The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,73

is.”

He threw back the bedclothes in a gesture he knew to be pathetic and childish. “Then I’ll make it myself.” Each leg was weak and felt heavy as lead. The rug beneath his bare toes prickled and burned and when he tried to stand, his thigh muscles buckled. “Damn it.”

Mrs Vine shifted him to the centre of the bed as if he was still eight years old. “Wiser to lie down, Mr James. I’ll send up a pot of willow-bark tea.”

Why was she always right? He glared at her retreating back. Then as it disappeared through the door, he shifted his attention to George. “Why are you still here, then? I thought you went to church with the Ringleys.”

“When Mrs Vine heard you shouting in your sleep, she thought I’d better know about it.”

“I – what?” Suddenly the room was stiflingly hot, and he threw off the counterpane. “What did I say?”

“A lot of nonsense about wine and forged letters and hyenas.” George’s mouth broadened into a sly, rosy smile. “Or did you mean wine-drinking hyenas who are also skilled forgers?”

Remembrance came flooding back with a speed that took his breath away. Or perhaps that, too, was a symptom of malarial relapse. “I – you’d not believe me if I tried to explain.” He needed to be alone. To think. His temples throbbed with a vicious headache. “I’m sorry you missed the Ringleys, old man.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call on them this afternoon. If you’re feeling a bit better by then, of course.”

“I’m sure I will be.” The tea tray arrived and James eagerly gulped down a cup of the bitter brew. “You’ve not really sent for Newcombe, have you? The man’s a perfect quack.”

“He’s an excellent physician,” said George with reproof. “You just don’t like his advice.”

“‘Lie in bed all day and play cards. One guinea, please.’ It’s the same for every case – just that the rest of them are old ladies, and so they enjoy it and think he’s a genius.”

“Well,” said George wearily, “malarial fever hasn’t improved your temper, at any rate.”

James was wrong about Mr Newcombe, who did indeed recommend complete bed-rest but charged one pound ten shillings for this advice, as today was Sunday. Yet this verdict pleased George, especially as James offered not the slightest protest.

“You know,” said George, popping into James’s room on his way out to the Ringleys’, “it’s a great load off my mind, knowing that you value your health and want to look after it. I was always against that Indian venture, you know, and it’s done us no good as a company. But once you’re completely recovered, we can look forward to bigger and better jobs right here, in jolly old England. Cheery-ho!”

James offered him a sarcastic wave, the value of which was lost as George returned the salute with pink-cheeked good humour. As the bedroom door closed on his brother, James lay back against his many pillows, encased in fresh new linens. He drank two cups of willow-bark tea. And then he rang for writing-paper, pen and ink, and a portable desk.

Sunday, 10 July

Noon

My dear Harkness,

Having completed my review of the safety of the St Stephen’s Tower building site, I should like to present my findings to you before their submission to the First Commissioner of Works tomorrow. I shall call upon you today at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

J. Easton, Esq.

He composed this letter swiftly and without hesitation, and dispatched it by messenger. Then, arranging a second sheet of paper before him, he dipped his pen and let it hover over the page for a long time. He made several tentative pen strokes, all without putting nib to paper. Frowned. Flung down the pen, then took it up once more. Changed his mind yet again. Ten minutes, then twenty, ticked by. Finally, with a groan of frustration, he packed up the writing-table. It was senseless. Some things simply couldn’t be written.

Twenty-four

Coral Street, Lambeth

Reid. She had to find Reid – and quickly. Last night, she’d not got as far as telling James about the memorandum book; they’d fallen out before she’d had a chance, and she’d no specific idea how to interpret it, anyway. But it left with her a sense of urgency, and the conviction that whatever Harkness envisaged happening would take place today. Whatever Harkness and the bricklayers were doing, Reid was the key. He was the least hardened, the most remorseful, the most malleable. His love for Jane Wick meant that he had the most to