The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,93

froze, half-way out of her chair. “Yes, Mrs Frame.”

“James Easton. What d’you intend to do about him?”

“I – I hadn’t – that is, I don’t yet know exactly what I’ll say.”

“But you intend to see him again.”

“I can’t just run away, or disappear.” The twin gazes of her employers seemed to bore through her. “I – I owe him a goodbye, at least.” She felt a painful, unexpected bump of disappointment as the words left her mouth. Was there another solution to their situation? Not likely. Not if she valued her work, indeed her life, here at the Agency.

“You’ll report to us the outcome of that interview.”

“Of course.”

Thirty-one

Wednesday, 13 July

Gordon Square, Bloomsbury

It was another sticky, soupy, stifling afternoon. The thunderstorm threatening the city all week had yet to materialize, and even by English standards, people talked about the weather a great deal at the moment. As her hansom cab turned into Gordon Square, Mary saw and felt the thick layer of straw coating the cobblestones, damping the sound of hooves along its length. The straw was laid down for invalids, to help them rest, and she hoped it wasn’t for James’s benefit. After all, he hadn’t been too ill to write her a note.

The patrician housekeeper opened the door and looked down the length of her nose at Mary. “Miss Quinn. Do come in.”

She was shown up to the drawing room where a stoutish, balding man greeted her with polite forbearance. “Miss Quinn. It’s been quite some time since we met.” The edge in his voice suggested, unmistakably, that it was a pity they were meeting now.

“Mr Easton,” she said politely. “How do you do.”

The younger Mr Easton reclined meekly on a sofa, draped to the chest in blankets. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’d stand, but George would kill me.”

Mary smiled and murmured something polite. Apparently, all the formalities were to be observed today. She hadn’t been invited to remove her hat and gloves, so this meant a short call: fifteen minutes at most. It was for the best. A long, cosy visit would only prolong the pain of saying goodbye.

“Tea?” asked George.

“Thank you, no.”

“Yes, she will,” said James with sudden vigour. “And take off your hat, Mary – and George, do go away, there’s a good chaperon.”

George ruffled up, just like a rooster. “It’s for Miss Quinn’s own good, Jamie, and—”

“Oh, rubbish. Look at me on my sick-bed: I’m hardly capable of ravishing her. And don’t call me Jamie!”

After some spluttering, George retreated with the proviso that the drawing-room door remain open.

That accomplished, James offered Mary his most charming grin. “Come and sit beside me?”

She grinned. “You’re a horrendous brat.”

“George is a tyrant. The only way he’d agree to a visit was if I lay on this sofa while he supervised our conversation.”

She laid her gloves on a side table. “What’s so very urgent that it can’t wait until you’re well?”

“I wanted to see you.”

She flushed with pleasure. Swallowed regret.

“And I want all the news. George won’t tell me a thing, for fear of overexciting me.”

“Well…” It had been such a long, intense few days since the tragedy at St Stephen’s Tower. “Big Ben rang for the first time on Monday. It sounds quite good, although the quarter-bells aren’t going yet.”

He gave her a look. “Real news, if you please. I’m not your maiden aunt.”

She blushed hotly and said the first thing that came into her mind. “Keenan’s been charged with murder. Although I expect you know that, as witness for the prosecution.”

He nodded.

“They found Reid in Saffron Walden, newly married to Jane Wick. He and Keenan had agreed that if Reid left town with the Wick family and kept quiet, Keenan would leave them alone. I suppose that’s not possible, now – the Crown will certainly want him to give evidence.”

James nodded. “He ought to be all right. The evidence against Keenan is strong.”

“Reid’s worried about his own part in the thefts, obviously, but he should receive some clemency for those. He was very upset about the blackmail. That caused the initial friction between the three brickies: Reid maintaining that it was wrong, and Keenan and Wick pressing him to keep silent.”

“But profiting from stolen goods is all right?”

Mary wrinkled her nose. “There’s a large moral difference. And from Reid’s perspective, the thefts didn’t directly harm anybody. They represented only a small percentage of the site budget, yet seemed a small fortune in comparison with his wages. He also tried to justify the theft of the