The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,91
she could think of no one else she wanted as much as this; no other place she’d rather be. “No,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m not.”
He feigned shock.
“I think he’s been caught. Listen.” They paused then, and through the wide air shaft they heard the echoes of heavy-booted steps, grunts of exertion, a roar of defiance. “The police are on their way up.”
“Hmph.”
“‘Hmph’? That’s all you can say?”
“Well, normally I’d be very pleased…”
“But not now?”
He kissed her again, deeply and sweetly. “How long have we? Five minutes?”
“Less, I think.” Still, she clung to him and kissed him again.
“Bloody England – a bobby on every street corner.”
“Mmm. And if we don’t sort ourselves out, they’ll arrest us, too.”
“Only me, I think. I’m willing to risk it.”
She laughed at that, struggling to slide out from beneath him. “And what of me and my spotless reputation?”
A new voice, sardonic despite its breathlessness, sounded in the room. “I’d say it’s rather too late to worry about that, miss.”
Mary closed her eyes and groaned. Damn, damn, damn.
James’s head snapped up at the first syllable. Then a broad grin spread across his face and he collapsed back to the floor. “Thank God,” he said, sounding suddenly exhausted. “Take us home, Barker.”
Thirty
He didn’t. Instead, after helping Barker to load James’s shivering, barely conscious form into the carriage, Mary jumped down again. At Barker’s questioning look, she shook her head. “I’ll write.” She didn’t wait to hear his response, or bid James a proper goodbye.
Neither did she return to the bloody scene at the foot of the tower. She’d seen bodies enough in her time, and she had no place there, besides. Already, even from a distance, she could see a good-size throng gathered about it: uniformed policemen, a police surgeon, detectives from the Yard, probably someone representing the Agency. Even Peter Jenkins. And, unless she was much mistaken, there was a scruffy, fair-haired chap nosing about in a discreet fashion: Octavius Jones. The liar – so much for resting on Sundays.
She didn’t linger. Her task, now, was to return to the Agency and report fully. Physical exhaustion was now overlaid by so much nervous tension that less than half an hour later, she stood once more before Anne Treleaven and Felicity Frame in the austere attic. Anne managed to appear dignified even in a nightgown and robe, with her pale reddish hair swinging down her back in a tidy braid. The effect was startlingly girlish and, for the first time, Mary wondered whether Miss Treleaven wasn’t a good deal younger than she’d always assumed. Felicity was dressed as for a particularly elegant party, in peacock-blue silk and with ornately curled hair. In sharp contrast to her employers, Mary was dusty, bruised and, only now, beginning to shake with suppressed shock.
“Are you certain you’re uninjured?” asked Anne. “Our physician is ready to see you at any time. Perhaps before you report…”
“No, thank you.” Mary dropped into a chair and said, “Harkness claimed responsibility for Wick’s death, Reid’s disappeared, I don’t know what’s to happen to Jenkins, and Jones knows I’m female.”
Felicity frowned.
Anne blinked. “You may be unhurt, but you’d better have a drink, my dear.”
Her stomach churned at the idea, but Anne was insistent. And indeed, after a stiff measure of brandy, Mary felt warmth returning to her hands and feet, and a degree of organization to her thoughts. “I beg your pardon,” she said, blushing at her own incoherence. “I’ll begin again.
“According to my source, a labourer’s assistant called Peter Jenkins, Keenan, Reid and Wick were stealing materials from site stores and selling them on. Harkness discovered their thefts, but was somehow persuaded to overlook them; indeed, in exchange for a share of the income, Harkness began to falsify the site accounts to allow Keenan and Wick to continue their scheme. I’ve seen Harkness’s bank book, and he was seriously overdrawn; I expect he had other debts, too, which he had no means of repaying on his salary alone.”
“Indeed,” nodded Anne. “We’ve confirmed a number of loans, all on extortionate terms, with one of the more notorious moneylenders in London.”
Mary nodded. “This arrangement might have worked. However, Wick – possibly prompted by Keenan – realized he could profit at both ends of this arrangement: he began to blackmail Harkness, threatening to expose his involvement with the scheme. It was a foolish idea: had Harkness called his bluff, Wick would only have put an end to his own illegal earnings. But for some reason, Harkness agreed to pay –