Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

Instantly, he straightened and spun towards her. "Hello, laddie, Mr Harkness about?" His voice was warm and friendly, the sort of voice that made one relax and encouraged one to trust him.

Perhaps that was why she did not. "No, sir."

"Not on site? When d'you expect him?"

"Don't know, sir. He didn't say."

He pulled a face. "Funny sort of management on his part, hey? And what are you lot supposed to do in the meantime?" He was now standing very close – practically on her feet.

She shrugged and edged back half a step. "Carry on, I suppose." His gaze was intent upon her face, as though he were memorizing her features. It made her want to squirm. Few adults spared "Mark" a glance, unless she'd done something unusual to draw their attention. It had happened with Harkness, and then with Keenan. What had she done now?

"You're new," he announced.

"Third day, sir." Had she seen him somewhere before? The trouble was, he was utterly unremarkable: a fair-haired man with a closely trimmed beard and even, unmemorable features. He was neither young nor old, neither handsome nor ugly.

"Like it so far?"

"Well enough, sir." He was definitely up to something. No gentleman on legitimate business would waste this much time on an errand boy.

"I would have thought," he said idly, "that Mr Harkness would have a secretary, or a clerk, to manage the site while he's gone. Where did you say he'd gone to?"

Aha! That was his aim. Her voice was a little prim as she said, "I didn't, sir."

He grinned at that, and Mary blinked. All the bland neutrality was gone, replaced by a slightly crooked, lazy charm. "You're a clever lad – too sharp for the likes of me."

Mary couldn't help grinning back. "I don't think so, sir."

"Oh, but I do. Very well: I confess. I already know that Mr Harkness went to the inquest into the death of John Wick. But now that the inquest's been adjourned…" He noted Mary's big eyes and grinned. "Oh – didn't you hear? I thought boys like you knew everything the moment it happened."

She shook her head. "What did they say, sir?"

"Why should I tell you? Find out for yourself, lazybones!"

"I am, sir, by asking you – I'm trying, anyway."

He smirked. "Cheeky little fart." But when she continued to stand there, waiting for an answer, he looked at her more closely. "Stubborn too. Hmm… Well, you might as well know: there's no verdict yet. Instead, they're awaiting the result of a safety review to be conducted on the building site. First I'd heard of it, I don't mind confessing to you. First I've heard of the chappie engaged to do it, as well – fellow called Easton." He fixed her with a keen eye. "You know him, sonny?"

She looked noncommittal. "Everybody here does, sir."

"Hmph. Naturally. Er – where was I? Oh yes – I am a member of the Press, seeking to interview Mr Harkness and Mr Easton vis a vis the inquest of John Wick. And," he added, holding up a warning finger, "before you summon your two largest stonemasons to turn me out on my ear, have the kindness to remember that we gentlemen of the Press, though humble, help to fashion public opinion even as we serve the public desire for knowledge and advancement."

Despite her mistrust, Mary was amused. "You write for a newspaper?"

"Precisely! I knew you were clever."

"What newspaper?"

He looked at her with renewed interest. "My, my – we have a connoisseur of the daily news!"

She squirmed. Perhaps the question had been a bit out of character…

"The fine and noble organ for which I write is dedicated to spreading the truth, to educating the populace and, above all, to entertaining the masses. Can you guess its title?"

"No, sir."

"I must confess myself deeply grieved, young man. It's none other than the Eye on London. You know it now, don't you?"

She bit back a grin. "Yes, sir." The Eye! How apt. It was a newspaper that contained even less sense than the man's speech.

He was glancing about again, and though he seemed nonchalant, Mary was willing to bet he didn't miss much. "I say, is that lad Jenkins not about?"

"Jenkins is injured, sir. Off for a week, at least."

"Dearie me." But he didn't look much distressed. "And what's your name?"

She hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Quinn, sir. Mark Quinn."

"Octavius Jones, at your service." He shook hands with her solemnly. "I think we might be of use to each other, young Quinn."

"Sir?"

"Bright lad like you… I'm sure you see all sorts in the course of your workday."

"All sorts of what, sir?"

He grinned again and gave her a sharp look. "That's precisely what I mean. There's something not right about this site – and I don't mean just the death of that labourer. I daresay you've heard that before now."

Mary nodded slowly. Jenkins's words – "always on the take" – echoed in her mind. She had a deal of catching up to do, if she was to be of any use to the Agency.

"Well, then: I've an interest in uncovering the truth. I don't even know what that truth is, right now. But if you see or hear anything that strikes you as unusual, I want to know about it. And I'll make it worth your while. What d'you say to that?" He jingled some coins in his trouser pocket.

She nodded, silently vowing to avoid Octavius Jones at all costs. He seemed entirely too much of a risk. She was wondering how to escape his presence when she heard an irritable bark from close behind her: "Quinn!"

She jumped – rather guiltily – and saw James stalking towards them, his expression stormy. "Sir!" Her voice was breathless, and she hoped he'd interpret it as surprise – nothing else.

Octavius Jones perked up and spun to face James. "Mr Easton, of Easton Engineering, I presume?"

James's glare was fixed firmly on Mary. "Enough loitering and gossip. We've work to do." He brushed past Jones with scarcely a glance. "This is a closed building site. Depart this instant, sir, or I shall have you turned out."

"I do beg your pardon, sir," purred Jones, raising his hat with elaborate courtesy. "No harm intended." He spun about and tipped Mary a wink. "Good day, laddie."

James merely glowered and kept moving. "Now, Quinn."

Like a good little errand boy, Mary turned to follow him. But even as she trotted after James, a new idea whisked through her brain and her head swivelled to watch Octavius Jones's retreating figure. Medium build. Damn. He was definitely not the party who'd broken into the site on Monday night.

Just at that moment, Jones twisted round and caught her frowning at him. A broad grin broke across his face and he reached into a pocket, took out a coin and flipped it towards her in a high, showy arc. Reflexively, she caught it – then cursed herself for doing so. She couldn't have done anything else, in Mark Quinn's persona. But as the coin changed from cool to warm in her clenched fist, she couldn't help but wonder how and when she might be compelled to repay Jones's generosity. Thirteen The Agency's headquarters Acacia Road, St John's Wood

This was all highly irregular. She'd explained her need to live in lodgings, in order fully to inhabit the role of Mark Quinn. She thought Anne and Felicity understood. Yet tonight's summons from the Agency threatened to undermine that effort. As she knocked on the familiar attic door, Mary tried to swallow her temper. She'd gain nothing by sounding cross and frustrated; Anne and Felicity might even read those emotions as indicative of an inability to continue.

"Come in." Anne and Felicity looked the same as ever, sitting in their usual chairs, drinking tea. Although their expressions didn't change, Mary thought she detected surprise none the less. Her suit of clothes – her only suit of clothes – was filthy. Street muck clung to her boots and calves in a most unpleasant fashion. She could only imagine how she must smell.