Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

"Hmph."

"Indeed."

"So you're for Keenan."

"Not so fast, young Quinn. There's an additional problem. Wick was a moody, brooding sort – type of fellow who's your best friend one minute, don't know you the next. And he'd been talking back and forth with Harkness."

Mary tried not to look too suddenly alert. "What about Harkness?"

Jones sighed dramatically. "That's what I don't know. Wick was sneaking on Keenan and Reid, maybe. Or trying to bring Harky into their little circle – but that don't really make sense: why share out the profit four ways, when you can get away with three? My money's on Wick double-crossing his mates for some paltry reward, for that's the sort of chap he was."

Mary thought fast. The theory didn't account for Harkness's elevated lifestyle, but that might be a separate matter. Perhaps she and James had been too quick to put together cause and effect.

"And now we come to my little conversation with Reid – the one you were so keen to hear." He cackled at the memory. "What a load of poppycock that was. Reid's panicked about something, that's all I know, and he gets hold of me and fills me with the purest nonsense about Wick: staunch family man, devout church-goer, et cetera et cetera. When all of Southwark knows he beat his wife to a bloody pulp every night, and her screams could be heard across the Thames."

Mary shuddered. She was only too able to picture that domestic scene.

Jones took no notice. "But the interesting thing about Reid's story is that he's trying to throw blame on Keenan. Not directly, mind you, but Keenan's name keeps cropping up, and it's clear that things are sour between them. The gang's cracked up for good, and Reid wants out, and his first thought is to get the journalist on his side." He smiled pleasantly. "Newspapers are the new courts of law, it seems. Even such as mine."

"So to clear his own name and place the blame on Keenan, Reid wants you to whitewash Wick's character before the reading public?"

"So it seems. Crude, isn't it?"

"Clever, assuming you believed him."

"People generally assume too much." He signalled to Mrs Hughes for a fresh drink, then propped his chin on his fist and looked at Mary. "Your turn."

Tailoring her narrative to Jones's swift, casual style, Mary told him about the tea round. Her visit to the Wick home. Harkness's attendance at Wick's funeral. The subsequent fist-fight between Keenan and Reid. And yesterday's disappearance of a drunken Reid with a sober Keenan.

Jones listened in complete silence – something she'd not thought him capable of. Then, pursing his lips, he let out a low whistle. "So you're for Reid as the killer. Anyone else we ought to consider? Jolly old Harkness, perhaps?"

Mary kept silent.

"I suppose there's always Wick himself, though I can't think why he'd have done that. Unless the idea of going home to all those brats was suddenly just too much." He pulled a vivid face. "Understandable, really."

"As though he'd nothing to do with the getting of all those brats," said Mary indignantly.

Jones twinkled with amusement. "Easy, Miss Radical; I was only in jest. No, much as I hate to admit it, I like your theory better."

"Well, then," said Mary, standing and stretching her legs. They were numb from unaccustomed sitting. "How do I find Keenan and Reid?" She stared at Jones, who studied the depths of his pint with deep concentration. "Or have you already forgotten your end of the bargain?"

"Not at all," he said easily, "but I do wonder if it's not a little irresponsible of me to send you in search of them. Of Keenan, in particular. He's utterly ruthless, you know."

"I know."

"And if he sees through your disguise…"

"I don't need you to frighten me; I'm quite capable of doing that myself."

"But you still need to locate him? There's such a thing as over-dedication to the profession, you know. Why not have another drink with me and wait to see what happens on site tomorrow? My money's on Reid's murder. Body found in Thames. Keenan captured in daring, high-wire escape."

"That's your plan? To place a bet, then wait and see?"

"Even God rested on the seventh day."

She smiled. "Just tell me where they live. That's all I need from you."

"That's all, hey?" He looked her up and down once again, not the least bit detached or critical this time. "Pity." But he gave her the directions all the same. Twenty-six Southwark

It was an enormous, accidental tenement – a pair of houses that seemed to have fallen into each other and thus been prevented from collapsing. One door was boarded over, and none of the ground-floor windows was intact. It was far beneath what Mary expected for a skilled labourer, even one intent on saving money, and her first, angry thought was that Jones had played her false. It was a simple matter, spouting off a random address. By the time she discovered his perfidy, he'd have long departed the Pig and Whistle. Or perhaps he'd not bother. Quite likely if she went back to the pub, she'd find him draped across two chairs, laughing at her credulity.

She stood for a moment on the pavement, irresolute. This was a waste of time. Yet where could she go next but St John's Wood, to report her failures? As she hovered outside the ramshackle building, a skinny boy hobbled out of the door. He moved stiffly, and descended the two front steps with the care of an invalid. Mary's eyes widened. Surely not…

Yet as the boy turned, he caught sight of her watching and recognition flashed across his freckled face. He waved a 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.