Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

"Oh, not you, too. I've already been warned, you know, about the importance of complete bed-rest."

"Glad to hear it." As she followed James towards the gate, she glanced back at Barker. He looked grim. On impulse, she said quietly, "I'll take good care of him."

"Suppose you can try," came the glum reply.

Through the palings of the gate, Mary and James saw Keenan emerge from the site office. His usual scowl was intensified and he appeared to be muttering something – curses and maledictions, probably. Eventually, with an audible snarl, he stormed back into the site office. He remained there for perhaps half a minute and when he re-emerged, he was no more content. With a final growl of exasperation, he stalked towards the tower entrance, leaving the office door ajar – an unusual piece of carelessness for a thief. As he vanished into the base of the tower, Mary glanced at James. He nodded, and together they entered the site.

Mary paused for a moment to examine the padlock. It was intact, rather than smashed, and when she pointed to it, James nodded again. "Harkness has the only key." His voice was taut.

Their boots rang loudly on the cobblestones in the quiet courtyard. Although the building was so nearly complete, the site had an air of desolation that made it seem more like an abandoned ruin than a triumphant architectural landmark. Or perhaps that was her imagination, once again.

James pushed the office door wide open – or as far as it would go. It was blocked by something on the other side and Mary's first thought was of Harkness. James's too, judging from the speed with which he darted inside. "Papers," he said gloomily, turning to Mary. "It's always papers." The light was dim in the little office, now, with the sun plummeting low in the sky.

She looked carefully around the room, trying to match the chaos with her most recent memory of its contents. Things had certainly been shifted, but… "Has it been ransacked?"

James shrugged. "Who'd know? It's looked like this all week."

"Although…" Her gaze lingered on the desk. Its top left drawer was open by an inch, and she couldn't remember having seen it like that before. Carefully, she pulled the drawer out: it was completely empty but for an envelope – the same sort of envelope, she noted automatically, that had fallen from Reid's pocket. Harkness's personal stationery. On it was scrawled a simple message: This week's payment is here. Beside it was a sketch – a few lines, really, clumsily scrawled – of St Stephen's Tower. A harsh black X marked the belfry.

"What have you found?"

"Come and look."

He stood just behind her shoulder, his breath lightly stirring her hair. "Damn, damn, damn," he said quietly.

"Melodramatic, isn't he?"

"I was thinking of the stairs."

The envelope was empty but Mary pocketed it nevertheless. "Would you – might it be better if you-"

"Stayed down here?" He was already walking steadily, grimly, across the yard. "Not a chance."

"Just how ill are you?"

"Well enough. Are you a girl or a boy at the moment?"

"I think I'd better be Mark."

"Good. If you ask again about my health, I'll smack you, Mark Quinn."

With a resigned sigh, she opened the small door to the tower stairs. "After you, Mr Easton, sir." Twenty-nine

It was a slow, torturous climb – much worse than the last one. Although James was quite ready to lean on her, they stopped to rest every twenty steps, then every dozen, then every few. He was breathless and shaky, with a pallor that couldn't be blamed entirely on the yellowing distortions of gaslight. At the one-third point, he collapsed onto the cool stone floor and remained there, in a huddle, for several minutes.

"James."

"Just a minute." He fumbled in his breast pocket and brought out a narrow parchment envelope. Tipping his head back, he poured the contents – a powder of some sort – into his mouth, swallowed, and made a face. "Gah. All right. What?"

She stared at the paper in his hands. "What – what the devil was that?"

"Willow-bark powder, of course. What did you think?" Amusement flickered across his weary features. "Some dangerous poison brought back from my Oriental travels?" He grinned at her sheepish expression. "Powdered opium? The demon that's sapping my youth and beauty?"

"Listen," she said rather more severely than necessary, "we're losing time. I'm going up ahead, to see what's happening."

He shook his head. "We're going together."

"That will take another hour, if not two. We can't wait that long. Keenan's already at the belfry and I don't want to meet him on his way down."

He climbed to his feet, a trifle unsteady but already looking more energetic than when he arrived on site. "It won't take that long. I feel much better."

She examined his face suspiciously. "You don't look quite as ghastly, that's true."

"Still rubbish at flattery."

"Willow bark wouldn't have that kind of effect. Especially not such an immediate one. All it does is ease pain and fever."

He shrugged. "All right, so it wasn't pure willow bark. But let's not waste time bickering. Come on."

She couldn't argue. They resumed their climb on the narrower flights of stairs, winding their way higher into the hazy air, the sunset, the rapidly falling night, none of which they could see. James seemed to gain strength as they went. His hand on her shoulder became lighter, his breathing easier, his step quicker.

"What exactly was in that powder, James?"

"That's 'Mr Easton' to you, Mark Quinn."

"Oh, stop dodging the question."

He sighed. "Mainly powdered willow bark, as I said. And something a friend of mine picked up in Germany, a mild stimulant derived from a tropical leaf. Nothing to be concerned about."

"Doesn't seem very mild to me. How much did you take?"

"What a nagging old granny you sound. Enough to get the job done."

"And after that, I suppose I'll have to scrape you from the cobblestones."

"Oh, I have Barker for that."

They climbed in silence until the final stretch, when James placed a hand on her arm. "We ought to have a plan."

"We don't even know what to expect. We'd need to know that before making a plan."

"Well, here's my theory: Harkness and Keenan are up there, conducting their business. I'd like to know whether Harkness is truly involved with the thefts, and to what extent. Let's get close and listen for as long we can before having to act."

"Of course. But what do you intend to do, at that point?"

"Hold him until the police arrive."

"Hold Keenan? Good luck."

"The two of us together – three, perhaps…"

Mary looked at him. His eyes were very bright, even by gaslight. Glittering with suppressed fever, perhaps – but more likely the effects of that stimulant. He was vibrating with impatience and excitement, a rather un-James-like condition. She suddenly wondered if he'd be the steady, intelligent ally she had assumed – and then set aside that doubt. There simply wasn't time for it. Whatever happened, whatever he did, she would simply have to improvise and hope for the best.

As they crept up the final few steps, Mary was very glad she'd been up once before. The sun would now be low on the horizon and she was uncertain of how well lit the belfry might be. Without a rough idea of its dimensions and layout, she'd have no idea what she was seeing and almost no chance of remaining unseen. It hardly counted as an advantage, but it comforted her nevertheless.

"Mary?" James was so close behind her that his whisper tickled her ear.

"Yes?"

"My physician warned me sternly against excitement of any sort."

She almost giggled. "Shut up, James."

"Can you see anything?"

"No, and I can't hear, either!"

But suddenly, she could. Male voices, clear and close by.