The Body at the Tower

Nineteen





Saturday, 9 July



Palace Yard, Westminster





Saturday was a double occasion for workers, being both a half-holiday and the weekly payday. Despite the heavy weather oppressing all of London, Mary felt a sense of excitement permeating her labours that morning, conscious that come the dinner hour, she would be free for a precious day and a half. Free to think. Free to pursue some of the questions that nagged at her.

At one o’clock sharp, she felt a general exhalation ripple around the building site. Men downed tools, packed up their satchels, and streamed towards the site office in easy-moving clusters of two and three. Instead of the usual charge for the gate, they formed a relaxed, meandering queue, greeting one another with nods and grunts, and the odd jocular comment. For the first time since Mary had been on site, she felt a sense of community, of common expectation.

Harkness stood just outside the door to his office, a pair of spectacles balanced low on his nose. They lent his round, pallid face a rather scholarly air. Before him stood a small table with a wide, shallow metal box on top. Peeping out from the top of the box were rows of tall, narrow manila envelopes. As the men stepped forward, one at a time, Harkness handed each a pay packet and made a check mark on a separate sheet of paper.

Some of the men bobbed their heads or muttered something courteous before jamming the envelope into a pocket. Others stepped to one side and, quite openly, tore open the packet to count their wages before slouching away. It was a slow process, with Harkness checking each man’s name twice before relinquishing his money. His movements suggested a distinct reluctance in the act, as though doubting the men’s competence or entitlement. And, Mary supposed, from Harkness’s perspective as a teetotalling evangelical, wages spent in the pub were worse than money lost or differently squandered; drink itself was a vice, and a begetter of further evils.

And, no doubt about it, the men were going to the pub. There was a buzz of holidayish anticipation in the air: men calling out to one another, slapping one another’s backs. They were also less hostile towards her. One of the stonemasons even slowed as he passed, saying, “Going down the air?”

She blinked stupidly at him for a moment. But just as he was about to turn away, she found her voice. “Y-yes. I mean, thank you.” Air. Hare. Hare and Hounds, of course.

He looked slightly bemused but nodded. “Right. See you there.”

She was the last to receive her pay packet, appropriately enough, as she was the newest labourer. By the time she presented herself, Harkness was rubbing his eyes wearily but he dredged up a kindly smile for her. “And how did you find your first week, Quinn?”

“Very interesting, sir.” Behind Harkness, in the relative dimness of the office, she noticed James for the first time. He was leaning over a paper-logged desk, examining a large, dark blue ledger. He glanced up, as though he could feel her gaze upon him, and flashed her a lightning grin. It was difficult to keep a straight face, but somehow she managed to say a plausibly Mark Quinn goodbye to Harkness before, like the other labourers, stuffing the envelope in her jacket pocket and going to the pub.

Much to her satisfaction, the Hare and Hounds was nothing like the Blue Bell. It was far from elegant, but its general atmosphere was of raucous merriment rather than sodden despair. Looking about, she could understand why working men and women enjoyed the institution of the public house. The Hare had wide, well-worn benches and tables, adequate lighting, plenty of conversation and, most importantly, good beer. This last was evident from the number of pints of ale she saw on tables, as opposed to measures of gin. It was a much more comfortable place, Mary reckoned, than a lot of labourers’ homes, and it offered company as well.

Her workmates – strange to think of them that way – were already established at a corner table, deep into their first round. It was a tightly packed scrum and few of the men noticed her approach. Those who did merely stared at her, their gazes somehow both challenging and uninterested. The stonemason who’d invited her was in the corner. Perhaps it was logical that she was shyer of the men here than she was on site – in her place, doing her job, trying to remain focused. But she was still at work here, too, she reminded herself. The thought gave her courage.

“What are you drinking?” she asked the men nearest to her.

The chap on the end turned at that. He’d been facing away, cradling his face in the hand nearer Mary, and she now realized, as their eyes met, that it was Reid. An arrow of panic shot through her but it was much too late to back down. She forced herself to look diffident.

He was visibly startled to see her but after a moment, said, “Mine’s a Landlord’s Finest.”

Apparently, what was good enough for Reid was good enough for the rest. Mary made several trips to and from the bar and on her last, the men on one bench scooted down to make room for her. Apparently, buying a round was the quickest way to acceptance. She only wished she’d thought of this five days ago.

Sticking her nose in a pint pot was an ideal way to observe people, and from where Mary sat she found herself learning in ten minutes as much about labour relations as she had all the rest of the week. Although the men tended to sit in the same corner of the pub, they still held very much to their trades. The masons sat together, beside the joiners, who passed the occasional remark with the neighbouring glaziers. The brickies were the exception, being represented only by Reid, Smith and Stubbs, but that was certainly for the best – Keenan’s presence would have destroyed everyone’s enjoyment. Together, the men were friendly enough, and the beer did the rest. The joiners, as Mary had expected, were the boisterous core of the gathering, trading gossip and shouting ever ruder jokes down the table with a view to making the new lad blush.

As the afternoon wore on, Mary found it difficult to imagine a time she’d felt uncomfortable around these men. It was almost as unlikely as their being suspicious of her. Here in the pub, they were all mates. Good mates. They’d been mates for absolutely ages. They joked about the teetotal tea break, complained about Harkness, about the slow progress of work on site, even about the new engineer.

“Now you,” said Reid, leaning across the table and fixing her with an intent, if slightly glazed, look. “You knows all about the new gent. Posh fella, ain’t he?”

Mary’s most recent pint of ale churned slowly in her stomach. “Not so posh,” she said slowly, her beer-fuddled brain scrambling to chart the conversation ahead. “Only like Harky, I’ll bet.”

Reid shook his head with slow conviction. “Swanker than old Harky, that one. I know.”

“What do you know?” demanded the man next to Mary.

“He called to Wick’s house one night after work. Gave Janey Wick a right fright – she thought Wick was in trouble again, for all he’s well dead.”

“If a bloke could get into trouble when dead, John Wick’s the one!” snorted a third. A few men rumbled with polite amusement, but most were intent on Reid’s tale.

“Anyways, this gent calls round to Wick’s, says to Janey as he’d like to see the body, polite like. And Janey says, ‘Well, it ain’t here, that there coroner’s still got it and he won’t say as when he’ll give it back,’ and Janey, right, she’s that upset about it, ’cause of the funeral being the next day and she’s got to wash it and dress it and all, and this here chappie – this Easton – tells her not to worry and he’ll see what he can do.

“And Janey’s thinking, ‘My eye you will, all you lot say that but you don’t do nothing, and whyn’t you get home and leave me alone, anyways.’ And blimey, if the next morning a blasted great carriage don’t turn up – nine o’clock of the morning remember – and these two coves bring in Wick’s body, all polite like, saying ‘Yes, Missus Wick,’ and ‘No, Missus Wick,’ and all!”

There was a general ripple of surprise. “Did he say how he done it? Easton, I mean.” This was the man beside Mary, again.

Reid shook his head and took a long pull of beer. “Didn’t say nothing, just left his card and said if she needed aught else to ask him.”

Someone else gave a sly, knowing chuckle. “Got his eye on the widow, hey? Bet she’s paying him back for his trouble right this minute.”

Reid looked round indignantly. “She ain’t doing nothing like that; she’s a good girl, is Janey Wick.” From the looks of suppressed mirth around the table, it was obvious that Reid’s passion for Mrs Wick was an open secret. “That’s why I’m telling you,” he persisted; “that Easton’s a right posh cove. Fancy Harky doing anything like that for a poor little widow, with all his hymn-singing and tea-drinking!”

The conversation moved on, the characters of James Easton and Mrs Wick being of only passing interest to the other men.

But Reid wanted to keep talking and he buttonholed Mary across the table. “You ain’t done building work before.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” said Mary. She offered him the same explanation she’d given Harkness: orphaned, no money for an apprenticeship, living in lodgings.

“But you been to school,” said Reid, his brow creasing.

She nodded reluctantly. “For a little.”

He ignored this. “’Cause after I seen you yesterday, looking in the window, that Mr Jones – Octavius Jones” – he sounded out the given name with care – “said you’s a right clever little fart, and for to watch myself around you.”

Beer made her bold. Rather than cringing and trying to minimize herself and her story, Mary grinned broadly. “You got so much to watch?” A flash of panic crossed Reid’s face and she added, hastily, “You, like, the ghost of the clock tower, or something?”

He relaxed. “Not me, laddie. But that Mr Jones – I reckon he knows what’s what.”

So he was sounding her out. Trying to work out what she knew. “Suppose he must, writing for the newspaper and all.”

Reid nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “Keeps a sharp eye on that site.”

“I don’t see him round that much.”

“He’s got his ways.”

It was like a game of cards with high stakes. Each trying to push the other closer to a confession, while both tried to keep their own secrets. “You mean, like paying people to tell him stuff?”

Reid exhaled slightly. “Yeah. Like that.”

“I ain’t told him nothing, yet,” she said candidly. “Does he pay as good as he says?”

“Oh – naw. I dunno. I ain’t got nothing to tell.” But he flushed at this, and unconsciously pushed a hand into his trouser pocket. Presumably, that’s where Jones’s little bonus was tucked. “I got no secrets.” It was the most unconvincing denial Mary had heard in some time – so incompetent it made her wonder anew at Reid’s involvement with crooks like Wick and Keenan. Or whether she was meant to enquire further.

“Keenan does,” she said boldly, draining her tankard.

Reid looked sly – or perhaps that was just the effect of the cut under his eye, which made him appear quite raffish. “Maybe.”

“He talks to Harky like he’s the boss.”

“Mmm.”

“And him and you and Wick, you’re all up to something.”

Reid blushed, half-ashamed, half-defiant. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“’Course you do.” She paused and leaned forward slightly. The other men paid them no attention; this was a perfect opportunity. “Tidy lot of money it pays you, too.”

He gaped at her, his beer-pinked cheeks slack and quivering. Panic made his round blue eyes even rounder. “That bit ain’t me!” he yelped, drawing a lazy glance from his nearest neighbour. “I never meant it to go that far,” he muttered, leaning towards her.

“But you know,” she persisted, encouraged both by the expression on his sensible, naive face and by the booze. “You know, and you told Octavius Jones.”

“I got to piss,” he said, and stood abruptly. As he pulled his hand from his pocket, a twist of paper tumbled out, bouncing onto the bench and then to the floor. Reid’s anxiety was such that he didn’t notice: a moment later, he was through the back door into the alley, which served as a generalized chamber pot. Mary slipped the paper into her own pocket and, when Reid reappeared after a few minutes’ absence, accepted the offer of another pint.

As though mention of him had conjured his real presence, the pub door swung open and Keenan himself walked in. Reid, half-way to the bar, blanched and steadied himself against a table. He stood still, waiting.

Keenan looked to be in his usual foul mood. He’d been at work that morning, though uncharacteristically quiet, and Harkness had made rather a point of ignoring him. He’d not been reprimanded for his unexplained absence yesterday. Now, his gaze settled on Reid, and although the pub was dimly lit, he narrowed his eyes. The silence between them was rich with accumulated tension. Finally, Keenan said in a low tone, “Let’s take a walk.”

Reid gulped and stared at him. He’d been drinking swiftly, downing two pints to Mary’s one, and the beer seemed to have fuddled his brain. Or perhaps it was the expression on Keenan’s face.

Keenan twitched impatiently. “Have a heart, man – I ain’t like to kill you.” It was a poor choice of words and Reid’s face blanched. His fingers tightened around the tankard in his fist. Then, as if thus reminded of its presence, he lifted the drink to his lips and drained it in one swallow. His eyes were wide and wary, and the ruddy colour of his cheeks seemed to sit atop his skin like a painted mask. Then, setting the pot on the nearest table, he followed Keenan out of the pub like a man going to his death.

Mary gave them a full half-minute’s lead before standing to leave. Suddenly, the world tilted sideways, the faces of the men around her blurring and warping crazily. Her knees buckled. She clutched at the table for support. Something solid struck her hand, making her knuckles ring. What the devil…?

A large hand grasped her shoulder roughly and she flailed against it. He mustn’t feel her back. He mustn’t know. Something smacked her bottom, hard, and she struggled again, uncertain now which way was up. What was wrong with her eyes? Blood roared in her ears. She gasped for breath. It was like drowning on dry land. She was still on dry land, wasn’t she? At that, all the liquid sloshing around her stomach began to roll and churn. Oh, no. Not that.

The pressure continued against her bottom, flat and hard and impersonal. Not a man, then. Slowly, she became aware of a general sort of guffawing. Gradually, the world resolved into a blur of likely browns, yellows and skin tones, eventually coming into focus. She was in the pub, of course, sitting on the same bench, surrounded by the same labourers.

The pounding in her ears quieted.

Queasiness receded.

She found herself taking long, shaky breaths.

“You look fit to faint,” chortled one of the joiners.

The man next to her released his grip on her shoulder and grinned. “You ain’t much of a drinker, hey sonny?”

Sonny. She was relieved to hear that.

“It’s the sitting down what does it,” said another sagely.

“Aye,” agreed another. Then began a chorus of advice, all just a few pints too late. It seemed that she’d committed two beginner’s errors: she’d not eaten before coming to the pub, and hadn’t known that suddenly standing up could transform the sensation of merry ease to that of fall-down drunkenness.

This was all helpful. And when she tried again to stand, slowly this time, the room rocked only a little, although the floorboards were damned uneven. Funny. She’d not noticed that earlier. She took a cautious step, then another, and a third, before bidding her new mates a friendly goodbye. Next came the pub door, which swung open with hazardous ease; she stumbled into the street, but that was certainly the fault of the door, which banged loudly behind her. At least now she was outside, where the rich and complex smell of London’s streets could help to clear her brain.

What time was it? There were few street vendors about, so she was in the lull between the early ones closing down and the late ones opening up. Late afternoon or early evening. There was some passing traffic, too – carriages and whatnot – but they were moving at a smart trot. In fact, even the pedestrians seemed to be moving quickly: men in suits, still conducting business, and labourers, footsore and intent on getting home. Only a few of the poorer sort of prostitute idled along, half-heartedly angling for custom. One blew her a kiss and shrugged a not very come-hither shoulder, then laughed unkindly at her startled response.

The suggestion of movement: it stirred something in the back of her mind. There was something she had to do … but she couldn’t, for the life of her, recall what it might be. Never mind. She had a good walk ahead of her. Likely as not, she’d remember along the way.