Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

The master bricklayer glowered, unmoving.

"No matter; we met, at Wick's demand, here in the belfry after dark. It was perhaps ten o'clock. I was late in arriving, and Wick was displeased. He upbraided me in most vulgar terms. And I – I had lost courage, and permitted him to do so." Harkness's left eye twitched, just once. "Perhaps I regret that the most: losing sight of my position as a gentleman." He paused for a moment before a slight movement from Keenan returned him to the present. "No matter. Wick demanded an increase in his already outrageous bribe: twelve pounds a week, all for keeping silent about my careless bookkeeping.

"I said to you earlier that ten pounds a week broke me. I was a broken man already, although I didn't know it. But I knew I could not meet his increased demand, and told the scoundrel so in no uncertain terms. He had the temerity to say he would go to my wife, and tell her of the situation; that perhaps she would be willing to sell her jewels in order to preserve my good name. And he – he intimated that if her jewels were not sufficient to satisfy him… well, he spoke only as a low-born villain could…" Harkness paused again to swallow his outrage. When he spoke again, his voice was cool and detached. "No gentleman would suffer such an insult. I lost my temper and we came to blows. We were standing so – Wick here, and I just where you are now."

Keenan made a startled gesture, then quickly controlled it. "I heard enough," he said in a low, guttural voice. But he made no attempt to depart. If anything, he inched closer to Harkness, spellbound by the tale.

"Wick was much stronger than I, of course: all that manual labour. And yet when he came at me, I managed to resist with a strength I hadn't known I possessed. We grappled," said Harkness, almost in a tone of wonder. "I don't understand fighting – physical violence has always made me ill – but I wasn't afraid. If anything, I enjoyed it."

"You devil! You're enjoying this, too." Keenan launched himself at Harkness, seizing him by the throat. The older man stumbled back, falling heavily against the stone half-wall. It must have hurt, for he was bent backwards over the ledge, but he made no sound of pain or fear, even when Keenan began to throttle him, voice high now with fury. "You bloody devil! You pushed him, didn't you? You tricked him into coming here, and you pushed him off the ledge."

"Stop!" That clear, commanding voice was James's, echoing into the hollow of Big Ben as he sprang past Mary towards the two men. The belfry was small, James's legs were long, and in just a few strides he was upon them.

He wasn't quick enough. Keenan started up at the sound; beneath him, Harkness flailed. Their combined movement was enough to topple Harkness over the lip of the half-wall. It was a curious way to fall, Mary noted mechanically. Harkness ought to have tipped back head first, if at all; and if so, he should have taken Keenan with him. Yet here they were, with Harkness outside the belfry and Keenan within, balanced precariously on his belly, hanging over the ledge. There was a sharp, panicked cry – whether from Harkness or from Keenan, Mary couldn't be certain.

James dived forward and caught Keenan's thrashing legs, landing with a grunt and a thud. There was a collective, convulsive gasp. Then came only the wind whistling through the open chamber.

Keenan remained perfectly still, still anchored by James's grip. The upper half of his body dangled outside the belfry, and he made no move to rise. Mary, half a step behind James, dashed towards the ledge and peered over. There, with his large, soft hands wrapped about Keenan's meaty forearms, was Harkness. His feet dangled against the roof tiles below and he peered up with an oddly composed expression.

At the sight of Mary's face poking over the edge, however, he frowned. "Quinn? What on earth are you doing here?"

Mary swallowed and remembered she was still in disguise. "Helping Mr Easton, sir. Just hang on, and we'll get you up." She was about to add, "Don't panic," but it hardly seemed appropriate in Harkness's case; he was more serene than she'd ever seen him.

Keenan's face, however, wore an expression of dread and nausea. He dangled, inverted, his face growing steadily redder. "For God's sake, drag me back!" he cried hoarsely. It was a peculiarly passive position for such an active, aggressive man: if he kicked his legs, he risked dislodging James, his anchor. And Harkness was beginning to slide from his grasp.

Harkness looked mildly perplexed, as though he couldn't quite remember how he'd come to be dangling three hundred feet over the cobblestoned streets of Westminster. And then his expression cleared. "Is that you, Easton, keeping this scoundrel from falling to his death?"

James emitted a half-gasp, equal parts exertion and amusement. "Yes, Harkness. I haven't the weight to drag you both back up."

"Well, I shouldn't worry about that," replied Harkness in an astoundingly conversational tone. "I'm quite prepared to meet my Lord and Saviour."

"So soon? Surely not."

Keenan's darkening face reflected Mary's astonishment. "This ain't no tea party!" he yelped. "You, boy! Help drag me back inside before my arms drop off!"

Mary grasped one of Keenan's legs and pulled, but her meagre body-weight was insufficient to make a real difference: Harkness and Keenan carried at least twenty-five stone between them, and she and James weighed significantly less. To pull them up, against gravity, was impossible without some sort of aid. And there wasn't time to go for help.

She looked at James. "There's all sorts of rope up here. We could use that."

James nodded, sweat beginning to bead his forehead. "Good. I'll show you the knots to use."

"There's a simpler solution, my boy," came Harkness's voice, much muffled by wind and stone. "I had hoped to take Keenan with me, but that clearly isn't to be, if you're holding him. But once he lets me go, you ought to be able to save him for the police."

There was an instant, general outcry.

"He's gone mad!"

"What the devil are you on about, Harkness?"

"What d'you mean, once he lets you go?"

"Just what I said," said Harkness, maddeningly cool. "I assume, Easton, that you and the lad heard enough of our conversation to work out what's happened."

James assented with a grunt.

"I'm out of choices, my dear boy. Death is my only desire now."

"You daft old fool!" snarled Keenan. "Go on, then, I'll let go of you, and you're welcome! I got witnesses as to say you wanted to die."

"No!" snapped James. "If you let him fall, Keenan, I'll push you over the edge myself. Harkness," he continued, trying to sound reasonable now, "we'll discuss this once you're safely in the belfry, not now. Quinn, get those ropes."

Mary scrambled towards the nearest coil of rope, a remainder from the installation of the great bell. She wrapped it about Keenan's ankles, knotted it soundly and anchored the other end using rings embedded in the stone wall. And then the real labour began.

With their feet braced against the lip of the central air shaft, she and James began to pull. The rope was thick and strong, and there were no obstacles in their path. Keenan was nearly half inside to begin with, and Harkness a consistent, if dead, weight at the other end. Yet almost as they began to make progress, a furious tussle began on the precipice.

"Oi!" cried Keenan, "he's a-going, he's a-going."

"Hold him!" barked James. "As you value your life, hold on to him."

"He's let go of me!"

"Then hold tighter!"

They retracted the rope in hard-fought increments, one inch, even half an inch at a time. Sometimes they made no progress for the stretch of a minute, so great was the effort of raising those two large, struggling men. It was James, Mary thought, a rivulet of sweat running down her forehead. Despite his heroic efforts, he was beginning to flag. The hectic glitter in his eyes was gone, his colour ashen beneath the rosy flush of exertion, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.