Harkness tittered nervously. "My dear fellow, they've left the appointment in my hands!"
"But that's a conflict of interest! How could such a report ever be deemed impartial?" James realized he'd jumped up and was pacing the length of the tiny office. He was slightly out of breath, which annoyed him greatly.
Harkness looked pained and that little muscle below his eye began jumping so vigorously he was forced to still it with his hand. "I was an idealist at your age, too."
And now what are you? James repressed the sneer: too cheap, too obvious. Harkness clearly considered himself a realist – although, from the look of him, this exerted an unhealthy strain on his conscience.
After a minute, Harkness spoke again, choosing his words slowly. "The Commissioner has made it clear that from his perspective, and that of the Committee of Works, I am not to blame for this man's unfortunate death. But the Commissioner wishes to confirm that the death was, in fact, an accident. A most tragic accident, but an accident none the less." As he spoke, Harkness's voice gained conviction. "He is also under a great deal of pressure to begin an inquiry immediately. There simply isn't time to appoint an engineer through the Committee – so many meetings, so much discussion, you understand. And time is pressing on."
"So the Commissioner has left things in your hands for the sake of efficiency?" And a sure outcome.
"I won't pretend that it's not a deeply awkward task. It certainly goes against the grain."
James nodded. He could agree with that statement, at least.
"You are too intelligent not to see what I'm asking, James, so I'll be blunt: are you willing to conduct this review?"
His immediate instinct was to refuse. It was a curious task, and a distasteful one, too. Even setting aside the question of impartiality, his findings would damage someone wherever he found fault. He drew breath to say so – and the rasping sensation in his lungs made him pause, reminding him in one breath of both malarial fever and professional failure. He had fallen gravely ill in Calcutta; had come close to death. He'd learned an equally brutal lesson in local politics, finding his work obstructed and his projects undermined because he lacked important sponsors.
He was quick to learn. Even in England – perhaps especially in England – it would do Easton Engineering good to impress the First Commissioner of Works. The man was enormously influential, both in his official capacity and in his private life. If James had learned only one thing in Calcutta, it was that connections were paramount. Perhaps he, too, was becoming a realist.
And yet. And yet. He couldn't possibly accept Harkness's offer.
Could he?
Harkness smiled once more, the first natural smile he'd shown since the real conversation began. "You're thinking too hard, young James. It's a plum job; the sort of job you and your brother could use. Just think of it: a spot of work, a short report, and the heartfelt gratitude of the Commissioner."
He didn't need the older man to tell him that. He looked about the office, taking in the careless heaps of papers spilling from cabinet to desk to floor; at the grubby walls and makeshift furniture. Did he really want to conduct a professional review of this old family friend? How could he find against him? Yet how could he not, if that was what conscience dictated?
But what a cowardly reason to refuse the work. If he took the job, he wouldn't be Harkness's lapdog. He'd be precisely what the Commissioner had specified: an independent engineer. His own professional pride demanded that he be impartial, even if he didn't care about justice and truth.
Fine words, he taunted himself. Justice and truth might sound very well, but who would believe him once they learned of his long-standing family connection with Harkness? That was why he must decline the work, no matter how tempting. He'd find another way to build important connections.
"You're a first-class engineer, Easton – you and your brother, both – and I thought it might be useful to you in the future, to have made the acquaintance of such a man as the First Commissioner of Works."
Why was Harkness trying to sell him the job? How many candidates had already declined, and for what reasons? James knew he wasn't the pre-eminent engineer of his generation – not yet, at any rate. Easton Engineering was still a small firm, his reputation not yet made. He couldn't have been anybody's first choice. "Why me?" he said slowly.
Harkness looked startled. "Well, I've just said you're a sound man, a top-class engineer… and of course, our long friendship and my affection for your father's memory make me glad to do you a good turn. Why, you don't doubt your ability to conduct a simple assessment of the safety precautions on site, do you?"
"I don't," said James. His brain was turning rapidly. Too rapidly, perhaps. He wasn't normally the dithering sort, but today he was both tempted and repelled in equal measure. And then a solution came to him. "I'd welcome the job if I were independently appointed by the Commissioner himself."
"But my dear young man, it's the same thing: as I said earlier, the Commissioner has left the matter entirely with me. My choice is his choice." Harkness's over-patient tone suggested that James was being obtuse.
"With respect, sir, it's not the same thing at all."
"You always were stubborn." Harkness showed him a smile, but it was strained. "But you're not foolish. Are you willing to risk the benefits this job will bring to you and your brother, all for a mere formality?"
James drew a deep breath. "Yes, sir. I am." The compromise was far from perfect, said his weary conscience, but it hurt less than rejecting the enticing offer outright.
Harkness looked nettled. "Very well. I shall mention your… scruples to the Commissioner. For your sake, young James, I hope he's inclined to accommodate your whim."
On his way back to the carriage James lingered by the entrance, observing the builders at work. It was difficult to pinpoint what was wrong on a building site simply by looking, but he had a strong impression that all was not right in Palace Yard. Many mocked the idea of instinct, but he'd learned years ago to trust his. This appointment – if he got it – would not be a straightforward one.
He shivered, then glanced over one shoulder to see if Barker had noticed. Just at that moment, a dark-haired lad ran lightly down the length of the yard. James's eye followed him automatically – and then with deliberation. He frowned. The lad was oddly familiar. Was there something distinctive about the way he moved? No. Perhaps the profile – had he encountered the child before? But he was out of sight a few seconds later, and James blinked and shook his head. Impossible to pick out a twelve-year-old boy in a city of millions.
The only reasonable explanation was that the lad had something of Alfred Quigley about him. Ever since the murder of his young assistant over a year before, James had been haunted by echoes of the scrappy, resourceful boy wherever he went. The sharp treble of a boy's voice; a thatch of mousy hair; that funny, bouncy way of walking particular to pre-adolescent boys. All these things followed James, and weighed on his conscience. They probably always would.
He shook his head again to clear the fog – and then realized the fog was all around him. Alfred Quigley was a memory that invariably led to another, one on which he couldn't afford to dwell. Over the past year, he'd succeeded in thinking less and less about Mary Quinn. Yet even now, if he let his imagination stray…
Well. There was no point.
Absolutely none.
James climbed back into the carriage, waving off Barker's helpful hand. But as he settled into the padded bench, he shivered once again.
Instinct. Seven
Somebody was staring at her. Mary could feel it, like a warm patch of sunlight on the back of her neck. But when she turned to see who it might be, there was no one: only a tall, thin man departing the site. She frowned after him. Judging from the way he moved, he was elderly or an invalid of some sort. Apart from that, little distinguished him from the dozens of be-suited, be-hatted gentlemen outside the Houses of Parliament.
And yet.
Still frowning, she watched him climb into a carriage. There was something familiar about that, too, although she couldn't place it. The driver was just another ordinary-looking middle-aged man. But she'd seen him before. She was still trying to remember where and when as the carriage disappeared into the stream of traffic, leaving her staring after it.
"Seed a ghost or something?" piped a voice in her ear.
She started and turned to find Jenkins smirking at her. "Yeah, the ghost of the clock tower."
He snorted. "Ghost won't help you shift them bricks."
She sighed. "Yeah. It's heavy work."
"Carrying bricks? It's easy-peasy. How many bricks you carry at a time?"
"Three."
"Three! Delicate little girl, ain't you?"
"You couldn't take more." She glanced about but the brickies were nowhere in sight. Good. Another minute's banter with Jenkins and with luck she could lead him back to the subject of the dead man, Wick.
"Watch me!" He leaned the hod at a forty-five-degree angle against the nearest wall and loaded it with care, distributing the bricks so the weight fell evenly. "You ready?" he called when the hod was prepared.
"Six bricks is awfully heavy," she said.
"It's nothing, with this method," he said grandly. "Easy-peasy, like I said."
"Suit yourself."