by Y. S. Lee
“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 G
othic 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.
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.