"What's it to you?"
"Nothing. I just – you said he's a builder, right? Because that's how you got your job."
"None of your business."
"All right," she said mildly. It sounded as though she was dismissed. "I'll come back and see you in a few days, if you like."
Jenkins's gaze was riveted to the pennies, once again, and he shrugged ungraciously. "Suit yourself."
She unfolded her legs, stood, and promptly banged her head on the ceiling. If she, a fairly small woman, was too tall for this cellar, how on earth could a grown man like Jenkins Sr live here? And why was his son so protective of him? "Right. See you."
Jenkins merely grunted. But as she climbed the rickety ladder out of the cellar, she heard him say, "Quinn."
She paused, her hand on the top rung, anxious now to escape that dank pit. "Yeah?"
He was poking at the small pile of pennies and ha'pennies as though testing a hallucination. It seemed difficult for him to meet her gaze. "Ta."
She nodded once and tried to smile, but suddenly it was all too much: the cellar; the stench; the utter desperation all about her. She scrabbled her way up and tore out of the house, nearly knocking down the hunched woman who'd admitted her, not stopping to apologize. She pelted past the children, who blinked at her with their owlish, drugged eyes – sedated with a blend of starvation and opium, no doubt. And she didn't stop running until she was back in Lambeth.
Near Coral Street, she stumbled into a quiet alley and vomited. Bread, ale, that extra bun – all her meagre supper accounted for. But even once her stomach was empty, the retching continued in long, violent spasms that shook her frame, making her gasp and choke. She tasted salt water on her lips, and found that she was crying. What for? Not for Peter Jenkins, entirely. And not for the others she'd seen in his street. It was absurd. Childish. Weak. But for several minutes she couldn't stop.
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!"