The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,77
clear enough. Why else would I be wearing boy’s clothes and working on site?”
“Indeed,” said Jones, settling himself on the stool beside hers. “I must admit, you had me fooled until I saw you looking through the window at that coffee-shop. That was a dead giveaway.”
“Oh – Reid’s great tip,” she smirked. “The poor sod.”
“How do you mean?”
“Are you asking me for information, Mr Jones? Without offering to pay?”
He grinned at that, rather reluctantly. “I’ve already confessed that I fell for the whole boy-labourer thing. It’s not a bad get-up, until you go peering through windows with those curious, adult eyes.” His eyes skimmed over her with a detached sort of assessment. “Aren’t you going to tell me your real name?”
“You may continue to call me Quinn.”
He looked wounded. “Subterfuge is so very wearisome, don’t you think? I prefer to embrace the truth, myself – it’s only proper for those of our shared profession.”
“Surely you’re not claiming that Octavius Jones is your real name?”
He grinned. “Beggars belief, doesn’t it? But I’m afraid it’s so: I’m the eighth son – son, mark you, not child, for I’ve three sisters – my father never being one for moderation. Tertius, Quintus and Septimus were my favourite brothers, when I was a child.”
She laughed. “Now that’s a tale.”
“It’s true! My mother was a gentlewoman of little education and even less common sense who eloped with a ruffian called Jones. Naming us in Latin was her only revenge on my very unsaintly father.” His eyes dared her to disbelieve him.
“You must take after your father.”
“Naturally.” He held his pint aloft. “Well, Miss ‘Mark Quinn’, here’s to the pursuit of truth – or, in my case, scandal and profit.” Without waiting for her to respond, he drained his pint, sighed with satisfaction and said, “Who d’you work for, then? Never one of the broadsheets; they’d not have a mere, weak woman writing in their pages.” He tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. “Perhaps one of the more radical weekly mags? I suppose you’re a regular hyena in petticoats.”
She grinned. “I didn’t know trash journalists read Mary Wollstonecraft.”
“Only enough to insult her,” he replied, good humour unruffled. “But you’re trying to distract me. Whom d’you write for?”
“Nobody. I’m researching a book.”
He groaned melodramatically. “Heaven preserve us – researching a book! Of all the idealistic, unrealistic, ninnyish things to attempt. A book, indeed! And I suppose it’s intended as one of those well-meaning, authentic reports on the lower orders and their struggles for survival, et cetera et cetera.” He caught her expression and chortled. “I knew it! I knew it! You earnest little dunce! Don’t you know that won’t sell? You might as well flog those breeches you’re wearing; they’ll fetch more than your silly book.”
“Perhaps. But I’d wager that I know a deal more about the death of John Wick than you do,” she said coolly.
That brought him up short. “Poppycock. What can you have learned while fetching and carrying and ruining your back on a worker’s wage?”
She shrugged and began to climb down from her stool. “What a pity you’ll never know.”
“Wait!” His hand shot out and grabbed hers. Then, as he met her gaze, he meekly released her. “You’re so abrupt,” he complained. “Can’t we be friendly about this?”
“After you’ve insulted my research and my proposed book?” She injected a degree of wounded pride into her tone, just to see what he’d say.
“And touchy, too. My dear girl, you’ll never be a proper journalist if you don’t grow a rhinoceros’s hide to cover your skin.”
Mary considered the man standing before her. Despite his constant stream of nonsense, he was alert and observant. Now here was a man whose allegiance was clear, it being entirely to himself. He was obsessed with the scandal at the building site. He had connections: if anybody knew what was what and who’d gone where, it was Jones.
And she was desperate. The image of Harkness’s mutilated diary was fresh in her mind’s eye. Today was the day, and she still didn’t know what, where, how or why. If she’d had the time, she’d have waited for the Agency. But she doubted she could afford to, now. “So why would I tell you what I know? I’ve worked hard for the knowledge.” She held out her bruised, nicked hands as proof.
“Ah, the age-old refrain: what’s in it for me?” Jones ignored her hands. “You know, a proper old-fashioned lady would ask, ‘How may I assist you, Mr Jones?’”
“A ‘proper old-fashioned lady’ would summon