Anne Perry - A Christmas Promise

“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 one who’d seen the toff, and Alf had actually told him about the golden casket.