The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,54
her pace just outside the shop. Its open windows vibrated with boisterous conversation and sharp barks of laughter, these deeper sounds ornamented with the bright clatter of forks. Among this relaxed bunch, Reid’s single-minded intent was only too evident as he picked his way through the crush of bodies, promptly disappearing from view.
Mary prepared to wait. She crossed the street and bought her dinner from the outdoor stall that looked nearest to clean: a hot potato, still in its jacket. There was nowhere to sit, of course, but she didn’t mind. She quite liked to lean against lampposts, lounge on walls – manners severely discouraged in young ladies, but essential to street urchins. The dinner hour was at its peak, now, with working men and women dining according to their budgets. Those with the most money went to coffee-shops like the one Reid had gone into, where one could sit down to a hot cooked meal. Public houses appealed to those who preferred to drink their sustenance, downing a few pints of ale with, perhaps, covert bites of a smuggled-in slab of bread-and-butter. There were also the bakeshops, which sold pies and other savouries to be eaten elsewhere – “elsewhere” meaning the street. Cheapest of all were the street vendors, like Mary’s potato-woman, with her tumbledown stall and hoarse cry of “’Ot-pitaaaaaaytoes, nice ‘n’ ’ot!”. One could buy slabby boiled puddings, elderly scraps rolled up in pastry, or even fried things – chunks of anonymous fish, for example – according to appetite and budget.
There were those who couldn’t afford the street stalls, of course. If they waited until day’s end, a generous coffee-shop-owner might offer them a handful of scraps – trimmings, kitchen sweepings, anything that couldn’t be resold another day. Or they could take matters into their own hands and, as a friend of Mary’s vagabond days put it, “make their own prices”. It wasn’t difficult to pinch food, especially with an associate. Confectioners were easy, since they put out yesterday’s goods on tables to entice passing trade. And loose fruit was as good as windfall. But hot wares were trickiest, since they were kept covered, and Mary never outgrew her yearning for cooked meals. Even a badly roasted potato, burnt outside and grainy at the core, was better for being warm.
She finished her potato, which was not burnt, and contemplated a second course. But the dinner hour was passing fast and the coffee-shop across the road emptying of customers. They strolled to the door, those men, sleepy and replete, and stepped onto the pavement with an air of awaking from a pleasant dream. It was time to take another look.
The first man Mary recognized was Octavius Jones, sprawled easily at a corner table in a high-backed chair, an open notebook before him. This must be his favoured coffee-shop, the hive of gossip he’d mentioned in the Eye. Sitting across from Jones, with his back to the window, was Reid. She stopped and permitted herself a good, long look. Reid leaned towards Jones, as though forward momentum might help his concentration. His narrative was clearly of import; the man was practically vibrating in his chair. In contrast, Jones’s posture was casual. He had a pencil in hand but wrote nothing, asking only an occasional brief question. Neither man looked at the other; both were entirely focused on the story flowing between them.
Mary would have given much to know what that was. While it would likely appear in tomorrow’s Eye, that might be too late. It was already Friday; Wick was buried; and the inquest was waiting only for James’s report before returning a verdict. Without more concrete information, the Agency would be unable to challenge that decision, if necessary. However, for the moment she had seen all she could.
As she began to slip away, something in her movement, slight as it was, caught Jones’s eye. He glanced up, eyes widening, body going completely still for a fraction of a second. Then his gaze sharpened in recognition and he grinned at her through the glass, not the least bit put out to catch her spying. Indeed, he raised his thick glazed mug to her in a mocking toast. Reid, already twitching with anxiety, spun round instantly. His eyes were wild, suspicious – and, when they lighted on Mary, incredulous.
She stood, dumbstruck. The best thing she could do was to move on and assume that Reid saw only a nosy little boy. But she couldn’t shake the notion that in his