by Y. S. Lee
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, and 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 a 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 voice, 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?"
Mary stared. "As myself?"
"Or as a lady. Let's say, a well-to-do lady on a charitable mission. Take the widow a basket of goods, sweep into the house, cross-examine her." Felicity's eyes were bright. "She could hardly say no."
That much was true: well-meaning ladies often invaded the homes of the poor, arrogantly certain of their welcome as generous benefactors. "But my role as Mark Quinn… and the funeral's tomorrow; I've got to be there, too, and there's work tomorrow morning…"
Anne consulted her watch. "We can organize the visit for this evening, if we begin immediately. And if you're willing to drive, Flick."
Felicity nodded and rose. "Of course."
As Anne and Felicity swept from the room, Mary watched with an uncomfortable sense of helplessness. Much as she wanted to poke about Wick's house, this certainly wasn't what she'd had in mind. She wasn't sure she could change roles so quickly. Hadn't a clear idea what she was looking for. Didn't like the idea of interrupting, then resuming, her life as Mark Quinn. Yet Anne and Felicity were correct: this was the most effective way to do things. And – her conscience wriggled here – it meant she could have a bath! A hot, glorious, sudsy, middle-class bath…
As run by Anne, the Agency was ferociously efficient. Ten minutes later, Mary was immersed in a steaming tub. As she scrubbed, Anne sat behind a folding screen and listened to her report. Mary began by describing her struggle to be accepted on site, from her own blunders about reading and speaking too well, to Harkness's cultivation of her as a charitable project, to her utter lack of experience – unconvincing, even in a so-called boy of twelve.
"Just as I feared," muttered Anne, when Mary paused for breath. "It's a field about which we know next to nothing."
"Miss Treleaven?"
"I do beg your pardon, Mary. Pray continue."
"I haven't learned a great deal in my time on site. However…" Mary heard the whisper of Anne's pen making notes on the other side of the partition. The jottings were minimal at first. She explained the tea round and Jenkins's small side profit, which elicited a quiet huff of amusement. But when Mary mentioned Reid's meagre collection for the widow Wick and Keenan's reputation as a man "always on the take", the pen scratchings accelerated. By the time she described the break-in, its aftermath and the appearance of Octavius Jones, Anne was scribbling furiously.
"Since Jones knows Jenkins by name, I'm inclined to think that Jenkins fed him information. I'll check that the next time I see Jenkins – tomorrow evening, I hope."
"Good." There was a final burst of writing before Anne said, "This Keenan character seems almost excessively villainous."
"Jenkins would certainly testify to that." Mary briefly described his flogging and her near escape. "Which reminds me, Miss Treleaven – what does Harkness know about my role on site?"
"Nothing, of course." Anne sounded surprised at the very question. "Is there anything apart from the flogging that makes you wonder?"
"He's been very kind to me; unusually so, really. I can't decide if it's because he suspects something, or whether he has his own agenda, or whether he really is deeply paternalistic towards his workers."
"Perhaps he's merely being a good Christian." There came the whisper of pe
n against paper again, but now it was leisurely – more like doodling than note-taking. "It's rather unusual, of course, but he's very active in his church – one of the more evangelical denominations, I understand. Have you anything else to report?"
There was one more subject she ought to broach: the reappearance of James Easton. But even as she opened her mouth to speak, Mary found herself creating excuses. His appointment was already public knowledge. She'd no evidence that James even recognized her. If he didn't, she kept reminding herself, it was all for the best. But she was reluctant even to voice that utterly humiliating fact. "No."
"You must be hungry."
"Constantly," admitted Mary. She stood in the tub, tipped a final bucket of warm water over her head, then wound herself into a large towel. "Although tonight I'd rather have a bath than a meal."
"Fortunately, you needn't choose," said Anne with a small smile.
The table was neatly laid for one. Mary lifted the silver dome and sighed with delight: roast chicken, vegetables, potatoes and, for pudding, a wedge of lemon tart. All the same… "Isn't it getting rather late? I ought to set off soon."
"Sit and eat," said Anne sternly. "You can't behave like a lady if you're half-starved."
Who was she to argue with Anne Treleaven? The only difficulty was in remembering her table manners, now that she was faced with her first good meal in several days. One of Mark Quinn's inelegant habits had become almost ingrained…
While Mary ate, Anne moved quietly about the room, assembling the things they'd need to complete her transformation: fine muslin underclothes, dark silk gown, brocaded shawl and deep bonnet. Mary's skin tingled as she watched Anne arrange a few extra items on a side table. It was at times like this – bruised, footsore, yet brimming with excitement – that she particularly loved working for the Agency.