The Body At The Tower Part 5

James did see. If they could prove that the man had died of his own carelessness, it cleared Harkness and the Committee of responsibility. That was the critical point, and it should have been obvious even to a child. Yet he could also understand Harkness's agony, and why he should dance around the subject. A man was dead; while one wanted desperately not to be at fault, one could hardly go about proving one's own innocence. The only useful report was that of a neutral and qualified inspector. "Whom have they appointed?"

Harkness t.i.ttered nervously. "My dear fellow, they've left the appointment in my hands!"

"But that's a conflict of interest! How could such a report ever be deemed impartial?" James realized he'd jumped up and was pacing the length of the tiny office. He was slightly out of breath, which annoyed him greatly.

Harkness looked pained and that little muscle below his eye began jumping so vigorously he was forced to still it with his hand. "I was an idealist at your age, too."

And now what are you? James repressed the sneer: too cheap, too obvious. Harkness clearly considered himself a realist a although, from the look of him, this exerted an unhealthy strain on his conscience.

After a minute, Harkness spoke again, choosing his words slowly. "The Commissioner has made it clear that from his perspective, and that of the Committee of Works, I am not to blame for this man's unfortunate death. But the Commissioner wishes to confirm that the death was, in fact, an accident. A most tragic accident, but an accident none the less." As he spoke, Harkness's voice gained conviction. "He is also under a great deal of pressure to begin an inquiry immediately. There simply isn't time to appoint an engineer through the Committee a so many meetings, so much discussion, you understand. And time is pressing on."

"So the Commissioner has left things in your hands for the sake of efficiency?" And a sure outcome.

"I won't pretend that it's not a deeply awkward task. It certainly goes against the grain."

James nodded. He could agree with that statement, at least.

"You are too intelligent not to see what I'm asking, James, so I'll be blunt: are you willing to conduct this review?"

His immediate instinct was to refuse. It was a curious task, and a distasteful one, too. Even setting aside the question of impartiality, his findings would damage someone wherever he found fault. He drew breath to say so a and the rasping sensation in his lungs made him pause, reminding him in one breath of both malarial fever and professional failure. He had fallen gravely ill in Calcutta; had come close to death. He'd learned an equally brutal lesson in local politics, finding his work obstructed and his projects undermined because he lacked important sponsors.

He was quick to learn. Even in England a perhaps especially in England a it would do Easton Engineering good to impress the First Commissioner of Works. The man was enormously influential, both in his official capacity and in his private life. If James had learned only one thing in Calcutta, it was that connections were paramount. Perhaps he, too, was becoming a realist.

And yet. And yet. He couldn't possibly accept Harkness's offer.

Could he?

Harkness smiled once more, the first natural smile he'd shown since the real conversation began. "You're thinking too hard, young James. It's a plum job; the sort of job you and your brother could use. Just think of it: a spot of work, a short report, and the heartfelt grat.i.tude of the Commissioner."

He didn't need the older man to tell him that. He looked about the office, taking in the careless heaps of papers spilling from cabinet to desk to floor; at the grubby walls and makeshift furniture. Did he really want to conduct a professional review of this old family friend? How could he find against him? Yet how could he not, if that was what conscience dictated?

But what a cowardly reason to refuse the work. If he took the job, he wouldn't be Harkness's lapdog. He'd be precisely what the Commissioner had specified: an independent engineer. His own professional pride demanded that he be impartial, even if he didn't care about justice and truth.

Fine words, he taunted himself. Justice and truth might sound very well, but who would believe him once they learned of his long-standing family connection with Harkness? That was why he must decline the work, no matter how tempting. He'd find another way to build important connections.

"You're a first-cla.s.s engineer, Easton a you and your brother, both a and I thought it might be useful to you in the future, to have made the acquaintance of such a man as the First Commissioner of Works."

Why was Harkness trying to sell him the job? How many candidates had already declined, and for what reasons? James knew he wasn't the pre-eminent engineer of his generation a not yet, at any rate. Easton Engineering was still a small firm, his reputation not yet made. He couldn't have been anybody's first choice. "Why me?" he said slowly.

Harkness looked startled. "Well, I've just said you're a sound man, a top-cla.s.s engineer ... and of course, our long friendship and my affection for your father's memory make me glad to do you a good turn. Why, you don't doubt your ability to conduct a simple a.s.sessment of the safety precautions on site, do you?"

"I don't," said James. His brain was turning rapidly. Too rapidly, perhaps. He wasn't normally the dithering sort, but today he was both tempted and repelled in equal measure. And then a solution came to him. "I'd welcome the job if I were independently appointed by the Commissioner himself."

"But my dear young man, it's the same thing: as I said earlier, the Commissioner has left the matter entirely with me. My choice is his choice." Harkness's over-patient tone suggested that James was being obtuse.

"With respect, sir, it's not the same thing at all."

"You always were stubborn." Harkness showed him a smile, but it was strained. "But you're not foolish. Are you willing to risk the benefits this job will bring to you and your brother, all for a mere formality?"

James drew a deep breath. "Yes, sir. I am." The compromise was far from perfect, said his weary conscience, but it hurt less than rejecting the enticing offer outright.

Harkness looked nettled. "Very well. I shall mention your ... scruples to the Commissioner. For your sake, young James, I hope he's inclined to accommodate your whim."

On his way back to the carriage James lingered by the entrance, observing the builders at work. It was difficult to pinpoint what was wrong on a building site simply by looking, but he had a strong impression that all was not right in Palace Yard. Many mocked the idea of instinct, but he'd learned years ago to trust his. This appointment a if he got it a would not be a straightforward one.

He shivered, then glanced over one shoulder to see if Barker had noticed. Just at that moment, a dark-haired lad ran lightly down the length of the yard. James's eye followed him automatically a and then with deliberation. He frowned. The lad was oddly familiar. Was there something distinctive about the way he moved? No. Perhaps the profile a had he encountered the child before? But he was out of sight a few seconds later, and James blinked and shook his head. Impossible to pick out a twelve-year-old boy in a city of millions.

The only reasonable explanation was that the lad had something of Alfred Quigley about him. Ever since the murder of his young a.s.sistant over a year before, James had been haunted by echoes of the sc.r.a.ppy, resourceful boy wherever he went. The sharp treble of a boy's voice; a thatch of mousy hair; that funny, bouncy way of walking particular to pre-adolescent boys. All these things followed James, and weighed on his conscience. They probably always would.

He shook his head again to clear the fog a and then realized the fog was all around him. Alfred Quigley was a memory that invariably led to another, one on which he couldn't afford to dwell. Over the past year, he'd succeeded in thinking less and less about Mary Quinn. Yet even now, if he let his imagination stray...

Well. There was no point.

Absolutely none.

James climbed back into the carriage, waving off Barker's helpful hand. But as he settled into the padded bench, he shivered once again.

Instinct.

Seven.

Somebody was staring at her. Mary could feel it, like a warm patch of sunlight on the back of her neck. But when she turned to see who it might be, there was no one: only a tall, thin man departing the site. She frowned after him. Judging from the way he moved, he was elderly or an invalid of some sort. Apart from that, little distinguished him from the dozens of be-suited, be-hatted gentlemen outside the Houses of Parliament.

And yet.

Still frowning, she watched him climb into a carriage. There was something familiar about that, too, although she couldn't place it. The driver was just another ordinary-looking middle-aged man. But she'd seen him before. She was still trying to remember where and when as the carriage disappeared into the stream of traffic, leaving her staring after it.

"Seed a ghost or something?" piped a voice in her ear.

She started and turned to find Jenkins smirking at her. "Yeah, the ghost of the clock tower."

He snorted. "Ghost won't help you shift them bricks."

She sighed. "Yeah. It's heavy work."

"Carrying bricks? It's easy-peasy. How many bricks you carry at a time?"

"Three."

"Three! Delicate little girl, ain't you?"

"You couldn't take more." She glanced about but the brickies were nowhere in sight. Good. Another minute's banter with Jenkins and with luck she could lead him back to the subject of the dead man, Wick.

"Watch me!" He leaned the hod at a forty-five-degree angle against the nearest wall and loaded it with care, distributing the bricks so the weight fell evenly. "You ready?" he called when the hod was prepared.

"Six bricks is awfully heavy," she said.

"It's nothing, with this method," he said grandly. "Easy-peasy, like I said."

"Suit yourself."

Jenkins braced himself beneath the hod and, with an enormous effort, lifted its cradle over one shoulder. In theory, it might have worked. In practice, however, he was much too short and weak: the length of the hod's stick, intended for an adult, made the six-brick load teeter precariously above his head. Immediately, it began to waver.

Mary reached out to steady the hod.

"I can do it!" Jenkins insisted, his face already scarlet with exertion.

"Let me help you!"

"Let me alone!" He swatted away her outstretched hands and, in that moment, lost his last bit of control over the hod. Mary just had time to jump clear as the six bricks smashed to the ground.

"What the devil is going on here!" The roar came from a third party, a livid man some fifty yards behind them.

She froze guiltily.

Jenkins scrambled clear of the mess and made to scamper off, but Keenan was moving fast and almost upon them. A moment later, he seized each of them by an ear.

Jenkins yelped.

Mary sucked in a sharp breath, but made no sound.

"Hold this brat," snarled Keenan, shoving Jenkins towards another man. Mary hadn't the leisure to notice whom. Then he turned his full attention to her, shaking her like a particularly wet and wrinkled piece of washing. Her head snapped back and forth on her shoulders and her eyes began to water. "Where the h.e.l.l do you think you are? Little Lord Fauntleroy's nursery school?" snarled Keenan. "This is a building site, you bleedin' lazy little scoundrel!" He didn't appear to expect a response, and didn't stop shaking her long enough to permit any. "Of all the stupid, wasteful, mutton-headed things to do! Why is that Jenkins brat here to begin with?! Why ain't you carrying the blasted hod?! What the h.e.l.l you playing at, Quinn?!"

He might have kept shaking her until she fainted, but somewhere in that storm of fury and nausea, Mary dimly registered a placatory voice. "Aw, Keenan, he's only a kid. Thrash him if you want, but don't shake him to pieces."

No change for a few dreadful seconds. Then there was a reluctant slowing of the shaking action. It finally stopped altogether, but Keenan kept a firm grip on Mary's hair. Slowly, the world turned the right way up once more. The flashes of black and red in her vision subsided. She began to discern faces again, prominent among them Keenan's enraged features, only a few inches from hers.

Instead of relief or remorse, Mary was gripped with a boiling sense of outrage. She wanted to attack Keenan, to kick and punch and bite him until he knew what she was feeling. But even in the first rush of fury, a distant common sense prevailed: Keenan could smash her to a pulp. He was a large, powerful man and she was a slight woman. There would be no contest.

She stood as still as she could manage, swallowing huge gulps of air and glowering at him through her tousled fringe. They stood there for several minutes, bricklayer and a.s.sistant, staring at each other, hating each other. Keenan panted with the effort of shaking her. With visible effort, he turned his gaze to the fallen bricks: three chipped, one broken in two. It was as well that Jenkins was so short; had the bricks fallen from a greater height, they might all have been wasted. As it was...

"We can use these chipped ones," said Stubbs mildly, scooping them up with the two undamaged bricks. "Turn them the other way out."

Keenan grunted, still staring at the mess. Finally, his gaze reverted to Mary. "You're a lucky son of a b.i.t.c.h," he muttered. "That's only fourpence off your wages, for the broken one."

She forced herself to nod.

"But I'm still going to teach you a lesson," he continued, with grim satisfaction. "You'll know better than to play about on a building site, when I'm done a and that includes you." He wheeled about and stabbed a finger at Jenkins, who dangled limply from Smith's fist. "Hold this one!" snapped Keenan, shoving Mary towards Reid.

She stumbled once, then was caught in a firm, dispa.s.sionate grip. Reid's hands were heavy on her shoulders and she was suddenly grateful he'd caught her so well. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were tightly bound, of course, but the binding itself might be noticeable were he to grip her across the chest. Her pulse, already racing, sprinted even faster at the thought. Furious as she was, she now felt a fresh stab of something else: fear.

She knew better than to offer excuses a or worse, to plead. Instead, she stared defiantly at Keenan as he unbuckled his belt. She stood very still as he doubled it in his hand, weighing the thickness of the leather and the heft of the buckle.

"Now," he said in a new, soft voice. "Who's first?" He looked from Mary to Jenkins, an unpleasant smile stretching his mouth.

Silence. Mary didn't look at Jenkins, didn't look anywhere except at Keenan's brutal, ruddy face. She hated him with everything in her and didn't bother to disguise it. All her senses were heightened, in this moment: she heard the different layers of traffic, both on the river and in the streets just beyond the site walls; felt the dank heaviness of the air on her forehead and the coa.r.s.e fabric of her shirt against her neck; tasted the bitterness of rage in her mouth; and amidst the sticky, complicated smells of the city, she smelled something new and sharp and warm. Something ammoniac...

Beside her, Jenkins whimpered very quietly and she suddenly understood what had happened. A glance confirmed it: his trousers had a darker patch that clung to his leg, and a small pool of urine was collecting beside his right foot.

Keenan hadn't missed it, either. A s.a.d.i.s.tic sneer twisted his mouth and he stared at Jenkins, inspecting him carefully as he might a defective tool. "You dirty little scoundrel. Your mummy lets you do that at home, does she?"

Jenkins made a choked, rattling sound in his throat.

"What was that?"

Mary stared at Jenkins, willing him to buck up. The more fear he showed, and the less control he had over his body and his voice, the more Keenan would enjoy this and the more vicious energy he would put into it. But Jenkins was scared witless. He could no more control his bladder and his voice than Mary could the weather.

"No answer?" Keenan's voice was still ominously soft.

Jenkins was shaking now, a shivering so violent that his teeth began to chatter.

"Disgusting," said Keenan. "Give him here, Smith."

In one swift motion, Keenan seized Jenkins and yanked his wet breeches to the ground. Any pity Mary might have felt for the boy was now consumed in her own burgeoning sense of panic. This was it. In a few minutes, she would be publicly, literally, exposed. A fine trembling began in her throat, then spread to her limbs. She fought it desperately but not well enough. Her lungs squeezed tight. She couldn't get enough air.

"Easy," murmured Reid under his breath, pressing firmly on her shoulders. "Easy, lad."

He sounds as if he's talking to a horse, she thought hysterically.

The belt really did whistle faintly as it sliced through the air; that wasn't merely a cliche. As it struck Jenkins's pale, skinny rump, it made a meaty, loud thwock that resounded clearly across the now-still site. All had downed tools; all were watching. Apart from the rhythm of the belt a shweeeee-THWOCK, shweeeee-THWOCK a the only sounds were Jenkins's half-suppressed screams and Keenan's grunts of exertion.

Two strokes.

Three.

With the fourth, a bright seam of blood welled up. Mary forced herself to keep looking, to take in the details: perfect stillness all around, men practically holding their breaths rather than disrupt Keenan's show. n.o.body moved to step in; no one opened a mouth to object. They were enjoying themselves, the hateful pigs.

Five.

Small rivulets of blood dripped down the boy's legs, onto his breeches, staining the dusty ground.

Six.

Jenkins stopped shrieking and began merely to cry, a keening, childish sound that sliced through Mary's contained panic. What would a brutal beating do to such a fragile, undergrown boy? Would Keenan stop before he caused permanent damage, or did he not care?

Seven.

Was there nothing she could do? Nothing at all?

Eight.