by Y. S. Lee
He took a mouthful of rum next and gave an appreciative “Hooo-aaarh!”
Silently, she hacked several thick slices from the loaf with her pocket knife. As he munched, washing down every few bites with a swig of rum, she poked the pile of coppers with the toe of her boot. “Anything else you need? I can fetch it for you.”
He looked tempted, then shook his head decisively. “Naw. I can’t take your money.”
“It’s your share of the tea round.”
“I ain’t never made that much on the tea round.” But his gaze was focused on the pennies, as though hypnotized.
“Did today.” A rotten lie, but it was the most plausible reason she had. She just hoped Jenkins needed the money enough to force himself to believe it. “I went round with Reid – he was collecting for Wick’s widow – and the men all coughed up, for him and for me.”
“Hunh.”
“Men didn’t seem too happy about it, though – Reid collecting.”
“For Wick, you mean. No – he were a natural-born scoundrel, that one. Bet the glaziers didn’t give nothing.”
“Yeah – how’d you know?”
Jenkins grimaced. “I just know. Wick and Keenan – nobody wants to give ’em anything, ’cause they’s always on the take.”
Interesting. “What d’you mean?”
Jenkins merely gave her a sharp look. “I ain’t got to explain everything. Just watch and you’ll see.” And that was all he would say on the subject.
Mary’s eyes had now adjusted to the near-blackness and she could make out the general shapes of things. They were in a small, low-ceilinged, earthen-floored cellar. It held no furniture, no hearth, no place to eat, and certainly no place to wash. Only a few clues suggested that human beings attempted to live here: two small piles of matted straw and rags, representing beds; a dented pail without a handle; and a candle stub.
She tried not to look at him with pity. Jenkins’s backside was obviously badly lacerated and in need of treatment, and he was wearing the same clothes she’d last seen him in. Quite likely, they were the only clothes he owned. Given the filth and poverty in which he lived, it was surprising only that he wasn’t already feverish with infection.
“Who else lives here?” she asked.
A pause. Then, “Me dad and the babies.”
No mother – that wasn’t unusual. “Baby brothers?”
“Sisters. They ain’t such babies now. Next year, maybe, Jenny’ll be old enough to work.”
Old enough to work was a relative concept. At the Jenkinses’ level of poverty, Jenny might be five or six years old, at most. “What’s your father do?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. I just – you said he’s a builder, right? Because that’s how you got your job.”
“None of your business.”
“All right,” she said mildly. It sounded as though she was dismissed. “I’ll come back and see you in a few days, if you like.”
Jenkins’s gaze was riveted to the pennies, once again, and he shrugged ungraciously. “Suit yourself.”
She unfolded her legs, stood, and promptly banged her head on the ceiling. If she, a fairly small woman, was too tall for this cellar, how on earth could a grown man like Jenkins Sr live here? And why was his son so protective of him? “Right. See you.”
Jenkins merely grunted. But as she climbed the rickety ladder out of the cellar, she heard him say, “Quinn.”
She paused, her hand on the top rung, anxious now to escape that dank pit. “Yeah?”
He was poking at the small pile of pennies and ha’pennies as though testing a hallucination. It seemed difficult for him to meet her gaze. “Ta.”
She nodded once and tried to smile, but suddenly it was all too much: the cellar; the stench; the utter desperation all about her. She scrabbled her way up and tore out of the house, nearly knocking down the hunched woman who’d admitted her, not stopping to apologize. She pelted past the children, who blinked at her with their owlish, drugged eyes – sedated with a blend of starvation and opium, no doubt. And she didn’t stop running until she was back in Lambeth.
Near Coral Street, she stumbled into a quiet alley and vomited. Bread, ale, that extra bun – all her meagre supper accounted for. But even once her stomach was empty, the retching continued in long, violent spasms that shook her frame, making her gasp and choke. She tasted salt water on her lips, and found that she was crying. What for? Not for Peter Jenkins, entirely. And not for the others she’d seen in his street. It was absurd. Childish. Weak. But for several minutes she couldn’t stop.
When she finally did, she was empty: dry of tears, her stomach hollow. She felt cold. She shook with exhaustion. And she was still in an alley in Lambeth, dressed as Mark Quinn. Swallowing the remaining bitterness in her mouth, she wondered what that meant. Mary took a few steps towards Coral Street, preparing herself for what awaited her there: Rogers, that lumpy bed, a fractured night’s sleep. Versus a long walk, her own bedroom, a return to her cosseted life as Mary Quinn. It was still there. She still existed. She could go back to the Agency now, or tomorrow, or at the end of this case. And somehow, knowing that was enough – for tonight, at least.
Twelve
Wednesday, 6 July
Palace Yard, Westminster
It was the morning of the inquest. Both James and Harkness were in attendance, one as an observer, the other as a witness. And while Mary understood that a formal inquest wasn’t the place for Mark Quinn, on site she felt marooned. While the atmosphere in Palace Yard had always seemed tense to Mary, today at least there was a specific reason for such a feeling of constant strain. The main exception was a pair of labourers who slowly unloaded a cart of supplies, bickering the entire time:
“I wouldn’t be Harky for all the tea in China.”
“Why not?”
“What, and go to one on them inquests? Don’t you know nothing?”
“It ain’t nothing but a room full of people.”
“Yeah, and a stiff.”
“What?!”
“Jesus but you’s ignorant, Batesy. Some sawbones is going to slice open Wick’s body in front of all the world and make them watch. That’s what a inquest is, you duffer.”
“Ohhhhhh…”
“Yeah, ‘oh’. I couldn’t never watch, no matter what no judge said. I’d be sick straight off, swear I would.”
Despite the prevailing mood, Mary found it difficult not to smile at Batesy’s sophisticated mate. She could have set him straight on the difference between inquest and autopsy, although Mark Quinn likely couldn’t. But such light moments were rare and there was little else to break up her morning’s work, ferrying barrowfuls of wood shavings and other rubbish to the bonfire pile.
It was a couple of hours later that she noticed a stranger poking his nose through the entrance gate. He was scruffy for a gentleman: his trousers bagged at the knees, and one coat sleeve was striped with something pale – chalk, perhaps. He peered into Harkness’s office, apparently tempted by what he saw within. One silent step closer – a quick glance around – and he immediately spotted Mary, watching him with open curiosity from several yards away.
Instantly, he straightened and spun towards her. “Hello, laddie, Mr Harkness about?” His voice was warm and friendly, the sort of voice that made one relax and encouraged one to trust him.
Perhaps that was why she did not. “No, sir.”
“Not on site? When d’you expect him?”
“Don’t know, sir. He didn’t say.”
He pulled a face. “Funny sort of management on his part, hey? And what are you lot supposed to do in the meantime?” He was now standing very close – practically on her feet.
She shrugged and edged back half a step. “Carry on, I suppose.” His gaze was intent upon her face, as though he were memorizing her features. It made her want to squirm. Few adults spared “Mark” a glance, unless she’d done something unusual to draw their attention. It had happened with Harkness, an
d then with Keenan. What had she done now?
“You’re new,” he announced.
“Third day, sir.” Had she seen him somewhere before? The trouble was, he was utterly unremarkable: a fair-haired man with a closely trimmed beard and even, unmemorable features. He was neither young nor old, neither handsome nor ugly.
“Like it so far?”
“Well enough, sir.” He was definitely up to something. No gentleman on legitimate business would waste this much time on an errand boy.
“I would have thought,” he said idly, “that Mr Harkness would have a secretary, or a clerk, to manage the site while he’s gone. Where did you say he’d gone to?”
Aha! That was his aim. Her voice was a little prim as she said, “I didn’t, sir.”
He grinned at that, and Mary blinked. All the bland neutrality was gone, replaced by a slightly crooked, lazy charm. “You’re a clever lad – too sharp for the likes of me.”
Mary couldn’t help grinning back. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Oh, but I do. Very well: I confess. I already know that Mr Harkness went to the inquest into the death of John Wick. But now that the inquest’s been adjourned…” He noted Mary’s big eyes and grinned. “Oh – didn’t you hear? I thought boys like you knew everything the moment it happened.”
She shook her head. “What did they say, sir?”
“Why should I tell you? Find out for yourself, lazybones!”
“I am, sir, by asking you – I’m trying, anyway.”
He smirked. “Cheeky little fart.” But when she continued to stand there, waiting for an answer, he looked at her more closely. “Stubborn too. Hmm… Well, you might as well know: there’s no verdict yet. Instead, they’re awaiting the result of a safety review to be conducted on the building site. First I’d heard of it, I don’t mind confessing to you. First I’ve heard of the chappie engaged to do it, as well – fellow called Easton.” He fixed her with a keen eye. “You know him, sonny?”
She looked noncommittal. “Everybody here does, sir.”
“Hmph. Naturally. Er – where was I? Oh yes – I am a member of the Press, seeking to interview Mr Harkness and Mr Easton vis à vis the inquest of John Wick. And,” he added, holding up a warning finger, “before you summon your two largest stonemasons to turn me out on my ear, have the kindness to remember that we gentlemen of the Press, though humble, help to fashion public opinion even as we serve the public desire for knowledge and advancement.”
Despite her mistrust, Mary was amused. “You write for a newspaper?”
“Precisely! I knew you were clever.”
“What newspaper?”
He looked at her with renewed interest. “My, my – we have a connoisseur of the daily news!”
She squirmed. Perhaps the question had been a bit out of character…
“The fine and noble organ for which I write is dedicated to spreading the truth, to educating the populace and, above all, to entertaining the masses. Can you guess its title?”
“No, sir.”
“I must confess myself deeply grieved, young man. It’s none other than the Eye on London. You know it now, don’t you?”
She bit back a grin. “Yes, sir.” The Eye! How apt. It was a newspaper that contained even less sense than the man’s speech.
He was glancing about again, and though he seemed nonchalant, Mary was willing to bet he didn’t miss much. “I say, is that lad Jenkins not about?”
“Jenkins is injured, sir. Off for a week, at least.”
“Dearie me.” But he didn’t look much distressed. “And what’s your name?”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Quinn, sir. Mark Quinn.”
“Octavius Jones, at your service.” He shook hands with her solemnly. “I think we might be of use to each other, young Quinn.”
“Sir?”
“Bright lad like you … I’m sure you see all sorts in the course of your workday.”
“All sorts of what, sir?”
He grinned again and gave her a sharp look. “That’s precisely what I mean. There’s something not right about this site – and I don’t mean just the death of that labourer. I daresay you’ve heard that before now.”
Mary nodded slowly. Jenkins’s words – “always on the take” – echoed in her mind. She had a deal of catching up to do, if she was to be of any use to the Agency.
“Well, then: I’ve an interest in uncovering the truth. I don’t even know what that truth is, right now. But if you see or hear anything that strikes you as unusual, I want to know about it. And I’ll make it worth your while. What d’you say to that?” He jingled some coins in his trouser pocket.
She nodded, silently vowing to avoid Octavius Jones at all costs. He seemed entirely too much of a risk. She was wondering how to escape his presence when she heard an irritable bark from close behind her: “Quinn!”
She jumped – rather guiltily – and saw James stalking towards them, his expression stormy. “Sir!” Her voice was breathless, and she hoped he’d interpret it as surprise – nothing else.
Octavius Jones perked up and spun to face James. “Mr Easton, of Easton Engineering, I presume?”
James’s glare was fixed firmly on Mary. “Enough loitering and gossip. We’ve work to do.” He brushed past Jones with scarcely a glance. “This is a closed building site. Depart this instant, sir, or I shall have you turned out.”
“I do beg your pardon, sir,” purred Jones, raising his hat with elaborate courtesy. “No harm intended.” He spun about and tipped Mary a wink. “Good day, laddie.”
James merely glowered and kept moving. “Now, Quinn.”
Like a good little errand boy, Mary turned to follow him. But even as she trotted after James, a new idea whisked through her brain and her head swivelled to watch Octavius Jones’s retreating figure. Medium build. Damn. He was definitely not the party who’d broken into the site on Monday night.
Just at that moment, Jones twisted round and caught her frowning at him. A broad grin broke across his face and he reached into a pocket, took out a coin and flipped it towards her in a high, showy arc. Reflexively, she caught it – then cursed herself for doing so. She couldn’t have done anything else, in Mark Quinn’s persona. But as the coin changed from cool to warm in her clenched fist, she couldn’t help but wonder how and when she might be compelled to repay Jones’s generosity.
Thirteen
The Agency’s headquarters
Acacia Road, St John’s Wood
This was all highly irregular. She’d explained her need to live in lodgings, in order fully to inhabit the role of Mark Quinn. She thought Anne and Felicity understood. Yet tonight’s summons from the Agency threatened to undermine that effort. As she knocked on the familiar attic door, Mary tried to swallow her temper. She’d gain nothing by sounding cross and frustrated; Anne and Felicity might even read those emotions as indicative of an inability to continue.
“Come in.” Anne and Felicity looked the same as ever, sitting in their usual chairs, drinking tea. Although their expressions didn’t change, Mary thought she detected surprise none the less. Her suit of clothes – her only suit of clothes – was filthy. Street muck clung to her boots and calves in a most unpleasant fashion. She could only imagine how she must smell.
“Good evening, Miss Treleaven; Mrs Frame.” She remained standing; she’d only ruin any furniture she touched.
“Good evening. We called you here this evening, Mary, to ask how you’re faring. Not in terms of the case, although we look forward to a full report, but in the persona of Mark Quinn.”
Mary swallowed hard. It was uncanny: as though they’d somehow witnessed her shameful breakdown the previous night in the alley. “I’m fine, Miss Treleaven. It’s been difficult, occasionally, as expected. But I’m managing to stay in the role, and to survive very well.”
Anne remained silent. She probably wasn’t attending to the words at all, thought Mary with a surge of anxiety. She was listening for tone of v
oice, gauging her expression, watching for tell-tale physical signs of distress. But thanks to Anne and Felicity, Mary was trained to pass all these tests. She kept her tone even, her expression thoughtful. Didn’t stare too long at either manager. Allowed herself to sound concerned, but resolute.
“Are you able to eat and rest?” asked Felicity.
“Adequately. Not well, but it’s a short-term assignment.”
“And the emotional consequences of your return?” This was Anne speaking. “Your project of confronting your childhood: is that not taxing?”
Mary was silent for a moment, tasting the swell of confusion that threatened her every time she woke, or fell asleep; in each half-moment she forgot herself; in her transitions from Mark to Mary, and back again. And there was that episode in the alley, after she’d visited Jenkins … her stomach twisted at the memory. “Taxing” was an utterly inadequate word for such hell. But Anne’s grey eyes still were fixed upon her, steady and grave. “I’ve found I’m capable of managing.”
Silence, during which the three women looked at one another. There was no indication of what Anne and Felicity thought, or what silent communication passed between them. Finally, Anne nodded. “Very well. Before you report, is there anything you need? Food? Drink?”
“A bath?” grinned Felicity.
Mary laughed. “The bath would be cheating, and I’ll get some food on the way out. But I wanted to ask you about John Wick’s home life. Could you send someone to take a look at the house? Find out what his family’s like? We’ll need to know more of his character, in order to understand the reason for his death.”
Anne nodded. “A good point.”
“I need a look inside. A conversation with Mrs Wick. Basically, as much of a portrait of the dead man as I can get. I can’t manage that, as a boy.”
“It sounds as though you need a first-hand look. Why not go yourself?”
