The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,1

charged to give it to Mrs Frame and no one else. Is this her house?” She’d spent all morning working on her inflection, trying to get the accent right while keeping her voice gruff.

The girl looked imperious. “You may trust me; I’m the head girl at this Academy.”

Mary knew exactly who Alice Fernie was. Head girl, indeed! She was only head of her year. “Can’t, miss. Orders.”

Head Girl’s face twisted into a scolding look, but before she could speak again her companion said, “Never mind, Alice. We’ll be late if we stop to argue with him.”

“I’m not arguing; I’m just saying…”

The second girl unlatched the gate and nodded kindly to Mary. “Go on, then.”

Mary tugged her cap respectfully and dodged around the pair, leaving Alice scowling into the road. As she walked around to the side door – the front door wasn’t for the likes of humbly dressed messenger boys – she grinned broadly. Her disguise had passed well enough before Alice and Martha Mason, which was a start.

Her small stock of confidence plummeted, though, as she walked down the familiar corridors, heavy boots shuffling against the carpet runners. It was one thing to slip past a pair of schoolgirls, and another to confront the managers of the Agency. As she neared the heavy oak door of Anne Treleaven’s office, her stomach twisted and she felt a wave of dizziness. She’d been too overwrought to eat breakfast. Or, for that matter, last night’s dinner.

As she raised one hand to knock, she had a sudden memory of doing precisely this, feeling exactly this way, just over a year earlier. That was when she’d learned of the existence of the Agency and embarked on her training as a secret agent. And here she was, not fourteen months later, feeling as confused and anxious as she had back then. The thought gave her courage. She was not the same girl she’d been last spring – untrained, ignorant, hotheaded. Over the past year she’d learned so much. But it wasn’t the physical techniques – sleight of hand, disguise, combat – that showed how she’d matured. It was her understanding of people, of calculated risk, that showed how she’d changed – as well as what remained for her to learn. It was all thanks to these women. She trusted them. And that trust would conquer the fear that made such a hard knot in her stomach.

Somehow.

* * *

“You ought not have accepted the contract, Felicity.”

Felicity Frame’s confident smile did not waver. “It’s an excellent contract: interesting, lucrative, and one that brings us to the attention of certain Powers That Be at Westminster. If we impress them with our work in this instance, this could be the start of a whole new era for the Agency.”

Anne Treleaven was careful to keep her expression neutral. “Such grandiose claims do not change the fact that you acted inappropriately. We’ve never before accepted work without making a joint decision.”

“I hadn’t time to consult and discuss; I had to move quickly in order to secure the client.” Felicity paused and studied Anne’s face. “You’re still cross with me.”

“I’m not ‘cross’.” Anne’s voice vibrated with suppressed tension. “But I am concerned about both your actions and your plan for carrying out the work.”

Felicity looked suddenly weary. “Don’t tell me—”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Four hesitant small raps, to be precise.

Felicity shot Anne a look. “Expecting someone?”

“No.” The clock on Anne’s desk showed it was just before eleven o’clock. “Come in.”

The door opened slowly to reveal a slight, scruffy-looking boy. He wore a clean but much-patched suit of clothes, a round-brimmed cap, and unpolished boots that made a heavy clumping sound on the wooden floor as he advanced.

Anne frowned. “Who are you?”

The boy slowly tugged off his cap and wedged it between elbow and ribs. His hair was dark and badly cut. “Mark, ma’am.” He paused, and then grinned wryly. “Mark Quinn.”

Anne’s jaw went slack.

Felicity gave a strange, high-pitched squawk.

Mary swept them both a neat little bow.

After her initial paralysis, Anne jumped up and grasped Mary by the shoulders. “Look at you! I can’t – you – how – ?”

Mary grinned and twirled about in a distinctly unboyish manner. She’d never heard Anne sputter before.

Felicity, too, came over to inspect her face. “Turn about.”

Anne’s recovery was swift. “Well, my dear,” she said with artificial calm, “you make a charming boy.”

“Did you cut your own hair?” demanded Felicity.

“Yes, Mrs Frame.”

A subtle look of satisfaction crept over her face. “Rather a drastic