The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,2

step, don’t you think?”

“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