Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

"What's wrong?" James's voice was sharp with concern.

She shook her head.

"Tell me, Mary. You must."

"'Must'?" Ah: the authoritarian aspect of his character. She'd nearly forgotten.

"Yes, 'must'. Things are different now, between us." He seized her hands and shook them, but gently. "We both feel that, now."

She looked into his eyes for the briefest of moments and their expression made her tremble. She was exultant, blissful, terrified and, half a second later, utterly in despair. Only her emotions were true, here: everything between her and James was still a lie. And she would never be able to tell him the truth about herself. Not without betraying the Agency and the women who had saved her life and made everything possible for her in the first place.

"Mary."

Her name again, on his lips. The very thought of it made her want to weep, but she hadn't the luxury. Instead, she drew a deep breath, nodded, and told him of her confrontation with Reid. She could reveal that much. When she'd finished, she glanced at his face again, reading the concern – no, alarm – she saw there.

"We must report this to the police."

"Report what? That I accused a man of theft?"

"That a man with a violent temper, whom we strongly suspect of theft, may have cause to do you harm. You're too clever not to see that whatever Reid knows, Keenan soon will."

"The police can't do anything about that. What d'you propose – having a bobby trail me about the site on Monday?"

His lips tightened. "You're not going to site on Monday."

"There! Again!"

"What?" He was genuinely mystified.

"Ordering me about, like a dim-witted child."

"I don't think you're dim, much less a child."

"But you've just told me what to do."

"I've just told you the sensible thing to do!"

"But that's just it – you're telling me!" Could they have a lovers' quarrel when they weren't truly lovers? It seemed so. "You've no right to make decisions for me."

His jaw tightened. "This isn't about rights; it's about common sense."

"So you're saying that if our positions were reversed, you'd accept my command not to go to work on Monday?" Her temper was rising fast, but at that moment she didn't care.

"There's no need to be theoretical about this. The difficulty is what it is."

"And you are what you are!"

"Pray tell," he drawled, coldly angry now.

"Arrogant, high-handed and controlling!"

"Rather that than arrogant, impulsive and irresponsible."

She flung herself up from the sofa and stalked around the room. "It's my life, not yours! Can't you understand that?"

"What I understand is that you'd rather risk your safety on Monday than admit I'm right."

"Untrue! You may well be right about Keenan, but I don't agree with your method of dealing with it. And I certainly won't permit you to give me orders, simply because – because-"

He'd risen when she did, as a gentleman ought. He stood now with his arms folded across his chest. "Go on – say it. 'Because…'"

Here she floundered, unwilling to articulate just how she felt about James. Unable to assume that he felt the same way, now that he was staring at her with those cold, angry eyes. As she struggled, her sense of righteous indignation began to seep away, leaving only despair. It didn't matter how this argument ended. Suddenly, she felt bone-weary. Deep behind her temples, a headache was blossoming. "Because," she said wearily, "you're concerned for my safety. I know that, and I am too, and I'll not be cavalier about it. But I refuse to go to the police just yet."

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "What about Monday?"

"I've not decided."

"What do you propose to do now?"

"Well, what about working out the precise nature of the link between Harkness, Keenan and Reid?"

Instead of replying, he pushed the tea tray towards her and said, "Will you pour?" The familiar rituals helped to smooth things between them: tea, cream and sugar, sandwiches, cakes. Once their hands were occupied with small matters, it was easier to pretend their thoughts were, too.

"We might be jumping to conclusions about Harkness," said Mary at last, when it seemed that James intended to stare into his teacup for ever. "As you said before, Reid might have filched the envelope from his desk."

He nodded slightly. "But if Harkness is truly innocent, I don't understand why he hasn't reported the thefts. Or sacked Keenan and Reid. He's involved with them, and it seems personal."

"Well, he does seem to feel a sense of responsibility towards the men. Towards Mark Quinn, for example – trying to teach as well as employ."

"True." James crumbled a scone with his long fingers. "So perhaps he's trying to lay a trap for them, or persuade them to give up their bad ways?"

"Possibly. All I'm saying is, why not try to learn more about their connection before assuming the worst? If you report your suspicions to the police and Harkness turns out to be blameless, you'll never forgive yourself."

"Neither will he," he said with the faintest of smiles. The clock on the mantel chimed six o'clock in silvery tones. Both looked at it, then at each other, with surprise. "I'm dining at Harkness's home tonight. I might learn something there." He drained his teacup, set it down decisively, and flashed her a charming grin. "Care to join me?"

"Wearing your nightshirt?" she laughed.

"Oh, you won't need it."

"I beg your pardon?!" She felt the blush wash over her in a swift, comprehensive wave.

"Tut tut, Miss Quinn – not as pure of mind as a young lady ought to be."

"You must be terribly disappointed."

He laughed aloud at that, a sound of pure joy. "Never less so in my life."

Another great roll of warmth rippled through her body and she couldn't stop smiling. "Go on, then – how am I to join you this evening?"

"As Mark Quinn, of course. I'm surprised you had to ask." Twenty-one Leighton Crescent, Tufnell Park

The Harkness home was a broad, blocky villa in Tufnell Park, part of a tightly packed estate built a decade before. Viewed together, the houses reminded Mary of nothing so much as a row of false teeth plonked into a field. Or perhaps that was simply her jaundiced eye. Despite tonight's promise of adventure and discovery, she was exhausted. And even after a large dose of willow-bark powder, her headache continued to swell, pounding against her temples in time with her footsteps. Her mouth was dry and thick. Either she was falling ill, or these were the after-effects of too much drink. Perhaps there was something to Harkness's teetotalling gospel, after all.

She pulled her cap lower over her eyes and considered the house before her. Despite the lingering dusk, for it was not yet eight o'clock, the house was brightly lit, as for a party. A neat row of carriages lined the street just outside. The first-floor curtains were still open, and ladies and gentlemen in evening dress paraded back and forth in the large windows. As she strolled past the house, a fourth carriage drew up and disgorged a stout mother-and-daughter pair. They were quite spectacularly alike, from their bulging eyes to their jewelled silk slippers. Although the evening was far from cold, each had a stole wrapped about her neck, the fur slightly wilted now in the humid evening.

The mother frowned at the house. "Well, I suppose it's not a bad size – but my dear! The location!"

Mary paused to watch as a footman opened the door to them. The hall blazed with gaslight and she received a fleeting impression of plenty of highly polished ornaments before the door closed once again. Quickening her pace now, she walked to the corner of the road and turned into the back alley. Even if she hadn't known which house was Harkness's, it would have been evident from the extraordinary level of light and noise emanating from its grounds.