Free The Body at the Tower by Y. S. Lee Page B

under Rogers’s steady gaze. It wasn’t a hostile look, she decided – more like the disappointment that came of finding one wasn’t alone. She knew precisely how he felt. She had to do something. Anything, rather than sit here in stifling silence.
    The dusky walk back to Westminster felt long this time. All along the streets, yellowy light glowed behind curtained windows. The effect was cosy and exclusive, and Mary felt a sharp, bittersweet longing to be at home at the Academy. Ordinarily, the prospect of an armchair and a cup of tea was dully domestic; tonight, it could not have seemed more appealing. The streets quietened dramatically as she crossed the bridge, passing into Westminster. Few lived here, and the area bustled only during the day. Her feet ached. Her muscles felt stiff. And she was so busy yawning that she nearly walked straight into a shadowy figure skirting along the tall wooden fence that divided the building site from the street.
    Her training saved her. Before her mind could register the man and form a plan, she’d tucked herself into the shadows and gone motionless. Even so, the man seemed to sense something: he, too, stilled, glancing over his shoulder at the streetscape. After several long seconds he resumed movement but it was stealthier now, and he looked about at intervals.
    Mary remained frozen, her back against the fence. The man was tall and powerful-looking in silhouette, although she couldn’t see his features or even make out his profile in the dim light. He wore a jacket and trousers, rather than a suit, but this information was of marginal use: who ever went prowling in his Sunday suit? He could be any of a million working men in London.
    He wasted no time on the padlocked gate, instead choosing a section of the wooden fence. Another rapid survey of the scene. After a pause, he removed something small and curved from his pocket and, with a swift, low hand thrust, slammed it into the high wooden fence. It was a short, violent gesture, akin to stabbing a man in the thigh. He scanned the road one more time and, apparently satisfied, appeared to walk straight up the fence panel in one fluid movement. He paused at the top for a moment, then swung himself over and landed with a soft thud.
    Mary grinned and slithered out from the shadows to the spot where he’d been. Sure enough, there was a small metal half-moon embedded in the fence. It was only two inches wide by one inch deep, but it offered the experienced user a toehold from which to clamber over the fence. She’d used one herself from time to time, in her past life.
    She considered the climbing-grip thoughtfully. Impossible not to follow him. The difficulty was that he was almost certainly headed for Harkness’s office, which lay in direct view of this entry point. She could hardly follow his route and expect to go unnoticed. Neither could she borrow the climbing-grip to use on a different part of the fence; he would certainly miss it. No, she would have to find her own way in. And now that she was fully alert, the challenge was both alluring and energizing.
    The first matter was to work out where the night-watchmen were. There were two, she recalled, who reported to Harkness at day’s end. There would be others at different posts around the Palace, guarding the House of Commons and House of Lords, but she would assume for now that they remained within their separate jurisdictions. Caution struggled with impulse. Caution won – a sign of how far she’d progressed since her early days in training, she thought with a touch of pride. She made a circuit of the building site, listening carefully and looking for the tell-tale glint of the watchmen’s lanterns.
    Nothing.
    Were they asleep? Gossiping comfortably in some inner sanctum? Whatever the case, they certainly weren’t doing their jobs. Mary’s lip curled with distaste. She disliked sloppiness, even if it might make her task easier. She stopped and listened again. To one side