The Body at the Tower (8 page)

“No answer?” Keenan’s voice was still ominously soft.

Jenkins was shaking now, a shivering so violent that his teeth began to chatter.

“Disgusting,” said Keenan. “Give him here, Smith.”

In one swift motion, Keenan seized Jenkins and yanked his wet breeches to the ground. Any pity Mary might have felt for the boy was now consumed in her own burgeoning sense of panic. This was it. In a few minutes, she would be publicly, literally, exposed. A fine trembling began in her throat, then spread to her limbs. She fought it desperately but not well enough. Her lungs squeezed tight. She couldn’t get enough air.

“Easy,” murmured Reid under his breath, pressing firmly on her shoulders. “Easy, lad.”

He sounds as if he’s talking to a horse
, she thought hysterically.

The belt really did whistle faintly as it sliced through the air; that wasn’t merely a cliché. As it struck Jenkins’s pale, skinny rump, it made a meaty, loud
thwock
that resounded clearly across the now-still site. All had downed tools; all were watching. Apart from the rhythm of the belt –
shweeeee-THWOCK, shweeeee-THWOCK
– the only sounds were Jenkins’s half-suppressed screams and Keenan’s grunts of exertion.

Two strokes.

Three.

With the fourth, a bright seam of blood welled up. Mary forced herself to keep looking, to take in the details: perfect stillness all around, men practically holding their breaths rather than disrupt Keenan’s show. Nobody moved to step in; no one opened a mouth to object. They were
enjoying
themselves, the hateful pigs.

Five.

Small rivulets of blood dripped down the boy’s legs, onto his breeches, staining the dusty ground.

Six.

Jenkins stopped shrieking and began merely to cry, a keening, childish sound that sliced through Mary’s contained panic. What would a brutal beating do to such a fragile, undergrown boy? Would Keenan stop before he caused permanent damage, or did he not care?

Seven.

Was there nothing she could do? Nothing at all?

Eight.

She tasted blood. Why? Must have bitten her lower lip.

“Keenan.” The voice came from just above her head.

Schweeeee-THWOCK
.

Schweeeee-THWOCK
.

“Keenan!” More forceful, now. “Enough, man.”

A pause in the rhythm. “Shut it, Reid.”

A resumption. Eleven?

Sweat trickled into her eyes, its sting a welcome distraction from her trembling limbs, her panic-squeezed lungs. The pain of the lashing didn’t matter; all she wanted was for her unmasking to be over and done with.

And then a cry, shrill but authoritative: “What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”

What does it look like?
Fortunately, the hysterical giggle in her throat didn’t climb high enough to be heard.

Keenan swung the belt one last time but rather half-heartedly, as though acknowledging that the game was over.

“Why are you all standing about? Back to work, all of you! Except you, Keenan – what is the meaning of this!” Mr Harkness was standing before them. Slowly, the other trades melted back towards their tasks.

Keenan looked mutinous. He stared at Harkness for a long minute, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Why, Mr Harkness, sir,” he finally said, his voice velvety and dangerous, “how kind of you to take an interest in a matter of site discipline.”

Bright patches of red appeared on Harkness’s cheeks, and on the top of his bald head. “I said, what is the meaning of this?!” His voice was shrill, the twitch going double-time.

Another silence. The only sound now was of Jenkins’s sobbing. Eventually, Keenan said, “The lad’s got to be punished.”

“What for?”

“Playing the fool. Damaging materials.”

Harkness took a deep breath and turned to Mary. “Is this true?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Keenan’s face twist with rage. “Yes, sir.”

Harkness looked surprised. “You wilfully damaged Keenan’s property?”

“Not on purpose, sir. But between us, Jenkins and I broke a brick.”

“A brick!” Harkness turned back to Keenan. “You would thrash a pair of children within an inch of their lives for
one
damaged brick?”

“I thrashed them for playing the fool. They’ve no business messing about with tools. The damage could have been much worse.”

Harkness’s face turned very pale. Through clenched teeth he said, “Unless you wish your entire gang dismissed, you’ll remember who’s in charge of this building site, Keenan. Quinn will no longer assist any of you. You’ll work short-handed until you find another bricklayer, and I expect to see progress as usual.”

Keenan flushed a shade darker but didn’t reply.

“Do you hear and understand?” roared Harkness.

“Yes. Sir.” He spat the words as though they tasted bitter. “And I’ll remember this. Sir.”

If Harkness was troubled by the threat, he gave no sign of it. “Come then, children.” He beckoned to Mary and Jenkins, and she suddenly realized she’d been holding her breath. Although the other workmen made a show of returning to their tasks, they stared openly as the three of them marched past: Harkness in the lead, Jenkins hobbling as best he could, Mary bringing up the rear.

She could feel Keenan’s gaze on their backs. It was nothing like warm sunlight, more like an icy drill through her skull. Her thoughts were all confusion, her legs rubbery beneath her. She was still trembling, although this time it was with relief. But even as she followed Harkness and Jenkins, she began to wonder about the significance of Harkness’s rescue. He hadn’t intervened in time to save Jenkins from a savage beating. But in saving her from a similar lashing, Harkness had safeguarded her identity, and thus the entire assignment. She had to ask whether he knew the truth, or any part of it. And if so, what he expected in return.

Eight

Miss Phlox’s lodging house

Coral Street, Lambeth

C
oral Street was lively in the evening, with children and women calling to one another across the street and over garden walls. Washing was pegged out on clotheslines, itinerant hawkers stocked their pushcarts for the evening’s sales, an umbrella repairman was at work on a front step. It was a bustling domestic scene of the sort that still, occasionally, gave Mary a pang. Tonight, it made her eyes prickle. Had her father lived, that could have been her family’s fate: a modest but cosy home, younger brothers and sisters, and supper around the table every night.

Tired as she was, Mary knew the scene in her mind was improbable. Her parents had been very poor, her father away at sea more often than not, her brothers stillborn. Yet she clung stubbornly to the possibility. Her father had been a brave, intelligent, principled man and his death had destroyed all their lives. That was what she knew. Automatically, her hand moved towards her throat to touch the jade pendant he had left her. In the next fraction of a moment, she remembered that it was far away: safe in her desk at the Academy, along with her identity as a young woman. For now, she was simply a boy named Mark and if she didn’t want to foul up matters entirely, she’d better remember it.

She entered Miss Phlox’s lodging house by the side door. One step, and she was enveloped by the hot, dense fug of washing day: boiling water, lye soap, blueing and hot starch. Winnie, the maid of all work, was ironing bed-sheets in the kitchen and glanced up as Mary entered. “Supper’s in the larder.” Her voice was breathless, making her sound even younger than her twelve or thirteen years.

“Thank you.” Mary was suddenly ravenous and it took only a moment to cram down the two thin slices of bread-and-butter that constituted “supper”.

Winnie put the irons back in the fire to reheat and drew Mary a mug of small beer. Her eyes were fixed on Mary’s face. When Mary met her gaze she looked away, but the next moment resumed her staring. She’d been fascinated by Mark Quinn from the moment they’d met.

Mary swallowed her beer and tried to look oblivious. There were plenty of good reasons for Winnie to gawk at her. She was a new lodger, and therefore a novelty; she might have dirty smears on her face; she might be… Mary gave up. She knew very well the reason why the maid of all work looked at her with such analytical curiosity: Winnie was Chinese, like Mary’s father, and thus curious about Mary’s appearance. The dark hair. The geometry of her features. The “exotic” aspect that people so often remarked upon. For Winnie, these things probably added up to something very specific.

Mary cleared out of the kitchen as quickly as possible. She had no idea how to manage Winnie’s curiosity and wanted to avoid all conversation with the girl until she’d decided on a strategy. Should she deny everything? It was true that she didn’t look properly mixed race. Her skin was pale and her eyes round, so that much of the time she passed quite easily as black Irish. Even persistent questioners generally wanted to know whether she was Italian or Spanish. And that was just fine with Mary. The last thing she wanted was to acknowledge her Chinese heritage and deal with the questions and hostility it would inevitably invoke. Certainly not yet. She pushed away those thoughts as she climbed the second flight of stairs to her room, steeling herself for the next challenge: a new roommate who’d moved in today.

A man sat on the bed, pulling off his boots and enriching the small room with the pong of sweaty feet. As the door opened, he looked up. His gaze was both wary and weary.

“H’lo,” she gulped. She sounded authentically nervous, in any case.

“’Lo.”

What was the etiquette in situations like this? Later tonight, she’d be sharing a bed with this stranger – an uncomfortable fact of life when lodgings were cheap and beds dear. But how much did men talk among themselves? How would they organize who slept at which end? And how on earth would she guard her secret from him? “I’m Quinn,” she offered tentatively.

He nodded. “Rogers.”

When it became apparent he had nothing else to say, she hung her cap and jacket on a peg behind the door. At the small washstand, the water jug was partly filled and the scratchy towel carefully used on one half only. She washed briskly, scrubbing her face and neck and wetting her hair to rid it of grime. This was the best she’d be able to do for some time. At Miss Phlox’s, baths cost extra and were available only on Wednesdays and Saturdays. But even if she were to have the money, there was no way to manage a bath with privacy.

It was intolerable in here, under Rogers’s steady gaze. It wasn’t a hostile look, she decided – more like the disappointment that came of finding one wasn’t alone. She knew precisely how he felt. She had to do something. Anything, rather than sit here in stifling silence.

The dusky walk back to Westminster felt long this time. All along the streets, yellowy light glowed behind curtained windows. The effect was cosy and exclusive, and Mary felt a sharp, bittersweet longing to be at home at the Academy. Ordinarily, the prospect of an armchair and a cup of tea was dully domestic; tonight, it could not have seemed more appealing. The streets quietened dramatically as she crossed the bridge, passing into Westminster. Few lived here, and the area bustled only during the day. Her feet ached. Her muscles felt stiff. And she was so busy yawning that she nearly walked straight into a shadowy figure skirting along the tall wooden fence that divided the building site from the street.

Her training saved her. Before her mind could register the man and form a plan, she’d tucked herself into the shadows and gone motionless. Even so, the man seemed to sense something: he, too, stilled, glancing over his shoulder at the streetscape. After several long seconds he resumed movement but it was stealthier now, and he looked about at intervals.

Mary remained frozen, her back against the fence. The man was tall and powerful-looking in silhouette, although she couldn’t see his features or even make out his profile in the dim light. He wore a jacket and trousers, rather than a suit, but this information was of marginal use: who ever went prowling in his Sunday suit? He could be any of a million working men in London.

He wasted no time on the padlocked gate, instead choosing a section of the wooden fence. Another rapid survey of the scene. After a pause, he removed something small and curved from his pocket and, with a swift, low hand thrust, slammed it into the high wooden fence. It was a short, violent gesture, akin to stabbing a man in the thigh. He scanned the road one more time and, apparently satisfied, appeared to walk straight up the fence panel in one fluid movement. He paused at the top for a moment, then swung himself over and landed with a soft thud.

Mary grinned and slithered out from the shadows to the spot where he’d been. Sure enough, there was a small metal half-moon embedded in the fence. It was only two inches wide by one inch deep, but it offered the experienced user a toehold from which to clamber over the fence. She’d used one herself from time to time, in her past life.

She considered the climbing-grip thoughtfully. Impossible not to follow him. The difficulty was that he was almost certainly headed for Harkness’s office, which lay in direct view of this entry point. She could hardly follow his route and expect to go unnoticed. Neither could she borrow the climbing-grip to use on a different part of the fence; he would certainly miss it. No, she would have to find her own way in. And now that she was fully alert, the challenge was both alluring and energizing.

The first matter was to work out where the night-watchmen were. There were two, she recalled, who reported to Harkness at day’s end. There would be others at different posts around the Palace, guarding the House of Commons and House of Lords, but she would assume for now that they remained within their separate jurisdictions. Caution struggled with impulse. Caution won – a sign of how far she’d progressed since her early days in training, she thought with a touch of pride. She made a circuit of the building site, listening carefully and looking for the tell-tale glint of the watchmen’s lanterns.

Nothing.