Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

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 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 her footman to escort you out by the tradesman's entrance, Mr Jones."

He cackled with delight. "What a fearsome old tartar you'll be, one day. Now. What can I offer you as an inducement to tell all?"

"To begin with, a promise not to publish a word of what you learn until the first of August, or until I say you may – whichever comes first. Secondly, not to speak about the same, until that time. Thirdly-"

"My dear child, those are conditions, not inducements. Tell me what you want. Money? An introduction to publishers? A penn'orth of lead-painted sweeties?"

"I was just getting to that," said Mary. She was accustomed to Jones's style now and, obnoxious as it was, it seemed to be growing on her. "I need your help."

"Aha." He leaned forward, his eyes keen. "What sort of help?"

"Finding Keenan and Reid. Today."

"That I can manage," he said promptly. "That all?"

"I also want to know how you think Wick died, and why."

He let out a long, low whistle. "I knew it! I knew we were after the same thing. You secretive little devil, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"You'd have sent me packing."

"Of course I would! But I'd have appreciated your foolhardy confidence."

"As you do now?"

He shrugged, turning up his palms. "As it happens, I'm feeling generous today. Also, short of ideas. It's a devil of a problem, isn't it? How did the scoundrel – for everyone seems to agree about that, if nothing else – how did he die?

"It's obvious, of course, that the brickies are robbing Harkness blind. All that 'ghost of the clock tower' business – it's not entirely my invention, y'know. It began as Keenan's thing, to explain mysterious goings-on at night, and the sudden disappearance of quantities of expensive building materials. Although" – he cocked his head to one side – "I suppose it might be true. Many a man perished during the blaze of eighteen-thirty-whatsit that burned the old Parliament buildings to the ground, only that's not talked of these days. It's all Big Ben, and the improving effects of Gothic architecture on the morals of the working class.

"But I digress. Keenan and Reid are filling me with this stuff about the ghost, but all the while there's a big problem in their little gang. Y'see, Reid's fallen in love with Wick's wife – scrawny little sparrow, don't see the appeal myself… though, egad, she's fertile enough – and Wick and Reid are at each other's throats. Keenan's none too pleased with this crack-up, since if the gang splits the profit goes, and who's to say they won't start to talk? So he's at 'em to work things out, and he's the sort of man who means it. I'd not put it past him to push Wick off the tower, just to shut him up."

"Why Wick, and not Reid?"

"P'raps Wick looked at him wrong. I don't know, but he ain't sentimental, Keenan."

"Wouldn't Reid be more likely to push Wick? Being in love with his wife?"

Jones sighed. "In theory, yes. But he's an anxious, do-gooding sort, is Reid. He'd like nothing better than to marry the widow and raise her brood and go straight for the rest of his life. He's much more likely to wait twenty years for Wick to die, then marry the toothless widow and call it the triumph of true love."