The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,58

your first taste of that sort of life.”

She could have corrected him there. But that itself would have involved a carefully guarded set of half-truths. “I’m sorry, but I must go. I’m so very tired.”

“At least allow me to give you a lift back.”

She half-laughed at that. “That’s very kind of you, but it wouldn’t do at all.”

“You can’t be worried about propriety at this late stage.”

“Not propriety; realism. I can hardly arrive at my lodgings in a fine carriage, can I?”

He looked startled. “You’re no longer at that girls’ school?”

“What – Miss Scrimshaw’s? No, no, no; that would be cheating. I’m in cheap lodgings, in Lambeth.” She laughed outright at his expression. “You look utterly scandalized.”

Still no spoken response from James, although his eyes said plenty.

Mary decided not to mention her new bedmate with the pungent socks; the poor man might never speak again, after that shock. “The landlady’s all right. Bit of a skinflint, but it’s quite safe. No brawls so far.” She rose and settled Mark’s battered cap on her head. “And you’ve already given me an unfair advantage, with a lovely big dinner like that. I ought to’ve had half an inch of bread-and-butter, and considered myself fortunate at that.”

He shook his head. “You. Are. Extraordinary.”

By this time, her hand was on the doorknob; she turned and grinned. “That ought to sound like more of a compliment than it did.” She tipped her cap and had the satisfaction of seeing a faint smile. “See you tomorrow, sir.”

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