by Y. S. Lee
James took his time, cleaning his plate. It was no small achievement, as Mrs Higgs’s portions were indeed enormous. When, at long last, he was done, he sat back with a sigh – a smug sigh, thought Mary – and took a deep draught of beer. “Aren’t you glad you came?” he asked, his eyes gleaming over the rim of the tankard.
She pushed aside her lingering resentment. This was no time to behave childishly. “I suppose it depends,” she said, “on what we discuss and how we decide to proceed.”
He examined his pint with care. His voice was carefully neutral as he said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She was prepared for this, at least. “It seems to me that we’d do well to share information. Whatever you learn about site safety can be helpful to me, in my attempt to understand life as an errand boy. And in my role as Mark, I’ve noticed and overheard a few things that may be useful to you.”
“Such as?”
“After Harkness stopped Keenan from thrashing me on Monday, Keenan all but threatened him. Said he’d not forget the incident, as though planning to get his own back somehow.”
“Hmph.” James pondered for a moment, then leaned forward and fixed her with a look so intent she began to blush. “Now, what about you?”
“Wh-what d’you mean?”
“Well, you seem rather intent on a partnership here. Teamwork. Whatever you care to name it. That’s new for you. And you’ll pardon my saying so, but you don’t play well with others. I believe we established that the last time we tried to work together.”
Mary swallowed hard. “You’re right. I didn’t think through some of my decisions on the Thorold case, and I ought to have shared more information with you.”
He feigned surprise. “An admission of imperfection? How unlike you, Miss Quinn.”
“Pot and kettle, as you said earlier.”
“True enough, and thus even more reason you ought to be resisting a partnership, rather than proposing one.”
He was right: she needed his help more than he did hers, this time. She sat for a moment in silence, steeling herself for the confession, and then sighed. “All right. You want the real, humiliating reason I need to work with you again?”
“You’re terrible at flattery, as well – did you know?”
She ignored that. “The men don’t trust Mark. He’s too well-spoken, too inexperienced, too – well, too not one of them. They’re very guarded when I’m about and while I’ve managed to pick up a few bits of information, it’s nothing like what I’d hoped.”
“Ah. Finally, we have the ugly truth: you need me.”
“I need to share information with you. I need to learn about building sites from you. You don’t have to make it sound so…”
“Oh, just admit it: you need me. You can’t survive without me. I’m your greatest – no, your only – chance for success and true happiness.”
She snorted. “If that’s what you choose to tell yourself.”
His grin was brilliant, annoying, endearing. “You’ll admit it soon enough.”
“So we’re agreed?” she demanded, suddenly impatient.
“Of course,” he said calmly. “I knew it would come to this, all along. I’m quite looking forward to it.”
“But you – you still made me – the apology—” She groaned with frustration. “Sometimes I think I hate you.”
“You don’t,” he assured her.
She said nothing. He was correct, once again.
“So … you said Keenan threatened?”
“Very clearly. And Harkness didn’t respond.”
“That may have been the wisest course of action; the man’s deeply unsavoury.”
“Like his former associate Wick?”
“It’s true that nobody seems to regret him much.”
“When you add together Mrs Wick’s banged-up face, and the late hours Wick kept outside the home, and the fact that he was good mates with Keenan…”
“You get quite a scoundrel, with no short list of suspects; just the sort of man almost anyone would like to push off a tower.”
“What about Reid?”
“What about him?”
“I forgot – he was gone by the time you turned up.” She explained about Reid’s presence at Jane Wick’s house, the night they’d both called on her. “And his face was bruised on Monday last, as though he’d been in a fight.”
“He’s completely banged up now. Perhaps he’s always getting into fights.”
She shook her head. “I think not. He’s a careful man, a responsible one. I think fighting two men in one week – the second was Keenan, yesterday evening – is significant, in his case.”
“So you think his first fight was with Wick, over his wife? In the belfry?”
“Quite possibly. Either that, or the fight led directly to Wick’s fall.”
James was silent for a moment. “It’s certainly the likeliest theory. I’ll ask the coroner about bruises on Wick’s body. Anything else you’ve observed?”
“It’s of less import, but there’s a great deal of muttering on site.”
“Yes. The joiners and the masons are concerned with petty theft. It seemed quite small-scale at first – a handful of nails here, a fraction of a load of Anston stone there – but their complaints are adding up. It’s a serious drain on resources.”
“Is widespread pilfering unusual?”
“It varies according to the site and the calibre of the labourers. It has to do with management, too: a well-managed site led by a respected engineer will suffer fewer losses.”
“When talking among themselves, the men have scant respect for Harkness. I’ve not heard anybody say anything positive about him.”
James frowned, as though pained. “I know. They’ve told me much the same thing.” There was a pause, and he said slowly, “Widespread theft could affect site safety…”
“How so?”
“Well, theft on the scale the foremen suggest would seriously affect the materials budget. Perhaps Harkness is economizing on other fronts…”
Mary could practically see him jotting the note in his head: Check site budget. “Are they clever thefts?”
He considered that. “Well, they’re fairly small ones. The sort that could be attributed to a larger number of people all taking things independently.”
“But you think otherwise…”
“They’re also quite similar. Not opportunistic; it’s more as though…” He considered for a moment. “It’s as though someone’s carefully skimming a small percentage of all the materials, like a levy of some sort.”
“The word ‘levy’ suggests a sense of entitlement…”
“And it’s much too early to attribute motive, of course. But yes. It’s as if someone’s carefully taxing each of the materials in kind.”
“Each foreman is in charge of supervising the unloading of his trade’s materials.”
“Yes. That’s what makes it difficult to understand. It can’t be happening at that level.”
Mary leaned forward. “Keenan and Wick have a reputation for being ‘always on the take’. Suppose they’re behind all the thefts, and are skilled at making them appear petty to a casual observer?”
James paused, frowned again, shook his head. “Possible. Have you any proof?”
“No. But if it’s the case, proof must exist.”
He nodded, filing that away for future reference. “But all this is a long way from site safety practices. Or life as a working-class errand boy. How are you finding things?”
Excited as she was – by James’s news, by their new partnership, by his very presence – Mary found it difficult to suppress a yawn. Through watery eyes, she saw James grinning at her. “Exhausting,” she admitted. He nodded. “I can well imagine. Especially since it’s your first taste of that sort of life.”
She could have corrected him there. But that itself would have involved a carefully guarded set of half-truths. “I’m sorry, but I must go. I’m so very tired.”
/> “At least allow me to give you a lift back.”
She half-laughed at that. “That’s very kind of you, but it wouldn’t do at all.”
“You can’t be worried about propriety at this late stage.”
“Not propriety; realism. I can hardly arrive at my lodgings in a fine carriage, can I?”
He looked startled. “You’re no longer at that girls’ school?”
“What – Miss Scrimshaw’s? No, no, no; that would be cheating. I’m in cheap lodgings, in Lambeth.” She laughed outright at his expression. “You look utterly scandalized.”
Still no spoken response from James, although his eyes said plenty.
Mary decided not to mention her new bedmate with the pungent socks; the poor man might never speak again, after that shock. “The landlady’s all right. Bit of a skinflint, but it’s quite safe. No brawls so far.” She rose and settled Mark’s battered cap on her head. “And you’ve already given me an unfair advantage, with a lovely big dinner like that. I ought to’ve had half an inch of bread-and-butter, and considered myself fortunate at that.”
He shook his head. “You. Are. Extraordinary.”
By this time, her hand was on the doorknob; she turned and grinned. “That ought to sound like more of a compliment than it did.” She tipped her cap and had the satisfaction of seeing a faint smile. “See you tomorrow, sir.”
Nineteen
Saturday, 9 July
Palace Yard, Westminster
Saturday was a double occasion for workers, being both a half-holiday and the weekly payday. Despite the heavy weather oppressing all of London, Mary felt a sense of excitement permeating her labours that morning, conscious that come the dinner hour, she would be free for a precious day and a half. Free to think. Free to pursue some of the questions that nagged at her.
At one o’clock sharp, she felt a general exhalation ripple around the building site. Men downed tools, packed up their satchels, and streamed towards the site office in easy-moving clusters of two and three. Instead of the usual charge for the gate, they formed a relaxed, meandering queue, greeting one another with nods and grunts, and the odd jocular comment. For the first time since Mary had been on site, she felt a sense of community, of common expectation.
Harkness stood just outside the door to his office, a pair of spectacles balanced low on his nose. They lent his round, pallid face a rather scholarly air. Before him stood a small table with a wide, shallow metal box on top. Peeping out from the top of the box were rows of tall, narrow manila envelopes. As the men stepped forward, one at a time, Harkness handed each a pay packet and made a check mark on a separate sheet of paper.
Some of the men bobbed their heads or muttered something courteous before jamming the envelope into a pocket. Others stepped to one side and, quite openly, tore open the packet to count their wages before slouching away. It was a slow process, with Harkness checking each man’s name twice before relinquishing his money. His movements suggested a distinct reluctance in the act, as though doubting the men’s competence or entitlement. And, Mary supposed, from Harkness’s perspective as a teetotalling evangelical, wages spent in the pub were worse than money lost or differently squandered; drink itself was a vice, and a begetter of further evils.
And, no doubt about it, the men were going to the pub. There was a buzz of holidayish anticipation in the air: men calling out to one another, slapping one another’s backs. They were also less hostile towards her. One of the stonemasons even slowed as he passed, saying, “Going down the air?”
She blinked stupidly at him for a moment. But just as he was about to turn away, she found her voice. “Y-yes. I mean, thank you.” Air. Hare. Hare and Hounds, of course.
He looked slightly bemused but nodded. “Right. See you there.”
She was the last to receive her pay packet, appropriately enough, as she was the newest labourer. By the time she presented herself, Harkness was rubbing his eyes wearily but he dredged up a kindly smile for her. “And how did you find your first week, Quinn?”
“Very interesting, sir.” Behind Harkness, in the relative dimness of the office, she noticed James for the first time. He was leaning over a paper-logged desk, examining a large, dark blue ledger. He glanced up, as though he could feel her gaze upon him, and flashed her a lightning grin. It was difficult to keep a straight face, but somehow she managed to say a plausibly Mark Quinn goodbye to Harkness before, like the other labourers, stuffing the envelope in her jacket pocket and going to the pub.
Much to her satisfaction, the Hare and Hounds was nothing like the Blue Bell. It was far from elegant, but its general atmosphere was of raucous merriment rather than sodden despair. Looking about, she could understand why working men and women enjoyed the institution of the public house. The Hare had wide, well-worn benches and tables, adequate lighting, plenty of conversation and, most importantly, good beer. This last was evident from the number of pints of ale she saw on tables, as opposed to measures of gin. It was a much more comfortable place, Mary reckoned, than a lot of labourers’ homes, and it offered company as well.
Her workmates – strange to think of them that way – were already established at a corner table, deep into their first round. It was a tightly packed scrum and few of the men noticed her approach. Those who did merely stared at her, their gazes somehow both challenging and uninterested. The stonemason who’d invited her was in the corner. Perhaps it was logical that she was shyer of the men here than she was on site – in her place, doing her job, trying to remain focused. But she was still at work here, too, she reminded herself. The thought gave her courage.
“What are you drinking?” she asked the men nearest to her.
The chap on the end turned at that. He’d been facing away, cradling his face in the hand nearer Mary, and she now realized, as their eyes met, that it was Reid. An arrow of panic shot through her but it was much too late to back down. She forced herself to look diffident.
He was visibly startled to see her but after a moment, said, “Mine’s a Landlord’s Finest.”
Apparently, what was good enough for Reid was good enough for the rest. Mary made several trips to and from the bar and on her last, the men on one bench scooted down to make room for her. Apparently, buying a round was the quickest way to acceptance. She only wished she’d thought of this five days ago.
Sticking her nose in a pint pot was an ideal way to observe people, and from where Mary sat she found herself learning in ten minutes as much about labour relations as she had all the rest of the week. Although the men tended to sit in the same corner of the pub, they still held very much to their trades. The masons sat together, beside the joiners, who passed the occasional remark with the neighbouring glaziers. The brickies were the exception, being represented only by Reid, Smith and Stubbs, but that was certainly for the best – Keenan’s presence would have destroyed everyone’s enjoyment. Together, the men were friendly enough, and the beer did the rest. The joiners, as Mary had expected, were the boisterous core of the gathering, trading gossip and shouting ever ruder jokes down the table with a view to making the new lad blush.
As the afternoon wore on, Mary found it difficult to imagine a time she’d felt uncomfortable around these men. It was almost as unlikely as their being suspicious of her. Here in the pub, they were all mates. Good mates. They’d been mates for absolutely ages. They joked about the teetotal tea break, complained about Harkness, about the slow progress of work on site, even about the new engineer.
“Now you,” said Reid, leaning across the table and fixing her with an intent, if slightly glazed, look. “You knows all about the new gent. Posh fella, ain’t he?”
Mary’s most recent pint of ale churned slowly in her stomach. “Not so posh,” she said slowly, her beer-fuddled brain scrambling to chart the conversation ahead. “Only like Harky, I’ll bet.”
Reid shook his head with slow conviction. “Swanker than old Harky, that one. I know.”
“What do you know?” demanded the man
next to Mary.
“He called to Wick’s house one night after work. Gave Janey Wick a right fright – she thought Wick was in trouble again, for all he’s well dead.”
“If a bloke could get into trouble when dead, John Wick’s the one!” snorted a third. A few men rumbled with polite amusement, but most were intent on Reid’s tale.
“Anyways, this gent calls round to Wick’s, says to Janey as he’d like to see the body, polite like. And Janey says, ‘Well, it ain’t here, that there coroner’s still got it and he won’t say as when he’ll give it back,’ and Janey, right, she’s that upset about it, ’cause of the funeral being the next day and she’s got to wash it and dress it and all, and this here chappie – this Easton – tells her not to worry and he’ll see what he can do.
“And Janey’s thinking, ‘My eye you will, all you lot say that but you don’t do nothing, and whyn’t you get home and leave me alone, anyways.’ And blimey, if the next morning a blasted great carriage don’t turn up – nine o’clock of the morning remember – and these two coves bring in Wick’s body, all polite like, saying ‘Yes, Missus Wick,’ and ‘No, Missus Wick,’ and all!”
There was a general ripple of surprise. “Did he say how he done it? Easton, I mean.” This was the man beside Mary, again.
Reid shook his head and took a long pull of beer. “Didn’t say nothing, just left his card and said if she needed aught else to ask him.”
Someone else gave a sly, knowing chuckle. “Got his eye on the widow, hey? Bet she’s paying him back for his trouble right this minute.”
Reid looked round indignantly. “She ain’t doing nothing like that; she’s a good girl, is Janey Wick.” From the looks of suppressed mirth around the table, it was obvious that Reid’s passion for Mrs Wick was an open secret. “That’s why I’m telling you,” he persisted; “that Easton’s a right posh cove. Fancy Harky doing anything like that for a poor little widow, with all his hymn-singing and tea-drinking!”
