Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

His gaze sharpened at the new guardedness in her tone. "What's that?"

Twice, she opened her mouth to begin.

Twice, she closed it again.

Finally, she said simply, "Who do you think I am?"

There was a pause. Then, slowly, "When I first met you, I thought you were a rich man's mistress. Then I learned you worked as a lady's companion. Now you tell me you're an aspiring journalist." His tone was wary. "Why d'you ask? Are there further developments?"

"Not exactly. More like… past omissions."

His expression was still, shuttered. "Go on."

"I – I'm a criminal. A former thief."

Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this. His eyes flashed to hers, wide and startled. "What?"

"When I was twelve, I was tried and found guilty of housebreaking."

"That carries a death sentence."

"Yes. I escaped."

"But you're still wanted. If you were caught now, they'd hang you."

"Yes."

"You must be living under an assumed name."

"Yes."

He stared at her for a long minute, a complex blend of emotions struggling in his eyes.

Disbelief.

Affection, still.

And – yes – revulsion.

Here, at last, was the answer she needed in order to go on her way.

Finally, he said in a low, gruff tone, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"I wanted you to know the truth." The little jade pendant nestled against her collarbone was a constant reminder of her other truth. The one she could never tell anyone.

"But why?"

"Because…" And this was the hardest part – one of the most difficult things she'd said in years. "Because I didn't want you to care for me – for someone – about whom you knew so little." She paused. "You live by such clear, unambiguous principles. You condemned Harkness for stealing, when he should instead have reined in his family's greed. You despise yourself for condescending to play politics with Harkness and the Commissioner. What I've just told you must change your feelings towards me."

He couldn't meet her gaze.

After several minutes, she said quietly, "Isn't that right?"

Again, no reply. Not even a look.

She took her gloves from the side table and stood, the swish of her skirts loud against the sofa leg. "I've enjoyed your friendship. Thank you for that." She longed to say more, to thank him for something greater than friendship. But she couldn't trust her voice.

When he finally spoke, she was already at the drawing-room door. "Why tell me now?"

She looked back at him, into dark, wounded eyes. "You'd rather I'd not told you at all?"

"Of course not." Suddenly angry. "But your life is in my hands, now. Aren't you afraid I'll go to the police?"

"My life was in your hands on Sunday night. Nothing's changed since then, James. Not for me." Thirty-two

She walked roughly westwards. Walked carelessly and blindly, not minding which road she was taking, and oblivious of the sights and smells about her. From time to time, when the shimmering wall of tears threatened to blind her entirely, she swiped at them with a glove. She needed a handkerchief. She never seemed to have a bloody handkerchief when she needed one.

Some minutes later, she realized somebody was keeping pace with her. A fair-haired man – tobacco-brown suit, rather rumpled – to her right, proffering a large square of clean linen. She stopped and gulped. "Octavius Jones."

He made an elaborate bow. "Miss Quinn. May I be of service? It does so trouble me to see a lady in distress."

"Does it? You must see rather a lot of them, in your line of work."

"Your line, too – isn't it?" he asked, alert eyes belying his casual tone.

"Perhaps I'm not suited to it."

"Surely you're not booing your eyes out because you've lost your post as Mark Quinn."

"No," she admitted, resuming her walk. "I'm not."

"Care to tell me about it?"

"Certainly not. I notice you completely broke your word to me about publication." The story of Harkness's inglorious end had been the main feature – eight pages of "exclusive" coverage! – in Monday's Eye.

"I should hardly say so," he protested. "The circumstances were so different. You didn't tell me that Harkness was going to be killed that night."

"No." Mary slowed, thinking about James again. She'd not asked how he was managing after Harkness's grisly death. He must be troubled – and further grieved to know that Harkness's suspected failings were all true, after all.

"Cheer up," said Jones, chucking her under the chin with a cheeky smile. "Whoever he is, he's not worth it."

"Don't touch me," snapped Mary. "You haven't the faintest idea why I'm upset."

"Oh, it's almost always the same thing: affair of the heart, dreadful misunderstanding, things will never be the same again," he said glibly. "What you've got to do is look ahead. Think of what's to come!"

She blew her nose. Impossible to feel miserable in the face of such relentless obnoxiousness.

"That's it. You're a clever, energetic young woman. Lots to see and do. Well, this is where I turn off." He indicated the street. "So long for now, Miss Mark Quinn. I'll be seeing you again."

"I doubt it."

He swung back, offering his most charming, lopsided grin. "Oh, I don't. Not for a minute."

He vanished into the crowd. It was a trick that made her wonder whether he was merely a gutter-press journalist, as he claimed. Surely he was too sharp, too knowing? She would make a point of finding out, if they met again. Not that they would, despite his smug certainty. She detested bright-eyed know-it-alls who only talked and never listened, and Jones was no exception.

Energized by irritation, she resumed her usual brisk pace. As she came towards Regent's Park, a drop of rain struck her shoulder. Another splashed the brim of her hat. And then a proper light rain began, sending pedestrians scattering and costermongers to pack up their wares. She hadn't an umbrella with her. She didn't care. She began to walk again, returning to St John's Wood by the quickest route. It wasn't the storm everyone was calling for, but that would come, too.

In its own time.