The Body at the Tower (2 page)

“I didn’t think you would ask me to dress as a boy except for a serious purpose.”

“Precisely.”

“We arranged to meet with you this afternoon,” said Anne. “I suppose you came early on purpose?”

Mary nodded. “I thought it a better test of the disguise.”

“A sensible initiative.”

“Thank you, Miss Treleaven.” Mary glowed at the restrained praise. Anne was never lavish with compliments; even such measured approval meant much from her.

“Since you’re here, we may as well have our meeting,” said Felicity with patent satisfaction. “Unless, Miss Treleaven, you’ve an objection…?”

A look that Mary couldn’t decipher flickered between the two managers. There was a prolonged silence, broken at last by Anne. “Do begin, Mrs Frame.”

Felicity smiled and passed Mary an illustrated newspaper printed in lurid colours. “We may as well start here.”

Late last night, tragedy struck outside the Houses of Parliament: master carpenter John Wick, 32, of Lambeth, fell to his death from the pinnacle of St Stephen’s Tower, better known as the clock tower of the Houses of Parliament. It is not known how he came to fall from the 300-foot-high tower, which is still under construction. The Metropolitan Police refuse to confirm whether or not the death was an accident, but the building site was cordoned off this morning and is likely to remain so for the entire day. It was surrounded for the better part of the morning by a circle of builders and other laborers, who narrowly observed the travails of the police and other officials as they carried out their grisly duties.

Mrs Betty Hawden, proprietress of a small coffee-shop across from the Houses of Parliament, witnessed the removal of the unfortunate corpse early this morning. “It was terrible, just dreadful,” she said, still visibly shaken, although speaking several hours afterwards. “His poor broken body … and the expression on his face!” Owing to its convenient proximity to the building site, Mrs Hawden’s coffee-shop was a hive of activity earlier today, with many of the dead man’s workmates and acquaintances coming in to hear “the latest”. And “the latest” generally included a discussion of the subject which official sources continue to deny, and which we at the Eye on London vow to pursue – THE CURSE OF THE CLOCK TOWER.

There followed a series of vivid illustrations depicting scenes of struggle, blood and horror which corresponded only loosely to the article in question.

Mary shook her head and looked up at Anne and Felicity. “I must be reading the wrong article,” she said. “Did you mean the one about the Ghost of Parliament?”

Anne nodded.

Mary scanned the pictures swiftly and shook her head again. “I’m sorry; I don’t understand what this could possibly have to do with the Agency. Or, frankly, why we’re even looking at this scandal sheet.” Her fingertips were already smudged with cheap ink.

Felicity tilted her head to one side. “You don’t think we can learn from the gutter press?”

“Well, not
facts
,” said Mary. “I suppose it’s useful for the perspective it provides: someone, somewhere in London, might believe in the ghost of the clock tower. But we know better.” She searched her two employers’ faces. “Don’t we?”

Felicity grinned, a broad, toothy, unladylike smile. “We think we do. But this news item definitely has to do with the Agency, and specifically with you.”

Had she been alone with Felicity, Mary might have risked a joke about an Agency for the Control of Supernatural Phenomena. However, Anne’s presence meant that she merely said, “Please tell me more.”

“Setting aside the question of ghosts,” said Felicity, “a suspicious death occurred two nights ago at St Stephen’s Tower. The accident occurred despite the presence of night-watchmen at the Houses of Parliament, in a highly public part of town. And the death occurred after hours, which is certainly suggestive.”

Mary swallowed. She’d been too quick to assume that the entire story was a fabrication, dead man and all. “So the authorities are concerned with the cause of the carpenter’s – Mr Wick’s – death?”

“Mr Wick was a bricklayer, not a carpenter; the article is, as you might expect, riddled with errors.” Amusement curved Felicity’s full lips. “But his death demands an explanation. This is normally a task for the police, of course. Scotland Yard have inspected the site and found no conclusive evidence. No witnesses have come forward. There is to be an inquest on Wednesday, but if no other evidence is uncovered, the verdict will have to be one of death by misadventure.”

Misadventure
. It seemed a coy, silly way of saying “ghastly accident”.

“And the Agency…?” asked Mary. Things were falling into place now, but after jumping to one conclusion, she was reluctant to make other assumptions.

“We’ve been asked by the First Commissioner of the Parliamentary Committee of Works to inquire into two related matters: the first is to monitor any gossip or anxiety about Mr Wick’s death. We may pick up information that Scotland Yard is unable to uncover, simply because we’ll be on site in an unofficial capacity.”

Mary’s skin tingled at the word “we”. She had the prospect of becoming a full-fledged member of the Agency in just over six months’ time.

If she worked hard.

If she continued to improve.

If Anne and Felicity so decided.

“As for the second matter, the new Commissioner of Works is concerned by the high rate of accidents on the building site, coupled with the fact that the tower’s construction is grossly behind schedule. This is the kernel of the hysterical mention of “ghosts” and a “curse” in that scandal sheet: apparently, some say that a man killed in the original fire of 1834, the one that burned down the Houses of Parliament, haunts the site in ghostly form. This rumour seems to have been absolutely fatal to site discipline.

“The Commissioner finds this impossible to investigate formally, of course: no man he interviewed would confess to believing the story of the ghost; but it still seems to be at the heart of the matter. But he also believes that having someone ‘on the ground’, so to speak, would be useful. Perhaps a superstitious belief in ghosts has delayed the works. Or, alternatively, perhaps the men are in no condition to report to work; perhaps they are flouting safety practices, and the foremen condone it; perhaps…” Felicity made an eloquent gesture. “Much is possible.”

“And our knowledge of building practices is limited,” said Anne. “For that reason, I was extremely surprised when the Commissioner approached the Agency.”

Mary was startled. “He didn’t know…?”

Felicity shook her head. “No. The fact that we’re an all-female agency is still very much a secret.”

“I’ve always wondered, Mrs Frame: how do you manage to keep that secret when you meet with clients?” Mary asked the question timidly. Felicity was generally more forthcoming than Anne, but perhaps this was too nosy – a look into the inner workings of the Agency.

Felicity grinned again. “In several ways. We correspond by post a great deal; in meetings, Anne or I sometimes appear in the guise of a clerk or secretary representing the head of the Agency; and, when required, I make a rather convincing man.”

Mary bit back a gasp. Felicity was tall and curvy, with a beautiful and distinctly feminine face. Picturing her in a cravat and beard required more imagination than Mary possessed. Surely Anne Treleaven, a thin, austere-looking woman in her middle thirties, would make a more plausible man?

“To return to the point,” said Anne, “the job requires an agent who can pass unnoticed on a building site; however, we know very little about its practical realities.” She paused. “We could, I suppose, have declined the assignment…” The look she shot Felicity was ripe with meaning.

“But we didn’t,” said Felicity firmly, “for a number of excellent reasons I shan’t enumerate now. The point is, no grown man could plausibly work on a building site without a trade or any general experience. And it would be exceptionally difficult for a grown woman – me, for example – to pass as a teenaged apprentice. The difference in costume between a gentleman and a working man is quite unforgiving.” Felicity sounded wistful.

“The Agency has no expertise in exclusively male environments,” said Anne quietly. Again, that current of tension flashed between the two managers.

Felicity leaned forward. “We’ve two choices: to post an agent near the building site – for example, working in a neighbouring pub or shop, or selling food on the street; or to find an agent who can pass as a relatively young boy, beginning his first job as a builder’s assistant.”

Mary blinked. “I see.” And she did – perhaps rather more than she wanted. There was a strange, hollow feeling in her chest that she didn’t care to analyze.

Anne leaned forward and fixed Mary with a steady gaze. “Before Mrs Frame goes into further detail, I shall ask the usual question: do you wish to learn more? Or will you decline the assignment?” It was disconcerting how Anne sometimes read her thoughts so accurately. “You may take a day to consider.”

Anne’s gentle tone – the more remarkable because her voice was normally so clipped – made Mary bristle defensively. “There is no need. I accept the assignment.” Her voice was almost angry.

Anne looked at her carefully. “You are certain? I need not remind you that it is unwise to take on an assignment unless you are fully prepared, both physically and mentally.” She laid a subtle emphasis on the last word. “If you—”

“I’m fine.” Mary interrupted her for the first time ever. In the past, she had always been too much in awe to be so rude. “Please – tell me what the assignment will involve. I’ll perform whatever tasks you set.”

There was a short silence, during which Anne and Felicity again exchanged quick looks. Mary clenched the edge of her wooden chair and willed the tight feeling in her chest to vanish.

Finally, Felicity cleared her throat. “You will disguise yourself as an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy taking on his first job at a building site. The position will be forgiving of your lack of experience. Your task is to uncover information pertinent to the death of Mr Wick, as well as to the possible causes of injury and delay on the site. This includes an investigation into the ghost stories, which may or may not have a basis in fact.

“You will begin by questioning the men and boys, and simply keeping your ears open. The engineer in charge of the site, a Mr Harkness, already reports directly to the Commissioner and his paperwork is all copied to the Committee of Works, so any evidence you find will be unofficial. The information you collect will determine your subsequent actions, of course. As you can see, it’s an open-ended task which begins in a straightforward fashion.” Felicity paused, but when Mary did not immediately reply, she hurried on. “You’ve already demonstrated that you can pass as a boy, and I’ll spend some time coaching you on the finer points. As you know, it’s primarily a matter of posture and movement, rather than costuming. You’re young and slim and strong, so there’s already a natural resemblance, and lots of boys’ voices haven’t broken at that age.”

Mary nodded. Her fingers were very cold now, and she felt curiously numb. Felicity was always persuasive – a trick of her voice, rather than her facility with words – and Mary hated to disappoint. “Very well,” she said. “When must I begin?”

Anne frowned slightly, possibly at her phrasing. “There are still a few arrangements to make concerning your false identity as a boy – such as ensuring that there’s a place for you on site. Mr Harkness is deemed reliable, but he will not be privy to your real identity. Add to that time to work on your masculine persona … I should say you could begin no earlier than Wednesday or Thursday.”

Felicity compressed her lips. “Too long, I think. Ideally, you’d start on Monday.”

Mary nodded. “Very well.”

“Report back here after luncheon tomorrow,” said Felicity. She nodded at Mary briskly, and glanced at Anne. The meeting was over, and Mary was dismissed.

She stood clumsily, mechanically scrunching the
Eye
in her hand. “Thank you.” For what, she had no idea.

Two

A
bell was ringing.

A clear, high-pitched, arrhythmic clatter.

A G – not that she cared one way or another.

Mary clutched her pillow tighter and let the note resound through her weary brain, refusing to analyze the sound, unwilling to connect it with any sort of meaning. There were always bells ringing at the Academy. Her life, since the age of twelve, had been governed by these bells. She’d never thought to resent them until today.

The bell finally stopped its nagging and Mary rolled onto her back, crinoline collapsing beneath her weight. A lock of hair – short, jagged, unfamiliar – jabbed her left eye. The plaster ceiling was annoyingly creamy and perfect – the result of a much-needed re-plastering last summer. She missed the old, yellowed ceiling, with its hairline fissures and occasional nicks.

That tight sensation in her chest was still expanding, and she hugged the pillow tighter in an effort to combat it. What was wrong with her, anyway? She’d just been handed the most exciting assignment of her nascent career, and the only responses she could summon were panic and nausea. Was this sort of work – spying and covert observation – not for her, after all? Perhaps she ought to be a good little governess, or a nice little nurse, or a quiet little clerk. Anything but the luckiest, most ungrateful girl in London.