Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 23]

by Seven Dials

  “Don’ yer go talkin’ like that, you stupid girl!” Mrs. Culpepper snapped in sudden rage, her face pink. She slammed the bowl down on the table. “Anyone’d think as ’e were dead, or summink ’appened to ’im! Nothin’s ’appened to ’im! ’E just in’t ’ere, that’s all. You button yer lip, my girl, an’ go an’ do summink useful. Go an’ grate them ol’ potatoes ready ter soak. Yer can’t ne’er ’ave too much starch. Don’ stand there like yer was a ruddy ornament!”

  Dottie pushed her hair back with her hand, shrugged good-naturedly, and wandered off to the scullery to do as she was told.

  “I’m glad nuthin’ in’t ’appened to ’im,” Gracie said with suitable humility. “But I still gotter tell ’im about Tilda.” She knew she was pressing her good fortune, but she had no choice. So far she had learned no more than Tilda had already told them. “Somebody’s gotta know, in’t they?”

  “O’ course somebody ’as,” Mrs. Culpepper agreed, reaching for a baking tin and a muslin cloth with a little butter on it. She greased the tin with a single, practiced movement. “But it in’t me.”

  Gracie took a sip of the tea. “Tilda said as ’e were Mr. Stephen’s valet. ’As ’e got a new one, then?”

  Mrs. Culpepper looked up sharply. “No, ’e ’asn’t. Don’ yer go . . .” Then her face softened. “Look, girl, I can see that yer upset, an’ it’s awful ’ard ter face someone real sick, as yer can’t ’elp. Gawd knows, I wouldn’t want a dog ter die alone, but so ’elp me, I dunno where Martin’s gorn, an’ that’s the Gawd’s truth. ’Ceptin’ ’e’s a good man, an’ I don’t believe as ’e’d ne’er give no one any trouble.”

  Gracie sniffed and blinked, her mind on Tilda and the fear inside her. It had been almost a week already. Why was there no letter, no message? “Wot’s ’e like, Mr. Stephen? Would ’e get rid o’ someone if they ’adn’t done nothin’ wrong?”

  Mrs. Culpepper wiped her hands on her apron, abandoned the batter and poured herself a cup of tea. “Lord knows, girl,” she said, shaking her head. “ ’E’s a poor mixed-over kind o’ man. But even on ’is worst days I don’t think as ’e would ’a got rid o’ Martin, ’cos Martin’s the only one wot can do a thing wit ’im when ’e gets bad.”

  Gracie tried hard to keep her expression calm, and knew she did not entirely succeed. This was new information, and it alarmed her even though she was not sure if she understood it. She looked up at Mrs. Culpepper, blinking several times to try to disguise her thoughts. “Yer mean when ’e’s sick, like?”

  Mrs. Culpepper gave a start and did not reply. Her hand stayed frozen on the handle of her cup.

  Gracie was afraid she had made her first serious mistake, but she knew enough not to try to mend it. She said nothing, waiting for Mrs. Culpepper to speak first.

  “Yer could say that,” Mrs. Culpepper conceded at last, raising the cup to her lips and sipping the hot tea. “An’ I’m not ’ere ter say diff’rent.” That was a warning.

  Gracie understood instantly. Sick was a euphemism for something far worse, almost certainly blind drunk. Some men collapsed in a heap, or were thoroughly ill, but there were always the odd few who became belligerent and started fighting people, or took their clothes off, or otherwise were an embarrassment and a nuisance. It sounded as if Stephen Garrick was of the last sort.

  “ ’Course not,” Gracie said demurely. “Nobody says diff’rent. In’t our place.”

  “Not that I’m not tempted, sometimes, mind!” Mrs. Culpepper added with some heat, just as the very handsome parlor maid came into the kitchen and stopped abruptly. “You’ve not come for luncheon already, ’ave yer?” Mrs. Culpepper said in amazement. “I dunno where the day’s gorn ter. I in’t nothin’ like ready.”

  “No, no!” Bella assured her. “Loads of time.” She looked curiously at Gracie. She must have overheard the last few words of the conversation. “Not that I wouldn’t fancy a cup of tea myself, if it’s hot,” she added.

  “This is Gracie,” Mrs. Culpepper said, suddenly recalling Gracie’s name. “She’s come ’cos Martin’s sister’s a friend of ’ers, an’ it seems the poor girl ’as the rheumatical fever, an’ she’s like ter dyin’, so Gracie’s lookin’ for Martin ter tell ’im, which is terrible ’ard.”

  Bella shook her head, her face grave. “I wish we could help you, but we don’t know where he is,” she said candidly. “Usually when Mr. Stephen goes away it’s in the middle of the morning, and we all know for days beforehand, but this is different . . . He just . . . isn’t here.”

  Gracie was not going to give up without trying every avenue. “Mrs. Culpepper’s been very gracious,” she said warmly. “An’ she says as Mr. Garrick really depended on Martin, so ’e wouldn’t a’ got rid of ’im on a fancy, like.”

  Bella’s face pinched with anger. “He behaved pretty rotten at times. My ma’d have taken a slipper to me if I’d thrown tantrums the way he does, kicking and shouting and—”

  “Bella!” Mrs. Culpepper said warningly, her voice sharp.

  “Well, goes on like a three-year-old, he does sometimes!” Bella protested, her cheeks flushed. “And poor Martin put up with it without a word of complaint. Cleaning up behind him, listening to him weeping and wailing about everything you could name, or just sitting there like the misery of the whole world was on his plate. You’d—”

  “Yer’d best keep a still tongue in yer ’ead, my girl, or yer’ll ’ave the misery o’ the world on your plate, an’ all!” Mrs. Culpepper warned her. “Yer might be an ’andsome piece, as speaks like a lady, but yer’ll be out in the street in ’alf a trice, wi’ yer bags in yer ’and an’ no character if the master catches yer talkin’ about Mr. Stephen ter strangers, an’ that’s a fact!” There was a note of urgency in her voice, and her black eyes were sharp. Gracie was sure it was not anger or dislike but affection which prompted her.

  Bella sat down on the other kitchen chair, her skirts swirling around her, her white lace apron clean and starched stiff. “It’s not fair!” she said fiercely. “What that man put up with is more than a soul should take. And if they’ve put him out . . .”

  “ ’Course they haven’t put him out, yer daft a’p’orth!” a young footman said as he came in. His hair grew up in a quiff on his forehead; his breeches were still a fraction too large for him. Gracie guessed that he had only just graduated from bootboy within the last few weeks.

  Bella rounded on him. “And how come you know so much, Clarence Smith?”

  “ ’Cos I see things what you don’t!” he retorted. “There’s nobody but Martin can do anything with him when he gets one of his black miseries. And nobody else even tries, when he flies into one of his rages. I wouldn’t try for all the tea in China. Even Mr. Lyman’s scared of him . . . and Mrs. Somerton. And I didn’t think as Mrs. Somerton was scared of nothing. I’d have put a shilling on her against the dragon, never mind St. George, an’ all.”

  “You get about your business, Clarence, afore I report you ter Mr. Lyman fer lip!” Mrs. Culpepper said tartly. “Yer’ll be eatin’ yer supper out in the scullery, an’ lucky ter get bread and drippin’, if ’e catches yer.”

  “It’s true!” Clarence said indignantly.

  “True in’t got nothin’ ter do with it, yer stupid article!” she retorted. “Sometimes I think yer in’t got the wits yer was born with. Get on and carry them coals through fer Bella. On with yer.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Culpepper,” he said obediently, perhaps recognizing in her voice anxiety rather than criticism.

  Gracie thought for a moment that perhaps it would be fun to work in a large house, just for a week or two. But of course it was not nearly as important as what she was doing. She watched as Clarence went out to perform his task. She picked up her tea and finished it.

  “Sorry, luv, but we can’t ’elp yer,” Mrs. Culpepper said to her, shaking her head and pouring out the batter into the tin at last. “Gotta get on wit the cakes fer tea. Ne’er know ’oo’ll be callin’. Dottie! Dottie . . . come an’ see
ter ’em vegetables.”

  Gracie stood up to leave, carrying her empty cup over to the board beside the sink. “Thank yer,” she said sincerely. “I’ll just ’ave ter keep tryin’, although I dunno where else ter go.”

  Dottie came back from the scullery, wiping her hands on the corner of her apron. “Well ’e were visitin’ a Mr. Sandeman someplace down the east end,” she said hopefully. “Mebbe ’e’d know summink?”

  Gracie put the cup down carefully, feeling it wobble as her hands shook. “Sandeman?” she repeated. “ ’Oo’s ’e? D’yer know?”

  Dottie looked crestfallen. “Sorry, I in’t got no idea.”

  Gracie swallowed her disappointment. “Never mind, mebbe somebody will. Thank yer, Mrs. Culpepper.”

  Mrs. Culpepper shook her head. “I’m real sorry. Poor thing. Mebbe she’ll get better, yer ne’er know.”

  “Yeah,” Gracie agreed, not feeling she was lying because her thoughts were with Martin, not Tilda. “Keep ’opin’, eh!”

  Dottie took her to the back door, and a moment later Gracie was out on the pavement hurrying as fast as her feet could carry her towards Keppel Street.

  OF COURSE SHE TOLD Charlotte all that she had learned as soon as she was back at Keppel Street, but to repeat it to Tellman was much more difficult. To begin with she had to find him, and there was nowhere to begin except the Bow Street police station, or the lodging house where he lived. It was always possible that he would go straight from whatever task he was on back to his rooms for the night, and that could be at any hour. Added to which, she had no wish to embarrass him by being seen in Bow Street, where they would know who she was, even if she did not actually ask for him at the desk. More important, they might remember that she was Pitt’s maid and assume that that was why she was there to see Tellman, which could make things very awkward for him with his new superintendent.

  So she ended up standing on the pavement outside his lodging house in the early evening, staring up at the windows of his room on the second floor and seeing only darkness where, were he at home, there would be slits of light between the curtains.

  She stood uncertainly for several minutes, then realized that he could be an hour or more yet, or if he was on a serious case, even longer. She knew there was a pleasant tearoom only a few hundred yards away; she could spend a little time there, and return later to see if he was home yet.

  She had walked fifty yards when she thought how easy it would be to return half a dozen times before she found him, or on the other hand, wait far too long. She turned and walked back, knocked on the door, and when the landlady came told her very politely that she had important information for Inspector Tellman and she would be waiting for him in the tearoom, if he could come and find her there.

  The landlady looked a trifle dubious, but she agreed, and Gracie left feeling satisfied with the arrangement.

  Tellman came in tired and cold almost an hour after that. He had had a long and tedious day, and he was more than ready to eat a brief supper and go to bed early. She knew as soon as she saw his face and the stiffness of his body that he remembered their quarrel and was not at all sure how to speak to her now. The fact that she had come to start the whole subject again was only going to make it worse, but she felt no choice at all. Martin Garvie’s life might be at stake, and what was anyone’s love or comfort worth if, when faced with unpleasantness or difference of opinion, it crumbled and fell away?

  “Samuel,” she began as soon as he was seated opposite her and had given his order to the waitress.

  “Yes?” he said guardedly. He seemed about to add something, then bit it off.

  There was nothing to it but to plunge in. The longer she sat there with either silence between them or stilted conversation, saying one thing and thinking and caring about another, the worse it would get. “I bin ter the Garrick ’ouse,” she said, looking across the table at him. She saw him stiffen even more, his fingers white where his hands were clenched on the table. “I just went ter the kitchen,” she hurried on. “I asked the cook an’ the scullery maid, on account o’ Tilda bein’ ill an’ Martin was the only family she got.”

  “Is she ill?” he said quickly.

  “Only wit worry,” she answered honestly. “But I said as she ’ad a bad fever.” Now she was embarrassed. He would not approve of lying, and she wished she did not have to tell him that she had done so. But not to would mean lying to him, and that was something she was not prepared to do. She went on quickly to cover it. “I jus’ asked where Martin were, so’s I could tell ’im. They dunno, Samuel, I mean really dunno! They’re worried too.” She leaned forward, closer to him. “They said as Mr. Stephen drinks far too much an’ ’as terrible tempers, and black moods o’ misery wot are summink awful. No one can ’elp ’im, ’cept Martin, an’ ’e’d never put Martin out, ’cos o’ that.” She stared at him, seeing the worry and the disbelief struggling in his eyes.

  “You sure they told you all these things?” he said with a frown. “If they said that to anyone that came to the door, Mr. Garrick would throw them out without a character. I never met servants who would say anything about their household, unless they’d already been dismissed and were looking to make trouble.”

  “They didn’t say it like that,” she explained patiently. “I sat in the kitchen an’ they gave me a cup o’ tea while I told ’em ’bout Tilda, an’ they was tellin’ me ’ow good Martin were. It jus’ sort o’ come out wot sort o’ good ’e were, an’ why.”

  A tiny smile flickered over Tellman’s mouth. It might have been admiration, or only amusement.

  Gracie found herself blushing, something she never did as a rule, and it annoyed her, because it gave away her emotions. She had no wish at all for Samuel Tellman to get ideas that she had feelings for him.

  “I’m very good at asking pert’int questions!” she said hotly. “I worked for Mr. Pitt for years and years. Longer ’n you ’ave!”

  He took in his breath sharply and half smiled, then let it out again without saying whatever it was he thought. “So they are certain that Garrick wouldn’t have let him go? Could he have got tired of catering to Garrick’s temper and gone by himself?”

  “Without tellin’ Tilda, or anyone else?” she said incredulously. “ ’Course not! Yer give notice, yer don’ walk out.” She saw the flicker of contempt in his face, reminding her again of how he viewed the whole concept of living and working in service. “Don’ start that again,” she warned. “We got someone in danger an’ it’s real, an’ could be serious. We got no time ter be arguin’ about the rights an’ wrongs o’ the way folk live.” She looked at him very levelly, feeling a shiver of both excitement and familiarity as she saw the intensity with which he stared back at her. She was aware of the heat in her cheeks, and her eyes wavered. “We gotta do summink ter ’elp.” She said “we” very carefully. “I can’t do much without yer, Samuel. Please don’ make me ’ave ter try.” She had placed their relationship in the balance, and was amazed that she had taken such a risk, because it mattered far more than she had realized until this instant. “Summink’s ’appened ter ’im,” she added very quietly. “Mebbe Mr. Stephen’s as mad as they say, an’ ’as done ’im in, an’ they’ve ’id it. But it’s a crime, an’ no one else is gonna ’elp, ’cos they dunno.”

  The waitress brought his meal and a fresh pot of tea, and Tellman thanked her. He already knew what his decision was; it was in his eyes, in the line of his mouth and the stillness of his hands. He made only a momentary gesture of resistance by hesitating, as if he were still weighing it up. It was a matter of pride to pretend, but they both knew his decision was made.

  “I’ll take a look,” he said at last. “There’s been no crime reported, so I’ll have to be careful. I’ll tell you what I find.”

  “Thank yer, Samuel,” she said with perfectly genuine humility.

  Perhaps he recognized that, because he suddenly smiled, and she saw an extraordinary tenderness in it. She would never have said so to anyone
else, but at that moment his face held something that she would have called beauty.

  PITT LEFT THE PURSUIT of Edwin Lovat’s life and the trail of pain he had created behind his various love affairs. He had followed every name, and found nothing but unhappiness and helpless anger.

  A wild thought came to him as he tried looking at the case from an entirely different angle. Sometimes it was profitable to abandon even the most obvious assumptions and consider the story as if they were untrue. Lovat had been shot in a garden in the middle of the night. There seemed to be no sense in Ayesha Zakhari’s having taken her gun and gone outside to see who it was lurking in the bushes. She had a perfectly capable manservant and a telephone in her home to call for assistance.

  He had assumed that she had known it was Lovat, but there seemed no sane reason to have killed him. If she did not wish to see him she had merely to remain inside. If she did not know who it was, the answer was the same.

  But what if she had supposed it was someone else? What if she had not recognized Lovat until after he was dead? The garden was dark. They were not in a path of light thrown from the house, even if all the lamps had been lit in the downstairs rooms, which in itself was unlikely at three in the morning.

  Who might she have mistaken him for? Was it possible that a perfectly rational answer to the murder lay in the fact she had believed him to be someone else?

  He began by going back to Eden Lodge. It looked curiously empty in the sharp autumn morning, the long light golden across the quiet street, and in the absolute stillness not even the leaves of the birch trees stirred. He could hear hooves in the distance, and a bird singing somewhere above him. A small black cat wove in and out through the dead lily stems waiting to be cut back.

  Tariq el Abd answered the door.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said politely, his face expressionless. “How can I help you?”

  “Good morning,” Pitt replied. “I need to make some further enquiries, and you can help me.”