She smiled crookedly. “That’s quite a compliment, coming from a man who’s just returned from India, survived malaria, and been appointed to this safety review.”
He waved his hand impatiently. “But I’m just a stick-in-the-mud professional man. What you’re doing is really radical! I mean, Henry Mayhew does those interviews of poor Londoners in the Chronicle, of course. But for someone, especially a woman, actually to live the life? That’s original.”
She cringed. As though she hadn’t felt fraudulent enough without his excitement and admiration. And what would she do when he asked to read her work-in-progress? Then, with a pang of regret, she remembered she would no longer be in contact with James at that point. This was a cover story to protect the assignment. Once this was over, she would have to take care not to run into James again, if she valued her work as a secret agent. “I’m not sure whether it’ll work out…” she demurred.
“I’ve wondered about the life of an errand boy. How do people treat you?” A new thought occurred to him and he frowned. “You must often be in situations that are dangerous for a lady.”
“Oh…” Despite her best intentions, Mary found herself warming under his protective scrutiny. “I manage.”
“I’m sure you do.” He looked her up and down, slowly, carefully, and she felt a deep, tingling blush begin at her toes. It was all very well running about in breeches when others supposed you male, but now she felt distinctly underdressed. “Trousers become you,” he murmured.
“Had—” She cleared her throat. “Hadn’t we better get to work?”
He grinned. “The correct response, when one is complimented, is ‘Thank you’. You’ve not forgotten your manners already, young lady?”
“That’s not the sort of compliment one pays to a lady.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t think the etiquette manuals cover this sort of situation.” He leaned in close, his lips all but grazing her neck, and inhaled. “Mmm. You smell good, too.”
She nearly choked. Took a step backwards, until her back met cold stone. “Th-thank you.”
“That’s better. May I kiss you?” His finger dipped into her shirt collar, stroking the tender nape of her neck.
“I d-don’t th-think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? We’re alone.” His hands were at her waist.
Her lungs felt tight and much too small. “Wh-what if somebody comes in?”
He considered for a moment. “Well, I suppose they’ll think I fancy grubby little boys.”
At that she burst out laughing, and the shift in mood lent her strength to push him away slightly. “I’ve another question: when did you recognize me?”
He released her with visible reluctance. “Immediately, of course.”
“But you didn’t let on! Why not?”
He grinned, a little shyly. “No. I thought I’d see how things unfolded.”
“So you might have completed the review and disappeared, all without saying anything?”
“Would you have been disappointed?”
“Answer my question, first.”
“Of course not. I was just choosing my moment. And you?”
“Oh, I’d have been deeply disappointed in your intelligence.”
“Is that all?” he laughed.
She smiled. “Perhaps.”
“Any more questions?”
“Yes. Are we to do any work today?”
“Have you become duller since we last met?”
“Yes,” she said primly.
His charming grin flashed again – illness hadn’t changed that, at least – and then he turned serious. “I suppose the next order of business is to inspect the belfry.”
As they ascended, their pace gradually slowed from brisk to measured – imperceptibly at first, then unmistakably. Mary glanced at his face and was unsurprised to see his cheeks flushed and a slight frown between his eyebrows.
He caught her looking. “Don’t tell me you’re tired.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Another thirty steps and his breathing was distinctly audible: measured, but with a breathless edge. Mary risked another quick look and again, he immediately noticed her concern. “What?”
“What d’you mean, ‘What’?”
“Why d’you keep staring at me?”
Fine. If that’s how he meant to play it… “Perhaps I’m just admiring your Roman profile.”
He smirked. “‘Roman’ is a nice euphemism for ‘broken nose’.” They climbed another dozen steps. “A nose you helped to shape,” he reminded her.
She grinned at the recollection of their first fight – a fist-fight. As the shorter, weaker party she’d lost, of course, but she’d held out for a decent length of time. “Anybody as high-handed and arrogant as you are ought to expect the occasional broken nose.”
He snorted with amusement, which immediately led to a fit of coughing. It wasn’t an ordinary sort of cough, but a prolonged, wheezy hacking which halted their progress. His face turned scarlet, he steadied himself against the wall, and eventually he sank down to a crouch on the steps. Mary put out a hand towards him; he swatted it away impatiently.
As the coughing subsided, his breathing became somewhat easier. “Phew.” Fishing out a handkerchief, he mopped a light mist of sweat from his forehead. He attempted a smile, but his eyes were watering. “You were saying?”
She couldn’t remember and didn’t care. “Is this an after-effect of malarial fever?”
He shrugged. “Suppose so.”
“It’s not something new – like pneumonia, or bronchitis?”
“Certainly not,” he scowled.
“But it’s made worse by overexertion?”
“Stop fussing.”
“A couple of questions is hardly ‘fussing’. I just wondered whether you’re ill. ”
“You’re not my mother.”
“Thank God for that.”
He glared at her and pushed himself to his feet. She could see the effort involved: he moved as though all his limbs were weighted down. “I’m fine.”
“Ooh … very convincing.”
“I’m not going to spend all day arguing in a stairwell. Are you coming up or not?” Without waiting for a reply, he resumed the climb. This time, however, he was gripping the handrail.
Mary stared up at his receding form. He was thin; from this angle, it was obvious that his suit was too big – the jacket hanging loose from broad shoulders, the trousers roomier than was fashionable. He must have lost a great deal of strength as well as weight. She followed him meekly for another dozen steps or so, then said in a conversational tone, “We’re less than one-third of the way there.”
“I know.”
It was a slow ascent, and when they reached the landing at the one-third point, he stopped to wipe his forehead and neck again. She stood quietly, unsure what to do. Showing concern or offering advice would doubtless result only in the same mulish denial. Not that she was in a position to criticize; it was a trait she recognized in herself. So she simply leaned against the wall and didn’t look at him.
James’s breathing, rapid and shallow, was the loudest sound in the room. The belfry was still some two hundred steps above them, the artisans and labourers in Palace Yard several storeys below. The rough brick was cool against Mary’s cheek and she closed her eyes for a moment, letting her thoughts drift. Bricks – mortar – Keenan – thrashing. Her eyes popped open again and she glanced around the landing, seeing it properly for the first time. It was surprisingly spacious, apparently designed as a sort of resting-place, although there was no seating yet. After this point, the stairs seemed to narrow and – yes, of course … why hadn’t she thought of this before?
She whirled around to address James. “Has anyone said what Wick was doing in the belfry?”
His eyes were pinched shut, as though against pain. “No.” Then, with a certain reluctant curiosity, “Why?”
“Look at the next flight of steps: the wal
ls are built of stone. If that continues, there’s no reason for a bricklayer to have been working up there.”
His eyes snapped open. “That continues, all the way up?”
“We’ll see. But none of the brickies works this high up.”
He nodded, animation returning. “Certainly. And the glaziers should be able to give a fair account of how they left things that night.” He looked warily at the narrow staircase curling upwards, out of sight. “Er – perhaps you ought to go up ahead of me.”
“I have a better idea: lean on me as you go up.”
He seemed nonplussed. “But – I – you – ”
She took his hand and set it on her shoulder. “Like a walking-stick; so.”
He jerked his hand away as though scalded. “I can’t!”
“Why? Because I’m female?”
“I can’t just use you as a prop…”
“Of course you can; think of me as a twelve-year-old boy named Mark.” She captured his hand and replaced it. “I’m fairly strong for my size, you know.”
He recoiled once again. “That’s hardly the point.”
“I thought the point was to get to the top of the stairs,” she said, not bothering to hide her impatience. “How else are you going to manage that?”
“I’ll just have to try harder.”
“Ooh yes – sheer stubborn stupidity should certainly carry the day.”
They glared at each other with genuine irritation. Then, after several long moments, James sighed ruefully. “Pot and kettle, hey?”
She offered him a half-smile. “I’d be the same, if our positions were reversed.”
“I know.”
There was an awkward pause and then he said, “Well. Shall we?”
He followed her up the first few stairs, his hand barely resting on her shoulder. As they ascended, Mary felt him begin to lean into her frame. It was subtle at first, mainly on the step up. With each storey gained, though, the weight of his hand became heavier, his breathing more laboured. Their pace slowed and, eventually, he began to rest every few steps.
“Don’t worry,” he rasped, when they came to one such stop. “’S not contagious.”
“I know.”
“Desperately unfit. Been on bed-rest for months.”
She nodded. He must have been gravely ill; James wasn’t the sort to tolerate bed-rest unless he was actually too weak to crawl.
“Soon be back to normal.”
Incredible – the most arrogant man alive was actually apologizing for his weakness. Not directly, of course, but the sentiment was there. She was half-afraid to think of what it might – or might not – signify.
They climbed. And climbed. And continued to climb. It was a shock, finally, to round a curve into a large room filled with dazzling light. Mary squinted and blinked, and as her eyes adjusted she realized she was looking at a wall of glass and wrought iron – a vast mosaic, with each pane of glass thick and pearly-bright, the smallest of them about the size of her head. They were beautifully ordered, pieced together in a balanced, intricate circle. As she tilted her head back to take in the full pattern, she gasped.
It was the back of one of the clock faces! From the ground they appeared flat and white, like painted surfaces. But seen from behind they were astonishingly luminous, refracting and softening the stingy yellow-grey daylight into something quite unearthly. She stared dreamily, forgetting where or who she was. When she came to with a start, she had no idea how long she’d been entranced. Half a minute? Half an hour?
And there was still so much to see. A long table at the centre of the room supported a sprawling engine, a complicated tangle of gears, cranks and shafts which drove the clock. It was surprisingly quiet; it didn’t tick, in the manner of a wrist-watch, although there was the constant whisper of well-greased metal parts turning against one another.
The final flight of steps, numbering perhaps fifty, took them up to the belfry. There, suspended from an enormous framework in the rafters, were the bells; the reason they’d climbed the tower. All of London remembered the embarrassment and disappointment the previous year when the great bell was first tolled. There had been a glorious parade in which “Big Ben” was brought to New Palace Yard, drawn by sixteen white horses. But soon afterwards it had cracked and was taken down, broken up and recast. Its replacement – still dubbed “Big Ben” – had been installed. But given the recent question of site safety, it was James’s responsibility to inspect everything once more before it could be rung.
The four quarter-bells were enormous, judged by human scale. But they, in turn, were dwarfed by Big Ben. From Mary’s perspective, this massive central bell was a dark cave large enough for several people to hide in. She blinked and instinctively stepped back, out of its span. It ought to be firmly fixed in place, of course, but James’s very presence here suggested otherwise. And there was something sinister about the bell, too – this metal beast that had cracked, been melted and recast, and raised again only to witness a man’s death.
A strong breeze wafted through the belfry and Mary moved towards its source: the huge open arches, one on each side of the tower, which allowed the weather in and the sound of the bells out. What she saw made her gasp and instinctively steady herself against the stone half-wall: the city sprawled before her in all directions, vast and miniaturized at the same time. It was recognizably London – the buildings, the cobwebs of streets, the rowdy bustle that rose, almost visibly, from the place. But it was also London as a toy village; an exquisite map. Here, all the familiar monuments were scaled down to the size of her fingernail, yet retained every detail. A slight dizziness consumed her as she gazed out over the roof-tops, reluctant even to blink lest the magical sight dissipate. She had never seen the like before and doubted she would again.
Glancing at James, she saw her own expression reflected in his face. He smiled at her and she could see he would have spoken – something tender, something intimate. She collected herself. It was too dangerous to play with James this way. It wasn’t just fear for her cover as Mark Quinn, but her entire existence as a secret agent. She stepped back from the ledge, reeling. It wasn’t the height at all, but he didn’t need to know that.
“How on earth was the bell raised?” Her voice sounded over-bright.
He looked at her. Hesitated. Then said, slowly, “Pulley systems and manpower. Straight through there.”
“There” was a square opening, perhaps eight feet wide. Mary peered inside. It appeared to run the height of the tower. “Is this for ventilation?”
“Yes – the central air shaft. Certainly not intended for the purpose, but I don’t think the original designers had any idea how large the bell would turn out.”
She nodded. “It must have been an enormous task.”
“It took days, with teams of men working in shifts. But you know all this, don’t you, Mary? As part of your background research?”
She shrugged. “It’s better to hear it from someone knowledgeable.”
“And to fill silence, when you’d rather avoid conversation?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I need to understand this job fully. And hadn’t we better get on with things?”
Fifteen
For someone of her age, Mary’s experience of funerals was slight. There were always funeral processions in the streets, of course: immaculate hearses drawn by glossy black horses and followed by a train of crape-swathed carriages. Depending on the cost of the funeral, there were often mutes – paid mourners – marching stolidly beside the hearse, and precarious heaps of hothouse flowers about the polished coffin. There were humbler funerals, too – perhaps a hearse pulled by a single horse, with only a couple of carriages following. Although such a display was considered meagre, the cost could still bankrupt a working family, consigning its survivors to the workhouse. This happened often, yet the tradition continued. The poor, especially, were reluctant to forgo in death what they could not afford in life.
While some enjoyed taking
notes, totting up the cost of a dozen long-faced mutes plus six dozen forced white roses, Mary was not among them. Her mother had refused to give up hope for her father, lost at sea, and refused any ritual that presumed his death. And when her mother’s own turn came, a few short years later, they hadn’t had the means for a coffin, let alone a funeral. She’d been shovelled grudgingly into a pauper’s grave, the site marked only by a pathetic wooden cross made by Mary herself. Back when she thought such things carried significance. So she’d lost both parents and seen hundreds of funeral processions in her life, but had somehow escaped attending a funeral service. It was thus with some trepidation that she slipped away from the building site and towards Southwark. Although the inquest had been adjourned, still awaiting James’s safety report, the coroner had seen fit to release the body. That was fortunate. For although this July was cool, unlike the heat wave last year that led to the Great Stink, it was still midsummer.
The street on which the Wick family lived – for how much longer, now its breadwinner was dead? – looked grimy and diminished in the presence of the rather splendid hearse. To this were hitched a pair of black mares, their bridles a suitably dull black, and an oddly jaunty headdress of black feathers atop each horse’s mane. Behind the hearse waited two large carriages. The door of the house stood open, its crape bow renewed and enlarged for the important day.
The neighbours were all at their windows, of course – she could see curtains twitching all up and down the street – but none would take note of a nosy lad behaving like a nosy lad. The Wick house was already full of women, she could see that much, wearing sombre colours rather than mourning. Friends and neighbours, then, who wouldn’t attend the funeral itself but were there to help with that formidable pack of children. Mary found a spot on the corner that afforded a good view of the house and its approach, and settled in there.
She hadn’t long to wait. In half an hour or so, a small company of men made their way down the street, walking in single file at a dignified pace. Their leader was a tall, angry-looking, dark-haired man whose black suit, a good deal too small, stretched painfully across his broad back: Keenan. Reid followed in sombre grey, his fair hair slicked down with pomade which made it appear much darker. The hod-carriers Smith and Stubbs were, like Reid, not in full mourning.