The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,84

though they’re only waiting for us to begin.”

“Pity; I was looking forward to scaling the fence.”

“Very funny,” she said severely. “If you can walk at a normal pace, you’ll have done enough.”

“Oh, not you, too. I’ve already been warned, you know, about the importance of complete bed-rest.”

“Glad to hear it.” As she followed James towards the gate, she glanced back at Barker. He looked grim. On impulse, she said quietly, “I’ll take good care of him.”

“Suppose you can try,” came the glum reply.

Through the palings of the gate, Mary and James saw Keenan emerge from the site office. His usual scowl was intensified and he appeared to be muttering something – curses and maledictions, probably. Eventually, with an audible snarl, he stormed back into the site office. He remained there for perhaps half a minute and when he re-emerged, he was no more content. With a final growl of exasperation, he stalked towards the tower entrance, leaving the office door ajar – an unusual piece of carelessness for a thief. As he vanished into the base of the tower, Mary glanced at James. He nodded, and together they entered the site.

Mary paused for a moment to examine the padlock. It was intact, rather than smashed, and when she pointed to it, James nodded again. “Harkness has the only key.” His voice was taut.

Their boots rang loudly on the cobblestones in the quiet courtyard. Although the building was so nearly complete, the site had an air of desolation that made it seem more like an abandoned ruin than a triumphant architectural landmark. Or perhaps that was her imagination, once again.

James pushed the office door wide open – or as far as it would go. It was blocked by something on the other side and Mary’s first thought was of Harkness. James’s too, judging from the speed with which he darted inside. “Papers,” he said gloomily, turning to Mary. “It’s always papers.” The light was dim in the little office, now, with the sun plummeting low in the sky.

She looked carefully around the room, trying to match the chaos with her most recent memory of its contents. Things had certainly been shifted, but… “Has it been ransacked?”

James shrugged. “Who’d know? It’s looked like this all week.”

“Although…” Her gaze lingered on the desk. Its top left drawer was open by an inch, and she couldn’t remember having seen it like that before. Carefully, she pulled the drawer out: it was completely empty but for an envelope – the same sort of envelope, she noted automatically, that had fallen from Reid’s pocket. Harkness’s personal stationery. On it was scrawled a simple message: This week’s payment is here. Beside it was a sketch – a few lines, really, clumsily scrawled – of St Stephen’s Tower. A harsh black X marked the belfry.

“What have you found?”

“Come and look.”

He stood just behind her shoulder, his breath lightly stirring her hair. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said quietly.

“Melodramatic, isn’t he?”

“I was thinking of the stairs.”

The envelope was empty but Mary pocketed it nevertheless. “Would you – might it be better if you—”

“Stayed down here?” He was already walking steadily, grimly, across the yard. “Not a chance.”

“Just how ill are you?”

“Well enough. Are you a girl or a boy at the moment?”

“I think I’d better be Mark.”

“Good. If you ask again about my health, I’ll smack you, Mark Quinn.”

With a resigned sigh, she opened the small door to the tower stairs. “After you, Mr Easton, sir.”

Twenty-nine

It was a slow, torturous climb – much worse than the last one. Although James was quite ready to lean on her, they stopped to rest every twenty steps, then every dozen, then every few. He was breathless and shaky, with a pallor that couldn’t be blamed entirely on the yellowing distortions of gaslight. At the one-third point, he collapsed onto the cool stone floor and remained there, in a huddle, for several minutes.

“James.”

“Just a minute.” He fumbled in his breast pocket and brought out a narrow parchment envelope. Tipping his head back, he poured the contents – a powder of some sort – into his mouth, swallowed, and made a face. “Gah. All right. What?”

She stared at the paper in his hands. “What – what the devil was that?”

“Willow-bark powder, of course. What did you think?” Amusement flickered across his weary features. “Some dangerous poison brought back from my Oriental travels?” He grinned at her sheepish expression. “Powdered opium? The demon that’s sapping my youth and beauty?”

“Listen,” she said rather more severely than necessary,