The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,74

lose. If she could persuade Reid to confess, that was the Agency’s best chance of solving this case. Otherwise, they would be forced to rely on any scraps of evidence Harkness and Keenan failed to destroy.

Mary left by the front door – one of Miss Phlox’s rules was that lodgers had the privilege of the front door on Sundays only – and set off down the Cut towards the baker’s. Collecting a message from the Agency was awkward on Sundays, when so many businesses were closed. But it wasn’t impossible. A small alley ran behind the row of closed shops, and with a quick glance over her shoulder – not that she expected to see anyone – Mary turned into this narrow passage. The baker’s dustbin had, of course, been tipped over. Unsold goods were used by the baker’s family, but things they deemed inedible – stale crusts, floor sweepings, weevilled flour – were still prizes for the very poor, who scavenged through the bins at dusk. Mary had often seen fist-fights break out over the privilege of digging through the scraps. In her long-ago childhood she herself had fought, more than once, over a carelessly discarded bun or trimming.

Beside the back door, the third brick in the fourth layer from the ground was loose. Prising it from its place, Mary ran her fingers around the gap it left. Frowned. Swept the space again. Odd. There’d been a message every day so far. She examined the brick carefully, then the wall, and finally, on hands and knees, sifted the loose earth below. Still nothing. And no indication as to whether it simply hadn’t arrived, or it had been intercepted. Damn, damn, damn.

She had to find Reid, somehow, and didn’t much like her choices, right now.

James was out of the question.

She could return to the Hare and Hounds and try to trace Keenan’s route of yesterday. But, her fear of Keenan aside, such a project seemed foolish in the ever-changing city streets, and anybody still at the Hare would be in no condition to remember anything short of a riot, and perhaps not even that.

Her only option – waiting passively for Monday morning – was impossible, given Harkness’s mysterious deadline. But at the very least, she could send another urgent message to the Agency. Accordingly, she began to walk towards the Pig and Whistle, a newish public house less than a quarter of a mile from Westminster.

She stalked, at first, at her usual brisk pace – modified, of course, to accommodate Mark’s boyish bounce-and-slouch. But as her irritation cooled, she slowly became aware that something felt wrong. Someone was watching her. Following her, even. She could see nobody likely in front or beside her. Yet…

On the Baylis Road, she slowed her pace. Her pursuer remained behind. She continued to stroll, considering who might be following her. James? Unlikely, given the way they’d parted last night. Besides, today he had to finish his report and struggle with his conscience: work enough for any Sunday, without his tagging after her.

If not James, then her pursuer was Keenan – a thought that chilled her even before she acknowledged it. Her chances of evading him were low. She was in a part of London she knew only moderately well. It was neither raining nor particularly foggy. And, in truth, she was bone-weary. Late nights, high tension and a bedmate who snored hard enough to shake the foundations of Miss Phlox’s flimsy house: this was not a recipe for rest. If she was going to face a pursuer, Mary reasoned, she had better do so in this peopled street. Especially if it was Keenan.

She spun about before she could think better of it. Looked straight into a pair of eyes not five yards behind her. Dark eyes. Familiar eyes. After a long, incredulous moment, Mary found her voice. “Winnie?! Why are you following me?”

The girl was quaking, her cheeks a solid pink. “I – I’m sorry.” She tried to gather herself, without much success. “I – I only – I thought—”

“You thought what?” Mary all but shouted her question. Then, at the look on Winnie’s face, she moderated her voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Now there was irony: the prey apologizing to the stalker. But Winnie still didn’t reply – only stared at her in a timid, spellbound way, her colour deepening from pink to red. “You surprised me, that’s all,” Mary said as gently as she could manage.

Winnie nodded. She fidgeted