Seven Dials

chapter NINE
GRACIE SAT in the corner of the public house staring across the table at Tellman. He was watching her intently, more than was required for what she was telling him, and with a warm ripple of both comfort and self-consciousness, she knew he would have looked at her that way even if she had been talking complete nonsense. It was a fact she was going to have to address sooner or later. He had shown all kinds of emotions towards her, from his initial lack of interest to irritation at her acceptance of being a resident servant in someone else's house, totally dependent upon them even for the roof over her head. He had been forced into a grudging respect for her intelligence when she had assisted Pitt in certain cases, then showed more clearly than he knew, fighting for all he was worth not to admit to anyone at all, especially himself, that he was in love with her. Now he no longer pretended he was not-at least not all the time.

He had kissed her once, with a sweet, fierce honesty that she could still remember, and if she closed her eyes and blocked out the rest of the world, she could feel it again as if it were moments ago. When she had found herself doing that, standing alone in the windy street and smiling, she acknowledged it was time to admit that she loved him too.

Not that she was necessarily prepared to admit anything of the sort to him. But it was as well to know at least what she wanted, even if she did not know when.

She had been recounting to him what Lady Vespasia had learned about the Garrick household, and that Stephen Garrick was supposed to have gone to the south of France for the good of his health.

"But it's more 'n long enough for him to have written and told Tilda, in't it?" she finished. "In fact, 'e could 'ave sent 'er a message before 'e left. That in't 'ard ter do, an' surely Mr. Garrick wouldn't 'ave minded?"

He frowned. His opinion of the whole business of permission from others to attend to ordinary family commitments was a sore point they had already argued over many times.

"Shouldn't!" he said with feeling. "But you can't tell." He looked at her intently, as if no one else in the babble around them were real. "But if he went to the south of France, he must have taken cases with him, and either used a hansom or his own carriage, at least as far as the station. There'll be record of a boat across the Channel. We'll know for sure that Martin Garvie went with him. I just don't know why there was no letter back."

"Mebbe we could ask Mr. Garrick, 'oo's still 'ere in London, fer an address?" Gracie suggested. "It's fair, as 'is family should want ter know where ter write ter 'im."

Tellman pursed his lips. "It is fair," he agreed. "But we've already tried. Tilda herself tried, and then you did. I'll see what I can find out about their leaving."

She looked at him steadily. She knew every expression of his face; she could have pictured it exactly with her eyes closed. She was surprised and a little embarrassed to realize how often she had done so, not really telling herself the truth as to her reasons, or admitting the odd sense of comfort it gave her. She knew now that he was worried, and also that he was trying to hide it from her to protect her, and partly because he was uncertain.

"Yer think there's summink wrong, don't yer?" she said softly. "People don't lie fer nothin'."

He was cautious, gentle. "I don't know. Can you get the evening off the day after tomorrow?"

"If I need ter. Why?"

"I'll tell you what I've found. It may take me a while. I'll need to get witnesses, see train and ferry records and the like."

" 'Course. Mrs. Pitt'd never stand in the way of an investigation. I'll be 'ere. Yer jus' tell me wot time."

"How about early? We'll go to the music hall, see something good?" His face was eager, but the shadow in his eyes betrayed that her acceptance mattered to him, and he by no means took it for granted. This was a social engagement, something to do together for pleasure, not just as part of a case. It was the first time he had done such a thing, and they were both suddenly acutely aware of it.

She found herself blushing; the color was hot in her cheeks. She wanted to behave with lightness, as if his offer meant nothing unusual, and she was not managing it. She was awkward again.

"Yeah..." she said, trying to be casual, and catching her breath in a hiccup. She was going to have to make a big decision soon, and she was not ready for it. She had known for ages how he felt. She should have made up her mind by now. "Yeah. I like music." What would she wear? It must be good enough. She wanted him to think she was pretty, but she was also afraid of it. What if he got emotional, and she did not know how to handle it? Perhaps she should have said no, kept it to business.

"Good." He gave her no time to change her mind. Had he seen the indecision in her face?

"Well..." she began.

"Seven o'clock," he went on too quickly. "We'll have something to eat, and I'll tell you what I've found, and we can go to the music hall." He stood up, as if he felt self-conscious and wanted to escape before he did something that made him feel even more foolish.

She stood up too, knocking against the table. Thank heaven there was nothing on it to spill; the motion just rattled the glasses a little.

He waited for her to go ahead of him, and followed her out into the street. It was harder to speak there. A dray with a load of barrels was backing awkwardly around the corner into the inn yard, the driver holding the lead horse's bridle and calling out orders. Another man balanced half a dozen kegs on a trolley as he wheeled them across the cobbles, rattling at every step. Traffic clattered past in the roadway, hooves loud, harness jingling.

Gracie was glad of it, and looking quickly at Tellman's face, she thought he was too. Perhaps he would get cold feet and say nothing for ages? That would give her longer to think. About what? She would say yes. It was just how she would say it that was still to be considered. Change was frightening. She had been with the Pitts since she had been thirteen. She couldn't leave them.

Tellman was saying something, shouting above the noise.

"Yeah!" she agreed, nodding. "I'll be 'ere at seven, day arter termorrer. You find out wot 'appened ter Martin Garvie. 'Bye." And without waiting for him to say anything else she smiled brilliantly and turned on her heel.

TWO EVENINGS LATER they met at the same table in the corner of the public house. Tellman was dressed in a plain dark jacket and his white shirt looked even stiffer-collared than usual. Gracie had put on her best blue dress and bonnet, and allowed her hair to be less tightly scraped back than usual, but that was all the concession she would make to an extraordinary occasion. However, as soon as she saw Tellman's face, preoccupation with herself vanished.

"Wot?" she said urgently, as soon as they were seated and their order given. "Wot is it, Samuel?" She was not even aware of using his name.

He leaned forward. "Plenty of people saw Stephen Garrick leave his house, and they described the man who went with him-fair-haired, in his twenties, pleasant face. From what they say, he was a servant, almost certainly a valet, but there were only two small cases, no trunks or boxes. Mr. Garrick was ill. He had to be half carried out from the house and it took two men to help him into the carriage, but it was his own carriage, not an ambulance, and driven by the household coachman."

" 'Oo said?" she asked quickly.

"Lamplighter," he replied. "Just beginning."

"About six in the evening?" She was surprised. "In't that a funny time ter start on a journey ter France? Is it summink ter do wi' tides, or the like? Where'd 'e go from? London docks?"

"Morning," he replied. "Putting the lamps out, not lighting them. But that's the funny thing. I checked all sailings from the London docks that day, and they weren't on anything to France, not Mr. Garrick alone, nor with anyone else."

Their order arrived, a very good early supper of winkles and bread and butter, and there would be apple pie afterwards. Tellman thanked the serving girl and pronounced the meal excellent. Gracie picked up the long pin for digging out the flesh and held it up in her hand. "Mebbe they went from Dover? People do, don't they?"

"Yes. But I tried the station for the train, and the porter who'd been on the Dover platform said that, to the best of his recollection, there was no one with anything like that description all day. No invalid, no one that needed helping of any kind, except with heavy baggage."

She was puzzled. "So they din't go from London, an' they din't go from Dover. Where else is there?"

"Well, they could have gone anywhere else, like somewhere on the Continent that wasn't France, or anywhere in England-or Scotland, for that matter," he replied. "Except that if Stephen Garrick has poor health, and the English climate is too harsh for him, he'd hardly go to spend the winter in Scotland." He discarded his last winkle shell and finished his bread and butter.

She was even more puzzled. "But Lady Vespasia was very plain that that was wot Mr. Garrick said," she argued. "An' why would 'e lie to 'er? Rich folk often go away fer their 'ealth."

"I don't know," he admitted. "It doesn't make sense. But wherever they went, it wasn't straight to a ship and across to France." He looked intensely serious. "You were right to be worried, Gracie. When people lie and you can't see the reason, it usually means that the reason is even worse than you thought." He sat silent for a moment, his face puckered with concern.

"Wot?" she urged.

He looked up at her. "If they weren't going to catch a train, or a boat, why go at that time in the morning? They must have got up at five, when it was still dark."

A kind of heaviness settled inside her. " 'Cos they didn't wanter be seen," she replied. Suddenly matters of who loved whom and what to say or do about it had no urgency at all. She looked at him without any pretense. "Samuel, we gotta find out, 'cos if someone like old Mr. Garrick is tellin' lies, even ter 'is own 'ouse'old, an' Tilda don't know where her brother is, then the answer in't anythin' good."

He did not argue. "Trouble is, we've got no crime that we know of," he said grimly. "And Mr. Pitt's in Egypt, so we can't even ask his help."

"Then we gotta do it ourselves," she said very quietly. "I don't like that, Samuel. I wish as we din't."

He put out his hand instinctively and let it rest very gently over hers, covering it completely. "So do I, but we've got no choice. We wouldn't be happy just forgetting about it. Tomorrow we'll speak to Tilda again and get her to tell us everything Martin ever said about the Garricks. We've got to know more. As it is, we've got nothing to follow up."

"I'll fetch 'er when she does 'er errands, about 'alf past nine." She nodded. "But she never told me wot Martin said before, so mebbe 'e didn't say nothin' about the Garricks. Wot are we gonna do then?"

"Go back and talk to the parlor maid at the Garrick house, who knew him fairly well," he replied. "But that would be harder. If there is anything wrong, she won't be able to speak freely while she's there, and she'll be afraid for losing her position." He tried very hard to keep his feelings about that out of his face, and failed. "Do you want some apple pie?" he asked instead.

"Yeah... please." The winkles had been delicious, but they were not very filling, and there is nothing quite like really good short-crust pastry and firm, tart apples, with cream on thick enough to stand a spoon up in.

When they had finished, Tellman paid and they left. Out in the cool evening, they walked side by side along the crowded footpath half a mile or so to the entrance of the music hall. There were scores of people, much like themselves, some of them more showily dressed, but most arm in arm, men strutting a little, girls laughing and swishing skirts. They pressed close together, pushing each other in excitement to get inside.

A hurdy-gurdy man played a popular air, and one or two people joined in singing with it. Hansoms stopped and more people added to the crowd. Peddlers sold sweets, drinks, hot pies, flowers and trinkets.

Gracie had to cling to Tellman's arm not to be carried away by the press of bodies all pushing and shoving in slightly different ways. The noise of voices raised in excitement was terrific and she kept getting bumped and her feet trodden on.

Eventually they were inside. Tellman had bought tickets for seats nicely near the front of the stalls. They were going to sit down where they could see and hear properly. She had never done that before. On the few occasions she had been, she had stood at the very back, barely able to see anything at all. This was marvelous. She ought to be thinking about Martin Garvie and poor Tilda-and how on earth they were going to find out what had happened, even if they were too late to help. But the lights and the buzz of excitement, and the certainty settling warm and comfortable inside her that this was not just a single event, but the beginning of something permanent, drove everything else temporarily out of her mind.

The music started. The master of ceremonies produced wonderful tongue-twisting introductions, to oohs and aahs from the audience, and bursts of laughter. The curtain went up on an empty stage. The spotlight fell in a bright pool, and into it stepped a girl in a shining, spangled dress. She sang lilting, rather daring songs, and in spite of knowing perfectly well what they meant, Gracie found herself singing along when the audience joined in. She was happy, full of warmth.

The girl was followed by a comedian in a baggy suit, partnered by another who must have been the tallest and thinnest man alive. The audience found this hilarious, and could hardly stop laughing when the contortionist came on, and then the juggler, the acrobats, a magician, and lastly dancers.

They were all good, but Gracie liked the music best, sad songs or happy, solos or duets, and best of all when everyone sang the choruses. She barely thought of the world outside the circle of temporary enchantment right until she was at the kitchen door in Keppel Street and she turned to thank Tellman, and say good night to him.

She had intended to exercise some dignity and say it had been very nice, and not let it go to his head, as if he had taken her somewhere she had never been before. It was very foolish to let a man get above himself and think he was too clever, or that you ought to be grateful to him.

But she forgot, and all her enthusiasm was in her voice when she told him, "That was wonderful! I never seen such..." She stopped. It was too late to be sophisticated now. She took a deep breath. She saw in the light from the street lamp the pleasure in his face, and suddenly she was absolutely certain how very much it mattered to him. He was so vulnerable all she wanted was for him to know how happy she was. She leaned forward very quickly and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, Samuel. That was the best evenin' I ever 'ad."

Before she could step back he tightened his arm around her and turned his head slightly so he could kiss her on the lips. He was very gentle, but he had no intention at all of letting her go until he was ready. She tried to pull back a little, just to see if she could, and felt a tingle of pleasure on learning that it was impossible.

Then he eased his hold on her and she straightened up, gasping. She wanted to say something clever, or mildly funny, but nothing came. It was not a time for words that meant nothing.

"Good night," she said breathlessly.

"Good night, Gracie." His voice was a little husky as well, as if he too had been taken by surprise.

She turned around and felt for the scullery doorknob, twisted it and went inside, feeling her heart beating like a hammer, and knowing that she was smiling as if she had just been told the funniest and most wonderful thing in the world.

IN THE MORNING Gracie found Tilda out shopping, and brought her back to the kitchen in Keppel Street, where Tellman was sitting across the table with Charlotte, already discussing the subject. Only for an instant, almost too small to be noticed at all, Gracie's eyes met Tellman's, and she saw a half smile on his lips, a warmth. Then it vanished and he concentrated on business.

"Sit down, Tilda," Charlotte said gently, indicating the fourth chair at the table. Gracie took the third one. There was a pot of tea there already and no need for duties of hospitality to intrude.

"Yer know somethin'?" Tilda asked anxiously. "Gracie wouldn't say nothin' to me in the street."

"We don't know where he is," Charlotte answered straightaway. She could not hold out false hope; it was crueler in the end. "But we have learned more. A friend of mine spoke to Mr. Ferdinand Garrick, and he told her that Stephen had gone to the south of France, for his health, and taken his valet with him, in order to care for him while he is away." She saw Tilda's face clear and felt an ache of guilt. "Mr. Tellman has tried to see if that is true. He found someone who saw what was almost certainly Stephen Garrick and Martin leaving the house in Torrington Square. But there is no record of their having taken any boat to France, either from London or Dover. In fact, he cannot find a train they have taken. So it seems Martin has not been dismissed, but we don't know where he is, or why he has not written to you to tell you of his circumstances."

Tilda stared at her, trying to understand what it meant. "Then where'd they go? If it in't France, why'd they go at all?"

"We don't know, but we intend to find out," Charlotte answered. "What more can you tell us about Martin, or about Mr. Stephen?" She saw the total bewilderment in Tilda's face, and wished she could be plainer. She did not know herself what she was asking. "Try to think of everything Martin ever told you about the Garrick family, and Stephen in particular. He must have spoken about his life there sometimes."

Tilda looked on the edge of tears. She was struggling hard to make her brain override her fear and the loneliness that crowded in on her. Martin was all the family she had, all the life she could remember. Her parents were beyond infant recall.

Gracie leaned forward, ignoring the cup of tea Tellman had poured for her.

"It in't the time for bein' discreet!" she said urgently. "We all tells our fam'ly. He trusted yer, din't 'e? 'E must 'a told yer summink about life in the 'ouse. Was the food good? Did the cook 'ave a bad temper? Were the butler all spit and vinegar? 'Oo were the boss-the 'ousekeeper?"

Tilda relaxed a little as a faint smile touched her mouth. "Not the 'ousekeeper," she replied. "An' the butler wouldn't say boo ter the master, but right tarter 'e were wi' everyone else... at least that's wot Martin said. Order everyone else around summink wicked, but not Martin, 'cos o' Mr. Stephen. Martin were the only one as could look after 'im, an' no one else wanted to any'ow, fer all their bein' so upright an' all."

"Why not?" Charlotte asked. "Was he difficult?"

"Summink terrible, when 'e 'ad the stuff in 'im," Tilda said very quietly. "But Martin'd never forgive me if 'e knew I'd told yer that. Yer don't never tell no one about wot goes on in a lady or gentleman's rooms, or yer'll never work again. Out in the gutter an' no place ter go-'cos no one else'll ever take yer in. An' worse 'n that, it's betrayin', an' there in't nothin' worse than a betrayer." Her voice was low and husky, as if even saying the words would contaminate her.

"What stuff?" Charlotte asked, keeping her tone so casual she could have been speaking of porridge.

"I dunno," Tilda answered with such openness that Charlotte had to believe her.

Tellman put his cup down. "Did Martin ever go for a holiday with Mr. Stephen before? Anywhere?"

Tilda shook her head. "Not as I know. I'd 'a told yer."

"Friends?" Tellman insisted. "What did Stephen do for pleasure? Where did he go-music, women, sports, anything?"

"I dunno!" she said desperately. " 'E were miserable. Martin said as there weren't nothing 'e really liked. 'E used ter sleep bad, 'ave terrible dreams. I think as 'e were ill summink awful." Her voice dropped so they could barely hear it. "Martin told me as 'e were going ter look for a priest fer 'im... one as cared special fer soldiers."

"A priest?" Tellman said with surprise. He glanced at Gracie, and at Charlotte, then back to Tilda. "Do you know if Mr. Garrick was religious?"

Tilda thought for a moment. "I... I s'pose 'e were," she said slowly. " 'Is pa is-Martin said that. Runs the 'ouse like 'e were a clergyman. Staff all say prayers every mornin' an' every night. An' grace at table afore every meal. Mind most do that, o' course.

"But there was other things as well, like exercise an' cold water an' bein' extra clean an' early fer everythin'. Martin said as they all lined up in the mornin' afore breakfast an' the butler led 'em in prayers for the Queen and the empire an' their duty ter God, an' again afore anyone were allowed ter go ter bed at night. So I 'spec' Mr. Stephen were religious as well. Couldn't 'ardly 'elp it."

"Then why didn't he speak with their regular minister?" Charlotte asked, not to Tilda in particular but to all of them. "They'd go to church on Sunday, wouldn't they?"

"Oh, yeah," Tilda said with certainty. "Every Sunday, sure as clockwork. The 'ole 'ouse. Cook'd leave cold cuts for luncheon, an' 'eat up vegetables quick when she come back. Mr. Garrick's very strict about it."

"So why would Martin go to find a special priest for Stephen?" Charlotte said thoughtfully.

Tilda shook her head. "Dunno, but 'e told me about it. Someone as Mr. Stephen'd known a long time ago. 'E works wi' soldiers as 'ave fallen on 'ard times, drink an' opium an' the like." She gave a little shiver. "Down Seven Dials way, where it's real rough. Sleepin' in doorways, cold an' 'ungry, an' near enough wishin' they was dead, poor souls. That in't no way for a soldier o' the Queen ter end up."

No one answered her immediately. Gracie looked at Charlotte's face and saw it filled with pity and confusion, then she turned to Tellman, and was startled to see the quickening of an idea in his eyes. "Wot is it?" she demanded.

Tellman swiveled to face Tilda. "Did Martin find this man?" he asked.

"Yeah. 'E told me. Why? D'yer think 'e'd know wot 'appened ter Martin?" The hope in her voice was needle sharp.

"He might know something." Tellman tried to be careful, without crushing her. "Did he say his name, do you remember?"

"Yeah..." Tilda screwed up her face in effort. "Sand-summink. Sandy..."

Tellman leaned forward. "Sandeman?"

Tilda's eyes opened wide. "Yeah! That's it. Yer know 'im?"

"I've heard of him." Tellman looked across at Charlotte.

"Yes," she agreed before he asked the question. "Yes, we should try to find him. Whatever Martin said to him, it might be important." She bit her lip. "Apart from that, we don't have anything better."

"It may not be so easy," Tellman warned. "It could take a while. We still haven't got proof of any crime, so-"

"I'll look," Charlotte interrupted him.

"In Seven Dials?" Tellman shook his head. "You have no idea what it's like. It's one of the worst places..."

"I'll go in daylight," she said quickly. "And I'll dress in my oldest clothes-believe me, they'll pass as local. There'll be plenty of women around between eight o'clock and six in the evening. And I'm looking for the priest. Other women with relatives who were soldiers must do that too."

Tellman looked at her, then at Gracie. His conflicting emotions were startlingly clear in his face.

Charlotte smiled. "I'm going," she said decisively. "If I find him I have more chance of learning something about Martin than you have, if he really went on Stephen Garrick's behalf. I'll start straightaway." She turned to Tilda. "Now you go back to your duties. You cannot afford to have your mistress dismiss you, however justified your absence." She looked at Tellman. "Thank you for all you have done. I know it took a lot of your time..."

He brushed it aside, but he did not have the ease with words-even to think them, let alone tell her why it had mattered to him.

She stood up, and the others accepted it as leave to go.

CHARLOTTE WALKED the streets of the Seven Dials area from midday onwards. She had dressed in a very old skirt, one she had accidentally torn and had had to stitch up rather less than successfully. Instead of a jacket over her plain blouse, she took a shawl, which was more in keeping with what other women shopping or working in that area would wear.

Even so, she was startlingly out of place. Poverty had a stench unlike anything else. She had thought she knew, but she had forgotten just how many people sat on the pavements, huddled in doorways, or stood sad-eyed and hopeless around piles of rags or boots, waiting for someone to haggle over a price, and perhaps walk away with nothing.

The open gutter ran down the center of the street, barely moving in the slight incline. Human dirt was everywhere, and human smell clogged the air because there was little clear water, even to drink, no soap, no warmth or dryness, nothing to ease the hunger and the overintimacy.

She walked among them with her head down, not merely to seem like the others, beaten by life, but because she could not look at them, and meet their eyes, knowing she would leave and they could not.

She began tentatively, asking for a soldiers' priest. It cost her considerable resolve even to approach someone and speak. Her voice would betray her as not belonging, and there was no way to disguise it. To ape their speech patterns would be to make fun of them and mark herself as dishonest before she even framed her questions, let alone received an answer.

All she achieved the first day was to eliminate certain possibilities. It was the afternoon of the second day when she succeeded suddenly and without any warning. She was in Dudley Street, trying to make her way through the piles of secondhand shoes heaped not only on the broken cobbles of the pavement but strewn across the roadway as well. Children sat untended beside them, some crying, many just watching with half-seeing eyes as people trudged by.

The man was walking towards her, moving easily as if he were accustomed to it. He looked perfectly ordinary, in his early forties, slim under his ragged coat. His head was uncovered and his brown hair was badly in need of cutting.

Charlotte stopped to allow him to pass. He had a purpose in his stride and she did not want to bar his way.

To her surprise he stopped also. "I hear you are looking for me." His voice was soft and well educated. "My name is Morgan Sandeman. I work here with anyone who wants me, but especially soldiers."

"Mr. Sandeman?" Her voice lifted more than she had meant, as if she were really some desperate wife in search of a lost husband he might know.

"Yes. How can I help you?" He stood beside her amid the piles of shoes.

There was no point in pretense, and perhaps no time to waste. "I am looking for someone who has gone missing," she replied. "And I believe he may have spoken with you shortly before the last time he was seen. May I have a little of your time... please?"

"Of course." He held out his hand. "If you would like to come with me, we can go to my office. I'm afraid I don't have a church, more like an old hall, but it serves."

"Yes, I'd like to," she agreed without hesitation.

He led the way with no further speech, and she followed him back up the cobbles between the silent people, around the corner and along an alley towards a tiny square. The buildings were four or five stories high, narrow and leaning together, creaking in the damp, eaves crooked, the sour-sweet smell of rotting wood clinging to everything, choking the throat. There was no distinct sound, and yet there was not silence. Rat feet scuttled over stone, water dripped, rubbish moved and fluttered in the slight wind, wood sagged and settled a little lower.

"Over there." Sandeman pointed to a doorway and walked ahead of her. It was stained with damp and swung open at his touch. Inside was a narrow vestibule and beyond a larger hall with a fire burning low in the huge open fireplace. Half a dozen people sat on the floor in front of it, leaning close to each other, but not apparently talking. It was a moment before Charlotte realized they were either insensible or asleep.

Sandeman held up his finger to request silence, and walked almost soundlessly across the stone floor towards a table in the corner to the right, at which there were two chairs.

She followed after him and sat as he invited.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I have nothing to offer you, and nowhere better than this." He said it with a smile, not as if he were ashamed for it. It was more an accommodation to her than to himself. His face was gaunt and the marks of hunger were plain in his thin cheeks. "Who is it you are looking for?" he asked. "If I can't tell you where he is, I can at least tell him that you asked, and perhaps he will find you. You understand that what is told me in confidence has to remain so? Sometimes when a man..." He hesitated, watching her intently, perhaps trying to judge something of the man she was seeking from her emotions.

She felt like a fraud, imagining the desperate women, wives, mothers or sisters who had come to him to find a man they had loved, lost to experiences he could not share with them, or whose burden he could not carry without the oblivion of drink, or opium.

She had to be honest with him. "It is not a relative of mine, it is the brother of a young woman I know. He has disappeared, and she is too distressed to look for him herself, nor has she the time. She could lose her position and not easily find another."

His expression of concern did not alter. "Who is he?"

Before she could reply the outer door swung wide open, crashing against the wall and bouncing back to catch the person coming in. It hit him so hard he lost his precarious balance and crumpled to the floor, where he remained in a heap, like a bundle of rags.

Sandeman glanced at Charlotte too briefly to speak, then stood up and went over to the door. He bent down and put his hands under the man, and with considerable effort, lifted him to his feet. The man was very obviously drunk. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, but his face sagged, his eyes were unfocused and he had several days' stubble on his cheeks. His hair was matted and the dirt on him could be smelled even from where Charlotte sat.

Sandeman looked at him with exasperation. "Come on in, Herbert. Come and sit down. You're sodden wet, man!"

"I fell," Herbert mumbled, dragging his feet as he shambled half beside, half behind Sandeman.

"In the gutter, by the look of you," Sandeman said wryly.

And the smell, Charlotte thought. She longed to move farther away, but the dignity with which Sandeman spoke to the man made her feel ashamed to.

Herbert made no reply, but allowed himself to be guided over to the bench by the low fire, and sank down onto it as if he were exhausted. None of those already there took the slightest notice of him.

Sandeman went to a cupboard against the far wall. He took a key from the ring on his belt and opened the door. He searched for a few minutes, then took out a large gray blanket, coarse and rough, but no doubt warm.

Charlotte watched him with curiosity. It was hardly enough for a bed, nor was the man sick, in the sense that rest would help him.

Sandeman closed and locked the cupboard, and went back to Herbert, carrying the blanket.

"Take off your wet clothes," he instructed. "Wrap this around you and get warm."

Herbert looked across at Charlotte.

"She'll turn her back," Sandeman promised. He said it loudly enough for her to hear and obey, swiveling the chair around so she was facing the opposite way. After that she did not see him stand up, but she heard the rustling of fabric and the slight thud as the wet cloth struck the floor.

"I'll get you some hot soup and bread," Sandeman went on. "It'll settle your stomach." He did not bother to tell the man to stop drinking the alcohol that was poisoning him. Presumably that had already all been said, and to no purpose. "I'll wash your clothes. You'll have to wait here until they're dry." Charlotte heard his feet coming towards her until he stood at her elbow.

"You can turn around now," he said quietly. "I'm afraid I have things to do, but I can talk to you as I work."

"Perhaps I can fetch him the bread and the soup?" she offered. The stench of the clothes was turning her stomach, but she tried not to allow it to show in her face.

"Thank you," he accepted. "We have a scullery through there." He pointed to a door to the left of the fireplace. "We can talk while I wash these. It will be private." He picked up the clothes again and led her into a small stone room where a huge stove kept water simmering in two kettles, a cauldron of soup near the boil, and several old pans of hot water, presumably ready to wash clothes as necessary. A tin bath on a low table served as a sink, and there were buckets of cold water from the nearest pump, perhaps one or two streets away.

She found the bread and a knife and carefully sliced off two fairly thick pieces. It was not difficult because the bread was stale. She looked around for anything to spread on it, but there was no butter. Perhaps with soup it would not matter. Anything would be good that would absorb some of the alcohol. She lifted the lid from the cauldron on the stove and saw pea soup almost as thick as porridge, bubbles breaking every now and then on the surface, like hot mud. There were bowls on a bench, and she reached for one, took the ladle and filled it.

She carried the bread on a plate in one hand, the bowl and a spoon in the other, protected by a cloth, and went back into the hall and over to Herbert. She stopped in front of him and he looked up at her. She could see in his face the instinct to rise to his feet, old discipline dying hard. He had once been a soldier, before whatever kind of pain or despair it was had destroyed him. But he was also acutely conscious of the fact that he was wearing only a blanket, and he was not sure enough of his grasp on it to maintain his decency. The nakedness of his situation was bad enough, without exposing his body as well.

"Please stay seated," she said quickly, as if he had already half risen. "You must hold the soup carefully. It is very hot. You will need both hands. Please take care not to burn yourself."

"Thank you, ma'am," he muttered, relaxing again and taking the bowl from her gingerly. He rested it on the blanket across his knee straightaway. It was too hot to hold for long, and he was aware that his fingers were clumsy.

She smiled at him, although he did not see it, then realizing that she might be embarrassing him, she turned and went back into the scullery again.

Sandeman was bending over the tin bath, rubbing at the clothes. He was using rough soap made of potash, carbolic, and lye. It was strong and would do his skin no good, but it would get rid of the worst of the dirt, and no doubt the lice, and the odor and infection that would lie with them.

"Mr. Sandeman," she said urgently, "I really do have to speak to you. This young man who has disappeared may be in some danger, and we have been told that he came looking for you. If he found you, he might have said something which could tell me where he went, and why."

He looked sideways at her, resting his thin arms on the edge of the bath and leaning his weight on them. It was a backbreaking job. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Martin Garvie..."

The words were barely out of her mouth when she saw him stiffen and the color drain from his face, and then flow back in again as if the blood had rushed up in a tide. Her own heart constricted with fear. Her lips were so stiff it was difficult to form the words. "What's happened to him?" she said huskily.

"I don't know." He straightened up very slowly. He turned to face her, ignoring the wet clothes and letting them sink back into the water. "I'm sorry, I cannot tell you anything that will help you. I really cannot." He was breathing heavily, as if his chest were compressed, and yet at the same time starved for air.

"He may be in danger, Mr. Sandeman," she said quickly. "He is missing! No one has seen or heard from him for three weeks. His sister is frantic with worry. Even his master, Mr. Stephen Garrick, does not appear to have gone where he is said to have. There is no trace of him on train or ship. We need anything we can find to help us learn what has happened."

It was painfully clear that Sandeman was laboring under some intense emotion, so profound he could not control the shivering of his body or the raggedness of his breathing, but when he managed to find his voice, there was no indecision in him, no possibility of change.

"I cannot help you," he said again. "What is told me as a confession of the soul is sacred."

"But if a man's life is at stake..." she argued, knowing even as she did so that she was doomed to failure. She could see it in his eyes, the pallor of his face, the muscles locked tight in his jaw and neck.

"I can only trust God," he replied so softly she barely heard him. "It rests in His hands. I cannot tell you what Martin Garvie told me. If I could, I would tell you all of it. And I am still not sure it would help you find him."

"Is... is he alive?"

"I don't know."

She drew her breath in to try one more time, and then let it out in a sigh. She recognized the finality in his eyes, and looked away. She could not think what else to say. The emotion was too high for anything banal, and yet what else was there?

"Mrs..." he started, leaving it hanging because he did not know her name.

"Pitt," she answered. "Charlotte Pitt."

"Mrs. Pitt, it concerns too many other people. If it were my secret alone, and speaking would do any good... but it won't. It's an old story, long past helping now."

"To do with Martin Garvie?" She was puzzled. "He told you something..."

"I can't help you, Mrs. Pitt. I'll walk with you back as far as Dudley Street, in case you get lost." His voice was urgent, his dark eyes full of trouble. "Please go home. You don't belong here. You may get hurt, and you will do no good. Believe me. I live here, and I know this place as well as any outsider can do, but I seldom go out after dark. Come..." He dried his hands on a piece of torn cloth and put his jacket on again. "Do you know your way from Dudley Street?"

"Yes... thank you." She could only accept. There was nothing else to do with dignity, or even without it. And, she admitted, she cared what he thought of her.

WITH PITT not at home, Charlotte had no wish to light the parlor fire and sit there alone after Daniel and Jemima had gone to bed. Instead she sat in the warm, bright kitchen and told Gracie what she had discovered from Sandeman, but neither of them could think of anything further to do, unless they could find more information. In spite of the cats more or less asleep in the clothes basket beside the stove, and the soft patter of rain on the window, they shared a quiet, bitter feeling of defeat.

The evening after was no better, but at least there were domestic chores to be done, and that was more satisfying than idleness. Gracie was going through cupboards, tidying them, and Charlotte was mending pillowcases when a little after nine o'clock the doorbell rang.

Gracie was standing on a stool with her arms full of washing, so Charlotte went to answer it herself.

On the step stood a slender man, very smartly dressed in tailoring that would have astounded Pitt. He had a lean, clever face, deeply lined, and with eyes so dark they looked black in the light of the street lamp. His shock of dark hair was liberally sprinkled with gray.

"Mrs. Pitt." He said it more as an introduction than a question.

"Yes," she acknowledged cautiously. She was certainly not going to allow a stranger into the house. Nor, in fact, would it be a good idea to tell him that Pitt was away. "What may I do for you?" she added.

He smiled slightly. It was self-deprecating, and yet he was obviously full of confidence. It was a mannerism of possibly unconscious charm.

"How do you do. My name is Victor Narraway. In your husband's absence in Alexandria, where I regret I was obliged to send him, I wished to call upon you and ascertain that you are safe and well... and that you remain so."

"Have you some doubt, Mr. Narraway?" She was startled at his identity, and there was a flutter of fear in her that he knew something of Pitt which she did not. And for him to have come, it had to be something ugly. She had heard nothing from Pitt yet, but it was far too early. The post would take days. She tried to steady herself. "Why have you called, Mr. Narraway? Please be candid."

"Exactly as I said, Mrs. Pitt," he replied. "May I come in?"

She stood back in tacit invitation and he stepped up and past her, glancing momentarily at the delicate plasterwork on the ceiling of the hall. Then as she closed the door, he went where she indicated into the parlor.

She followed him and turned up the lamps. She hoped he was not going to be there long enough for it to matter that she had not lit the fire. She faced him almost challengingly, her heart pounding. "Have you heard something about Thomas?"

"No, Mrs. Pitt," he said immediately. "I apologize if I gave you that impression. As far as I know, he is safe and in good health. Were he not, I would have heard to the contrary. It is your safety I am concerned about."

He was very polite but she detected a shadow of condescension in his tone. Was it because Narraway was a gentleman, and Pitt was a gamekeeper's son, in spite of his perfect diction? There was always something in the manner, the bearing, which marked the confidence that was not gained but inborn.

Charlotte was not aristocracy, as Vespasia was, but she was very definitely of good family. She looked at him with a cool arrogance which Vespasia might not have disowned. Her old dress with its darned cuffs was irrelevant.

"Indeed? That is very gracious of you, Mr. Narraway, but quite unnecessary. Thomas left everything in order before he went, and all arrangements are working as they should." She was referring to the financial ones regarding his pay, but it would be crude to say so.

Narraway smiled very slightly, merely a softening of the lips. "I had not imagined otherwise," he assured her. "But then perhaps you did not tell him of your intention to investigate the apparent disappearance of one of Ferdinand Garrick's servants."

She was caught completely off guard. She scrambled for an answer that would keep him at a distance and close him out of intruding into her thoughts.

"Apparent?" she asked, her eyes very wide. "That sounds as if you know more of it than I. So you have been investigating it also? I am very pleased. Indeed, I am delighted. The case requires more resources than I can bring to it."

Now it was his turn to look startled, but he masked it so quickly she almost failed to see it.

"I don't think you understand the danger you may be in if you proceed any further," he said carefully, his dark eyes fixed on hers, as if to make certain she grasped his seriousness.

Without taking a second to think, she smiled at him dazzlingly. "Then you had better enlighten me, Mr. Narraway. What danger is it? Who is likely to hurt me, and how? Obviously you know, or you would not have taken time from your own case to come to tell me... at this hour."

He was disconcerted. Again it was there only for an instant, but she saw it with sharp satisfaction. He had expected her to be cowed, humbled by censure, and instead she had turned his words back on him.

He sidestepped her challenge. "You are afraid something unpleasant has happened to Martin Garvie?" he asked.

She refused to be defensive. "Yes," she said frankly. "Mr. Ferdinand Garrick says that his son and Martin have gone to the south of France, but if that is true, then why in three weeks did Martin not write to his sister and tell her so?" She was not going to let Narraway know that Tellman had also tried and failed to find any record of their having sailed, or even a witness to their taking a train. Tellman could not afford to attract the notice of his new superior, still less his criticism, and she did not trust Narraway not to use information in any way that suited his own immediate purpose.

"Do you fear an accident?" he asked.

He was playing with her, and she knew it.

"Of what sort?" She raised her eyebrows. "I cannot think of one that would cause the danger to me that you suggest."

He relaxed and smiled. "Touche," he said softly. "But I am perfectly serious, Mrs. Pitt. I am aware that you have concerned yourself with this young man's apparent disappearance, and that he is, or was, manservant to Stephen Garrick. The Garrick family is of some power in society-and in government circles. Ferdinand Garrick had a fine military career, ended with a good command-lieutenant general, before he retired. Rigid, loyal to the empire to the last inch, God, Queen, and country."

Charlotte was perplexed. She stood in the middle of the room looking at Narraway while he relaxed a fraction more with every second. If Garrick were as upright and honorable as Narraway said, the "muscular Christian" Vespasia knew, then simply he would not be party to any abuse of a servant, let alone the kind of danger she and Gracie had come to fear.

Narraway saw her hesitation. "But he is a man of little mercy if he feels he is being criticized," he went on. "He would not like his affairs questioned, by anyone. Like many proud men, he is also intensely private."

She lifted her chin a little. "And what could he do, Mr. Narraway? Ruin my reputation in society? I do not have one. My husband is an officer in Special Branch, a man the authorities use but pretend does not exist. When he was superintendent of Bow Street, I might have entertained social aspirations, but hardly now."

He colored very faintly. "I know that, Mrs. Pitt. Many people do great things and are publicly unappreciated, possibly even unthanked. The only comfort is that if you are not praised for your successes, at least you may not be blamed for your failures." His face shadowed, fierce emotion suppressed under a tight control. "And we all have them."

There was such a heaviness in his voice, carefully as he disguised it, that she knew he was speaking of himself, and something painfully learned, not observed from others. It was not belief that moved him but knowledge.

"I am concerned for you, Mrs. Pitt," he went on. "Of course he will not change your value in the eyes of your friends, but he can wield a cruel influence on all your family, if he wishes to, or feels himself vulnerable." He was watching her closely. She found his look gripping-almost as if he physically held her.

"Do you think some harm has come to Martin Garvie?" she asked him. "Please speak honestly, whether I can do anything to help or not. Lies, however comfortable, will not improve my behavior, I promise you."

There was a quickening in his eyes, a spark of humor in spite of the other emotions crowding close. "I have no idea. I cannot think of any reason why it should. How much do you know about him?"

"Very little. But his sister, Matilda, has known him all her life, and she is the one who is afraid," she answered.

"Or hurt?" he said with very slightly raised eyebrows. "Could it be that they are growing further apart, and she finds that difficult? She is lonely, and the ties are closer for her than for him; she will believe anything, even danger from which she must rescue him, easier to accommodate than the knowledge that in fact he does not need her?"

Again she was caught by a sadness in his voice, some shadow of the gaslight that caught an old pain not usually visible... and by the fact that apparently he also knew at least something about Tilda as well.

"Of course it is possible," she said very gently. "But the possibility does not excuse the need to be certain that he is safe. It couldn't." She nearly added that he must know that, as she did, but she saw his understanding as the words touched her lips, and she left them unsaid.

They stood for seconds. Then he straightened. "Nevertheless, Mrs. Pitt, for your safety's sake, please do not press any further with enquiries regarding Mr. Garrick. There can be no conceivable reason for his having harmed a servant, other than possibly in reputation, and that is something you cannot undo."

"I would like to oblige you, Mr. Narraway," she replied very levelly. "But if I find myself in a position to help Tilda Garvie, then I cannot hold back from doing so. I can think of no way in which it would inconvenience Mr. Garrick, unless he has done something unjust... If he has, then, like anyone else, he is answerable for it."

Exasperation filled Narraway's face. "But not to you, Mrs. Pitt! Haven't you-" He stopped.

She smiled at him with great charm. "No," she said. "I haven't. May I offer you a cup of tea? It will be in the kitchen, but you are very welcome."

He stood motionless, as if the decision were a major one on which something of great importance depended, as if even from the parlor he could sense the warmth and the comfortable familiarity of scrubbed wood, clean linen, gleaming china on the dresser, and the lingering, sweet odor of food.

"No, thank you," he said at last. "I must go home." His voice held the regret he could not put into words. "Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Narraway." She accompanied him to the front door, and watched his slender, straight-backed figure walk with almost military elegance along the rain-wet footpath towards the thoroughfare.