But they, in turn, were dwarfed by Big Ben. From Mary’s perspective, this massive central bell was a dark cave large enough for several people to hide in. She blinked and instinctively stepped back, out of its span. It ought to be firmly fixed in place, of course, but James’s very presence here suggested otherwise. And there was something sinister about the bell, too – this metal beast that had cracked, been melted and recast, and raised again only to witness a man’s death.
A strong breeze wafted through the belfry and Mary moved towards its source: the huge open arches, one on each side of the tower, which allowed the weather in and the sound of the bells out. What she saw made her gasp and instinctively steady herself against the stone half-wall: the city sprawled before her in all directions, vast and miniaturized at the same time. It was recognizably London – the buildings, the cobwebs of streets, the rowdy bustle that rose, almost visibly, from the place. But it was also London as a toy village; an exquisite map. Here, all the familiar monuments were scaled down to the size of her fingernail, yet retained every detail. A slight dizziness consumed her as she gazed out over the roof-tops, reluctant even to blink lest the magical sight dissipate. She had never seen the like before and doubted she would again.
Glancing at James, she saw her own expression reflected in his face. He smiled at her and she could see he would have spoken – something tender, something intimate. She collected herself. It was too dangerous to play with James this way. It wasn’t just fear for her cover as Mark Quinn, but her entire existence as a secret agent. She stepped back from the ledge, reeling. It wasn’t the height at all, but he didn’t need to know that.
“How on earth was the bell raised?” Her voice sounded over-bright.
He looked at her. Hesitated. Then said, slowly, “Pulley systems and manpower. Straight through there.”
“There” was a square opening, perhaps eight feet wide. Mary peered inside. It appeared to run the height of the tower. “Is this for ventilation?”
“Yes – the central air shaft. Certainly not intended for the purpose, but I don’t think the original designers had any idea how large the bell would turn out.”
She nodded. “It must have been an enormous task.”
“It took days, with teams of men working in shifts. But you know all this, don’t you, Mary? As part of your background research?”
She shrugged. “It’s better to hear it from someone knowledgeable.”
“And to fill silence, when you’d rather avoid conversation?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I need to understand this job fully. And hadn’t we better get on with things?”
Fifteen
For someone of her age, Mary’s experience of funerals was slight. There were always funeral processions in the streets, of course: immaculate hearses drawn by glossy black horses and followed by a train of crape-swathed carriages. Depending on the cost of the funeral, there were often mutes – paid mourners – marching stolidly beside the hearse, and precarious heaps of hothouse flowers about the polished coffin. There were humbler funerals, too – perhaps a hearse pulled by a single horse, with only a couple of carriages following. Although such a display was considered meagre, the cost could still bankrupt a working family, consigning its survivors to the workhouse. This happened often, yet the tradition continued. The poor, especially, were reluctant to forgo in death what they could not afford in life.
While some enjoyed taking notes, totting up the cost of a dozen long-faced mutes plus six dozen forced white roses, Mary was not among them. Her mother had refused to give up hope for her father, lost at sea, and refused any ritual that presumed his death. And when her mother’s own turn came, a few short years later, they hadn’t had the means for a coffin, let alone a funeral. She’d been shovelled grudgingly into a pauper’s grave, the site marked only by a pathetic wooden cross made by Mary herself. Back when she thought such things carried significance. So she’d lost both parents and seen hundreds of funeral processions in her life, but had somehow escaped attending a funeral service. It was thus with some trepidation that she slipped away from the building site and towards Southwark. Although the inquest had been adjourned, still awaiting James’s safety report, the coroner had seen fit to release the body. That was fortunate. For although this July was