The Body at the Tower

  So it had come to haunt her already. “I’m not.”

  “’F you’s so posh, why’d you steal my job?”

  “What – this job?” She was genuinely surprised. “You’ve still got a job, haven’t you?”

  “Don’t be stupid – I mean the tea round.”

  Ah: the teetotalling tea round. “So you’re Jenkins.”

  “Yeah, and you stole my job.”

  What was it with building sites and fist-fights? First Reid looked as if he’d been brawling, and now this little fool was clearly frantic for a scrap. She turned her back and kept sweeping.

  He circled around and shouted, “Think you’s too good for to talk to me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then? What you got to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing except lies.”

  There was only one way to end this. She looked straight at him and said, “You calling me a liar?”

  “A liar and a thief!”

  She snorted. If he wanted a fight, he’d get one. And she would win: her years on the street had taught her this, at least. “Of all the stupid…”

  “Don’t you call me stupid!” He marched towards her, stiff with outrage. He was a small boy, no taller than she and scrawny to boot, and he looked utterly ridiculous – a bantam rooster defending his turf. He’d never won a fist-fight in his life, she’d wager. Still, he hurled himself at her, arms windmilling furiously.

  Mary dodged his fist with an economical twist to the left and tapped him sharply on the chin, sending him stumbling.

  He stopped short of falling, spun about and flew at her again.

  She skipped aside and he tripped himself with his own momentum.

  Screaming with outrage, he picked himself up and came back for more.

  It was no contest. Mary wasn’t even fighting; merely defending herself and keeping him at bay, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Her restraint only inflamed Jenkins further. He fought with passion and energy and utter lack of skill, and this combination made what ought to have been comical seem tragic, instead. If Mary chose, she could finish him in half a minute. As it was, their fist-fight dragged on and they attracted a casual, jeering ring of labourers who shouted advice and insults in equal quantity.

  Finally, a new voice sliced through the noise: “WHAT is going on here?! Stop this, instantly!”

  Mary looked towards its source – Harkness, the site engineer – and in that instant, Jenkins landed his only blow, a strange accidental swing that made her nose spurt blood. She gasped with surprise, felt a stab of anger. Street fighting had no rules, of course, but that had been damned underhand all the same. She spun, caught his shoulder and delivered a solid jab that made her knuckles – and presumably Jenkins’s head – ring.

  “Stop it, NOW!”

  A couple of men finally stepped forward, half-heartedly offering to hold the fighters. But it was now unnecessary. Mary stood perfectly still, allowing the blood welling from her nose to drip onto the cobblestones unchecked. Jenkins writhed silently, cradling one side of his face.

  “What the blazes is the matter here?!” Harkness glared from Jenkins to Mary and back again.

  Neither spoke.

  “Quinn! Explain yourself!”

  What could she say? “Jenkins and I were fighting, sir.”

  There was a rumble of amusement from their audience.

  The top of Harkness’s head went pink. “All of you, clear off! Back to work!” As the men receded, chuckling, Harkness returned his attention to Mary. “WHY were you fighting?”

  “He called me a liar and a thief, sir. I called him stupid.”

  “I see. And who began this childishness?”

  Mary glanced at Jenkins. He was still clutching his face and appeared to be choking back tears. Eventually, he managed to gasp, “Me, sir.”

  Harkness stared at them for a long minute, that muscle beneath his eye spasming repeatedly. “I am very disappointed in you both. I expected better from you, Jenkins, because you’ve worked on this building site for nearly two years. And I expected better from you especially, Quinn, because…”

  As the clichés began, Mary wondered whether Harkness would enquire into the root of the dispute. What was special about the tea round? Why had Jenkins been willing to attack her for it? She was also annoyed by her inability to blend in on a building site. In her first five minutes on the job she’d nearly blown her cover, twice. Now, she had drawn the attention of nearly every man on site by getting into a fist-fight.

  “…Do I make myself clear?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Jenkins, still clutching his face, made a noise that could have been “Yes, sir.”

  “Then shake hands like men.”

  As Jenkins released his cheek to offer his hand, Mary saw that he was indeed crying. Yet through the tears, he mumbled, “No hard feelings.”

  She looked into his eyes, startled and cautious. “Same here.”

  “I don’t want to hear of further fisticuffs – or any sort of squabbling – between the two of you.”

  Mary mopped her nose with her sleeve. The bleeding seemed to be slowing.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” A large linen handkerchief was thrust into her face.

  She took it. “Thank you, sir.” It smelled of scent: the discreet, expensive type.

  “Now back to work, both of you.”

  As Harkness disappeared back into his office, Mary and Jenkins remained where they were, stiff and uncertain. Finally, Jenkins said, “S’pose we best start the tea round.”

  Mary glanced up with some surprise. One of the working clock faces showed the time as a quarter past ten. “Now? Bit early, isn’t it?”

  He shot her a wary look. “Lots to do. Come on.” Perhaps it was a boy thing: girls could hold grudges for ever and a day, but it seemed Jenkins really had forgotten the fight. He quizzed her as they walked around the perimeter of the site. “You go to Harky’s church?”

  “No.”

  “How’d you get the job, then?”

  She shrugged. “Said I needed it.”

  Jenkins examined her through slitted eyes. “Hmph.”

  “How’d you get your job?” And why was simply asking for one so improbable?

  “Most of us boys here is the same: got in through our old men.”

  “How old are you?”

  “How old d’you think?”

  Mary looked at him carefully. He was a scrawny, freckly little thing – an eight-year-old with an old man’s eyes. “Thirteen.”

  He looked gratified. “Thirteen next month. How old’s you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “This ain’t your first job, then.”

  “First job on a building site,” said Mary, truthfully enough. She looked about. “Where’re we going?”

  A sly look crossed Jenkins’s swollen face. “Sure you’s not churchy?”

  “I’ve already said I’m not.”

  “Not a teetotaller?”

  “A teetotaller?” It was a large word for a boy like Jenkins.

  “One of ’em what thinks a little beer is poison.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then how come you’s Harky’s pet?”

  “How can I be his pet when I only started today?” This was exactly what she’d feared – but Jenkins’s answer surprised her.

  “You’s on the tea round. Took me a year ’n a half to get on the tea round, and here you are on your first day taking it over.”

  Mary was mystified. “I don’t know why that is. And what’s so special about the tea round, anyway?”

  Jenkins looked at her suspiciously. “If I tell you, you got to share the take.”

  Take? Mary had a sudden idea of what that might be: teetotalling plus tea-drinking could equal a nice little profit. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I don’t mind sharing. What is it?”

  “We’ll go halves,” Jenkins persisted.

  “Halves on what?”
br />   Jenkins was becoming agitated again, and their pace accelerated. By this time, they’d done two full circuits of the building site. “You can’t tell Harky.”

  “All right,” Mary said promptly.

  “Promise!”

  “Promise.”

  “Swear on your mother’s life?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Then swear on her grave!” he insisted.

  “I swear. Now, what are you talking about?”

  Jenkins grinned, then winced. His cheek was already bruising. “I’ll show you.”

  They began with the joiners, who greeted Jenkins with sharp, plaintive relief. Why was he so late that morning? They’d all but given up hope. Who’s the other lad? New tea boy. Ah. They wanted how much? Why, the bleedin’ little highwaymen … and, to a man, they dug into their pockets, came up with a couple of coins and tossed them to Jenkins with grumpy satisfaction.

  Jenkins and Mary made a full circuit of the building site, and Mary realized with excitement what an extraordinarily perfect task it was for her. In this way, she met nearly every artisan and labourer on site. They knew who she was; she would soon know their domains; and she would have a reason to visit them all on a regular basis, and have a quick chat besides. It was nothing short of miraculous – as though Harkness were aware of her true assignment.

  “Does everybody give you some money?” she asked Jenkins. “Apart from Mr Harkness?”

  Jenkins looked at her as though she was daft. “’Course they do! Who wouldn’t?”

  After canvassing each worker on site, Jenkins had a heavy pocketful of coppers that clinked pleasantly as he led Mary to a nearby public house. Apart from its name, there was nothing fresh or lovely about the Blue Bell. It was dank and dark, and the fug of a thousand gin-sodden nights was visible in the air. It was also quite full, and Mary had the strong impression that most of its denizens had been there since the night before.

  Jenkins swaggered up to the bar, one hand in his pocket, and leaned on it in a self-important fashion. The bar was as high as his shoulder, which spoiled the effect somewhat.

  “Late today, Master Jenkins,” said the barman. He was fat and sweat-stained.

  Jenkins shrugged elaborately. “Got me ’n associate. You won’t be seeing me no more, Mr Lamb.” His voice was still a thin treble, and it sounded doubly shrill in this cave-like pub.

  Mr Lamb looked at Mary without much interest. “The usual?”

  Mary glanced at Jenkins. “What’s the usual?”

  “Pint o’ rum,” said Jenkins with authority. “Rum every day, and whisky on Saturdays.”

  As Mr Lamb filled a dirty bottle under Jenkins’s supervision, Mary glanced around the pub. The unvarnished floorboards were sticky beneath her boots. Small, furtive movements in the corners of the room suggested the presence of rats. There was one small window in the far wall, so dirty that at first she thought it was a particularly sooty painting. And sprawled around the room, threatening the rotting furniture, were small heaps of men and women in the last stages of inebriation. No one was merry in this pub; that phase had passed hours before. Instead, they stared at Mary and Jenkins – and at nothing in particular – with glassy, bloodshot eyes. Only their drinking arms worked with monotonous regularity, raising mugs to mouths.

  “Cheers, then,” said Jenkins, nudging her in the ribs.

  Two small tumblers of amber liquid sat on the bar, and Jenkins’s fingers were curled around one. His keen eyes were focused on her face, and Mary understood the test: she had to prove that she wasn’t, after all, Harkness’s teetotalling pet.

  She picked up the other tumbler. “Cheers.” As the first waft of raw spirits hit the back of her throat, she realized she should never have tried to down it all in one go. Her throat contracted. Her stomach lurched. Her eyes watered. She swallowed anyway, and as the liquid burned its way down her gullet, she began a mighty coughing fit that made flashing lights appear in her otherwise dim vision.

  At the Academy, the ladies drank wine with dinner, and Mary had tried punch and other well-diluted drinks a few times. But never had she encountered neat spirits. And Jenkins had carried out his task well, watching Mr Lamb carefully so that the publican couldn’t water the rum, as was his usual practice with inattentive customers. When Mary was able to stand upright, she received a watery impression of Jenkins and Mr Lamb grinning at her. She wiped her eyes and mopped her damp forehead and tried not to gasp for air.

  “Strongest rum in London,” Jenkins announced with pride.

  She cleared her throat. “Not bad.” Her voice was raspy – but that was actually an advantage in her being Mark.

  He smirked. “Guess you’s not a teetotaller now.”

  Jenkins’s timing was just right. By the time they had made a vast pot of real tea and decanted the rum into a separate teapot, it was nearly eleven o’clock. A few coins still jingled in Jenkins’s pocket, and he fished them out with satisfaction.

  “Fourpence.” He counted out four ha’pennies with loving care and handed them over reluctantly. “Halves, mind. You swore.”

  “I know.” The money clearly meant more to Jenkins than it did to her, but it would have been ridiculously out of character not to take it. His eyes followed her hand as she pocketed the coins and she wondered if they’d still be there at day’s end, or whether Jenkins would try to steal them back. She thought not. The fight had resolved matters between them.

  “And don’t you go nowhere but the Blue Bell; other pubs is dearer.” He sounded for all the world like a frugal housewife giving instructions to a servant.

  She bit back a smile. “Can’t Harky smell the rum? How can he not?”

  “Dunno. He’s never said nothing, though, and I been on the tea round for months.”

  No bell tolled, but precisely on the hour, the labourers downed tools and began to drift towards the “tea table” – a broad plank balanced between a pair of carpenter’s horses. Harkness was first in the queue, by common consent. Mary was still feeling the effects of the rum, not only in her throat, but in a slight tipsiness that made her feel extremely conspicuous. She was quite sure that her cheeks were flushed and that she smelled of drink. Yet Harkness seemed not to notice.

  As he returned to his office, the men clustered about the tea station in earnest. Oddments of food – slabs of bread-and-butter and hunks of cold boiled meat, the occasional pastry – appeared in their hands as if from nowhere, along with their own thick, glazed mugs. Despite the differences in costume and context, Mary couldn’t help thinking back to the last time she’d helped pour tea at a social gathering: beside Angelica Thorold, in Chelsea. This time, she made sure to hold the enormous teapot in an awkward grasp. Tea-pouring was a feminine technique, so she tried not to look too practised as she filled the mugs half-way with weak black tea. Jenkins then topped them up with rum.

  With Harkness gone, the general mood should have lifted. After all, what was likelier to produce gossip and levity than food, drink and a change of pace? Yet for the most part, the labourers remained silent and solemn. A few of them chaffed her: Not too much of that there tea, lad; don’t you know it’s the devil’s drink? Then, to Jenkins: Go on, give us a drop more rum; don’t be stingy now, son. Or, You’re a pretty pair, you with your black eye and him with that bloody nose. But once they had their tea, the men retreated into clusters that reflected their trades: glaziers with glaziers, stonemasons with stonemasons. And they drank their illicit rum without much relish.

  “Ain’t no one talking,” muttered Jenkins.

  So she hadn’t imagined the tension. “Why’s that?”

  “Cor, you don’t know nothing, do you?”

  “Tell me then, if you’re so clever.”

  Jenkins glanced about furtively. They’d served all the builders by now and were nowhere near any of them. All the same, he spoke barely above a whisper. “One o’ them brickies, chap named Wick, offed himself the other night. His body was right over there.”

  A jolt shot
through Mary. “He killed himself?”

  “That’s what I said,” hissed Jenkins. “He jumped off the tower.”

  “How d’you know?”

  Jenkins glanced around. “’S plain. He were up there at night, and the police ain’t done nothing. If he got pushed, the Yard – ” he pronounced this nickname with over-casual pride, “the Yard’d nick somebody for it.”

  “They might still be looking.”

  Jenkins made a scoffing noise. “Not Scotland Yard. If they ain’t found no one, ain’t nobody to find.”

  Mary looked at him thoughtfully. She’d initially dismissed the lad as a bit dim: why else would he pick a fight he had no chance of winning? But now she wondered. He was sharp enough to make the tea round into a profitable venture. He had a reasoned theory as to Wick’s death. She’d have to watch the lad – and watch her own behaviour around him. He might be totally uncritical of the police, but he was clever enough to catch any slips she might make in the role of Mark Quinn.

  If Wick had in fact thrown himself from the tower, there had been no conflict and there was no killer. But there was still the question of motive. What would drive a man to kill himself? Despair? Debt? And what of his choice of method? Many suicides chose the river, from sheer familiarity, or poison, for its swift neatness. But jumping from a tower was a dramatic final gesture. Had he intended something by that? It could even have been a message to his employers…

  “Time to clear up.” Jenkins raised the rum-pot aloft and tipped the last few drops from the spout directly into his mouth.

  She glanced about. There was indeed a general dispersal of the labourers. “What should I do with this cold tea?”

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  Mary nodded. In a well-run household, spent tea leaves were either used to clean carpets, or sold to a rag-and-bone man. Here, however, the nearby Thames served as sink, sewer, bathtub and well, all in one.

  When she returned, Jenkins was sniffing cautiously at the chipped milk jug. “Go halves?”

  Mary shook her head. It was probably out of character to decline free food of any sort, but there were little curds of solid milk clinging to the edges of the pitcher, and the fluid itself was a funny bluish grey. She just couldn’t bring herself to drink it.