Anne Perry - A Christmas Promise

“That’s the wrong way,” Minnie Maude said, puzzled. “I remembered it.” She recited the streets as Jimmy Quick had told them, ticking them off on her fingers.

“Well that’s the way ’e went.” Monday was firm.

They thanked him and set off in the direction he had pointed.

“Were ’e lorst?” Minnie Maude said when they were on the far side and well out of the traffic.

“I dunno,” Gracie admitted. Her mind was racing, imagining all kinds of things. This was later in the route. He couldn’t have done all the little alleys to the west so soon. Why had he been going the wrong way? Had somebody been after him already? No, that didn’t make any sense.

“We gotta find somebody else ter ask,” she said aloud. “’oo else would a seen ’im?”

Minnie Maude thought about it for some time before she answered. They walked another hundred yards along Cannon Street, but no one could help.

“Nobody seen ’im,” Minnie Maude said, fighting tears. “We in’t never gonna find Charlie.”

“Yeah, we are,” Gracie said with more conviction than she felt. “Mebbe we should ask after Charlie, not Uncle Alf? Most people push their own barrows, or got ’orses.”

Minnie Maude brightened. “Yeah. Ye’re right.” She squared her shoulders and lengthened her stride, marching across the icy cobbles toward a thin man with a lantern jaw who was busy mending a broken window, replacing the small pane of glass, smiling as he worked, as if he knew a secret joke.

“Mister?” Minnie Maude jogged his elbow to attract his attention.

He looked at her, still smiling.

Gracie caught up and glanced at the window. The old pane he had removed had a neat hole in it, round as the moon.

“Wot’s yer name?” Minnie Maude asked.

“They call me Paper John. Why?”

“Yer bin ’ere afore?” Minnie Maude watched him intently. “Like three days ago, mebbe? I’m lookin’ fer where me uncle Alf were. ’e ’ad a cart, but wif a donkey, not an ’orse.”

“Why?” The man was still smiling. “Yer lorst ’im?”

“I lorst Charlie, ’e’s the donkey,” Minnie Maude explained. “Uncle Alf’s dead.”

The smile vanished. “Sorry ter ’ear that.”

“’e’s a rag an’ bone man,” Minnie Maude went on. “Least ’e were.”

“This is Jimmy Quick’s patch,” the man told her.

“I know. Uncle Alf did it fer ’im that day.”

“I remember. ’e stopped and spoke ter me.”

Minnie Maude’s eyes opened wide, and she blinked to stop the tears. “Did ’e? Wot’d ’e say?”

“’e were singin’ some daft song about Spillikins and Dinah an’ a cup o’ cold poison, an’ ’e taught me the words of it. Said ’e’d teach me the rest if I got ’im a drink at the Rat and Parrot. I went, but ’e never turned up. I reckoned as ’e di’n’t know the rest, but I s’pose ’e were dead, poor devil.”

Minnie Maude gulped. “’e knew ’em. ’e used ter sing it all, an’ ’Ol’ Uncle Tom Cobley’ an’ all too,” she said.

“Oh, I know that one.” He hummed a few bars, and then a few more.

Gracie found her throat tight too, and was angry with herself for letting it get in the way of asking the right questions. “Did ’e say as ’e’d picked up anyfink special?” she interrupted.

The man looked at her curiously. “Like wot?”

“Like anyfink,” she said sharply. “Summink wot weren’t just rags an’ old clothes and bits o’ fur or lace, an’ ol’ shoes or bones and stuff.”

“Jus’ things wot nobody wanted,” the man said gently. “Bit o’ china wot was nice, four cups an’ saucers, a teapot wi’ no lid. ’e must a just ’ad a fit, fallen off. Could ’appen ter anyone. ’e weren’t no chicken.”

“Yeah. I’m sure,” Gracie replied, but she wouldn’t have been if she had not seen the blood and the scratches at the stable, and if Stan had not been so angry. It was the prickle of evil in the air, not the facts that she could make sense of to someone else. “’e were killed.”

The man pursed his lips. “Well ’e were fine when I saw ’im, an’ ’e di’n’t say nuffink.” He hesitated for a moment. “’e were late, though, fer this end o’ the way. Jimmy Quick’s round ’ere a couple of hours sooner…at least.”

“Yer sure?” Gracie asked, puzzled. She did not know if it meant anything, but they had so little to grasp on to that everything could matter.

“Course I’m sure,” the man replied. “Mebbe ’e were lorst. ’e was goin’ that way.” He pointed. “Or ’e forgot summink an’ went back on ’isself, like.”

Gracie thanked him, and she and Minnie Maude continued along the way that he had indicated.

“Wot’s ’e mean?” Minnie Maude said with a frown.

“I dunno,” Gracie admitted, but she was worried. It was beginning to sound wrong already. Why would anyone change the way he went to pick up old things that people put out, even good things? She tried to keep the anxiety out of her face, but when she glanced sideways at Minnie Maude, she saw the reflection of the same fear in her pinched expression, and the tightness of her shoulders under the shawl.

A couple of hundred yards farther on they found a girl selling ham sandwiches. She looked tired and cold, and Gracie felt faintly guilty that they had no intention of buying from her, not that they wouldn’t have liked to. The bread looked fresh and crusty, but they had no money to spare for such things.

“D’yer know Jimmy Quick?” Gracie asked her politely.

The girl gave a shrug and a smile. “Course I do. Comes by ’ere reg’lar. Why?”

“Cos me Uncle Alf did it fer ’im three days back,” Minnie Maude put in. “Did yer see ’im?” She forced a smile. “Wot’s yer name?”

“Florrie,” the girl replied. “Ol’ geezer wi’ white ’air all flying on top o’ ’is ’ead?”

Minnie Maude smiled, then puckered her lower lip quickly to stop herself from crying. “Yeah, that’s ’im.”

“’e made me laugh. ’e told me a funny story. Silly, it were, but I in’t laughed that ’ard fer ages.” She shook her head.

“Was ’e goin’ this way?” Gracie pointed back the way they had come. “Or that way?” she turned forward again.

Florrie considered. “That way,” she said finally, pointing east.

“Are yer certain?” Gracie said to Florrie. “That’d mean ’e were goin’ backward ter the way Jimmy Quick’d do it. Yer real certain?”

Florrie was puzzled. “Yeah. ’e come that way, an’ ’e went up there. I watched ’im go, cos ’e made me laugh, an’ ’e were singin’. I were singin’ along wif ’im. A man wif a long coat got sharp wif me cos I weren’t payin’ ’im no ’eed when ’e asked me fer a sandwich.”

“A man wif a long coat?” Minnie Maude said instantly. “Did ’e go after Uncle Alf?”

Florrie shook her head. “No. ’e went the other way.”

“We’ll ’ave a sandwich,” Gracie said quickly, feeling rash and expansive. She fished for a coin and passed it over. Florrie gave her the sandwich, and Gracie took it and carefully tore it in half, giving the other piece to Minnie Maude, who took it and ate it so fast it seemed to disappear from her hands.

It was much more difficult to find the next person who had seen Alf and Charlie. Twice they got lost, and they were still west of Cannon Street. The wind was getting colder, slicing down the alleys with an edge, like knives on the skin. It found every piece of bare face or neck, no matter how carefully you wound a shawl or how tightly you pulled it. The wind stung the eyes and made them water, spilling tears onto your cheeks, then freezing them.

Horses and carts passed, with hooves sharp on the ice and harnesses jingling. Shop windows were yellow-bright as the light faded early in the afternoon. It was just about the shortest day, and the lowering sky made it even grayer.