Y. Lee: The body at the Tower

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 step, don't you think?"

"I didn't think you would ask me to dress as a boy except for a serious purpose."

"Precisely."

"We arranged to meet with you this afternoon," said Anne. "I suppose you came early on purpose?"

Mary nodded. "I thought it a better test of the disguise."

"A sensible initiative."

"Thank you, Miss Treleaven." Mary glowed at the restrained praise. Anne was never lavish with compliments; even such measured approval meant much from her.

"Since you're here, we may as well have our meeting," said Felicity with patent satisfaction. "Unless, Miss Treleaven, you've an objection…?"

A look that Mary couldn't decipher flickered between the two managers. There was a prolonged silence, broken at last by Anne. "Do begin, Mrs Frame."

Felicity smiled and passed Mary an illustrated newspaper printed in lurid colours. "We may as well start here."

Late last night, tragedy struck outside the Houses of Parliament: master carpenter John Wick, 32, of Lambeth, fell to his death from the pinnacle of St Stephen's Tower, better known as the clock tower of the Houses of Parliament. It is not known how he came to fall from the 300-foot-high tower, which is still under construction. The Metropolitan Police refuse to confirm whether or not the death was an accident, but the building site was cordoned off this morning and is likely to remain so for the entire day. It was surrounded for the better part of the morning by a circle of builders and other laborers, who narrowly observed the travails of the police and other officials as they carried out their grisly duties.

Mrs Betty Hawden, proprietress of a small coffee-shop across from the Houses of Parliament, witnessed the removal of the unfortunate corpse early this morning. "It was terrible, just dreadful," she said, still visibly shaken, although speaking several hours afterwards. "His poor broken body… and the expression on his face!" Owing to its convenient proximity to the building site, Mrs Hawden's coffee-shop was a hive of activity earlier today, with many of the dead man's workmates and acquaintances coming in to hear "the latest". And "the latest" generally included a discussion of the subject which official sources continue to deny, and which we at the Eye on London vow to pursue – THE CURSE OF THE CLOCK TOWER. There followed a series of vivid illustrations depicting scenes of struggle, blood and horror which corresponded only loosely to the article in question.

Mary shook her head and looked up at Anne and Felicity. "I must be reading the wrong article," she said. "Did you mean the one about the Ghost of Parliament?"

Anne nodded.

Mary scanned the pictures swiftly and shook her head again. "I'm sorry; I don't understand what this could possibly have to do with the Agency. Or, frankly, why we're even looking at this scandal sheet." Her fingertips were already smudged with cheap ink.

Felicity tilted her head to one side. "You don't think we can learn from the gutter press?"

"Well, not facts," said Mary. "I suppose it's useful for the perspective it provides: someone, somewhere in London, might believe in the ghost of the clock tower. But we know better." She searched her two employers' faces. "Don't we?"

Felicity grinned, a broad, toothy, unladylike smile. "We think we do. But this news item definitely has to do with the Agency, and specifically with you."

Had she been alone with Felicity, Mary might have risked a joke about an Agency for the Control of Supernatural Phenomena. However, Anne's presence meant that she merely said, "Please tell me more."

"Setting aside the question of ghosts," said Felicity, "a suspicious death occurred two nights ago at St Stephen's Tower. The accident occurred despite the presence of night-watchmen at the Houses of Parliament, in a highly public part of town. And the death occurred after hours, which is certainly suggestive."

Mary swallowed. She'd been too quick to assume that the entire story was a fabrication, dead man and all. "So the authorities are concerned with the cause of the carpenter's – Mr Wick's – death?"

"Mr Wick was a bricklayer, not a carpenter; the article is, as you might expect, riddled with errors." Amusement curved Felicity's full lips. "But his death demands an explanation. This is normally a task for the police, of course. Scotland Yard have inspected the site and found no conclusive evidence. No witnesses have come forward. There is to be an inquest on Wednesday, but if no other evidence is uncovered, the verdict will have to be one of death by misadventure."

Misadventure. It seemed a coy, silly way of saying "ghastly accident".

"And the Agency…?" asked Mary. Things were falling into place now, but after jumping to one conclusion, she was reluctant to make other assumptions.

"We've been asked by the First Commissioner of the Parliamentary Committee of Works to inquire into two related matters: the first is to monitor any gossip or anxiety about Mr Wick's death. We may pick up information that Scotland Yard is unable to uncover, simply because we'll be on site in an unofficial capacity."

Mary's skin tingled at the word "we". She had the prospect of becoming a full-fledged member of the Agency in just over six months' time.

If she worked hard.

If she continued to improve.

If Anne and Felicity so decided.

"As for the second matter, the new Commissioner of Works is concerned by the high rate of accidents on the building site, coupled with the fact that the tower's construction is grossly behind schedule. This is the kernel of the hysterical mention of "ghosts" and a "curse" in that scandal sheet: apparently, some say that a man killed in the original fire of 1834, the one that burned down the Houses of Parliament, haunts the site in ghostly form. This rumour seems to have been absolutely fatal to site discipline.