"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 a as though Harkness were aware of her true a.s.signment.

"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 canva.s.sing 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 a.s.sociate. 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 Sat.u.r.days."

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 pa.s.sed hours before. Instead, they stared at Mary and Jenkins a and at nothing in particular a with gla.s.sy, 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. .h.i.t 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 a 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 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 cl.u.s.tered about the tea station in earnest. Oddments of food a slabs of bread-and-b.u.t.ter and hunks of cold boiled meat, the occasional pastry a 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 b.l.o.o.d.y nose. But once they had their tea, the men retreated into cl.u.s.ters 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 a " he p.r.o.nounced 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 n.o.body 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 a 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.

He knocked that back, too, then pulled a face. "Phew. Bit past it, that."

Mary grinned. She could remember a time when she'd have choked back the milk, too. "I'll put all this away. Then what?"

"Back to work, if you's such a goody-goody."

"And if I'm not?"

"'Up to you, isn't it?"

Six.

"Bit slippy out here," said the coachman as he unfolded the carriage steps. He held out his arm, much as he would to a lady.

The boots that swung out of the carriage were distinctly male, as was the hand that waved him away. "I'm perfectly able to descend three steps una.s.sisted, Barker." To prove it, he climbed down quickly and slammed the carriage door himself. He was far from old a his hair was dark, unmixed with grey, and his face was unlined a but he didn't move like a young man. There was something stiff about his gait.

Barker was unperturbed. "Very good, sir."

The gentleman scanned the building site, a deep frown drawing his brows together. The Palace, still unfinished after all these years, loomed over the workers like an ungainly child squatting over an anthill. "You may go; I'll get a cab when I'm done."

"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'll wait. It may be difficult to find a cab in these parts."

Difficult to find a taxi, in front of the blasted Houses of Parliament? His head swivelled sharply towards the coachman. "George told you to wait?"

Barker didn't even have the grace to look sheepish. "Yes, sir."

He sighed. There was no point in making a scene now. But once he got hold of his infernal, domineering, bleating nanny of a brother, he would create such a stinking row that no one would doubt he was entirely recovered. "I'll be no more than half an hour."

"Very good, sir."

The young-old man stood on the pavement, taking in the scene. It was strange to be back on an English building site. In the smoggy London daylight the workmen looked pale and drawn, their tools dull. It was a chalky light, a light that greyed everything it touched. For a moment, despite all that had happened in India, he found himself longing for the hectic tropical sunshine that polished objects to brilliance and made colours glow. He hadn't fully understood the meaning of "illumination" until he'd gone east.

He shivered automatically, then glanced over his shoulder to see if Barker had noticed. As well as being grey and sooty, London was damp. Although he would never admit it to George, he was perpetually cold these days, even in his winter suits. Never mind. He straightened, walked through the site gate with a firm, even step, and rapped twice on the door-frame of the flimsy office shed.

"Young James Easton! My dear fellow!" Philip Harkness sprang from his chair and shook his hand enthusiastically. "How absolutely delightful to see you once more. How long has it been?" He was talking very loudly, in the way people often do to the elderly.

James knew he was rather altered since he'd last seen Harkness, but the man's look of pity was still disheartening. "h.e.l.lo, Harkness. I believe it's been a little more than two years."

"Yes, yes a I believe you were engaged in an Oriental venture until quite recently!"

This was disingenuous; the man knew very well what had taken him abroad, and why he was back in England. It was probably why Harkness had asked him to call; everyone wanted to hear the tale first-hand. "For less than a year."

"Then you'd had enough, hey?"

He'd not oblige. "They got what they needed from me."

"I heard about the malarial fever. Bad luck, old chap a all that nasty swamp air, was it?"

"I don't know, really. But I'm quite well now a fully recovered, in fact." He paused. "You're looking, ah, prosperous." Since James had seen him last, Harkness had gone bald and grown distinctly fat. It wasn't a rosy, jolly-country-squire type of fat, but a pasty, bloated look a a rim of extra face framed his features, and his neck overflowed his boiled collar. His complexion was as grey as the London sky. Stress, James supposed, from this cursed job. That intermittent twitch could be put down to the same cause.

Harkness laughed over-heartily and pushed the sole chair towards him. "Do sit down, dear boy. You're looking rather peaky, if you don't mind my saying so."

He did mind. "I feel fine, thank you. I'll lean on this desk." Perhaps it had been a mistake to call upon his father's old friend. In years past, Philip Harkness had been a regular visitor to the Easton household. But since their father's death, James and George had rather lost touch with him. Harkness seemed awkward and bl.u.s.tering today, quite unlike the kind, competent man James remembered from his childhood.

"And how's your dear brother?"

Awkwardly, they navigated the basics of the missing years: James's education and apprenticeship, past projects, George's interests, the brothers' personal lives. James was eager to question Harkness about the site: how had he come to accept the job? What were its challenges? And, most tantalizingly, why the h.e.l.l was it twenty-five years behind schedule? As soon as he turned the conversation, however, Harkness's tension doubled. He stammered, talked around questions and fidgeted with his elegant new fountain-style pen until his fingers were stained with ink. The more James persisted, the more evasive Harkness became, until pity finally curbed James's curiosity. Obviously, Harkness's nervous condition was directly related to this disaster of a building site.

He checked his watch. He'd been with Harkness only a quarter of an hour, but it felt much longer. "I had better not keep you," he murmured, taking a step towards the door.

Harkness jumped up eagerly, holding out a restraining hand. "So soon? Why, I'd expected to take you to luncheon. At my club, you know. They do a rather decent roast."

James's face froze. Kind as the offer was, he couldn't imagine anything he'd like less. "Er a well, you must be absurdly busy. A site like this..."

Another forced laugh. "That's precisely what I want to talk to you about, my dear young man. A site like this, indeed!"

If the site was such a challenge, how could the man think of taking a protracted luncheon? Such negligence was unworthy of Harkness a or, at least, of the man his father had esteemed. Today's visit had definitely been a mistake. "Perhaps another day," he parried. "Or come to dinner sometime. George'd be delighted to see you."

Harkness leapt towards the doorway, blocking his exit. "Actually..."

Forced to a halt, James stared at him blankly.

"I'd like to suggest a well, not to put too fine a point on it a I've a proposition for you."

"A proposition."

Another of those dreadful chortles. "Sit down, sit down, my dear young man. No need to look so suspicious!"

James sat with great reluctance. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Harkness made a few false starts but eventually managed to say, "Well, then. You know about the dreadful accident that occurred last week..."

James nodded. There had been a sentence about it in The Times. "A bricklayer fell from the tower, after hours. No witnesses."

Harkness flinched. "Er a yes. Tragic accident. The man was young, had a family... It's been ghastly." He mopped his forehead with a large, crumpled handkerchief. "Absolutely ghastly."

James waited a few moments, but Harkness didn't go on. "Is there to be a review or an inquiry of some sort?" he guessed.

Harkness grimaced. "You were always a bright young chap. The First Commissioner of Works wants an independent engineer's report as to the safety conditions on site. He gave me to understand that no blame attaches to me," he added hastily, "but the Committee of Works wants the matter to be absolutely clear. If the man was there after hours, and the equipment was all safe... You see what I mean," he finished.