The Body at the Tower (10 page)

“Aw, no kid ought to be thrashed like that.”

“Yeah – Jenkins neither, for all he’s a nosy little whoreson.”

Lemmon snorted. “All right, then. What’s Harky want a pet for?”

The suspicious carpenter sighed in exasperation. “Don’t you lot notice anything? Harky’s lost control of this site. First that malarkey about the ghost. Then Wick. And yesterday, one of the glaziers said some bigwig’s coming to check on Harky’s work. It ain’t regular.”

Lemmon considered that for a moment. “But what’s that got to do with anything? What could a kid like that do for Harky?”

“Listen. Carry tales. Get a man sacked…” His voice trailed off suggestively.

The three men stared at Mary once more. She tried not to look self-conscious; to appear utterly absorbed in her task. When the joiners had begun muttering, her first worry had been about her gender. Could they possibly imagine that “Mark Quinn” was anything other than a twelve-year-old boy? Yet when talk switched to her being Harkness’s spy, she felt no relief. They were still too close to the truth.

The carpenters weren’t alone in their suspicion of her. This became clear as the morning wore on and Mary made the rounds, collecting money for the rum ration. The men paid up, of course, but with much less of the good-natured teasing she’d heard yesterday. Some trades simply found their pennies and handed them over, preserving a circumspect silence while she was within earshot. During the tea break, the men accepted refreshment from her but then retreated into their separate groups to talk. And was it her imagination, or were their voices more hushed than they had been yesterday? It wasn’t just Jenkins’s absence that dried them up. Of that she was increasingly certain.

Ten

J
ames arrived at Palace Yard on foot. Barker didn’t know this, of course; he’d deposited James at the site entrance half an hour earlier and driven off, secure in the delusion that his young employer was going straight inside. Instead, James had taken the opportunity to walk around the Houses of Parliament. He examined the buildings, assessed the pace of work, noted the general atmosphere on the job. This would be his last chance to poke about the place anonymously and he intended to take full advantage.

Even from the street, it was clear to James that the site was run in a typically sloppy fashion, with little in the way of safety precautions. The whole organization, or lack thereof, bespoke a casual attitude to the value of human life. Unless he was much mistaken, Harkness would have no limit on the number of men permitted in the belfry at one time; no particular rules for working on high scaffolds; no regular inspections of equipment. Yet this was still normal practice. James had a reputation on his own sites for being rather scrupulous, and he knew that many of his colleagues – especially older ones like Harkness – thought such scruples excessive.

Yet for some reason, Harkness had asked him to perform the evaluation. The question still troubled him. Was it his youth? Did Harkness hope that would translate to inexperience, malleability? There was also the family connection. Harkness might expect a certain deference from James because of it. If either assumption was true, he’d soon receive a sharp surprise. James was confident in his own abilities – to an extent that made some call it arrogance, he knew – and quite incapable of backing down from a point if he was right.

But perhaps he was being too cynical. He had, after all, been in India for nearly a year and was thus quite ignorant of industry gossip. Coming to such a long-running and rumour-laden job without expectations would be an advantage. Or perhaps Harkness simply, as he’d said, wanted to do him a good turn and help him to build connections. James repressed his misgivings and strode through the gate. He was becoming paranoid, that was all. Nothing could be more straightforward than a safety review.

As he entered the site, a flash of movement caught his eye: the same errand boy he’d seen yesterday. Again, James felt that odd pulse of recognition. Where had he seen this child before? At second glance, it was obvious that the boy was nothing like Alfred Quigley: he was a good two or three years older and a completely different type. Perhaps this was the son of someone he knew – a labourer he’d employed. But would that account for the child’s almost disturbing aura of familiarity?

He realized he was staring into space. With a shake of his head, he rapped on the office door, rather more loudly than he’d intended. “Harkness?”

“My dear boy! Or, I should say, my dear
Easton
. You’re a colleague now.”

The corner of James’s mouth quirked up in appreciation of his sudden promotion. “You must have a good deal of pull with the Commissioner, sir; I received his letter of appointment first thing this morning.”

“I shouldn’t say that,” said Harkness with a blush. “That is, it’s a rather urgent task, as I believe I explained yesterday, and the Commissioner is very efficient…” He harrumphed and rushed on. “Now, I imagine you’ll need assistance with your tasks…”

“I’m quite capable of doing the work on my own,” said James promptly. “I wouldn’t have accepted the job if I weren’t completely recovered.”

“No, no,” laughed Harkness. “I wasn’t referring to your health, my dear boy. I only meant an errand boy to assist you with measurements, and the like. I took the liberty of arranging – well, allow me simply to call him in.” He stepped out of the office before James could respond, and a minute later reappeared with the dark-haired boy in tow. “This is Mr Easton, the gentleman I wanted you to meet,” he was saying. “Easton, this is one of the brightest boys I’ve had the pleasure of employing; I think you’ll find him quite useful.

“His name’s Quinn. Mark Quinn.”

James scarcely heard the introduction; his gaze was already riveted to the “boy”. The ground rolled beneath his feet, a minor earthquake that made every nerve in his body quiver. He was unable to look anywhere but into those eyes. They were nut-brown today, though he knew very well that in some lights they glinted green. They were framed by thick black lashes, arched brows and a thatch of untidy dark hair. The face wore an expression of surprise and dismay that was instantly, unmistakably familiar.

James turned pale, felt his blood rush towards his toes. His stomach turned over violently – but not unpleasantly. For a moment, he simply stood stupidly and gaped, while the “boy” stared back at him. A chain of expressions flitted across her face. Embarrassment. Panic. And something else…

“You!” The word left his body on a rush of air – a boyish gasp that annoyed him immensely. It also triggered a coughing fit. He hunched over, cursing his damaged health and wondering if it were possible to appear calm and authoritative while hacking up a lung. When he looked up, his ears were ringing and dark spots swam in his vision.

“My dear boy! Are you quite all right?”

He nodded, unwilling to risk speech just yet. A surreptitious glance at his handkerchief showed no blood, thank God. The seconds ticked past. He had to say something, damn it all. It was a large effort, but he cut through Harkness’s well-meaning blather with, “It’s merely a slight cough; nothing at all to do with malaria.” He looked straight at Mary as he spoke, but her expression was now neutral. Damn. He’d given her the advantage of time to recover.

“If you say so, of course…” Harkness sounded unconvinced. “As I was saying, Quinn ought to be of assistance to you. He’s a bright lad who wishes to learn more about the trade. Isn’t that right, sonny?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well then, that’s all arranged. I suppose you’d like a tour of the site, Easton?”

He was so greatly altered that she wondered, at first, if she’d have recognized him at all. He was still tall, of course, but his shoulders now seemed too broad for his thin frame. He was sun-browned, but instead of looking healthy and relaxed he seemed to vibrate with an underlying tension. And his features had a harsh cast that was new to her. He’d always looked serious – severe, even – but this saturnine expression was new. Then her gaze locked with his and she felt a deep surge of warmth curl through her entire body.
Of course
she’d have recognized him; she’d know those eyes anywhere. She felt breathless. It was hard to look away, now, but she managed – and then wondered if averting her gaze had seemed coy.

The tour of the site seemed to go on for hours. Harkness pattered nervously, James nodded his comprehension, and she followed the men in silence. What an absurd, improbable stroke of fate that she should meet James Easton here, when she was masked in this guise. Had he requested an assistant, or was that Harkness’s doing? And – again – what did that suggest about Harkness’s intentions for her? He couldn’t possibly know the truth about her disguise.

Could he?

And then they were alone. Mary stood very still, nerves humming, bracing herself for his attack. Her situation was awkward and potentially scandalous: perfect fodder for the sort of cocky, blistering observation he loved to make. No doubt he’d been crafting a series of withering, faux-innocent remarks throughout the tour, to be delivered with his usual insolent drawl. Her only surprise was that he’d managed to restrain himself in Harkness’s presence.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

After a full five minutes’ silence, she raised her eyes to his face.

He was staring at the labourers working at the base of the tower but, as though sensing her unspoken question, turned to look at her. “I think,” he said in a conversational tone, “we’ll begin with the stonemasons. Er – Quinn, isn’t it?”

It continued like this all afternoon. They – or rather, James – observed workers, inspected scaffolds, examined safety equipment and took note of difficult or dangerous bits of work. He worked without haste, but covered a lot of ground none the less. And throughout their labours he treated her with remote courtesy, exactly as he would any young assistant.

She hadn’t seen him in over a year. Had never expected to meet him again. Even so, it seemed impossible that given her surname and confronted with her face, he had indeed forgotten all about her. She could have sworn that in those first, tingling moments, he’d recognized her immediately. That gasp – hadn’t it been a gasp of surprise? He might have covered it with a coughing fit, but she hadn’t mistaken that light of recognition in his eyes.

Or had she? Common sense told her that if he truly didn’t remember, it would be cause for celebration. It would be by far the simplest, safest state of affairs. Yet if she was perfectly honest, this simplest, safest state of affairs bruised her pride. The – what was he? A bit young to be a “man”, but certainly not a “boy” – damn it all … he, James, had kissed her. Yes, he’d been concussed, and light-headed with smoke inhalation, and probably delirious to boot – but he’d pinned her against a wall and kissed her. Twice. She shivered with pleasure at the memory. So yes, a part of her hoped that, despite the complications it would create, James wasn’t unmoved by Mark Quinn.

Yet if he
had
made the connection, would he simply think her face vaguely, perhaps only slightly, familiar? That stung even more. How many girls had James kissed? More than a few, judging by those kisses. (
And how might you know?
taunted her inner voice.
Who else has kissed
you
?
) It would be even worse if he knew her face but couldn’t place it.

Be rational
, came the inner voice, cool and precise this time. Although he’d seen her in boy’s clothing once before, his lack of recognition now was actually a compliment on the excellence of her disguise. And if her features seemed slightly familiar, he would likely assume this was merely in the way that most children seemed – their unformed faces so often all but interchangeable to adults.

It was only at day’s end that he showed signs of seeing her as an individual, rather than a moderately useful tool. “Quinn.”

She looked up – and caught her breath. He was looking straight at her. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Mr Harkness mentioned that you’re new to the trade.”

She nodded slowly.

His eyes wandered over her roughly shorn hair, the grubby boy’s attire. A faint smile curled the corner of his mouth. “What brought you here?”

“Sir?”

“To this site. It’s unusual for a lad to find work on a building site without previous experience or connections. You must have impressed Mr Harkness.”

“He’s been very kind to me.”

“I see.” His gaze seemed to snag somewhere at the level of her waist – she was holding a roll of drawings – and lingered for so long that she squirmed with discomfort. “What did you do before coming here?”

She hesitated. Part of her wanted to shout,
As if you don’t know!
“Bits of all sorts, sir. Errands. Nothing as you’d call a trade.” That was truthful – and vague – enough.

“No. That’s quite clear.”

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “Why’s that, sir?” she asked eventually.

He nodded towards the scrolls of paper. “Your hands are soft and pale – not working hands.” That quarter-smile reappeared, and this time there was a glint in his eyes. “Some might even say lady’s hands.”

She froze, scarcely able to breathe. Now was the time for a clever, snappy retort, but her wits were paralyzed, too. The best she could manage was to gape at him with her mouth closed instead of open.

James shrugged and made a show of consulting his watch. “Ah – six o’clock. Mustn’t keep you, young Quinn.”

It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, she was furious. Still, there wasn’t a thing she could safely do or say apart from, “Yes, sir.”

The blasted man only grinned. “See you tomorrow, laddie.”

Eleven

T
here was a bakery in the Cut, not far from Miss Phlox’s house. As arranged with Anne Treleaven, Mary stopped there each evening to buy “a plain roll, the brownest you got”. Once outside, she tore eagerly into the bread. She was perennially hungry, these days. But tonight at the bun’s squishy centre she found a ball of paper the size of a green pea. On it was scribbled an address in Bermondsey, with additional terse directions. It was often difficult to find one’s way about dockside areas, owing to the absence of street signs. It took only a moment to commit the directions to memory. Then she dropped the scrap into a particularly nasty puddle, where it was promptly obliterated by the wheels of a passing dray cart.