by Y. S. Lee
"Yes." Mary hoped this wouldn't take long. Perhaps she ought to play the callous, cocky boy after all. Gentleness could swallow up another half hour.
"In St John's Wood?"
"Maybe. I got lots of friends, you know." She glanced around, as though in a hurry.
"I suppose you have."
But Winnie looked so forlorn that Mary relented. "You can't follow me about, Winnie. It ain't safe."
"I weren't following! I wanted – I was going to ask-" Here, she drew a deep breath and rattled out a speech so quickly that Mary scarcely caught it. It was clearly one she'd been rehearsing for some time. "Would you like to come to Poplar with me, for Sunday dinner, at our house? It's always proper food, Chinese food, not like all that muck at Miss Phlox's, and my mother, she's a wonderful cook, and my father, he's home on shore leave, and – oh, I think you'd like it, ever so much. It'd remind you of – well, of home, and all that."
For one incredulous minute, Mary thought she might be dreaming. Or perhaps it was a nightmare. The idea of Winnie's Sunday dinner – a Chinese family, a Chinese meal – made her stomach twist with a complex stab of fear, resentment, inadequacy, jealousy.
Stupid Winnie, who invited strange boys to her family's home.
Hateful Winnie, who had a family to go home to.
Smug Winnie, who thought her family so superior.
Lucky Winnie, who had a family at all.
Mary looked at the girl's pink face, her hopeful, timid eyes. And the knowledge of what Winnie had in Poplar – a mother who was a wonderful cook, a father who'd come home from the sea – made Mary go cold and numb. "Can't. I've got things to do."
And she spun on her heel and walked away. She was crying. Again.
Mary ducked into another alley and tried to staunch the flow. Sometimes, it felt as though she'd never stopped. But rather than calming her feelings, the luxury of privacy – even in a smelly back alley – seemed to stir up even more, and she began to bawl outright. Curling herself into a ball, she huddled against a dusty stone wall and wept. For her mother, dead and gone. For her father, lost and forgotten. And, mostly, for herself. For Mary Lang, the mixed-race child, daughter of a Chinese sailor and an Irish needlewoman. For the sweetness of her childhood, while her parents lived, and then for its horror, after they died. For the fact that she'd once belonged, and the knowledge that now she never would again. Winnie hadn't deserved such rudeness, but she would also never understand just how privileged she was.
Mary cried as she hadn't in years. Perhaps as she never had. And even as she wept, she understood that this couldn't go on. This was her last such indulgence – a farewell of sorts. Because after these minutes of weakness, she must let go of her Chinese identity. She would deny it, protect it, conceal it at all costs, because the truth was simply too painful and too dangerous. There was no room in English society for half-castes, and her choice was simple: either deny her Chinese blood, or be for ever limited by it. The last thing she wanted was to be defined solely by her father's race – and so she would have to sacrifice it entirely.
It was a crude choice, a hateful one. But it was better to choose than to have her fate thrust upon her. Gradually, her sobs eased. Tears dried up. She wiped her face as best she could, using the inside of her jacket. Then she took a deep breath, embracing the fetid smell of the river as a means of concentrating her attentions. And she set out once again for Westminster. Twenty-five
On Sunday mornings, the Pig and Whistle had the aspect of a busy church: clean and polished, and all within gathered for the same purpose. Most tables were occupied by quiet clusters of three or four, while a number of solo gentlemen leaned against the bar, meditatively sipping beer. The landlady, a rosy, bosomy woman in a ribboned cap, polished imaginary smears from the bar.
Mary gave the coded greeting. "Half an ale for a thirsty lad, missus."
The landlady directed her round to the end of the bar and provided her with not only half a pint of ale, but also a scrap of paper, a pencil stub, and enough privacy so that only an excessively nosy neighbour might observe the spectacle of a small, shabby lad writing a note with considerably less difficulty than one might expect of that sort of boy.
The note was in a simple code – easy to memorize and quick to decode, using a replacement key that rendered it a simple string of numbers to the uninitiated. Mary's message was terse: Suspect H in league with K, R. No evid yet re W. Pls advise. Having written the note, she drained her half-pint. Before she could ask, a new drink was placed before her and the old mug removed, along with the note. "You drink that nice and slow, lad," said the landlady firmly. "That's a fine ale for sipping, not gulping."
Mary followed her instructions. She'd never been a great beer-drinker but she was rapidly growing accustomed to its complex, bittersweet flavours. On a diet that meant she was eating less than ever before, in a job that required more physical graft than she was used to, she recognized in her daily pints an important form of nutriment. Harkness was off his rocker, trying to ban his workers from beer. How else could they find the energy to work?
A large hand clapped her on the shoulder. "Don't you look comfortable," drawled its owner.
She nearly bit her mug in surprise. There, smirking down at her, stood Octavius Jones. His other hand was curled around a pint pot and he perched on the stool beside hers, his sleepy green eyes narrowed in amusement. Amusement and… scrutiny.
Mary tried to control her panic. He'd not watched her write that note; she'd been careful about that. He must have appeared afterwards, during or after the removal of the message. All the same, his eyes had a knowing glint she didn't like. "Mr Jones," she said, in her gruffest boy's tones.
"Young Quinn. What a surprise to see you in my local on this stinking Sunday. You know, I've been thinking about you…"
She shifted uncomfortably, as any boy would at such a declaration. "I ain't done nothing wrong."
His hand still lay on her shoulder and when she shrugged, he didn't remove it. He elevated an eyebrow – something he'd clearly practised in a mirror for just such an occasion. "I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing. No, no, no," he said authoritatively, as she knocked back the rest of her ale and made to stand. "Another pint for me, Mrs Hughes, and the same again for my young friend here. We're just going into the snug."
"Can't, sir. I got to go."
"Stay and have another, do," he said, his voice still easy and sociable. But his hand on her shoulder was heavy now, the fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "I want a word with you, young Quinn."
"I got nothing to tell you. I don't know nothing."
"Rubbish. We've plenty to talk about."
"You take your hands off," she said loudly. "I ain't that kind of boy."
"And I ain't that kind of gent," replied Jones promptly, unperturbed by the heads turning in their direction. "Don't be afraid, young Quinn. It's not your sexual services I'm after."
"What d'you want, then?"
He'd not taken his eyes from hers. "I think," he said very quietly, "you'll find it to your advantage to have that drink with me. Miss Quinn."
The landlady set two foaming tankards before them and looked hard at Mary. "Everything all right, young man?"
Very slowly, very reluctantly, Mary nodded.
Mrs Hughes's gaze lingered for a moment longer, but when Mary met it with an even stare, she shrugged and returned to her customers at the other end of the bar.
"I'll talk to you here," said Mary in a low voice. "Not in the snug."
"Suit yourself," said Jones easily. "Though you'd be just as safe there. I'm not in the habit of ravishing the competition."
The competition…? Mary felt a sudden great wave of relief. If that was all he meant, she was in luck. "I wouldn't have thought the Eye worth competing against," she said scornfully.
Jones smirked. "Insult me all you like, but I've just tricked you into admitting that you're a reporter, too."
"You didn't trick me," she said, settling into
the role now. "I was surprised you saw through the disguise, but the explanation's clear enough. Why else would I be wearing boy's clothes and working on site?"
"Indeed," said Jones, settling himself on the stool beside hers. "I must admit, you had me fooled until I saw you looking through the window at that coffee-shop. That was a dead giveaway."
"Oh – Reid's great tip," she smirked. "The poor sod."
"How do you mean?"
"Are you asking me for information, Mr Jones? Without offering to pay?"
He grinned at that, rather reluctantly. "I've already confessed that I fell for the whole boy-labourer thing. It's not a bad get-up, until you go peering through windows with those curious, adult eyes." His eyes skimmed over her with a detached sort of assessment. "Aren't you going to tell me your real name?"
"You may continue to call me Quinn."
He looked wounded. "Subterfuge is so very wearisome, don't you think? I prefer to embrace the truth, myself – it's only proper for those of our shared profession."
"Surely you're not claiming that Octavius Jones is your real name?"
He grinned. "Beggars belief, doesn't it? But I'm afraid it's so: I'm the eighth son – son, mark you, not child, for I've three sisters – my father never being one for moderation. Tertius, Quintus and Septimus were my favourite brothers, when I was a child."
She laughed. "Now that's a tale."
"It's true! My mother was a gentlewoman of little education and even less common sense who eloped with a ruffian called Jones. Naming us in Latin was her only revenge on my very unsaintly father." His eyes dared her to disbelieve him.
"You must take after your father."
"Naturally." He held his pint aloft. "Well, Miss 'Mark Quinn', here's to the pursuit of truth – or, in my case, scandal and profit." Without waiting for her to respond, he drained his pint, sighed with satisfaction and said, "Who d'you work for, then? Never one of the broadsheets; they'd not have a mere, weak woman writing in their pages." He tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. "Perhaps one of the more radical weekly mags? I suppose you're a regular hyena in petticoats."
She grinned. "I didn't know trash journalists read Mary Wollstonecraft."
"Only enough to insult her," he replied, good humour unruffled. "But you're trying to distract me. Whom d'you write for?"
"Nobody. I'm researching a book."
He groaned melodramatically. "Heaven preserve us – researching a book! Of all the idealistic, unrealistic, ninnyish things to attempt. A book, indeed! And I suppose it's intended as one of those well-meaning, authentic reports on the lower orders and their struggles for survival, et cetera et cetera." He caught her expression and chortled. "I knew it! I knew it! You earnest little dunce! Don't you know that won't sell? You might as well flog those breeches you're wearing; they'll fetch more than your silly book."
"Perhaps. But I'd wager that I know a deal more about the death of John Wick than you do," she said coolly.
That brought him up short. "Poppycock. What can you have learned while fetching and carrying and ruining your back on a worker's wage?"
She shrugged and began to climb down from her stool. "What a pity you'll never know."
"Wait!" His hand shot out and grabbed hers. Then, as he met her gaze, he meekly released her. "You're so abrupt," he complained. "Can't we be friendly about this?"
"After you've insulted my research and my proposed book?" She injected a degree of wounded pride into her tone, just to see what he'd say.
"And touchy, too. My dear girl, you'll never be a proper journalist if you don't grow a rhinoceros's hide to cover your skin."
Mary considered the man standing before her. Despite his constant stream of nonsense, he was alert and observant. Now here was a man whose allegiance was clear, it being entirely to himself. He was obsessed with the scandal at the building site. He had connections: if anybody knew what was what and who'd gone where, it was Jones.
And she was desperate. The image of Harkness's mutilated diary was fresh in her mind's eye. Today was the day, and she still didn't know what, where, how or why. If she'd had the time, she'd have waited for the Agency. But she doubted she could afford to, now. "So why would I tell you what I know? I've worked hard for the knowledge." She held out her bruised, nicked hands as proof.
"Ah, the age-old refrain: what's in it for me?" Jones ignored her hands. "You know, a proper old-fashioned lady would ask, 'How may I assist you, Mr Jones?'"
"A 'proper old-fashioned lady' would summon her footman to escort you out by the tradesman's entrance, Mr Jones."
He cackled with delight. "What a fearsome old tartar you'll be, one day. Now. What can I offer you as an inducement to tell all?"
"To begin with, a promise not to publish a word of what you learn until the first of August, or until I say you may – whichever comes first. Secondly, not to speak about the same, until that time. Thirdly-"
"My dear child, those are conditions, not inducements. Tell me what you want. Money? An introduction to publishers? A penn'orth of lead-painted sweeties?"
"I was just getting to that," said Mary. She was accustomed to Jones's style now and, obnoxious as it was, it seemed to be growing on her. "I need your help."
"Aha." He leaned forward, his eyes keen. "What sort of help?"
"Finding Keenan and Reid. Today."
"That I can manage," he said promptly. "That all?"
"I also want to know how you think Wick died, and why."
He let out a long, low whistle. "I knew it! I knew we were after the same thing. You secretive little devil, why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"You'd have sent me packing."
"Of course I would! But I'd have appreciated your foolhardy confidence."
"As you do now?"
He shrugged, turning up his palms. "As it happens, I'm feeling generous today. Also, short of ideas. It's a devil of a problem, isn't it? How did the scoundrel – for everyone seems to agree about that, if nothing else – how did he die?
"It's obvious, of course, that the brickies are robbing Harkness blind. All that 'ghost of the clock tower' business – it's not entirely my invention, y'know. It began as Keenan's thing, to explain mysterious goings-on at night, and the sudden disappearance of quantities of expensive building materials. Although" – he cocked his head to one side – "I suppose it might be true. Many a man perished during the blaze of eighteen-thirty-whatsit that burned the old Parliament buildings to the ground, only that's not talked of these days. It's all Big Ben, and the improving effects of Gothic architecture on the morals of the working class.
"But I digress. Keenan and Reid are filling me with this stuff about the ghost, but all the while there's a big problem in their little gang. Y'see, Reid's fallen in love with Wick's wife – scrawny little sparrow, don't see the appeal myself… though, egad, she's fertile enough – and Wick and Reid are at each other's throats. Keenan's none too pleased with this crack-up, since if the gang splits the profit goes, and who's to say they won't start to talk? So he's at 'em to work things out, and he's the sort of man who means it. I'd not put it past him to push Wick off the tower, just to shut him up."
"Why Wick, and not Reid?"
"P'raps Wick looked at him wrong. I don't know, but he ain't sentimental, Keenan."
"Wouldn't Reid be more likely to push Wick? Being in love with his wife?"
Jones sighed. "In theory, yes. But he's an anxious, do-gooding sort, is Reid. He'd like nothing better than to marry the widow and raise her brood and go straight for the rest of his life. He's much more likely to wait twenty years for Wick to die, then marry the toothless widow and call it the triumph of true love."
"Hmph."
"Indeed."
"So you're for Keenan."
"Not so fast, young Quinn. There's an additional problem. Wick was a moody, brooding sort – type of fellow who's your best friend one minute, don't know you the next. And he'd been talking back and forth with Harkness."
Mary tried not to
look too suddenly alert. "What about Harkness?"
Jones sighed dramatically. "That's what I don't know. Wick was sneaking on Keenan and Reid, maybe. Or trying to bring Harky into their little circle – but that don't really make sense: why share out the profit four ways, when you can get away with three? My money's on Wick double-crossing his mates for some paltry reward, for that's the sort of chap he was."
Mary thought fast. The theory didn't account for Harkness's elevated lifestyle, but that might be a separate matter. Perhaps she and James had been too quick to put together cause and effect.
"And now we come to my little conversation with Reid – the one you were so keen to hear." He cackled at the memory. "What a load of poppycock that was. Reid's panicked about something, that's all I know, and he gets hold of me and fills me with the purest nonsense about Wick: staunch family man, devout church-goer, et cetera et cetera. When all of Southwark knows he beat his wife to a bloody pulp every night, and her screams could be heard across the Thames."
Mary shuddered. She was only too able to picture that domestic scene.
Jones took no notice. "But the interesting thing about Reid's story is that he's trying to throw blame on Keenan. Not directly, mind you, but Keenan's name keeps cropping up, and it's clear that things are sour between them. The gang's cracked up for good, and Reid wants out, and his first thought is to get the journalist on his side." He smiled pleasantly. "Newspapers are the new courts of law, it seems. Even such as mine."
"So to clear his own name and place the blame on Keenan, Reid wants you to whitewash Wick's character before the reading public?"
"So it seems. Crude, isn't it?"
"Clever, assuming you believed him."
"People generally assume too much." He signalled to Mrs Hughes for a fresh drink, then propped his chin on his fist and looked at Mary. "Your turn."
Tailoring her narrative to Jones's swift, casual style, Mary told him about the tea round. Her visit to the Wick home. Harkness's attendance at Wick's funeral. The subsequent fist-fight between Keenan and Reid. And yesterday's disappearance of a drunken Reid with a sober Keenan.
