by Y. S. Lee
There were those who couldn't afford the street stalls, of course. If they waited until day's end, a generous coffee-shop-owner might offer them a handful of scraps – trimmings, kitchen sweepings, anything that couldn't be resold another day. Or they could take matters into their own hands and, as a friend of Mary's vagabond days put it, "make their own prices". It wasn't difficult to pinch food, especially with an associate. Confectioners were easy, since they put out yesterday's goods on tables to entice passing trade. And loose fruit was as good as windfall. But hot wares were trickiest, since they were kept covered, and Mary never outgrew her yearning for cooked meals. Even a badly roasted potato, burnt outside and grainy at the core, was better for being warm.
She finished her potato, which was not burnt, and contemplated a second course. But the dinner hour was passing fast and the coffee-shop across the road emptying of customers. They strolled to the door, those men, sleepy and replete, and stepped onto the pavement with an air of awaking from a pleasant dream. It was time to take another look.
The first man Mary recognized was Octavius Jones, sprawled easily at a corner table in a high-backed chair, an open notebook before him. This must be his favoured coffee-shop, the hive of gossip he'd mentioned in the Eye. Sitting across from Jones, with his back to the window, was Reid. She stopped and permitted herself a good, long look. Reid leaned towards Jones, as though forward momentum might help his concentration. His narrative was clearly of import; the man was practically vibrating in his chair. In contrast, Jones's posture was casual. He had a pencil in hand but wrote nothing, asking only an occasional brief question. Neither man looked at the other; both were entirely focused on the story flowing between them.
Mary would have given much to know what that was. While it would likely appear in tomorrow's Eye, that might be too late. It was already Friday; Wick was buried; and the inquest was waiting only for James's report before returning a verdict. Without more concrete information, the Agency would be unable to challenge that decision, if necessary. However, for the moment she had seen all she could.
As she began to slip away, something in her movement, slight as it was, caught Jones's eye. He glanced up, eyes widening, body going completely still for a fraction of a second. Then his gaze sharpened in recognition and he grinned at her through the glass, not the least bit put out to catch her spying. Indeed, he raised his thick glazed mug to her in a mocking toast. Reid, already twitching with anxiety, spun round instantly. His eyes were wild, suspicious – and, when they lighted on Mary, incredulous.
She stood, dumbstruck. The best thing she could do was to move on and assume that Reid saw only a nosy little boy. But she couldn't shake the notion that in his eyes, in that look of startled recognition, he'd seen something else. Someone else. Not Mrs Fordham, necessarily; it needn't be that specific. But Reid had seemed to look at her anew just then, and she was worried what that might mean. Eighteen Palace yard, Westminster
"Where d'you think you're going?"
It was astonishing, the effect James had on her heartbeat. "Er – home?" A quick glance about showed they were nearly the last people on site.
"Wrong. You're dining with me."
"Like this?" She looked down at her dusty clothes, mud-caked shoes, grimy hands.
"Well, you could come home with me and have a bath first." There was a distinct leer in his voice.
She blushed from toes to hairline. "Your brother would have fits."
"He would," he conceded. "I suppose, then, we'd best go elsewhere."
"Where?"
"Don't look so alarmed," he grinned. "I was thinking of my office."
"But your brother-"
"Won't be there; he keeps gentleman's hours. And even if he were, he'd not look twice at a scruffy little boy."
This was the opportunity she'd been wishing for… so why was she hesitating now?
"This is hardly the time to come over all ladylike…"
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, her feet beginning to move of their own volition. "What's for dinner?"
He grinned with satisfaction. "No idea. But it'll be good."
It was an absurdly short distance from Palace Yard to the offices of Easton Engineering in Great George Street – a matter of perhaps three hundred yards. And one of the freedoms of being Mark was that she could stroll quietly beside James through the sticky streets, dusty and weary at the end of a day's work, without attracting a single questioning glance. As he'd promised, the offices were deserted but for a pair of clerks preparing to leave. James nodded to them casually. They returned the greeting, clearly accustomed to his irregular hours. Neither did more than glance at her.
Once they were in his private office, James pulled out a chair for her and she sat, amused. The first time she'd visited him here, he'd been rather hostile. But then, so had she.
"Dinner won't take long," he said. "It comes from a pub round the corner."
"D'you always dine in the office?"
He shrugged. "I like to work late."
She looked around the room. It was tidy, extremely so. Quite unlike the last time she'd seen it. "What are you working on right now, apart from the safety review?"
"Oh – I'm just sorting through old papers, getting ready for the next job." Was that a blush? "Makes a change, having time to do that sort of thing."
So he was underemployed. She wondered if it was because of his health or whether the firm itself was short of contracts.
"So – "
"I suppose – "
They'd spoken simultaneously.
"Sorry – you were saying?"
"Please – carry on."
Their words collided again and he grinned. "Ladies first."
"Even one such as I?"
"The most interesting sort there is."
She couldn't hold back a smile. "You've learned the art of fine-sounding nonsense since we last met."
"Oh, I always had it."
Moments ticked past. The smile lingered on her lips, in his eyes. It seemed enough – more than enough – simply to sit, saying nothing.
Eventually, though, he leaned forward. "Mary."
"Yes?" Weary as she was, she hadn't felt this awake for days. Weeks. Months.
"Are you…" He hesitated, trying to frame the sentence just right.
A double-knock on the office door made them both jump.
"Come in," said James, sitting back hastily.
"'Evening, sir." A young, coppery-haired barmaid entered carrying two trays, one stacked on the other. She advanced confidently and set the trays on the desk. "When the order come in for two dinners, I thought it were a mistake," she giggled. Her green eyes flickered momentarily in Mary's direction before returning to James. "I thought, ain't one of Mrs Higgs's portions big enough for a hungry gentleman?"
James's smile was rather sheepish. "Good evening, Nancy."
Nancy?
"And you's early tonight," she chided him, laying a place before James. "I weren't expecting for to come for a couple hours yet." It seemed to Mary that she was leaning forward quite a lot more than necessary, the better to display ample cleavage in a low-necked shirtwaist.
"Er – " James cleared his throat. "Nancy, meet my young associate, Mark Quinn. Mark, this is Nancy of the Bull's Head."
"Charmed, I'm sure," cooed Nancy, flashing her dimples at Mary. Before Mary could reply, she turned back to James. "Double-thick mutton chops, just as you like 'em, with French beans and tatties and all. And your Mr Barker didn't say about a pudding, but I know as you're partial to the fruit crumble so I brung it too, and a jug of cream."
"It smells wonderful. Thank you."
Nancy's swift hands dealt out the dishes. Once she'd distributed the food and drink, she stood back and surveyed the desk with satisfaction. "I s'pose, being as your lad's here, you won't be needing company with your dinner tonight?"
"Er – no, thank you."
She gave a good-natured pout. "I'll come for to clear away in an hour, then, sir."
"Very good."
Tipping them a wink, she tucked the trays under a strong, dimpled arm and sashayed towards the door, skirts swaying in an imaginary breeze. For a full minute after the door closed behind her there was perfect silence. Mary stared hard at the feast laid before her. It looked appetizing and substantial and utterly luxurious, but she suddenly wanted none of it.
James cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well. Smells good," he said.
"You've already said that," she said acidly. Even as she spoke, she knew she was being, childish. What did she care, what James did with pretty barmaids? But she couldn't seem to stop herself. "It's no wonder you like Mrs Higgs's cooking."
There was an expression she didn't like in James's eyes. It looked suspiciously like satisfaction. "The cooking, among other things," he said casually. "I often nip over for a pint in the snug."
She would not rise to the bait. "I'm sure you do," she heard herself say.
"It's a friendly pub," he drawled, brandishing his knife and fork. "Quiet. Select. And very friendly. Or have I said that already too?"
She poked a slender bean with more force than necessary. It was perfectly cooked, and she resented this too. "I'm sure it's very pleasant."
"It is."
"Good."
"Very welcoming."
"I get the point."
They ate in silence for several minutes, and despite her jealousy Mary discovered that she was ravenous. Table manners, she decided, were an affectation invented by those who'd never been hungry.
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 kin
d."
"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?"