The Body at the Tower

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.

First published in Great Britain 2010 by Walker Books Ltd 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

Text © 2010 by Y. S. Lee
Cover design by Walker Books
Image of Houses of Parliament © 2010 Ray Roberts/Photolibrary

The right of Y. S. Lee to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:
a catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-4063-3051-9 (ePub)
ISBN 978-1-4063-3050-2 (e-PDF)

www.walker.co.uk

To S, who arrived halfway through this novel

And to N, who was here the whole time

Prologue

Midnight, 30 June 1859

St Stephen’s Tower, Palace of Westminster

A
sobbing man huddles on a narrow ledge, clawing at his eyes to shield them from the horror far below. It is dark, thus his terror is irrational; even if he wanted to, he could not make out what he’s done, let alone note the gruesome details. Still, his mind’s eye insists on the scene: gory, explicit, final. Imagination, not remorse, is at the core of his violent hysteria.

Within the hour he will exhaust himself, and even fall asleep for a few minutes. When he wakes – with a start – reason will return, and bring with it a degree of fatalism. Two paths now lie before him, and the choice is no longer his. He will pick himself up, carefully not looking over the edge. He will right his clothing, inspect his hands with care, and return home. And then he will wait to see what the future holds.

And he will vow to reveal the truth – but only at the time of his death.

One

Saturday, 2 July

St John’s Wood, London

T
he freedoms of being a boy, reflected Mary, were many. She could swing her arms as she walked. She could run, if she wished. She looked tidy enough to avoid police suspicion, but shabby enough to be invisible to all others. Then there was the odd sensation of lightness that came of having cropped hair; she hadn’t realized how heavy her own hair was until it was gone. Her breasts were tightly bound, and even if they did ache a little at such treatment, she could at least scratch herself with impunity, scratching in public being one of those Boy Things she ought to enjoy while she could. It was therefore a shame that she wasn’t enjoying the situation. Wearing boy’s clothing was comfortable and amusing, and she’d enjoyed her escapades in breeches during her first-ever assignment. But this – today – was entirely different. It was serious, and she still had no idea why.

Her instructions were simple enough: to costume herself as a twelve-year-old boy and attend a meeting of the Agency at three o’clock this afternoon. No further explanation had been offered, and by now, Mary knew better than to ask for more details. Anne and Felicity always gave precisely as much information as they deemed appropriate. Of course, such knowledge hadn’t stopped her from fretting about the possibilities, yesterday, overnight and all this morning. Over the past year, she’d delighted in her training: tests, lessons and brief assignments that offered a taste of the life to come. But there was little pleasure in her this morning. What did Anne and Felicity want? And what sort of assignment could be connected with her present guise?

The Agency had been created and was staffed entirely by women, and its genius lay in the exploitation of female stereotypes. Its secret agents disguised themselves as maids, governesses, clerks, lady companions, and other humble, powerless characters. In most situations, no matter how dangerous, few people would suspect a subservient woman of being intelligent and observant, let alone a professional spy. With this as the Agency’s guiding philosophy, it made no sense whatsoever for Mary to be dressed as a boy.

She raked her fingers through her hair, then stopped abruptly mid-stroke: that was a girl’s gesture. And the only thing worse than not understanding what she was doing was compounding it by making a poor job of it. As she neared the top of Acacia Road, where the Agency was headquartered, Mary pressed her lips together and took several deep breaths. Her cowardly impulse was to turn and make one last circuit of Regent’s Park, to spend just a little more time thinking matters through. As though she hadn’t already been marching about St John’s Wood for the past two hours. As though physical movement might still her mind and soothe her nerves. As though she was calm enough to sort through the swirl of emotions clouding her mind.

It was time to act, not to think. A few brisk steps took her to the house with its wrought-iron gates and polished brass nameplate: M
ISS
S
CRIMSHAW’S
A
CADEMY FOR
G
IRLS
. The Academy had been her home for years, now. But today, looking at the nameplate, she willed herself to look at it as a stranger might – specifically, as a twelve-year-old boy might. The house was large and well kept, with a tidy garden and flagged path. But in contrast with those of the neighbouring houses, the front steps were swept but not whitened – an essential task that proclaimed to the world that one kept servants, and kept them busy re-whitening the steps each time a caller marred them with footprints. The Academy’s irregularity here was the only sign of the most unusual institution that lay within.

Suddenly, the front door swung open and disgorged a pair of girls – or, rather, young ladies. They were neatly dressed, neither at the height of fashion nor in the depths of dowdiness. They were having an animated conversation. And they looked curiously at Mary, whose nose was still inches from the closed gate.

“Are you lost?” asked the taller of the two, as they approached the gate.

Mary shook her head. “No, miss.” Her voice came out higher than she wanted, and she cleared her throat hastily. “I was bid come here.”

A fine wrinkle appeared on the girl’s forehead. “By whom?”

“I mean, I’ve a letter to deliver.”

The girl held out her hand. “Then you may give it to me.”

Mary shook her head again. “Can’t, miss. I’m charged to give it to Mrs Frame and no one else. Is this her house?” She’d spent all morning working on her inflection, trying to get the accent right while keeping her voice gruff.

The girl looked imperious. “You may trust me; I’m the head girl at this Academy.”

Mary knew exactly who Alice Fernie was. Head girl, indeed! She was only head of her year. “Can’t, miss. Orders.”

Head Girl’s face twisted into a scolding look, but before she could speak again her companion said, “Never mind, Alice. We’ll be late if we stop to argue with him.”

“I’m not
arguing
; I’m just saying…”

The second girl unlatched the gate and nodded kindly to Mary. “Go on, then.”

Mary tugged her cap respectfully and dodged around the pair, leaving Alice scowling into the road. As she walked around to the side door – the front door wasn’t for the likes of humbly dressed messenger boys – she grinned broadly. Her disguise had passed well enough before Alice and Martha Mason, which was a start.

Her small stock of confidence plummeted, though, as she walked down the familiar corridors, heavy boots shuffling against the carpet runners. It was one thing to slip past a pair of schoolgirls, and another to confront the managers of the Agency. As she neared the heavy oak door of Anne Treleaven’s office, her stomach twisted and she felt a wave of dizziness. She’d been too overwrought to eat breakfast. Or, for that matter, last night’s dinner.

As she raised one hand to knock, she had a sudden memory of doing precisely this, feeling exactly this way, just over a year earlier. That was when she’d learned of the existence of the Agency and embarked on her training as a secret agent. And here she was, not fourteen months later, feeling as confused and anxious as she had back then. The thought gave her courage. She was not the same girl she’d been last spring – untrained, ignorant, hotheaded. Over the past year she’d learned so much. But it wasn’t the physical techniques – sleight of hand, disguise, combat – that showed how she’d matured. It was her understanding of people, of calculated risk, that showed how she’d changed – as well as what remained for her to learn. It was all thanks to these women. She trusted them. And that trust would conquer the fear that made such a hard knot in her stomach.

Somehow.

* * *

“You ought not have accepted the contract, Felicity.”

Felicity Frame’s confident smile did not waver. “It’s an excellent contract: interesting, lucrative, and one that brings us to the attention of certain Powers That Be at Westminster. If we impress them with our work in this instance, this could be the start of a whole new era for the Agency.”

Anne Treleaven was careful to keep her expression neutral. “Such grandiose claims do not change the fact that you acted inappropriately. We’ve never before accepted work without making a joint decision.”

“I hadn’t time to consult and discuss; I had to move quickly in order to secure the client.” Felicity paused and studied Anne’s face. “You’re still cross with me.”

“I’m not ‘cross’.” Anne’s voice vibrated with suppressed tension. “But I am concerned about both your actions and your plan for carrying out the work.”

Felicity looked suddenly weary. “Don’t tell me—”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Four hesitant small raps, to be precise.

Felicity shot Anne a look. “Expecting someone?”

“No.” The clock on Anne’s desk showed it was just before eleven o’clock. “Come in.”

The door opened slowly to reveal a slight, scruffy-looking boy. He wore a clean but much-patched suit of clothes, a round-brimmed cap, and unpolished boots that made a heavy clumping sound on the wooden floor as he advanced.

Anne frowned. “Who are you?”

The boy slowly tugged off his cap and wedged it between elbow and ribs. His hair was dark and badly cut. “Mark, ma’am.” He paused, and then grinned wryly. “Mark Quinn.”

Anne’s jaw went slack.

Felicity gave a strange, high-pitched squawk.

Mary swept them both a neat little bow.

After her initial paralysis, Anne jumped up and grasped Mary by the shoulders. “Look at you! I can’t – you – how – ?”

Mary grinned and twirled about in a distinctly unboyish manner. She’d never heard Anne sputter before.

Felicity, too, came over to inspect her face. “Turn about.”

Anne’s recovery was swift. “Well, my dear,” she said with artificial calm, “you make a charming boy.”

“Did you cut your own hair?” demanded Felicity.

“Yes, Mrs Frame.”

A subtle look of satisfaction crept over her face. “Rather a drastic step, don’t you think?”