greeting. “Half an ale for a thirsty lad, missus.”
The landlady directed her round to the end of the bar and provided her with not only half a pint of ale, but also a scrap of paper, a pencil stub, and enough privacy so that only an excessively nosy neighbour might observe the spectacle of a small, shabby lad writing a note with considerably less difficulty than one might expect of that sort of boy.
The note was in a simple code – easy to memorize and quick to decode, using a replacement key that rendered it a simple string of numbers to the uninitiated. Mary’s message was terse: Suspect H in league with K, R. No evid yet re W. Pls advise. Having written the note, she drained her half-pint. Before she could ask, a new drink was placed before her and the old mug removed, along with the note. “You drink that nice and slow, lad,” said the landlady firmly. “That’s a fine ale for sipping, not gulping.”
Mary followed her instructions. She’d never been a great beer-drinker but she was rapidly growing accustomed to its complex, bittersweet flavours. On a diet that meant she was eating less than ever before, in a job that required more physical graft than she was used to, she recognized in her daily pints an important form of nutriment. Harkness was off his rocker, trying to ban his workers from beer. How else could they find the energy to work?
A large hand clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t you look comfortable,” drawled its owner.
She nearly bit her mug in surprise. There, smirking down at her, stood Octavius Jones. His other hand was curled around a pint pot and he perched on the stool beside hers, his sleepy green eyes narrowed in amusement. Amusement and … scrutiny.
Mary tried to control her panic. He’d not watched her write that note; she’d been careful about that. He must have appeared afterwards, during or after the removal of the message. All the same, his eyes had a knowing glint she didn’t like. “Mr Jones,” she said, in her gruffest boy’s tones.
“Young Quinn. What a surprise to see you in my local on this stinking Sunday. You know, I’ve been thinking about you…”
She shifted uncomfortably, as any boy would at such a declaration. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
His hand still lay on her shoulder and when she shrugged, he didn’t remove it. He elevated an eyebrow – something he’d clearly practised in a mirror for just such an occasion. “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing. No, no, no,” he said authoritatively, as she knocked back the rest of her ale and made to stand. “Another pint for me, Mrs Hughes, and the same again for my young friend here. We’re just going into the snug.”
“Can’t, sir. I got to go.”
“Stay and have another, do,” he said, his voice still easy and sociable. But his hand on her shoulder was heavy now, the fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “I want a word with you, young Quinn.”
“I got nothing to tell you. I don’t know nothing.”
“Rubbish. We’ve plenty to talk about.”
“You take your hands off,” she said loudly. “I ain’t that kind of boy.”
“And I ain’t that kind of gent,” replied Jones promptly, unperturbed by the heads turning in their direction. “Don’t be afraid, young Quinn. It’s not your sexual services I’m after.”
“What d’you want, then?”
He’d not taken his eyes from hers. “I think,” he said very quietly, “you’ll find it to your advantage to have that drink with me. Miss Quinn.”
The landlady set two foaming tankards before them and looked hard at Mary. “Everything all right, young man?”
Very slowly, very reluctantly, Mary nodded.
Mrs Hughes’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, but when Mary met it with an even stare, she shrugged and returned to her customers at the other end of the bar.
“I’ll talk to you here,” said Mary in a low voice. “Not in the snug.”
“Suit yourself,” said Jones easily. “Though you’d be just as safe there. I’m not in the habit of ravishing the competition.”
The competition…? Mary felt a sudden great wave of relief. If that was all he meant, she was in luck. “I wouldn’t have thought the Eye worth competing against,” she said scornfully.
Jones smirked. “Insult me all you like, but I’ve just tricked you into admitting that you’re a reporter, too.”
“You didn’t trick me,” she said, settling into the role now. “I was surprised you saw through the disguise, but the explanation’s