by Anne Perry
Through the back gate she nearly bumped into Minnie Maude.
“Yer all right?” Minnie Maude asked anxiously.
“Yeah.” Gracie pushed her hair back and straightened her rumpled skirt, then picked a few pieces of hay from her shawl.
“Wot are we gonna do?” Minnie Maude asked.
Gracie felt as if she were jumping into a fast, icy river. The only thing worse would be being left on the bank.
“We’re gonna find out exactly where Uncle Alf went the day ’e were killed,” she answered, as if that had been her decision all along.
“’ow are we gonna do that?”
“We’re gonna ask Jimmy Quick wot way ’e went, an’ then foller it an’ find out ’oo saw Uncle Alf the same way. They might know, cos of it bein’ someone diff’rent than Jimmy.”
“Then wot?” Minnie Maude’s eyes did not flicker an instant.
Gracie’s mind raced. “Then we’ll find out where ’e were killed, exact like, an’ ’oo ’e saw, an’ ’oo ’e di’n’t.”
Minnie Maude gulped. “Then we’ll know ’oo killed ’im?”
The thought was enormous, and terrifying. Suddenly it did not seem so clever at all. In fact it seemed the depth of stupidity. “No we won’t,” Gracie said sharply. “We’ll just know where ’e might a picked up the casket … an’ o’ course where ’e couldn’t’ve, since ’e in’t bin there yet.”
Minnie Maude looked hopeful. “We’ll go and see Jimmy Quick.” She squinted up at the sky. “We could get there now, but ’e won’t be ’ome yet.”
Gracie was more concerned with thinking of a good reason to go back to ask Jimmy Quick about the route he took, so they could explain why they asked.
“Wot’s the matter?” Minnie Maude demanded, the fear back in her voice.
“Nuffink,” Gracie said immediately, wondering why she was suddenly putting off telling the truth. “Jus’ planning wot ter say, cos why we want ter know? Jimmy Quick in’t silly. ’e’s gonna ask. We gotta ’ave summink ter say as could be true.”
“We wanna know w’ere me Uncle Alf died,” Minnie Maude said, watching Gracie carefully. “I’m gonna put a flower there.”
“’ave yer got one?” Gracie said reasonably. “I got twopence. We could buy some …if yer like?”
Minnie Maude nodded. “Thank yer. That’s …” She searched for a word for the complicated emotion. “Good,” she finished, unsatisfied.
Gracie smiled at her, and suddenly Minnie Maude beamed back, her whole face lit with gratitude. They had a plan.
“We’ll go ter see Jimmy Quick this evening,” Gracie said decisively. “If we wait till termorrer, ’e’ll mebbe take us, an’ we don’t want ’im ter, cos we need ter ask questions it’s better as ’e don’t know.”
Minnie Maude nodded vigorously.
“I’ll meet yer ’ere, at ’alf past lights on,” Gracie went on. She looked up at the lamppost just above where they stood. “Watch for the lamplighter. ’e’s usually reg’lar. Yer wait, if I in’t ’ere right away.”
Minnie Maude nodded again.
Gracie continued with her duties for the day, missing some out and working double speed at others. She tried not to think of the wild promises she had made to Minnie Maude Mudway. She must have lost all the sense she’d ever had! Now she was scrubbing the kitchen bench, lye stinging her hands, fingers wet and cold. The sleet outside was turning to snow, everyone else was thinking of Christmas, and she was planning to go and ask a rag and bone man what his route was, so she could look for the people who had murdered Alf Mudway for a casket! Oh—and the real purpose of the whole thing was to find a donkey, who was probably as right as rain somewhere else, and not sparing them a thought in its head. If donkeys had thoughts.
Then on the other hand, he might be wandering around alone, lost, scared stiff, knowing his master was dead, because he had seen it happen. He could be shivering, wet and frightened, not knowing what to do about it—and hungry. She imagined him, standing in the dark and the rain, ears down, tail down, slowly getting wetter and wetter. She really didn’t have any choice.
Added to which, if she didn’t help, then Minnie Maude would go off and do it on her own. Gracie knew that without doubt, because Minnie Maude was only eight, and had no idea what she was doing. And Aunt Bertha didn’t care. Somebody had to look after Minnie Maude, just like Minnie Maude had to look after Charlie. Some things couldn’t be helped, no matter how daft they were, and how much you knew better.
Which is why she kept running out at the back to see if the lamplighter had been yet, and when she saw the light in the distance, she lied to her gran that she had promised old Mrs. Dampier to run an errand for her. Mrs. Dampier never remembered anything, so she wouldn’t know. Gracie slipped out of the kitchen into the rain before she could answer the inevitable questions.
Minnie Maude was waiting for her, standing huddled in the shadows, her shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders, skirts flapping damply in the gusty wind, boots soaked. But her face lit with happiness when she saw Gracie, and she darted out of the shelter of the wall and fell in step beside her without giving her time to hesitate or say anything more than “’ello.”
“’e’ll be ’ome now,” Minnie Maude said, skipping a step to match her stride with Gracie’s. “’avin’ ’is tea. We’ll ask ’im.”
They walked in silence, their feet echoing on the cobbles. The snow had almost stopped, and it was beginning to freeze hard in the few places where it lay. It was wise to watch for icy patches, so as not to slip. Most of the lamps were lit, and there was a yellow warmth to them, like lighted windows to some palace of the mind. There was a slight fog rising, muffling the sound of distant wheels, and every now and then the mournful bellow of a foghorn sounded somewhere down on the river.
There wasn’t much to show that Christmas was only a couple of days away, just the occasional wreath of leaves on a door, some with bright berries; or someone passing by singing a snatch of a song, happy and lilting, not the usual bawdy version of the latest from the music halls. In daylight, of course, there might have been a barrel organ, but this was far too late.
They reached Jimmy Quick’s gate and made their way across the yard carefully to avoid the clutter, not wanting either to knock anything over or to bash their shins on a crate or old chair.
Jimmy was not pleased to see them. He stood in the doorway, looking immense, with the kitchen candles wavering in the draft behind him and making his shadow loom and bend.
“What d’yer want now, Minnie Maude? Yer get-tin’ ter be a nuisance,” he said angrily. “I can’t tell yer nothin’, ’ceptin’ I’m sorry Alf’s dead. I dunno wot ’appened ter ’im. I only know it in’t my fault, an’ yer can come as many times as yer like, it still in’t. I don’t owe yer a bleeding thing!”
“Course,” Minnie Maude said generously. Standing behind her, Gracie could see that she was shaking, but she kept her eyes on Jimmy’s. “I jus’ wanted ter ask yer wot way yer goes, so I can find the place ’e died, exact like.”
“Wot for?” he said with amazement. “’e’s dead, girl. Goin’ starin’ at a place in’t gonna change nothin’.”
Minnie Maude took a deep breath. “I know that. But I wanter put a flower there. ’e should a bin with us for Christmas,” she added.
Jimmy Quick swore under his breath. “Yer don’t never let go, do yer? I already told yer where ’e were found. Yer got ’oles in yer ’ead, yer don’t remember? ’e were in Richard Street, like I said.”
Minnie Maude was temporarily speechless.
Jimmy stepped back to close the door.
“’ow d’yer get there?” Gracie asked him.
“Yer ’ere an’ all?” He peered at her as if, in the shadows, he had not seen her. “Why d’yer care?”
Gracie decided to attack. “Look at ’er!” she told him angrily. “Size of ’er. She’d make a twopenny rabbit look good. Can’t go an’ leave ’er ter do it on ’er own, can I? She in’t got no ma, ’er
aunt Bertha don’t wanna know—she’s got ’er own griefs—an’ Stan wouldn’t throw a bucket o’ water on ’er if she were on fire, let alone take ’er ter Richard Street. Alf were all she ’ad. Wot’s the matter wif yer? Can’t yer jus’ tell ’er which way ter go?” She scowled as if she found him highly suspicious. “Summink wrong wif it, then?”
“Course there in’t, yer daft little girl,” he said sharply, then he rattled off a list of streets, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on remembering them, before she looked back at him and thanked him. Then she grabbed Minnie Maude by the hand and retreated into the darkness and the jumble of the yard, pulling Minnie Maude with her. She was not ready to speak yet. She needed to concentrate on memorizing the streets, before they went out of her head. She wished she could write, then they could be kept safe longer. She could bring them back anytime she wanted—days from now, weeks even. One day she would learn, then she’d be able to keep every idea that mattered, forever. That would be like owning the whole world! You could always have people talking to you, telling you their dreams, their ideas. She would do it, absolutely definitely—one day.
She repeated the street names one more time, then turned to Minnie Maude.
“We’ll go termorrer,” she told her. “You say the streets over an’ over, too, case I forget.”
“I got ’em.” Minnie Maude nodded. “When termorrer?”
Gracie started to walk briskly back toward their own streets, Minnie Maude’s first, then hers. They were facing the wind now, and it was colder. “Termorrer,” she said.
In the morning, shreds of the fog still lingered. The air was as still as the dead, a rime of ice covered the stones so that they were slick underfoot, and all the gutters were frozen over.
Gracie found Minnie Maude in the usual place, her shawl hugged around her, hands hidden under it. Every few moments the girl banged her feet on the ground to jar them into life. The instant she saw Gracie, she came forward and the two girls fell into step, walking quickly to begin their detection.
Gracie recited the streets over in her mind, trying to make a pattern out of them, so she wouldn’t forget.
“I’m gonna learn ter read,” she muttered to herself as they trudged along.
“Me, too,” Minnie Maude added.
Cannon Street was busy with lots of carts and drays, and a sweeper to keep the manure off the main crossings at the corners. He was working hard now, his arms swinging the broom with considerable force as he got rid of the last droppings left only a few minutes before. It was difficult to tell how old he was. He was less than five feet tall, but his narrow shoulders looked strong. His trousers were too long for him, and frayed at the bottoms over his boots. His coat came past his knees, and his cap rested on his ears. When he smiled at them, they could see that one of his front teeth was broken short, and for a moment his round face gave him the illusion of being about six.
“There y’are!” he said cheerfully, standing back to show the clean path across.
Gracie wished she had a penny to spare him, but he probably had more than she did. But she had a ha’penny, and he might also have information. She gave it to him.
He looked surprised, but he took it. For an instant, she felt rich, and grown-up. “D’yer know Alf, the rag an’ bone man wot got killed on Richard Street three days back?” she asked hopefully. “’e done Jimmy Quick’s round.”
“’e ’ad a donkey,” Minnie Maude added.
The boy thought for a while, frowning. “Yeah. It’d rained summink ’orrible. Gutters was all swillin’ over. ’ardly worth both’rin’.” He jerked the broom at the cobbles to demonstrate.
“Yer saw ’im?” Minnie Maude said excitedly. “Which way were ’e goin’?”
The boy frowned at her, and pointed east into the wind. “That way. Thought as ’e were orff ’is path. Jimmy’d a gorn up there.” He swung around and pointed westward, the way they had come. “Still an’ all, wot’s it matter? Poor devil. S’pose the cold got ’im.”
Minnie Maude shook her head. “’e were done in. Somebody ’it ’im.”
“Garn!” the boy said with disbelief. “Why’d anyone do that?”
“Cos ’e knowed summink,” Gracie said rapidly. “Mebbe ’e see’d summink as ’e weren’t meant ter.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Then yer shouldn’t go lookin’, or mebbe yer’ll know it, too! In’t yer got no more sense?”
“’e weren’t yer uncle,” Gracie responded, liking the sound of it, as if Alf had been hers. It gave her a kind of warmth inside. Then she thought of drawing the sweeper into it a bit more personally. “Wot’s yer name?”
“Monday,” he replied.
“Monday?” Minnie Maude said, and stared at him.
His face tightened a bit, as if the wind were colder. “I started on a Monday,” he explained.
She shrugged. “I dunno when I started. Mebbe I in’t really started yet?”
“Yeah yer ’ave,” Gracie said quickly. “Yer gonna find Charlie. That’s a good way ter start.” She turned back to Monday. “When were Alf ’ere, an’ where’d ’e go? We gotta find out. An’ tell us again, but do it clear, cos we don’ know this patch. It was Jimmy Quick’s, not Uncle Alf’s.”
Monday screwed up his face. “’e went that way, which weren’t the way Jimmy Quick goes. I see’d ’im go right down there, then ’e turned the corner, that way.” He jerked his hand leftward. “An’ I dunno where ’e went after that.”
“That’s the wrong way,” Minnie Maude said, puzzled. “I remembered it.” She recited the streets as Jimmy Quick had told them, ticking them off on her fingers.
“Well that’s the way ’e went.” Monday was firm.
They thanked him and set off in the direction he had pointed.
“Were ’e lorst?” Minnie Maude said when they were on the far side and well out of the traffic.
“I dunno,” Gracie admitted. Her mind was racing, imagining all kinds of things. This was later in the route. He couldn’t have done all the little alleys to the west so soon. Why had he been going the wrong way? Had somebody been after him already? No, that didn’t make any sense.
“We gotta find somebody else ter ask,” she said aloud. “’oo else would a seen ’im?”
Minnie Maude thought about it for some time before she answered. They walked another hundred yards along Cannon Street, but no one could help.
“Nobody seen ’im,” Minnie Maude said, fighting tears. “We in’t never gonna find Charlie.”
“Yeah, we are,” Gracie said with more conviction than she felt. “Mebbe we should ask after Charlie, not Uncle Alf? Most people push their own barrows, or got ’orses.”
Minnie Maude brightened. “Yeah. Ye’re right.” She squared her shoulders and lengthened her stride, marching across the icy cobbles toward a thin man with a lantern jaw who was busy mending a broken window, replacing the small pane of glass, smiling as he worked, as if he knew a secret joke.
“Mister?” Minnie Maude jogged his elbow to attract his attention.
He looked at her, still smiling.
Gracie caught up and glanced at the window. The old pane he had removed had a neat hole in it, round as the moon.
“Wot’s yer name?” Minnie Maude asked.
“They call me Paper John. Why?”
“Yer bin ’ere afore?” Minnie Maude watched him intently. “Like three days ago, mebbe? I’m lookin’ fer where me uncle Alf were. ’e ’ad a cart, but wif a donkey, not an ’orse.”
“Why?” The man was still smiling. “Yer lorst ’im?”
“I lorst Charlie, ’e’s the donkey,” Minnie Maude explained. “Uncle Alf’s dead.”
The smile vanished. “Sorry ter ’ear that.”
“’e’s a rag an’ bone man,” Minnie Maude went on. “Least ’e were.”
“This is Jimmy Quick’s patch,” the man told her.
“I know. Uncle Alf did it fer ’im that day.”
“I remember. ’e stopped and spoke ter m
e.”
Minnie Maude’s eyes opened wide, and she blinked to stop the tears. “Did ’e? Wot’d ’e say?”
“’e were singin’ some daft song about Spillikins and Dinah an’ a cup o’ cold poison, an’ ’e taught me the words of it. Said ’e’d teach me the rest if I got ’im a drink at the Rat and Parrot. I went, but ’e never turned up. I reckoned as ’e di’n’t know the rest, but I s’pose ’e were dead, poor devil.”
Minnie Maude gulped. “’e knew ’em. ’e used ter sing it all, an’ ’Ol’ Uncle Tom Cobley’ an’ all too,” she said.
“Oh, I know that one.” He hummed a few bars, and then a few more.
Gracie found her throat tight too, and was angry with herself for letting it get in the way of asking the right questions. “Did ’e say as ’e’d picked up anyfink special?” she interrupted.
The man looked at her curiously. “Like wot?”
“Like anyfink,” she said sharply. “Summink wot weren’t just rags an’ old clothes and bits o’ fur or lace, an’ ol’ shoes or bones and stuff.”
“Jus’ things wot nobody wanted,” the man said gently. “Bit o’ china wot was nice, four cups an’ saucers, a teapot wi’ no lid. ’e must a just ’ad a fit, fallen off. Could ’appen ter anyone. ’e weren’t no chicken.”
“Yeah. I’m sure,” Gracie replied, but she wouldn’t have been if she had not seen the blood and the scratches at the stable, and if Stan had not been so angry. It was the prickle of evil in the air, not the facts that she could make sense of to someone else. “’e were killed.”
The man pursed his lips. “Well ’e were fine when I saw ’im, an’ ’e di’n’t say nuffink.” He hesitated for a moment. “’e were late, though, fer this end o’ the way. Jimmy Quick’s round ’ere a couple of hours sooner…at least.”
“Yer sure?” Gracie asked, puzzled. She did not know if it meant anything, but they had so little to grasp on to that everything could matter.