Anne Perry - Seven Dials

Narraway drew in his breath to say something else, then let it out without speaking.

“I saw Ryerson,” Pitt volunteered. “He’s still convinced Miss Zakhari is innocent.”

Narraway looked back at him, his eyebrows raised.

“Is that an oblique way of saying that he isn’t going to help himself by stepping back and admitting that he arrived to find Lovat already dead?” Narraway asked.

“I don’t know what he’s going to say. The police know he was there, so he can’t deny it.”

“Too late anyway,” Narraway retorted with sudden bitterness. “The Egyptian embassy knew he was there. I’ve moved everything I can to find out who told them, and learned nothing, except that they have no intention of telling me.”

Very slowly Pitt sat up straighter. He had not even been thinking about what Narraway had been doing, but with a charge like electricity shooting through him, he realized the import of what he had said.

Narraway smiled with a downward twist of his mouth. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Ryerson may be making a fool of himself, but someone is giving him some discreet and powerful assistance. What I am not yet certain of is what part Ayesha Zakhari is playing, and whether she is aware of it herself. Is she the queen or the pawn?”

“Why?” Pitt asked, leaning forward now. “Cotton?”

“It would seem the obvious answer,” Narraway replied. “But obvious is not necessarily true.”

Pitt stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

Narraway relaxed back into his chair, but it seemed more a resignation than a matter of ease. “Go home and sleep,” he said. “Come back tomorrow morning.”

“That’s all?”

“What else do you want?” Narraway snapped. “Take it while you can. It won’t last.”

CHARLOTTE GAVE A GREAT DEAL of thought to Martin Garvie and what could have happened to him. She was aware of many of the ugly or tragic things that could overtake servants, and of the misfortunes they could bring upon themselves. She also knew that Tilda was his sister, and Tilda’s opinion of him was bound to be colored by her affections, and a certain innocence of the world inevitable in any girl of her lack of experience. Charlotte would not have wished it to be otherwise for Tilda’s own sake. She must be of a similar age to Gracie, but she had nothing like the same spirit or the curiosity, and perhaps not the bitter experience of the streets either. Perhaps Martin had protected her from that?

They were in the kitchen, and Pitt had not been gone more than an hour.

“Wot are we gonna do?” Gracie asked with an awkward mixture of deference and determination. Nothing would persuade her to stop, and yet she knew she needed Charlotte’s help. She was ashamed of having alienated Tellman, and she was confused by it, and for the first time, a little afraid of her own feelings.

Charlotte was busy removing a grease stain from Pitt’s jacket. She had already made a fine powder of ground sheep’s trotters. It was something she naturally kept in store, along with other ingredients for cleaning agents, such as sorrel juice, chalk, horse hoof parings-clean, of course-candle ends, and lemon or onion juice. She concentrated on what she was doing, dabbing at the stain with a cloth soaked in turpentine, and avoiding looking at Gracie so as not to give any emotional value to what she was saying.

“We should probably begin by speaking with Tilda again,” she continued, reaching out and taking the powder from Gracie’s hand. She shook a little onto the damp patch and looked at it critically. “A description of Martin might be helpful.”

“We gonna look for ’im?” Gracie asked with surprise. “Where’d we start? ’E could be anywhere! ’E could ’a gorn… ’e could be…” She stopped.

Charlotte knew she had been going to say that he could be dead. It was the thought at the edge of her own mind too. “It’s difficult to ask people questions about seeing someone if we can’t say what he looks like,” she replied, using a small, stiff brush to take the powder away. The stain was a lot better. One more time and it would be clean. She smiled very slightly. “It also makes it sound as if we don’t know him,” she added. “We don’t… but the truth doesn’t sound very believable.”

“I can fetch Tilda ter tell us,” Gracie said quickly. “She does ’er errands the same time most days.”

“I’ll come with you,” Charlotte said.

Gracie’s eyes widened. It was a mark of Charlotte’s seriousness that she would come out into the street to wander around waiting for someone else’s housemaid to pass. It was extraordinary friendship. It also made it clear that she believed he could be in very real danger. Gracie looked at Pitt’s jacket, then up at Charlotte, the question in her eyes.

“I’ll finish it when we get back,” Charlotte said. “What time does Tilda go out?”

“ ’Bout now,” Gracie replied.

“Then you’d better put some more water in the stockpot and pull it to the side of the hob so it doesn’t boil dry, and we’ll go.” Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron, then undid it and took it off. “Fetch your coat.”

It was nearly an hour before they saw Tilda coming towards them along the street, but so distracted by her thoughts that Gracie had spoken to her twice before she realized it was she who was being addressed.

“Oh, Gracie!” she said with intense relief, the furrows of anxiety ironing out of her face. “I’m so glad ter see yer. ’Ave yer ’eard anythin’? No-no, o’ course yer ’aven’t. I’m that stupid or I wouldn’t ’ave asked. ’Ow could yer? I ’aven’t ’eard a word.” Her face puckered again as she said it and tears filled her eyes. It obviously cost her all the will she had to keep any composure at all.

“No,” Gracie agreed, taking Tilda by the arm and pulling her a few steps sideways out of the pathway of other pedestrians. “But we’re gonna do summink about it. I brought Mrs. Pitt along, an’ we can ’ave a cup o’ tea an’ she wants ter ask yer a few things, like.”

Tilda looked at Charlotte, now standing beside them. The maid’s eyes were wide with alarm.

“Good morning, Tilda,” Charlotte said firmly. “Can you spare half an hour without making your mistress upset with you? I should like to learn a little more about your brother so we can look for him more effectively.”

Tilda was momentarily lost for words, then her fear overcame her shyness. “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, if I tell ’er it’s ter do wi’ Martin. I told ’er already as ’e were missin’.”

“Good,” Charlotte approved. “In the circumstances I think that was very wise.” She glanced up at the gray, misty sky. “Our conversation would be better held inside, over a hot cup of tea.” And without waiting for agreement or otherwise, she turned and led the way to the small baker’s shop where they also served refreshments, and when they were seated at a table, to Tilda’s astonishment, ordered tea and hot buttered muffins.

“How old is Martin?” Charlotte began.

“Twenty-three,” Tilda answered immediately.

Charlotte was impressed. That was young for a valet, which was a skilled occupation. At such an age she would have expected him to be no more than a footman. Either he had been in service since he was very young or he was unusually quick to learn.

“How long has he been in the Garrick household?” she continued.

“Since ’e were seventeen,” Tilda said. “ ’E went there as a footman, but Mr. Stephen took a likin’ to ’im. ’E were a bootboy wi’ the Furnivals afore that, but they din’t need another footman, so ’e moved on, an’ up, like.” There was a ring of pride in her voice and she sat a little more upright, her shoulders squared as she said it.