity both stared hard at her, as though expecting her to crack. To change her mind.

Mary held their gazes, waiting.

Finally, Felicity nodded. “Very well; you’ve chosen. We shall—”

“There’s just one more thing.”

Anne raised one fine eyebrow. “What is that?”

Mary swallowed. “I shall need to live in lodgings, if I am truly to pass as ‘Mark Quinn’. I took a room at a lodging-house in Lambeth this morning.”

Both women were silent with astonishment.

After several long seconds, Mary said tentatively, “I’ll begin with the practical reasons: the workers I meet on the building site might ask whereabouts I live. It would be rather unusual for ‘Mark’ to live in St John’s Wood, and it would be useful to have a generally-known address. If anybody enquired into the address, a lodging-house would give nothing away – whereas it would be extremely odd for me to live at a girls’ boarding school.”

“And there are reasons apart from the practical?” prompted Anne.

Mary took a deep breath. “It will be simpler if I don’t alternate between being myself and being Mark. I will make a more convincing boy, if I am not a girl as well. And…” Her voice wobbled, and she waited a moment before going on. “And when I was younger, and passing as a boy, I never left the role. I should like to re-create that situation.”

Anne frowned. “Why? Why deliberately return yourself to a frightening and dangerous past?”

Mary hesitated. “I don’t know quite how to explain it. I think – I believe – that it might help me to stop fearing it.”

Anne looked thoughtful. “Strong reason,” she murmured. “Any others?”

And, Mary thought, if I don’t return to the comforts of the Academy, I’ll be less inclined to give up or give in part way. “No,” she said.

There was a pause, during which the two women looked at each other. After several moments, Anne nodded once. “I shall organize our information network so that you can communicate with us while under cover. There’s a pub near Westminster where you may leave a written message, in code, by giving a password. But to collect messages, we’ll use somewhere in Lambeth itself. We’ve a contact in a baker’s shop in the Cut who might prove useful…” She looked at Mary. “However, should you change your mind, at any time…”

Mary was already on her feet. “Thank you. I shan’t.”

“Wait a moment,” said Felicity. “That extra coaching I promised you: meet me before dinner this evening and we’ll go for a walk. Perhaps down the pub.”

Mary knew she ought to look pleased, even excited at the prospect. But the best she could manage was a nod before bolting from the room. She had just managed to close the door behind her when her knees wobbled. The corridor was quiet and empty, so she leaned into the wall for a moment, eyes closed. It was done. She was on the case, on her own terms. But instead of satisfaction, she felt that wild thrill of fear grip her again. It was energizing, of course – and dangerous, too. Had she taken on too much?

“Of course not.” The words came from within the office, but made her start all the same. The voice was Anne’s.

“And you approve of this scheme?” That was Felicity.

Hesitation, then a low reply that Mary didn’t catch. Anne and Felicity must be speaking much more loudly than usual, for the sound to carry through the heavy oak door. Mary stood perfectly still, dismayed by what she heard, although she couldn’t make out the words. Never before had she known Anne and Felicity to quarrel. They politely disagreed, on occasion, in ladylike tones. But this waspish severity was new.

Mary understood now what she’d interrupted, and the understanding was unwelcome. She had walked into the middle of a dispute – about the case, about the Agency, about her? She had no idea, and it was beneath her to stay and listen. Even if she could make out the words, she couldn’t eavesdrop on her employers.

As she forced her heavy feet into motion, Mary felt that fear drain away – yet it came as no relief.

For this time, it was replaced by dread.

Four

Monday, 4 July

On the road to the Palace of Westminster

I
t was only a short walk across the Thames from her new lodgings in Lambeth to the building site in Westminster. Nervous as she was about the first day of the assignment, Mary forced her attention outwards, to streets she would come to know well. All about her, men, women and children shuffled slowly workward, or perhaps home again after a night shift. The pubs did steady business as labourers drank their breakfast pints. Occasionally, a fresh scent – new bread from a bakeshop, a barrowful of lilies going to a florist’s – cut through the thick, earthy, acidic smells of the city. She dodged a wagon heaped high with sides of beef, and grinned at the pack of dogs trailing it hopefully.

Her destination, St Stephen’s Tower, loomed over all this. It was designed to look glorious and imperial, but the effect was spoiled from her angle by the absence of hands on two of the clock faces. To Mary the tower merely looked blind, a spindly, helpless outcast marooned by the river’s edge. As she stepped onto Westminster Bridge, she realized she was breathing shallowly. How foolish to think she could mitigate the odour of the river! She inhaled a careful breath and forced herself to take measure of its stench. Yes, it was still intensely familiar, if slightly less disgusting because of the cooler weather. After last year’s Great Stink, appalled Londoners had spent months arguing about the need to clean up the Thames. Campaigners crusaded, newspapers excoriated, politicians pontificated. But like most Londoners, Mary would believe it only once she saw the results. For now, she was grateful that the stink was no worse than last year.

She slowed her pace along the bridge, taking a long, deliberate look at the Palace of Westminster. Every child knew that this was the seat of government, where the House of Lords and House of Commons met. Yet she’d never paid close attention to the actual buildings, sprawling and imposing as they were. They’d been under construction since well before she was born. For most Londoners now, the Palace’s twenty-five-year reconstruction was merely an obvious, unfunny joke about government and the ruling classes.

Nothing moved inside Palace Yard. It was too early for the law-makers, and too late for the night-watchmen. The entrance to the building site was separate and there would be no need to enter the Palace itself; no dangerous mingling of peers and working men. Even so, she made a circuit around the Palace proper, entranced now by its colossal mass, its relentless detail. It was a revelation: not beautiful in a restrained, classical way, but fierce and extravagantly Gothic. The intricacy of the design was hypnotic, overwhelmingly so, and the arrogance and tradition it represented made itself felt in the pit of her stomach.

She passed the length of the Palace in a daze, and on looping back up towards St Stephen’s Tower, had to stop to remind herself of who she wasn’t. She touched the back of her neck self-consciously. Although she looked the part of a twelve-year-old boy, she still didn’t quite feel it. Last night’s coaching session with Felicity – a pint and a cold meat pie eaten out of hand in a public house – had been of some use. But it had also intensified her awareness of the very different world of men. Years in an all-girl’s school had changed her. And now, behind the site fencing there would be swarms of men and boys, roaring and swearing and doing whatever it was builders did while preparing to work, and they would all scrutinize her and know immediately if something was amiss. Of course, it was much too late to turn back. Mary took a deep breath, wiped her damp palms on her trousers, and marched through the narrow entrance gate into the building site proper.