A Christmas Promise

by Anne Perry

  “I in’t seen Minnie Maude since two days ago,” Gracie answered, looking straight into Bertha’s red-rimmed eyes. “We said as we wouldn’t look anymore ter see wot ’appened to ’er uncle Alf, cos it were too dangerous—” She knew immediately that she had made a mistake, but there was no way to take it back. Bertha would know the moment she lied. If you weren’t used to lying, and the lie mattered, it always showed in your face.

  “Wot d’yer mean, dangerous?” Bertha asked, her voice dipping very low. “Wot yer bin askin’? Wot’ve yer done?”

  Something near the truth was best. “Where ’e were killed,” Gracie replied. “Minnie Maude wanted ter put a flower there.” She kept her eyes steady, trying not to blink too much. Bertha was watching her like a cat studying a mouse hole in the wall.

  “Well, it don’t matter,” Bertha said at last. “Put it anywhere. Alf won’t care. ’e’s dead an’ gorn. You tell ’er that. She don’t listen ter me.”

  “I will,” Gracie promised. “Where is she?”

  Bertha’s face was white beneath the red weals. “I thought as she’d gorn ter sleep in the stable, but she in’t there. Then I thought as she’d mebbe gorn fer you.”

  “No! In’t seen ’er since two days ago.” Gracie heard her own voice touched with panic. “When d’yer see ’er terday?”

  Bertha’s voice was husky. “I di’n’t see ’er terday.”

  A dark fear fluttered in the pit of Gracie’s stomach. “Wot did she take a miff about? Were it summink ter do wi’ Jimmy Quick, or the chestnut man?”

  “It were summink ter do wif ’er always meddlin’,” Bertha replied. “Stan lost ’is temper wif ’er summink awful. I were afeared ’e were gonna ’it ’er, but ’e di’n’t. ’e jus’ lit out, white as paper, swearin’ witless, an’ next thing I know, she were gorn too.”

  Gracie was too frightened to be angry, and she could see that beneath Bertha’s arrogance and self-defense, she was frightened also. There was no point in asking her for help.

  “Well, if she in’t ’ere, no point in me lookin’,” Gracie said, as if that were some kind of reason.

  Bertha opened her mouth as if to answer, then closed it again without speaking.

  Gracie turned and left, walking away across the yard and out into the street again. She did not go back toward her own home; there was nothing to see that way. Where would Minnie Maude go, and, more urgently, why? What was Stan so angry about, and why was Bertha afraid? If Bertha were just afraid that Minnie Maude had been gone all night, she would have been looking for her herself, not standing around working in the kitchen.

  Gracie’s step slowed because she had no idea where to begin. One thing she was certain of as the wind sliced through her shawl, chilling her body, was that no one stayed out all night in this weather without a reason so harsh it overrode all sense of safety or comfort. Minnie Maude was looking for Charlie, but she must have had some idea where he was, or else there was something she was so frightened of at home that staying out alone in the icy streets was better.

  What Gracie needed was to work out what Minnie Maude would have done. Something pretty urgent, or she would have waited until today, and told Gracie about it. Unless she’d thought Gracie had given up!

  She stood at the curb watching the water flecked with ice running high over the gutters, as the wind whined in the eaves of the houses in the street behind her. The hooves of a horse pulling a dray clattered on the stones, wheels rumbling behind it.

  Gracie had promised Mr. Balthasar not to ask any more questions about Uncle Alf’s death. Minnie Maude knew that Gracie had meant it. Minnie Maude wouldn’t have gone to look for Gracie; she would have gone off on her own. But where? Jimmy Quick wasn’t going to tell them anything more. Even Minnie Maude wouldn’t wander around the streets hoping to catch sight of Charlie. She must have gone somewhere in particular.

  Which way had they gone before? Gracie looked left, and right. Minnie Maude would have gone down to the Whitechapel High Street and over into Commercial Road, for sure, then into the narrower roads with people’s names, on either side of Cannon Street. If Gracie could just find those streets, she would know where to begin.

  She set off briskly, and was on the far side of the goods yard before she was lost.

  She looked to the left and couldn’t remember any of the shop fronts or houses. She turned the other way. There was a broken gutter sticking out in the shape of a dogleg that she thought she’d seen before. That was as good a reason as any for making a decision. She went that way.

  She passed an ironmonger’s window with all sorts of strange tools in it, things she couldn’t imagine using in a kitchen. She couldn’t have been there before. If she’d seen those things, she would have remembered them.

  Where on earth had Minnie Maude gone? It was Gracie’s fault. She should have known better than to trust her. Minnie Maude loved that wretched donkey as much as if it had been a person, maybe more! Donkeys didn’t lie to you, or swear at you, or tell you off, say that you were useless or lazy or cost the earth to keep. Maybe Charlie even loved her back. Maybe he was always happy to see her?

  All right, so maybe Minnie Maude wasn’t stupid to be loyal to a friend, just daft to go off without telling anyone. Except who cared anyway? Bertha? Maybe, but she didn’t act like it. She was more scared than anything—maybe of Stan?

  There was no point in standing there in a strange street. Gracie set off again, briskly this time. At least she would get a bit warmer. A few hot chestnuts would be a good thing right then. Maybe Minnie Maude had gone back to Cob, to see if he knew anything more? Or if not Cob, then maybe Paper John, although he hadn’t said anything very helpful.

  Who else might she have looked for? The crossing sweeper, Monday? Without realizing it she was walking more slowly, thinking hard, grasping for memory, and reasons. What had Minnie Maude done that had made Stan so angry? Or was he just scared too, but would rather get angry than admit being scared? If Alf really had been killed by someone over the golden casket, then could Stan know something about it?

  How did he know what Minnie Maude had been doing? She had said something, she must have. But what? Had she told him something, or asked him? Or he’d said something, and she had remembered … or understood—but what?

  Gracie stopped in the shelter of a high building with a jutting wall. There was no point in going any farther until she worked things out. She might be going in the wrong direction, and would only have to go all the way back. The wind was harder and there were occasional pellets of ice in it. Her fingers were numb. She leaned against the wall where an uneven door frame offered her a little shelter.

  Why had Minnie Maude gone? She must have had a reason, something that had happened—or something that had suddenly made sense to her. If Stan had said something, what could that be? How would he know anything about it anyway?

  Or was it some meaning she’d put together, and then she’d seen a pattern?

  A hawker pushed his barrow across the street, wheels bumping in the gutter, the wind in his face.

  Think! Gracie said to herself angrily. You were there all the time. Everything Minnie Maude heard, so did you! What did she understand all of a sudden?

  She was shaking with the cold, but there was no point in walking anywhere if she didn’t know where to go. And the other thing, if she was really thinking as hard as she could, she wouldn’t be noticing where she was, and she’d get even more lost. That wouldn’t help Minnie Maude or Charlie, or anyone else.

  Where had she and Minnie Maude been when they’d followed Jimmy Quick’s route? What had they seen, or heard? They’d spoken to Monday, the crossing sweeper on Cannon Street. She tried to recall everything he had said. None of it seemed to matter much. Certainly it wouldn’t have sent Minnie Maude out of the house, breaking her promise, and on a bitter night with ice on the wind.

  Then there’d been Florrie, the peddler; and Paper John. Then there was Cob, the chestnut seller. He’d said a lot. He was the on
e who’d seen the toff, and Alf had actually told him about the golden casket.

  But the more Gracie thought about it all, the less did she see anything in it that she hadn’t seen two days before. Nobody had spoken of anything suspicious. It was exactly the same route, though backward, as Jimmy Quick always took—the same streets, the same people saw him. He had even started at about the same time. She could remember most of the streets, only not necessarily in the same order. But Alf would have had it right, because it made sense. One street led into another. There was only one way to go.

  She tried again to remember exactly what everyone had said. She closed her eyes and hunched her shoulders, wrapping her shawl even more tightly around herself, and pictured the roasted-chestnut man. He was the only one who had seen Alf after he’d had the casket. Cob had looked worried, but not really downright frightened. She could see it in her mind’s eye, the way he’d stood, his expression, the way he had waved his arms to show which way the man he’d called the toff had come … except that he had been coming the way Alf was going, not the way he had just passed! That made no sense.

  She tried it again, but with Cob waving the other way. Except that he couldn’t have. He was standing next to the brazier, about the length of his forearm from it. If he had waved that arm, he would have hit the brazier, and very likely burned himself. He might even have knocked it over. So it couldn’t be right.

  She tried turning him around, but that didn’t work either. He had definitely pointed the way Alf was still going, not where he had been. She recited the order of the streets Jimmy had told them. Then she tried to say them backward, and got them jumbled up.

  There was only one answer—Alf had done them the other way around. He had started at the end, and worked back to the beginning. The same circle—but backward.

  Had someone counted on him doing it the same way as always? They would have expected him to be at a certain place at a certain time. The casket had been left for someone else. Alf had taken it without realizing it was important. Whoever it was—the toff—had gone after him to get it back, and by that time Alf had decided he wanted to keep it. Perhaps there had been a fight, and Alf had been killed because he wouldn’t give it up?

  Then why take Charlie? Why take the cart? And whose blood had it been on the stable floor?

  It was getting colder. There was no answer that made sense of everything. The only things that seemed certain were that Alf was dead, Charlie and the cart were missing—and Alf had taken Jimmy Quick’s route backward, being just about everywhere when nobody expected him.

  Oh, and there was one other thing—the casket was missing, too. If it hadn’t been, then the toff wouldn’t still be looking for it. And worst of all, Minnie Maude was missing now too. That was Gracie’s fault. She had left her alone when she knew how much the little girl cared. If she’d thought about it, instead of how tired and cold she was, and how much help her gran needed, then she would have seen ahead. She’d have gone to Minnie Maude’s earlier, in time to stop her from wandering off and then getting taken by the toff.

  Well, Gracie would just have to find her now. There wasn’t anything else she could possibly do. She had to use her brains and think.

  There was more traffic in the street, people coming and going, carts, wagons, drays, even one or two hansoms. Who had left the casket out with the old things for the rag and bone man, not expecting him to come by for hours? Why would anybody do that? For somebody else to pick up, of course. That was the only thing that made sense.

  Who would that be? The toff, naturally. But who’d left it? And why? If you wanted somebody to have something, wouldn’t you just give it to them? Leaving it on the side of the street was daft!

  Unless you couldn’t wait? Or you didn’t want to be seen? Or somebody was chasing you?

  Only, Alf had come along instead, and too soon. Perhaps it had been hidden inside an old piece of carpet, or inside a coal scuttle, or something like that. Then no one else would even have known it was there.

  What did Alf do with it? He’d had it when he’d stopped for hot chestnuts, because Cob had seen it. Then where had Alf gone? He couldn’t have had it when he was killed, or whoever killed him would have taken it away—wouldn’t they?

  Maybe it wasn’t the toff who’d killed him?

  But if somebody else had, then why? Because of the casket—it was the only thing special and different. Then what on earth was inside it that was worth so much—and was so dangerous? It must have been something very powerful, but not good. Good things, a real gift from the Wise Men for Jesus, wouldn’t make people kill one another like this. Alf was dead, Bertha was frightened stiff, and Stan was angry enough to hit her in the face, probably because he was scared as well.

  And Gracie was so afraid for Minnie Maude that she felt a kind of sickness in her stomach and a cold, hard knot inside her, making it difficult to breathe. Every time she thought she had made sense out of it all, it slipped away. She needed to get help. But from who? None of the people she knew would even understand, and they all had their own griefs and worries to deal with. They would just say that Minnie Maude had run off, and she’d come back when she got cold or hungry enough. They’d tell Gracie to mind her own business, look after Spike and Finn, and do as her gran told her.

  She looked up and down the street as it grew busier. People hurried along the pavement, heads bent, the rain and sleet pounding. Many of the people were carrying parcels. Were they presents for Christmas? Nice food—cakes and puddings? There’d be holly with red berries, and ivy, maybe mistletoe, and ribbons, of course.

  There was one person she could ask. He’d be very angry, because she had promised to stop asking questions, but this was different. Minnie Maude was gone. He could be angry later.

  She straightened up, turned back the way she had come, and started walking into the wind. It stung her face and seemed to cut right through her shawl as if her shawl had been made of paper, but she knew where she was going.

  Mr. Balthasar looked at her grimly. His dark face, with its long, curved nose, was set in lines of deep unhappiness.

  Gracie swallowed, but the lump in her throat remained.

  “Will yer please ’elp me, mister, cos I dunno ’oo else ter ask. I think Minnie Maude’s in trouble.”

  “Yes,” he agreed quickly. “I think she probably is. You look frozen, child.” He touched her shoulder with his thin hand. “And wet through. I will find you something dry, and a cup of tea.” He started to move away.

  “There in’t time!” she said urgently, panic rising in her voice. Warm and dry would be wonderful, but not till Minnie Maude was found.

  “Yes, there is,” he replied steadily. “A dry shawl will take no time at all, and you can tell me everything you know while the kettle is boiling. I shall close the shop so we will not be disturbed. Come with me.”

  He locked the door and turned around a little sign on it so people would not knock, then he found her a wonderful red embroidered shawl and wrapped it around her, instead of her own wringing-wet one. Then, while she sat on a stool and watched him, he pulled the kettle onto the top of the big black stove, and cut bread to make toast.

  “Tell me,” he commanded her. “Tell me everything you have done since you last spoke to me, where you went and what you have discovered.”

  “First day I ’elped me gran, then terday I went ter see Minnie Maude, an’ she weren’t at ’ome,” Gracie began. “’er aunt Bertha tol’ me as she’d gorn out, after Stan shouted at ’er. ’e were real mad, an’Bertha were scared. There were red marks on ’er face where ’e’d ’it ’er.” It sounded silly now that she told him, because she hadn’t actually seen it and couldn’t explain any of her feelings. People did hit each other, and it didn’t have to mean much.

  He did not point out any of that. Turning over the toast to brown the other side, he asked her how Bertha sounded, what she looked like.

  “And so you went looking for Minnie Maude?” he said when she had finished.
“Where?”

  “I thought as she must ’ave remembered summink,” she replied, breathing in the smell of the crisp toast. “Or understood summink wot didn’t make no sense two days ago.”

  “I see.” He took the toast off and spread a little butter on it, then jam with big black fruit in it. He put it on a plate, cut it in half, and passed it to her.

  “Is that all for me?” Then she could have kicked herself for her bad manners. She wanted to push the plate away again, but that would have been rude too, and the toast was making her mouth water.

  “Of course it is,” he replied. “I shall be hurt if you don’t eat it. The tea will be ready in a minute. What did she realize, Gracie?”

  “Well, we knew Alf went the wrong way,” she said, picking up a piece of the toast and biting into it. It was wonderful, crisp, and the jam was sweet. She couldn’t help herself from swallowing it and taking another bite.

  “The wrong way?” he prompted.

  She answered with her mouth full. “Jimmy Quick always goes round ’is streets in one way. Uncle Alf went the other way. ’e started at the end, an’ did it backward, so ’e were always everywhere at the wrong time.” She leaned forward eagerly. “That were when ’e picked up the casket, nobody were expectin’ ’im even ter be there. It were put fer someone else!”

  “I see.” The kettle started to whistle with steam, and Balthasar stood up and made the tea. “Do you know why he did that?”

  “No.” Now she wondered why she didn’t know, and she felt stupid for not thinking of it.

  “I shall inquire,” he replied. “If something caused him to, such as a carriage accident blocking a road, or a dray spilling its load so he could not get past, that might be different from his deliberately choosing the other way around. Presumably this man, the toff, went to collect the casket, and found that it was gone. How did he know that the rag and bone man had taken it?” He put up his hand. “No, no need to answer that—because all the stuff for the rag and bone collection was gone. But he caught up with poor Alf—so if Alf was going the wrong way round, how did the toff know that?” He brought the teapot to the table and poured a large mug full for her. He passed the mug across, his black eyes studying her face.