The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,22

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

Coral 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