Anne Perry - A Christmas Promise

But the more Gracie thought about it all, the less did she see anything in it that she hadn’t seen two days before. Nobody had spoken of anything suspicious. It was exactly the same route, though backward, as Jimmy Quick always took—the same streets, the same people saw him. He had even started at about the same time. She could remember most of the streets, only not necessarily in the same order. But Alf would have had it right, because it made sense. One street led into another. There was only one way to go.

She tried again to remember exactly what everyone had said. She closed her eyes and hunched her shoulders, wrapping her shawl even more tightly around herself, and pictured the roasted-chestnut man. He was the only one who had seen Alf after he’d had the casket. Cob had looked worried, but not really downright frightened. She could see it in her mind’s eye, the way he’d stood, his expression, the way he had waved his arms to show which way the man he’d called the toff had come … except that he had been coming the way Alf was going, not the way he had just passed! That made no sense.

She tried it again, but with Cob waving the other way. Except that he couldn’t have. He was standing next to the brazier, about the length of his forearm from it. If he had waved that arm, he would have hit the brazier, and very likely burned himself. He might even have knocked it over. So it couldn’t be right.

She tried turning him around, but that didn’t work either. He had definitely pointed the way Alf was still going, not where he had been. She recited the order of the streets Jimmy had told them. Then she tried to say them backward, and got them jumbled up.

There was only one answer—Alf had done them the other way around. He had started at the end, and worked back to the beginning. The same circle—but backward.

Had someone counted on him doing it the same way as always? They would have expected him to be at a certain place at a certain time. The casket had been left for someone else. Alf had taken it without realizing it was important. Whoever it was—the toff—had gone after him to get it back, and by that time Alf had decided he wanted to keep it. Perhaps there had been a fight, and Alf had been killed because he wouldn’t give it up?

Then why take Charlie? Why take the cart? And whose blood had it been on the stable floor?

It was getting colder. There was no answer that made sense of everything. The only things that seemed certain were that Alf was dead, Charlie and the cart were missing—and Alf had taken Jimmy Quick’s route backward, being just about everywhere when nobody expected him.

Oh, and there was one other thing—the casket was missing, too. If it hadn’t been, then the toff wouldn’t still be looking for it. And worst of all, Minnie Maude was missing now too. That was Gracie’s fault. She had left her alone when she knew how much the little girl cared. If she’d thought about it, instead of how tired and cold she was, and how much help her gran needed, then she would have seen ahead. She’d have gone to Minnie Maude’s earlier, in time to stop her from wandering off and then getting taken by the toff.

Well, Gracie would just have to find her now. There wasn’t anything else she could possibly do. She had to use her brains and think.

There was more traffic in the street, people coming and going, carts, wagons, drays, even one or two hansoms. Who had left the casket out with the old things for the rag and bone man, not expecting him to come by for hours? Why would anybody do that? For somebody else to pick up, of course. That was the only thing that made sense.

Who would that be? The toff, naturally. But who’d left it? And why? If you wanted somebody to have something, wouldn’t you just give it to them? Leaving it on the side of the street was daft!

Unless you couldn’t wait? Or you didn’t want to be seen? Or somebody was chasing you?

Only, Alf had come along instead, and too soon. Perhaps it had been hidden inside an old piece of carpet, or inside a coal scuttle, or something like that. Then no one else would even have known it was there.

What did Alf do with it? He’d had it when he’d stopped for hot chestnuts, because Cob had seen it. Then where had Alf gone? He couldn’t have had it when he was killed, or whoever killed him would have taken it away—wouldn’t they?

Maybe it wasn’t the toff who’d killed him?

But if somebody else had, then why? Because of the casket—it was the only thing special and different. Then what on earth was inside it that was worth so much—and was so dangerous? It must have been something very powerful, but not good. Good things, a real gift from the Wise Men for Jesus, wouldn’t make people kill one another like this. Alf was dead, Bertha was frightened stiff, and Stan was angry enough to hit her in the face, probably because he was scared as well.

And Gracie was so afraid for Minnie Maude that she felt a kind of sickness in her stomach and a cold, hard knot inside her, making it difficult to breathe. Every time she thought she had made sense out of it all, it slipped away. She needed to get help. But from who? None of the people she knew would even understand, and they all had their own griefs and worries to deal with. They would just say that Minnie Maude had run off, and she’d come back when she got cold or hungry enough. They’d tell Gracie to mind her own business, look after Spike and Finn, and do as her gran told her.

She looked up and down the street as it grew busier. People hurried along the pavement, heads bent, the rain and sleet pounding. Many of the people were carrying parcels. Were they presents for Christmas? Nice food—cakes and puddings? There’d be holly with red berries, and ivy, maybe mistletoe, and ribbons, of course.

There was one person she could ask. He’d be very angry, because she had promised to stop asking questions, but this was different. Minnie Maude was gone. He could be angry later.

She straightened up, turned back the way she had come, and started walking into the wind. It stung her face and seemed to cut right through her shawl as if her shawl had been made of paper, but she knew where she was going.

M r. Balthasar looked at her grimly. His dark face, with its long, curved nose, was set in lines of deep unhappiness.

Gracie swallowed, but the lump in her throat remained.

“Will yer please ’elp me, mister, cos I dunno ’oo else ter ask. I think Minnie Maude’s in trouble.”

“Yes,” he agreed quickly. “I think she probably is. You look frozen, child.” He touched her shoulder with his thin hand. “And wet through. I will find you something dry, and a cup of tea.” He started to move away.

“There in’t time!” she said urgently, panic rising in her voice. Warm and dry would be wonderful, but not till Minnie Maude was found.

“Yes, there is,” he replied steadily. “A dry shawl will take no time at all, and you can tell me everything you know while the kettle is boiling. I shall close the shop so we will not be disturbed. Come with me.”

He locked the door and turned around a little sign on it so people would not knock, then he found her a wonderful red embroidered shawl and wrapped it around her, instead of her own wringing-wet one. Then, while she sat on a stool and watched him, he pulled the kettle onto the top of the big black stove, and cut bread to make toast.

“Tell me,” he commanded her. “Tell me everything you have done since you last spoke to me, where you went and what you have discovered.”

“First day I ’elped me gran, then terday I went ter see Minnie Maude, an’ she weren’t at ’ome,” Gracie began. “’er aunt Bertha tol’ me as she’d gorn out, after Stan shouted at ’er. ’e were real mad, an’Bertha were scared. There were red marks on ’er face where ’e’d ’it ’er.” It sounded silly now that she told him, because she hadn’t actually seen it and couldn’t explain any of her feelings. People did hit each other, and it didn’t have to mean much.