Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

"Wait till you see it, first." She rummaged in a pocket and brought forth a small handful of pennies and ha'pennies: all the ready money Mark Quinn had in the world. "Still don't want it?" she asked, and grinned when he scowled but remained silent. She placed the coppers in a neat heap by Jenkins's elbow, and dug out from a different pocket a long twist of paper.

"What's that?" His tone was surly but his eyes intrigued.

"Powdered willow bark." At his blank expression, she explained, "For the pain."

"Oh." His eyes followed her movements now as though she was a conjuror.

From her jacket she produced a two-pound loaf of bread – white, with a golden crust, the most luxurious type one could buy.

His eyes widened and he sniffed appreciatively.

Finally, she pulled a small flask from her pocket and sloshed it encouragingly. "Still going to tell me to piss off?"

"Aw, stuff it." But Jenkins's tone was distinctly pleased.

It was the first time she'd heard it so, she realized with some surprise. Even on site, even mucking about, he'd never sounded this happy. Or this boyish. She opened the sachet and watched him tip the bitter powder down his throat without a grimace.

He took a mouthful of rum next and gave an appreciative "Hooo-aaarh!"

Silently, she hacked several thick slices from the loaf with her pocket knife. As he munched, washing down every few bites with a swig of rum, she poked the pile of coppers with the toe of her boot. "Anything else you need? I can fetch it for you."

He looked tempted, then shook his head decisively. "Naw. I can't take your money."

"It's your share of the tea round."

"I ain't never made that much on the tea round." But his gaze was focused on the pennies, as though hypnotized.

"Did today." A rotten lie, but it was the most plausible reason she had. She just hoped Jenkins needed the money enough to force himself to believe it. "I went round with Reid – he was collecting for Wick's widow – and the men all coughed up, for him and for me."

"Hunh."

"Men didn't seem too happy about it, though – Reid collecting."

"For Wick, you mean. No – he were a natural-born scoundrel, that one. Bet the glaziers didn't give nothing."

"Yeah – how'd you know?"

Jenkins grimaced. "I just know. Wick and Keenan – nobody wants to give 'em anything, 'cause they's always on the take."

Interesting. "What d'you mean?"

Jenkins merely gave her a sharp look. "I ain't got to explain everything. Just watch and you'll see." And that was all he would say on the subject.

Mary's eyes had now adjusted to the near-blackness and she could make out the general shapes of things. They were in a small, low-ceilinged, earthen-floored cellar. It held no furniture, no hearth, no place to eat, and certainly no place to wash. Only a few clues suggested that human beings attempted to live here: two small piles of matted straw and rags, representing beds; a dented pail without a handle; and a candle stub.

She tried not to look at him with pity. Jenkins's backside was obviously badly lacerated and in need of treatment, and he was wearing the same clothes she'd last seen him in. Quite likely, they were the only clothes he owned. Given the filth and poverty in which he lived, it was surprising only that he wasn't already feverish with infection.

"Who else lives here?" she asked.

A pause. Then, "Me dad and the babies."

No mother – that wasn't unusual. "Baby brothers?"

"Sisters. They ain't such babies now. Next year, maybe, Jenny'll be old enough to work."

Old enough to work was a relative concept. At the Jenkinses' level of poverty, Jenny might be five or six years old, at most. "What's your father do?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing. I just – you said he's a builder, right? Because that's how you got your job."

"None of your business."

"All right," she said mildly. It sounded as though she was dismissed. "I'll come back and see you in a few days, if you like."

Jenkins's gaze was riveted to the pennies, once again, and he shrugged ungraciously. "Suit yourself."

She unfolded her legs, stood, and promptly banged her head on the ceiling. If she, a fairly small woman, was too tall for this cellar, how on earth could a grown man like Jenkins Sr live here? And why was his son so protective of him? "Right. See you."

Jenkins merely grunted. But as she climbed the rickety ladder out of the cellar, she heard him say, "Quinn."

She paused, her hand on the top rung, anxious now to escape that dank pit. "Yeah?"

He was poking at the small pile of pennies and ha'pennies as though testing a hallucination. It seemed difficult for him to meet her gaze. "Ta."

She nodded once and tried to smile, but suddenly it was all too much: the cellar; the stench; the utter desperation all about her. She scrabbled her way up and tore out of the house, nearly knocking down the hunched woman who'd admitted her, not stopping to apologize. She pelted past the children, who blinked at her with their owlish, drugged eyes – sedated with a blend of starvation and opium, no doubt. And she didn't stop running until she was back in Lambeth.

Near Coral Street, she stumbled into a quiet alley and vomited. Bread, ale, that extra bun – all her meagre supper accounted for. But even once her stomach was empty, the retching continued in long, violent spasms that shook her frame, making her gasp and choke. She tasted salt water on her lips, and found that she was crying. What for? Not for Peter Jenkins, entirely. And not for the others she'd seen in his street. It was absurd. Childish. Weak. But for several minutes she couldn't stop.

When she finally did, she was empty: dry of tears, her stomach hollow. She felt cold. She shook with exhaustion. And she was still in an alley in Lambeth, dressed as Mark Quinn. Swallowing the remaining bitterness in her mouth, she wondered what that meant. Mary took a few steps towards Coral Street, preparing herself for what awaited her there: Rogers, that lumpy bed, a fractured night's sleep. Versus a long walk, her own bedroom, a return to her cosseted life as Mary Quinn. It was still there. She still existed. She could go back to the Agency now, or tomorrow, or at the end of this case. And somehow, knowing that was enough – for tonight, at least. Twelve Wednesday, 6 July Palace Yard, Westminster

It was the morning of the inquest. Both James and Harkness were in attendance, one as an observer, the other as a witness. And while Mary understood that a formal inquest wasn't the place for Mark Quinn, on site she felt marooned. While the atmosphere in Palace Yard had always seemed tense to Mary, today at least there was a specific reason for such a feeling of constant strain. The main exception was a pair of labourers who slowly unloaded a cart of supplies, bickering the entire time:

"I wouldn't be Harky for all the tea in China."

"Why not?"

"What, and go to one on them inquests? Don't you know nothing?"

"It ain't nothing but a room full of people."

"Yeah, and a stiff."

"What?!"

"Jesus but you's ignorant, Batesy. Some sawbones is going to slice open Wick's body in front of all the world and make them watch. That's what a inquest is, you duffer."

"Ohhhhhh…"

"Yeah, 'oh'. I couldn't never watch, no matter what no judge said. I'd be sick straight off, swear I would."

Despite the prevailing mood, Mary found it difficult not to smile at Batesy's sophisticated mate. She could have set him straight on the difference between inquest and autopsy, although Mark Quinn likely couldn't. But such light moments were rare and there was little else to break up her morning's work, ferrying barrowfuls of wood shavings and other rubbish to the bonfire pile.

It was a couple of hours later that she noticed a stranger poking his nose through the entrance gate. He was scruffy for a gentleman: his trousers bagged at the knees, and one coat sleeve was striped with something pale – chalk, perhaps. He peered into Harkness's office, apparently tempted by what he saw within. One silent step closer – a quick glance around – and he immediately spotted Mary, watching him with open curiosity from several yards away.