The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,62

banged loudly behind her. At least now she was outside, where the rich and complex smell of London’s streets could help to clear her brain.

What time was it? There were few street vendors about, so she was in the lull between the early ones closing down and the late ones opening up. Late afternoon or early evening. There was some passing traffic, too – carriages and whatnot – but they were moving at a smart trot. In fact, even the pedestrians seemed to be moving quickly: men in suits, still conducting business, and labourers, footsore and intent on getting home. Only a few of the poorer sort of prostitute idled along, half-heartedly angling for custom. One blew her a kiss and shrugged a not very come-hither shoulder, then laughed unkindly at her startled response.

The suggestion of movement: it stirred something in the back of her mind. There was something she had to do … but she couldn’t, for the life of her, recall what it might be. Never mind. She had a good walk ahead of her. Likely as not, she’d remember along the way.

Twenty

On the road from Palace yard to Bloomsbury

James was deeply perturbed. His request to inspect the project’s financial records, which he’d thought a matter of form, had been met by Harkness with prevarication, procrastination and, finally, reluctant accommodation. Once he’d finally gained access, James expected to spend an hour; instead, it had consumed his entire day. Now, sprawled in the carriage on his way home to Bloomsbury, he stared sightlessly out of the window, considering the unpleasant suspicions he’d entertained all week. They were fast becoming certainties.

He was in no rush to return home. On a Saturday afternoon, George would be out, and the prospect of being alone in the large house was rather daunting. It would only mean more brooding about this damned situation of Harkness’s and what, if anything, he could do about it. Going home also brought him one step closer to the evening’s duty: a dinner party at the Harkness home. He’d accepted the invitation some days ago, more from duty than with pleasure. But given today’s events, neither he nor Harkness could possibly be looking forward to the meal. Indeed, the only thing that prevented his fabricating an excuse and cancelling at the last minute was his own ludicrous sense of hope. If he could dine with Harkness, if he could look his father’s old friend in the eye, things might not turn out as dire as they promised.

These were his thoughts as the carriage drove along the northern embankment, rocking gently on its springs. He stared moodily at the streetscape. The threat of rain still pressed down on the town, making the air thick and sticky, the skies a weary grey. His eyes focused on a figure trudging unsteadily up the street. It tacked a bizarre course from lamppost to pillar box, stepping with excessive caution, as though afraid of slipping and falling. The figure was instantly, subcutaneously familiar: the last person he’d expect to see in such a plight, but the first he’d recognize anywhere, in any circumstances. He rapped on the carriage roof, two solid thumps, and they slowed to a plod alongside the staggerer.

Slight. Rather grubby. Very rosy cheeks.

James smirked. He couldn’t have imagined a better diversion. “Lost your way?” he called through the open window.

Her head whipped round, causing her to stumble. It took her a moment to focus on his face. When she did, however, it was with a transparent delight that turned his heart to water. “You!”

He beamed like an idiot. Any sort of clever quip was now impossible. “You look as if you need a lift.” The carriage slowed very gradually and came to a halt. Barker carefully averted his face as he opened the door and let down the steps, but James could well imagine his carefully arranged expression of distaste.

Mary’s upturned face, framed by the carriage interior, looked small and slightly perplexed. “What are you doing here?”

“Going home. Climb in.”

She put one hand to her forehead, as though trying to remember something.

“Still worried about propriety?”

“No…”

“The authenticity of your disguise?”

She frowned. “I – well, I suppose…”

“Oh, stop dithering.” He leaned out, grabbed her by the upper arms and hauled her bodily into the carriage, steps and propriety and authenticity be damned. Tense with surprise, she was light, and yet his own weakness startled him. A year ago, he’d not have thought twice about the effort; today, he required all his diminished strength