The Body at the Tower by Y. S. Lee Read Free Book Online

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