The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,45

disappointed?”

“Answer my question, first.”

“Of course not. I was just choosing my moment. And you?”

“Oh, I’d have been deeply disappointed in your intelligence.”

“Is that all?” he laughed.

She smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Any more questions?”

“Yes. Are we to do any work today?”

“Have you become duller since we last met?”

“Yes,” she said primly.

His charming grin flashed again – illness hadn’t changed that, at least – and then he turned serious. “I suppose the next order of business is to inspect the belfry.”

As they ascended, their pace gradually slowed from brisk to measured – imperceptibly at first, then unmistakably. Mary glanced at his face and was unsurprised to see his cheeks flushed and a slight frown between his eyebrows.

He caught her looking. “Don’t tell me you’re tired.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Another thirty steps and his breathing was distinctly audible: measured, but with a breathless edge. Mary risked another quick look and again, he immediately noticed her concern. “What?”

“What d’you mean, ‘What’?”

“Why d’you keep staring at me?”

Fine. If that’s how he meant to play it… “Perhaps I’m just admiring your Roman profile.”

He smirked. “‘Roman’ is a nice euphemism for ‘broken nose’.” They climbed another dozen steps. “A nose you helped to shape,” he reminded her.

She grinned at the recollection of their first fight – a fist-fight. As the shorter, weaker party she’d lost, of course, but she’d held out for a decent length of time. “Anybody as high-handed and arrogant as you are ought to expect the occasional broken nose.”

He snorted with amusement, which immediately led to a fit of coughing. It wasn’t an ordinary sort of cough, but a prolonged, wheezy hacking which halted their progress. His face turned scarlet, he steadied himself against the wall, and eventually he sank down to a crouch on the steps. Mary put out a hand towards him; he swatted it away impatiently.

As the coughing subsided, his breathing became somewhat easier. “Phew.” Fishing out a handkerchief, he mopped a light mist of sweat from his forehead. He attempted a smile, but his eyes were watering. “You were saying?”

She couldn’t remember and didn’t care. “Is this an after-effect of malarial fever?”

He shrugged. “Suppose so.”

“It’s not something new – like pneumonia, or bronchitis?”

“Certainly not,” he scowled.

“But it’s made worse by overexertion?”

“Stop fussing.”

“A couple of questions is hardly ‘fussing’. I just wondered whether you’re ill. ”

“You’re not my mother.”

“Thank God for that.”

He glared at her and pushed himself to his feet. She could see the effort involved: he moved as though all his limbs were weighted down. “I’m fine.”

“Ooh … very convincing.”

“I’m not going to spend all day arguing in a stairwell. Are you coming up or not?” Without waiting for a reply, he resumed the climb. This time, however, he was gripping the handrail.

Mary stared up at his receding form. He was thin; from this angle, it was obvious that his suit was too big – the jacket hanging loose from broad shoulders, the trousers roomier than was fashionable. He must have lost a great deal of strength as well as weight. She followed him meekly for another dozen steps or so, then said in a conversational tone, “We’re less than one-third of the way there.”

“I know.”

It was a slow ascent, and when they reached the landing at the one-third point, he stopped to wipe his forehead and neck again. She stood quietly, unsure what to do. Showing concern or offering advice would doubtless result only in the same mulish denial. Not that she was in a position to criticize; it was a trait she recognized in herself. So she simply leaned against the wall and didn’t look at him.

James’s breathing, rapid and shallow, was the loudest sound in the room. The belfry was still some two hundred steps above them, the artisans and labourers in Palace Yard several storeys below. The rough brick was cool against Mary’s cheek and she closed her eyes for a moment, letting her thoughts drift. Bricks – mortar – Keenan – thrashing. Her eyes popped open again and she glanced around the landing, seeing it properly for the first time. It was surprisingly spacious, apparently designed as a sort of resting-place, although there was no seating yet. After this point, the stairs seemed to narrow and – yes, of course … why hadn’t she thought of this before?

She whirled around to address James. “Has anyone said what Wick was doing in the belfry?”

His eyes were pinched shut, as though against pain. “No.” Then, with a certain reluctant curiosity, “Why?”

“Look at the next flight of steps: the