"The fine and noble organ for which I write is dedicated to spreading the truth, to educating the populace and, above all, to entertaining the masses. Can you guess its title?"
"No, sir."
"I must confess myself deeply grieved, young man. It's none other than the Eye on London. You know it now, don't you?"
She bit back a grin. "Yes, sir." The Eye! How apt. It was a newspaper that contained even less sense than the man's speech.
He was glancing about again, and though he seemed nonchalant, Mary was willing to bet he didn't miss much. "I say, is that lad Jenkins not about?"
"Jenkins is injured, sir. Off for a week, at least."
"Dearie me." But he didn't look much distressed. "And what's your name?"
She hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Quinn, sir. Mark Quinn."
"Octavius Jones, at your service." He shook hands with her solemnly. "I think we might be of use to each other, young Quinn."
"Sir?"
"Bright lad like you… I'm sure you see all sorts in the course of your workday."
"All sorts of what, sir?"
He grinned again and gave her a sharp look. "That's precisely what I mean. There's something not right about this site – and I don't mean just the death of that labourer. I daresay you've heard that before now."
Mary nodded slowly. Jenkins's words – "always on the take" – echoed in her mind. She had a deal of catching up to do, if she was to be of any use to the Agency.
"Well, then: I've an interest in uncovering the truth. I don't even know what that truth is, right now. But if you see or hear anything that strikes you as unusual, I want to know about it. And I'll make it worth your while. What d'you say to that?" He jingled some coins in his trouser pocket.
She nodded, silently vowing to avoid Octavius Jones at all costs. He seemed entirely too much of a risk. She was wondering how to escape his presence when she heard an irritable bark from close behind her: "Quinn!"
She jumped – rather guiltily – and saw James stalking towards them, his expression stormy. "Sir!" Her voice was breathless, and she hoped he'd interpret it as surprise – nothing else.
Octavius Jones perked up and spun to face James. "Mr Easton, of Easton Engineering, I presume?"
James's glare was fixed firmly on Mary. "Enough loitering and gossip. We've work to do." He brushed past Jones with scarcely a glance. "This is a closed building site. Depart this instant, sir, or I shall have you turned out."
"I do beg your pardon, sir," purred Jones, raising his hat with elaborate courtesy. "No harm intended." He spun about and tipped Mary a wink. "Good day, laddie."
James merely glowered and kept moving. "Now, Quinn."
Like a good little errand boy, Mary turned to follow him. But even as she trotted after James, a new idea whisked through her brain and her head swivelled to watch Octavius Jones's retreating figure. Medium build. Damn. He was definitely not the party who'd broken into the site on Monday night.
Just at that moment, Jones twisted round and caught her frowning at him. A broad grin broke across his face and he reached into a pocket, took out a coin and flipped it towards her in a high, showy arc. Reflexively, she caught it – then cursed herself for doing so. She couldn't have done anything else, in Mark Quinn's persona. But as the coin changed from cool to warm in her clenched fist, she couldn't help but wonder how and when she might be compelled to repay Jones's generosity. Thirteen The Agency's headquarters Acacia Road, St John's Wood
This was all highly irregular. She'd explained her need to live in lodgings, in order fully to inhabit the role of Mark Quinn. She thought Anne and Felicity understood. Yet tonight's summons from the Agency threatened to undermine that effort. As she knocked on the familiar attic door, Mary tried to swallow her temper. She'd gain nothing by sounding cross and frustrated; Anne and Felicity might even read those emotions as indicative of an inability to continue.
"Come in." Anne and Felicity looked the same as ever, sitting in their usual chairs, drinking tea. Although their expressions didn't change, Mary thought she detected surprise none the less. Her suit of clothes – her only suit of clothes – was filthy. Street muck clung to her boots and calves in a most unpleasant fashion. She could only imagine how she must smell.
"Good evening, Miss Treleaven; Mrs Frame." She remained standing; she'd only ruin any furniture she touched.
"Good evening. We called you here this evening, Mary, to ask how you're faring. Not in terms of the case, although we look forward to a full report, but in the persona of Mark Quinn."
Mary swallowed hard. It was uncanny: as though they'd somehow witnessed her shameful breakdown the previous night in the alley. "I'm fine, Miss Treleaven. It's been difficult, occasionally, as expected. But I'm managing to stay in the role, and to survive very well."
Anne remained silent. She probably wasn't attending to the words at all, thought Mary with a surge of anxiety. She was listening for tone of voice, gauging her expression, watching for tell-tale physical signs of distress. But thanks to Anne and Felicity, Mary was trained to pass all these tests. She kept her tone even, her expression thoughtful. Didn't stare too long at either manager. Allowed herself to sound concerned, but resolute.
"Are you able to eat and rest?" asked Felicity.
"Adequately. Not well, but it's a short-term assignment."
"And the emotional consequences of your return?" This was Anne speaking. "Your project of confronting your childhood: is that not taxing?"
Mary was silent for a moment, tasting the swell of confusion that threatened her every time she woke, or fell asleep; in each half-moment she forgot herself; in her transitions from Mark to Mary, and back again. And there was that episode in the alley, after she'd visited Jenkins… her stomach twisted at the memory. "Taxing" was an utterly inadequate word for such hell. But Anne's grey eyes still were fixed upon her, steady and grave. "I've found I'm capable of managing."
Silence, during which the three women looked at one another. There was no indication of what Anne and Felicity thought, or what silent communication passed between them. Finally, Anne nodded. "Very well. Before you report, is there anything you need? Food? Drink?"
"A bath?" grinned Felicity.
Mary laughed. "The bath would be cheating, and I'll get some food on the way out. But I wanted to ask you about John Wick's home life. Could you send someone to take a look at the house? Find out what his family's like? We'll need to know more of his character, in order to understand the reason for his death."
Anne nodded. "A good point."
"I need a look inside. A conversation with Mrs Wick. Basically, as much of a portrait of the dead man as I can get. I can't manage that, as a boy."
"It sounds as though you need a first-hand look. Why not go yourself?"
Mary stared. "As myself?"
"Or as a lady. Let's say, a well-to-do lady on a charitable mission. Take the widow a basket of goods, sweep into the house, cross-examine her." Felicity's eyes were bright. "She could hardly say no."
That much was true: well-meaning ladies often invaded the homes of the poor, arrogantly certain of their welcome as generous benefactors. "But my role as Mark Quinn… and the funeral's tomorrow; I've got to be there, too, and there's work tomorrow morning…"
Anne consulted her watch. "We can organize the visit for this evening, if we begin immediately. And if you're willing to drive, Flick."
Felicity nodded and rose. "Of course."
As Anne and Felicity swept from the room, Mary watched with an uncomfortable sense of helplessness. Much as she wanted to poke about Wick's house, this certainly wasn't what she'd had in mind. She wasn't sure she could change roles so quickly. Hadn't a clear idea what she was looking for. Didn't like the idea of interrupting, then resuming, her life as Mark Quinn. Yet Anne and Felicity were correct: this was the most effective way to do things. And – her conscience wriggled here – it meant she could have a bath! A hot, glorious, sudsy, middle-class bath…
As run by Anne, the Agency was ferociously efficient. Ten minutes later, Mary was immersed in a steaming tub. As she scrubbed, Anne sat behind a folding screen and listened to her report. Mary began by describing her struggle to be accepted on site, from her own blunders about reading and speaking too well, to Harkness's cultivation of her as a charitable project, to her utter lack of experience – unconvincing, even in a so-called boy of twelve.
"Just as I feared," muttered Anne, when Mary paused for breath. "It's a field about which we know next to nothing."
"Miss Treleaven?"
"I do beg your pardon, Mary. Pray continue."