by Y. S. Lee
Jones listened in complete silence – something she'd not thought him capable of. Then, pursing his lips, he let out a low whistle. "So you're for Reid as the killer. Anyone else we ought to consider? Jolly old Harkness, perhaps?"
Mary kept silent.
"I suppose there's always Wick himself, though I can't think why he'd have done that. Unless the idea of going home to all those brats was suddenly just too much." He pulled a vivid face. "Understandable, really."
"As though he'd nothing to do with the getting of all those brats," said Mary indignantly.
Jones twinkled with amusement. "Easy, Miss Radical; I was only in jest. No, much as I hate to admit it, I like your theory better."
"Well, then," said Mary, standing and stretching her legs. They were numb from unaccustomed sitting. "How do I find Keenan and Reid?" She stared at Jones, who studied the depths of his pint with deep concentration. "Or have you already forgotten your end of the bargain?"
"Not at all," he said easily, "but I do wonder if it's not a little irresponsible of me to send you in search of them. Of Keenan, in particular. He's utterly ruthless, you know."
"I know."
"And if he sees through your disguise…"
"I don't need you to frighten me; I'm quite capable of doing that myself."
"But you still need to locate him? There's such a thing as over-dedication to the profession, you know. Why not have another drink with me and wait to see what happens on site tomorrow? My money's on Reid's murder. Body found in Thames. Keenan captured in daring, high-wire escape."
"That's your plan? To place a bet, then wait and see?"
"Even God rested on the seventh day."
She smiled. "Just tell me where they live. That's all I need from you."
"That's all, hey?" He looked her up and down once again, not the least bit detached or critical this time. "Pity." But he gave her the directions all the same. Twenty-six Southwark
It was an enormous, accidental tenement – a pair of houses that seemed to have fallen into each other and thus been prevented from collapsing. One door was boarded over, and none of the ground-floor windows was intact. It was far beneath what Mary expected for a skilled labourer, even one intent on saving money, and her first, angry thought was that Jones had played her false. It was a simple matter, spouting off a random address. By the time she discovered his perfidy, he'd have long departed the Pig and Whistle. Or perhaps he'd not bother. Quite likely if she went back to the pub, she'd find him draped across two chairs, laughing at her credulity.
She stood for a moment on the pavement, irresolute. This was a waste of time. Yet where could she go next but St John's Wood, to report her failures? As she hovered outside the ramshackle building, a skinny boy hobbled out of the door. He moved stiffly, and descended the two front steps with the care of an invalid. Mary's eyes widened. Surely not…
Yet as the boy turned, he caught sight of her watching and recognition flashed across his freckled face. He waved a hand in greeting.
"Jenkins!" Mary sped across the street. "I been looking for you!"
"Well, I didn't know." He tried to sound sullen but couldn't quite control a smile of pleasure. "How's tricks, then?"
Relieved as she was to see Jenkins safe, Mary steered the conversation round to Reid as soon as she reasonably could. Jenkins was utterly unsurprised at the mention of his name.
"Aye, he's a good one, that Reid. He's the reason we live here, now." He caught Mary's expression of surprise, and grinned his old, knowing grin. "You didn't know? He felt that bad about me losing my place through Keenan, he come and found us in that cellar. He's the one what got us a room in here." He gestured behind.
"Very decent of him," said Mary cautiously. It seemed like a small enough gesture, given Reid's illicit income.
But Jenkins was clearly thrilled. "Decent!" he scolded. "It ain't decent – saintly is what it is. Bloody Harky wouldn't give me even an extra day's wages, for all he's a gent and rolling in money and a teetotalling saint, but Reid's paying for me and the kiddies to live, food and all, on his wages. That's a sight more than decent."
"It's all right, for those who can afford it." Mary didn't like Jenkins's new tone of worshipful fervour. Especially not towards a crooked labourer who'd soon be sacked and tried for his part in the site thefts.
"What d'you mean?" Now he was all bristling suspicion again, much as he'd been on the day they'd first met. "What you saying?"
"About the brickies being on the take," said Mary patiently. "You're the one who told me."
Jenkins made a noise of disgust. "I never said that. It's Keenan what's on the take, all the time. Him and Wick, they played Harky blind. But Reid weren't never a part of that. Reid, he's living here now, 'cause he can't keep his old digs and us."
She hesitated, unsure where Jenkins's hero worship left off and his canny knowingness began. If Reid wasn't part of the thieving ring… "Where's he now, then? Isn't he with Keenan?"
Jenkins looked worried. "I dunno. His room, it's next to ours, and he's always out of a Sunday, at Mrs Wick's. But he ain't never come home last night."
"He went off with Keenan yesterday."
"He never!"
"I saw them. We all saw them." As she explained Reid's nervous departure from the pub, she watched Jenkins's expression grow more and more worried. The lad was in earnest about Reid's shining character.
"We got to find him," said Jenkins, thoroughly alarmed now. "That Keenan – he's a bad one."
"So everyone says."
"You and me," he said fiercely. "We'll find him." Twenty-seven Gordon Square, Bloomsbury
James awoke from a feverish nap with his small stock of patience thoroughly exhausted. His head pounded. His skin felt raw and tender, even against the smooth linen sheets. The ticking of his bedroom clock seemed excessively loud, and he stared at it with some suspicion. It read seven o'clock, clearly an error. He was still staring at it when Mrs Vine appeared with a tray.
"Mrs Vine, what time is it?"
She glanced at the clock with some surprise. "Why, seven o'clock, Mr James."
That made no sense whatsoever. "In the morning?"
"In the evening, sir. It's Sunday evening, and I've brought you a little supper."
He felt a peculiar jolt. Of course it was evening; dusk was falling. But that meant he'd been asleep for hours… "Hang supper. Where's that letter I've been waiting for?"
"You've not received a letter, Mr James."
"There must be a letter. When I woke this morning, I sent a letter by messenger and he was to wait for a reply. Where's my reply?" He heard his voice growing loud and cross, but seemed quite unable to control it.
"The messenger delivered the letter but received no reply, sir."
He swore and threw back the bedclothes. Cold air rushed against his skin, making him shiver. "I'm going out. Tell Barker to be ready in ten minutes, please."
"That's most unwise, Mr James. Malarial fever's a serious business; you'll injure your health, in earnest."
"There's nothing you can say to change my mind."
"Drink a little soup, at least. You must be parched."
"Ten minutes, Mrs Vine." He opened a drawer and extracted a small envelope of thin, foreign paper.
Her expression remained perfectly neutral. "Very well. Any message for Mr George when he asks about your absence?"
"Thank you, no." Barker, too, was reluctant to the brink of mutiny. "You ain't fit to go nowhere. I'll go and ask for the letter meself, Mr James, but you ought to be resting up."
"I'm not inclined to bargain with you, Barker."
"That fever's got on your brain. Don't play the fool, lad."
"Thank you, Barker. Now let's be off."
The streets were quiet and the roads dry, but the drive to Tufnell Park was a rackety torture. Each bump of the cobblestones, the steady sway of the carriage, the sharp clop of the horseshoes – to James all appeared grotesquely magnified. He was still desperately cold, despite
his heavy woollen overcoat. It seemed absurd that people might walk through the streets in light jackets. Despite the very real sensations of fever, however, this was manageable. He could finish his job, even when ill. It was just a matter of being rational.
At Harkness's house, the door was opened by a distracted footman who twice asked him for his card after he'd already presented it, then left him to wait in the hall for a long time. He could hear hurried footsteps and the sound of doors opening and closing upstairs. Eventually, Mrs Harkness came down the stairs. She wore a rich satin gown and, on top of it, a rather pilled and misshapen bedjacket.
"Mr – ah, Mr Easton. I do apologize for this confusion. My husband… he can't see you just now."
James waited for a few seconds. "Is he unwell?" he asked politely.
"Oh Lord, I don't know." She tottered as though about to fall, but ignored the steadying arm he offered her. "I simply don't know!"
She didn't smell of drink, but he couldn't think what else might cause this sort of behaviour. "Have you sent for a physician?"
Her dilated eyes looked to something past him. In fact, she'd not met his gaze at all in the course of this brief, strange meeting. "No, no – no doctor."
It wasn't clear whether she simply hadn't summoned one, or Harkness didn't want one. James found it difficult to control his impatience. "May I see him? Perhaps I could assist you somehow."
Finally, she looked at him. Her eyes were terrified, and shining with incipient tears. "If you could see him, that would be helpful indeed." But she didn't move.
James took a half-step forward. "Is he upstairs?"
She shook her head. "No. Not upstairs."
Perhaps she was the one who needed a physician. "Kindly lead me to your husband, ma'am."
A strange, horrid sound emerged from her throat – half-shriek, half-sob. "Would that I could!" She tottered again and this time began to topple in a slow, stiff way, making no attempt to right herself or to break the fall with her hands. With a swift movement that made his joints ache, James dived forward, arms outstretched. Mrs Harkness was a tall, ample woman, Harkness's equivalent in build, and he hadn't the strength today to right her. The best he could do was arrest her fall. In this awkward posture – bent double, sweating with effort, arms clasped about the madwoman – he remained until the distracted footman finally returned.
"Quickly!" snapped James. "Help me lift her to a sofa."
The footman blinked once, twice, and then creaked slowly into motion. Between them, they lugged Mrs Harkness's limp, heavy form upstairs to the drawing room. James found the bell pull and tugged it energetically. "Smelling salts, brandy, and send for a doctor, quick," he snapped at the bewildered-looking maid who answered. "And you" – he rounded on the footman who was in the act of slinking away – "where's Mr Harkness?"
The footman sidled backwards, blinking rapidly. "I'm sure I don't know, sir."
"What d'you mean, you don't know? Is he at home or not?"
"N-no, sir."
"Not at home to callers, or actually not in the house?"
"N-not in the h-house, sir."
James stared at the ninny. "Then tell me where he's gone."
"I – I don't know, sir. He didn't say."
"What time did he go out?"
The man's eyes rolled in his face, unwilling to meet James's gaze and unable to focus anywhere else. "R-round about one o'clock, sir. Just after."
"Stand still while I'm talking to you! Did he take the carriage?"
"N-no, sir."
"A horse?"
"I – I don't believe so, sir."
"What did he say?"
"I – I don't rightly know, sir." The man blinked rapidly as he spoke. He looked like a frightened rabbit.
James sighed. Clearly, his direct approach had addled the man's wits. "All right," he said, trying for patience. It didn't come easily. "Tell me what happened."
The footman licked his lips once, twice. Swallowed. Then said, "He ain't been himself, sir. Not since last night. And today he got a letter – round about noon, it'd be. And he's in his study, reading it, and he starts laughing. You heard it, sir – that high, loud laugh he was doing last night. And he's half-laughing, and half-crying, and Mrs Harkness here comes down to him and she asks what's wrong, and he says, 'Everything. Nothing. It is-'" The footman creased up his face, trying to recall. Eventually, he shook his head. "Don't rightly know what he said, sir – it were French, or something."
"Never mind that. What next?"
"And – and he says to Mrs Harkness, 'I can make this right. Just remember, my dear – I did this all for you.' And Mrs Harkness is asking what's the matter, and carrying on, like, but that's the last he says. And he picks up his hat and his walking-stick, and he walks out of the house. Just like that."
"He didn't say where he was going, or what he meant to do?"
"No, sir."
"In which direction did he walk?"
"South."
"You didn't follow him?"
The man shifted. "Mrs Harkness, she were screaming and carrying on, sir. We'd enough to do with her."
James nodded. "Very well. Does Mrs Harkness have a relation – a sister, perhaps – nearby who could come to help her?"
The footman nodded. "Mrs Phelps, sir. I'll go and fetch her this minute."
"Wait a moment. Stay with Mrs Harkness until the doctor comes, you and her maid both. Once the doctor's here, then fetch Mrs Phelps." The man nodded. He was accustomed to taking directions and, once instructed, showed something of a return to the footman's orderly manner. James turned to Mrs Harkness, who lay motionless and silent on the sofa. Her eyes were closed and she looked so still and calm James felt the need to touch her wrist. It was warm and her pulse, though rapid, was strong. "Madam. I'm going in search of your husband. I'll send word once I find him."
No response, not even a fluttering of the eyelids.
James's hat still hung neatly on a hook in the hall, and it seemed peculiar that it, of all things, was undisturbed and in the right place. Climbing back into the carriage, he touched his breast pocket and felt the reassuring presence of that foreign envelope. He didn't need to consider where Harkness might have gone in the seven hours he'd been absent. There was only one possible destination.
"Home, sir?" asked Barker, without much hope.
"No. St Stephen's Tower."
***
Jenkins was still suffering as a result of Keenan's thrashing: that was obvious to Mary, although he tried to deny it. The best pace he could manage was a steady walk that soon slowed to a hobble. It cost him enormous effort: he was sweating profusely, his complexion grey, trying to suppress a wince with each step.
"Almost there," said Mary encouragingly. "Aren't we?" While Jenkins hadn't asked how much she knew or why she was curious, it was still safest to play the role of sidekick for as long as she could.
He nodded grimly. "Just round the corner."
"Shall I go ahead and see? It's number nine, right?" This second visit to the Wicks was pure optimism on Mary's part. She doubted Reid was there, but for once she would be happy to be wrong.
He nodded. "Go on."
As she scanned the row of houses, a couple of curtains twitched: nosy neighbours, once again. But Wick's house had no curtains – and who washed curtains on a Sunday? – which gave the house an abandoned feel. The black crape bow was gone, its absence a vivid suggestion of how quickly a life could be forgotten.
"You moving in?"
Mary turned. A solemn, red-haired girl of about nine regarded her from the door of the house opposite. "Where?"
"There. Number nine."
"It's – empty?"
"They went this morning."
"Wasn't that quite sudden?"
"I seen them packing up, all night."
"Where did they go?"
She shrugged.
"Did the woman – Mrs Wick, that is – pack everything on her own? Or was there a man helping her?" There had to have been.
Jane Wick was neither decisive nor quick-moving, by nature. Any sudden removal must have been at someone else's behest. The real question was, had Keenan or Reid moved the Wick family?
"Quinn! Quinn! What you doing?"
Both Mary and the girl jumped at this interruption: Peter Jenkins, of course, bearing down on them like a limping wolf. With a slight squeak of alarm, the girl promptly vanished into her house, the door thumping decisively behind her.
Mary sighed. "Jenkins."
"This ain't a time to muck about! Don't you understand?"
"I understand, Jenkins. That girl just told me that the Wicks moved out early this morning."
"That's rot! He'd have told me!"
Mary shrugged. "See for yourself. And after that, go back to your lodgings and see if your rent's been paid in advance, and how much."
Jenkins stared at her. "Why? What's it to you?"
She sighed. "If it's paid up, it means Reid knew he was going and he probably packed up the Wick family. If it's not paid up, it's likely Keenan got rid of them all, quick."
He stared at her, slow wonder blossoming in his face. "I – that – you – why, you ain't so stupid as you pretend!"
She half-smiled. "And when you've done that, come down to the building site. Hitch a ride on a cab, or something."
His eyes went even rounder. "Palace Yard?"
Mary nodded. "I've a feeling the real answer is there." Twenty-eight
Around Westminster the streets were dusky and deserted. There was little here on a Sunday to attract pleasure-seekers, and few residents to come and go. And in the unusual, magnified stillness of the place, the broad-shouldered man skulking in the shadows was highly noticeable. Mary stopped and tucked herself against a convenient pillar box the better to observe his progress. Yet she already knew where he was going.
The man was familiar – doubly so. That square head on those burly shoulders belonged to Keenan, she was certain. And not only that, but she now had an identity for the man who'd broken into the building site on Monday last. The man who'd rifled Harkness's office, chased her out into the street, and nearly caught her. He and Keenan were one and the same. And with that realization, she also understood why the theft hadn't been reported. If Harkness was working in cahoots with Keenan, it was part of their arrangement. If Harkness was trying to solve the problem of the site thefts, it was probably some sort of trap he'd laid. Either way, there was no use in involving the police. Not yet.
