Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

He looked at her blankly. "It was just a house. A bit oppressively frou-frou, but Mrs Harkness has always been like that. A dozen lace doilies where none is needed, that sort of thing. Bad taste isn't criminal."

"But the cost of their furnishings… didn't you notice? All those brasses, and faux-medieval statues, and carved wooden furniture, and gold-plated everything? What about the dinner service and the candelabra? Could an engineer's salary pay for all that?"

James frowned. "I don't shop. I don't know the cost of things."

"Trust me, James – they're dear. Even if hired or bought on the cheap, the contents of that house are worth a small fortune because there's so bloody much of the stuff."

He closed his eyes for a long moment and listened to the silence in the carriage. Beyond it, there was the clop of horses' hooves, the racket of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the swelling sounds of the town as they neared the city lights. Just now, the quiet within was more oppressive than all of these. "So we have motive: greed."

"Or desperation." Mary's voice was careful, gentle, as she made her point. He almost wished she'd be brutal about it. "Harkness's study was entirely different: bare, uncarpeted, underfurnished and utterly uncomfortable. Doesn't that suggest a man who disagrees with his family's expensive tastes?"

James considered. "His children have large allowances. Son at Cambridge, daughters at finishing school. And Mrs Harkness was spattered with jewellery, now you mention it."

"So we've a man trying to accommodate his family's desires…"

"And failing. On his salary, at least."

"But it seems rather forced on him. The study, at least, suggests that Harkness doesn't share their tastes and would live differently, given the choice."

James felt a sudden, deep weariness. "Every man has a choice."

"But if it means denying his family, or making them unhappy…"

"Then it's his responsibility to do so," he said severely. "A man must live by his values. Especially when he's as public and do-gooding about them as Harkness was. Is."

There was a silence. Then Mary placed a hand on his and said softly, "It's a fine philosophy. But perhaps he realized what was happening only when it was too late. He's clearly a man under enormous pressure – his behaviour at dinner, for example."

"Why are you so intent on defending him?" asked James, suddenly irritable. "We're talking about a man whose greed compromised the safety of a building site; who may have caused the death of one of his labourers, all because he wanted some gold-plated candlesticks."

"What if he didn't? What if Wick jumped, or was pushed by Keenan or Reid, and the compromises Harkness made didn't have a thing to do with Wick's death?"

"Then Harkness is still morally culpable. And when I turn in my safety review, the authorities and the world are going to conclude the same, no matter what excuses you concoct."

She withdrew her hand swiftly. Sat back, shoulders straight, spine erect. "I'm not excusing anything, just searching for the real cause of Wick's death. And perhaps a little compassion is in order here, as opposed to…"

"Go on. You may as well say it."

"Unbending sanctimony."

"You would condone his actions? Theft? Endangering men's lives owing to inadequate equipment, and God knows what else?"

"Of course not. But no man – no person – is perfect." She looked at him for a long moment, but her expression was shuttered. "Except, perhaps, you."

There seemed nothing else to be said. Twenty-three Sunday, 10 July Gordon Square, Bloomsbury

She was angry with him; that much was clear. But he couldn't remember what he'd done, what he'd said, what she'd expected. He couldn't see her face, only her slim back as she walked rapidly away. They were in a park of some sort – a field, perhaps – he couldn't tell – he'd no idea where – and night was falling. He tried to keep up, to speak to her, but no matter how fast he ran, she remained ahead, always ahead. How could she move so swiftly?

He called after her but she didn't hear. And he kept on chasing, stumbling. He was gasping for air now, each breath stabbing his lungs, and the air around him was hot, so very hot and sticky, like the stifling, blanketing heat of Calcutta. He heard the whine of a mosquito in his ear and then another, and it was too cold in England for mosquitoes, he knew that, so Mary must be in India, which meant that he, too, was back in India…

The mosquitoes whined on, looming close, then receding in great swoops. He didn't have a net. Foolish to sleep without a net. But he was walking, wasn't he? Not sleeping. Couldn't be sleeping. He was covered in sweat, shirt sticking to his back, lungs aching with the effort, and Mary was no longer in sight, the meadow was gone, and those damned mosquitoes began to cackle, to giggle hysterically, louder and louder, even when he stopped his ears it didn't go away. If only it would stop…

"Mr James."

Why couldn't someone – anyone – make it quiet?

"Master James!"

Anybody at all?

"Jamie! Jamie-lad!"

Rough hands about his head. He swatted at them irritably but they persisted, those hands, doing something to his head, smothering him. And that voice kept repeating his name, his name – his childhood nickname.

He struggled against the assault. "Stop! Stop it!"

"I'll stop," said a voice with cool clarity, "once you wake up."

With a shudder and a gasp, he was suddenly awake, blinking in the pale glare of what passed as daylight in London. He looked about. He was in his bedroom, of course. It was bitterly cold. And two pairs of eyes stared down at him: Mrs Vine and George.

"Who called me that?" he demanded. He had a sour taste in his mouth.

"What – Jamie? I did," said George.

"I hate being c-called 'Jamie'. D-don't do it ag-gain." Damn his chattering teeth. Why hadn't they laid a fire, if it was so cold?

"Yes, I'd say he's himself again," said George to Mrs Vine. He heaved a dramatic sigh. "More's the pity."

"You were hallucinating, Mr James." She placed a cool hand on his forehead. "Feverish. I knew it."

"N-not feverish. F-freezing."

"Chills," she said matter-of-factly, sweeping a hand over his sheets. "And night sweats too."

"Oh Lord – it's a relapse, isn't it?" said George, beginning to pace the room. "I'll send for the doctor. He warned you against this, James."

"Don't b-be an ass. I'm n-not having a relapse. I just need a fire."

"It's July, not November."

"It's still f-frigid. A fire, please, Mrs Vine."

She shook her head gravely. "Not with that fever, Mr James. You're too warm as it is."

He threw back the bedclothes in a gesture he knew to be pathetic and childish. "Then I'll make it myself." Each leg was weak and felt heavy as lead. The rug beneath his bare toes prickled and burned and when he tried to stand, his thigh muscles buckled. "Damn it."

Mrs Vine shifted him to the centre of the bed as if he was still eight years old. "Wiser to lie down, Mr James. I'll send up a pot of willow-bark tea."

Why was she always right? He glared at her retreating back. Then as it disappeared through the door, he shifted his attention to George. "Why are you still here, then? I thought you went to church with the Ringleys."

"When Mrs Vine heard you shouting in your sleep, she thought I'd better know about it."

"I – what?" Suddenly the room was stiflingly hot, and he threw off the counterpane. "What did I say?"

"A lot of nonsense about wine and forged letters and hyenas." George's mouth broadened into a sly, rosy smile. "Or did you mean wine-drinking hyenas who are also skilled forgers?"

Remembrance came flooding back with a speed that took his breath away. Or perhaps that, too, was a symptom of malarial relapse. "I – you'd not believe me if I tried to explain." He needed to be alone. To think. His temples throbbed with a vicious headache. "I'm sorry you missed the Ringleys, old man."