The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,80

hand in greeting.

“Jenkins!” Mary sped across the street. “I been looking for you!”

“Well, I didn’t know.” He tried to sound sullen but couldn’t quite control a smile of pleasure. “How’s tricks, then?”

Relieved as she was to see Jenkins safe, Mary steered the conversation round to Reid as soon as she reasonably could. Jenkins was utterly unsurprised at the mention of his name.

“Aye, he’s a good one, that Reid. He’s the reason we live here, now.” He caught Mary’s expression of surprise, and grinned his old, knowing grin. “You didn’t know? He felt that bad about me losing my place through Keenan, he come and found us in that cellar. He’s the one what got us a room in here.” He gestured behind.

“Very decent of him,” said Mary cautiously. It seemed like a small enough gesture, given Reid’s illicit income.

But Jenkins was clearly thrilled. “Decent!” he scolded. “It ain’t decent – saintly is what it is. Bloody Harky wouldn’t give me even an extra day’s wages, for all he’s a gent and rolling in money and a teetotalling saint, but Reid’s paying for me and the kiddies to live, food and all, on his wages. That’s a sight more than decent.”

“It’s all right, for those who can afford it.” Mary didn’t like Jenkins’s new tone of worshipful fervour. Especially not towards a crooked labourer who’d soon be sacked and tried for his part in the site thefts.

“What d’you mean?” Now he was all bristling suspicion again, much as he’d been on the day they’d first met. “What you saying?”

“About the brickies being on the take,” said Mary patiently. “You’re the one who told me.”

Jenkins made a noise of disgust. “I never said that. It’s Keenan what’s on the take, all the time. Him and Wick, they played Harky blind. But Reid weren’t never a part of that. Reid, he’s living here now, ’cause he can’t keep his old digs and us.”

She hesitated, unsure where Jenkins’s hero worship left off and his canny knowingness began. If Reid wasn’t part of the thieving ring… “Where’s he now, then? Isn’t he with Keenan?”

Jenkins looked worried. “I dunno. His room, it’s next to ours, and he’s always out of a Sunday, at Mrs Wick’s. But he ain’t never come home last night.”

“He went off with Keenan yesterday.”

“He never!”

“I saw them. We all saw them.” As she explained Reid’s nervous departure from the pub, she watched Jenkins’s expression grow more and more worried. The lad was in earnest about Reid’s shining character.

“We got to find him,” said Jenkins, thoroughly alarmed now. “That Keenan – he’s a bad one.”

“So everyone says.”

“You and me,” he said fiercely. “We’ll find him.”

Twenty-seven

Gordon Square, Bloomsbury

James awoke from a feverish nap with his small stock of patience thoroughly exhausted. His head pounded. His skin felt raw and tender, even against the smooth linen sheets. The ticking of his bedroom clock seemed excessively loud, and he stared at it with some suspicion. It read seven o’clock, clearly an error. He was still staring at it when Mrs Vine appeared with a tray.

“Mrs Vine, what time is it?”

She glanced at the clock with some surprise. “Why, seven o’clock, Mr James.”

That made no sense whatsoever. “In the morning?”

“In the evening, sir. It’s Sunday evening, and I’ve brought you a little supper.”

He felt a peculiar jolt. Of course it was evening; dusk was falling. But that meant he’d been asleep for hours… “Hang supper. Where’s that letter I’ve been waiting for?”

“You’ve not received a letter, Mr James.”

“There must be a letter. When I woke this morning, I sent a letter by messenger and he was to wait for a reply. Where’s my reply?” He heard his voice growing loud and cross, but seemed quite unable to control it.

“The messenger delivered the letter but received no reply, sir.”

He swore and threw back the bedclothes. Cold air rushed against his skin, making him shiver. “I’m going out. Tell Barker to be ready in ten minutes, please.”

“That’s most unwise, Mr James. Malarial fever’s a serious business; you’ll injure your health, in earnest.”

“There’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”

“Drink a little soup, at least. You must be parched.”

“Ten minutes, Mrs Vine.” He opened a drawer and extracted a small envelope of thin, foreign paper.

Her expression remained perfectly neutral. “Very well. Any message for Mr George when he asks about your absence?”

“Thank you, no.”

Barker, too, was reluctant to the brink of mutiny. “You ain’t fit to go nowhere. I’ll go and ask for the letter meself, Mr James, but