The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,36

for such hell. But Anne’s grey eyes still were fixed upon her, steady and grave. “I’ve found I’m capable of managing.”

Silence, during which the three women looked at one another. There was no indication of what Anne and Felicity thought, or what silent communication passed between them. Finally, Anne nodded. “Very well. Before you report, is there anything you need? Food? Drink?”

“A bath?” grinned Felicity.

Mary laughed. “The bath would be cheating, and I’ll get some food on the way out. But I wanted to ask you about John Wick’s home life. Could you send someone to take a look at the house? Find out what his family’s like? We’ll need to know more of his character, in order to understand the reason for his death.”

Anne nodded. “A good point.”

“I need a look inside. A conversation with Mrs Wick. Basically, as much of a portrait of the dead man as I can get. I can’t manage that, as a boy.”

“It sounds as though you need a first-hand look. Why not go yourself?”

Mary stared. “As myself?”

“Or as a lady. Let’s say, a well-to-do lady on a charitable mission. Take the widow a basket of goods, sweep into the house, cross-examine her.” Felicity’s eyes were bright. “She could hardly say no.”

That much was true: well-meaning ladies often invaded the homes of the poor, arrogantly certain of their welcome as generous benefactors. “But my role as Mark Quinn … and the funeral’s tomorrow; I’ve got to be there, too, and there’s work tomorrow morning…”

Anne consulted her watch. “We can organize the visit for this evening, if we begin immediately. And if you’re willing to drive, Flick.”

Felicity nodded and rose. “Of course.”

As Anne and Felicity swept from the room, Mary watched with an uncomfortable sense of helplessness. Much as she wanted to poke about Wick’s house, this certainly wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She wasn’t sure she could change roles so quickly. Hadn’t a clear idea what she was looking for. Didn’t like the idea of interrupting, then resuming, her life as Mark Quinn. Yet Anne and Felicity were correct: this was the most effective way to do things. And – her conscience wriggled here – it meant she could have a bath! A hot, glorious, sudsy, middle-class bath…

As run by Anne, the Agency was ferociously efficient. Ten minutes later, Mary was immersed in a steaming tub. As she scrubbed, Anne sat behind a folding screen and listened to her report. Mary began by describing her struggle to be accepted on site, from her own blunders about reading and speaking too well, to Harkness’s cultivation of her as a charitable project, to her utter lack of experience – unconvincing, even in a so-called boy of twelve.

“Just as I feared,” muttered Anne, when Mary paused for breath. “It’s a field about which we know next to nothing.”

“Miss Treleaven?”

“I do beg your pardon, Mary. Pray continue.”

“I haven’t learned a great deal in my time on site. However…” Mary heard the whisper of Anne’s pen making notes on the other side of the partition. The jottings were minimal at first. She explained the tea round and Jenkins’s small side profit, which elicited a quiet huff of amusement. But when Mary mentioned Reid’s meagre collection for the widow Wick and Keenan’s reputation as a man “always on the take”, the pen scratchings accelerated. By the time she described the break-in, its aftermath and the appearance of Octavius Jones, Anne was scribbling furiously.

“Since Jones knows Jenkins by name, I’m inclined to think that Jenkins fed him information. I’ll check that the next time I see Jenkins – tomorrow evening, I hope.”

“Good.” There was a final burst of writing before Anne said, “This Keenan character seems almost excessively villainous.”

“Jenkins would certainly testify to that.” Mary briefly described his flogging and her near escape. “Which reminds me, Miss Treleaven – what does Harkness know about my role on site?”

“Nothing, of course.” Anne sounded surprised at the very question. “Is there anything apart from the flogging that makes you wonder?”

“He’s been very kind to me; unusually so, really. I can’t decide if it’s because he suspects something, or whether he has his own agenda, or whether he really is deeply paternalistic towards his workers.”

“Perhaps he’s merely being a good Christian.” There came the whisper of pen against paper again, but now it was leisurely – more like doodling than note-taking. “It’s rather unusual, of course, but he’s very active in his church – one of the more evangelical denominations, I understand. Have