Anne Perry - A Christmas Promise

“Thank you,” Gracie accepted, and took the same for Minnie Maude.

When they were sitting on a random collection of chairs, Mrs. Quick expressed her approval of Uncle Alf, and her sympathy for Minnie Maude, and then for Bertha. “Too bad for ’er,” she said, shaking her head. “That bruvver of ’ers is more trouble than ’e’s worth. Pity it weren’t ’im as got done in.”

“Wouldn’t ’ave ’appened to ’im,” Jimmy said miserably.

“I reckon as it were that golden tin, or wotever it were,” she said, giving Jimmy a sharp look, and shaking her head again. “’e said as ’e thought they never meant ter put it out.”

Minnie Maude sat up sharply, nearly spilling her tea. “Wot were that, then?” she asked eagerly.

Jimmy glanced at his wife. “Don’t go puttin’ ideas inter ’er ’ead. We never saw no gold tin. It were jus’ Tommy Cob ramblin’ on.” He turned to Minnie Maude. “It ain’t nothin’. Folk put out all kinds o’ things. Never know why, an’ it don’t do ter ask.”

“A golden box?” Minnie Maude said in amazement. “’oo’d put out summink like that?”

“Nobody,” Jimmy agreed. “It were jus’ Tommy talkin’ like a fool. Prob’ly an old piece o’ brass, like as not, or even painted wood, or summink.”

“Mebbe that’s why they killed Uncle Alf an’ took the cart?” Minnie Maude was sitting clutching her porcelain teacup, her eyes wide with fear. “An’ Charlie.”

“Don’ be daft!” Jimmy said wearily. “If they put out summink by mistake, then they’d jus’ go an’ ask fer it back. Mebbe give ’im a couple o’ bob fer it, not go off killin’ people.”

“But they did kill ’im,” Minnie Maude pointed out, sniffing and letting out her breath in a long sigh. “’e’s dead.”

“I know,” Jimmy admitted. “An’ I’m real sorry about that. ’ave some more ’ot water in yer tea?”

That was all they would learn from him, and ten minutes later they were outside in the street again, and a fine rain was falling with a drift of sleet now and then.

“I’ve still gotta find Charlie,” Minnie Maude said, staring ahead of her, avoiding Gracie’s eyes. “Uncle Alf doin’ Jimmy’s round jus’ makes it worse. Charlie’s really lorst now!”

“I know that,” Gracie agreed.

Minnie Maude stopped abruptly on the cobbles. “Yer think as there’s summink real bad ’appened, don’t yer!” It was a challenge, not a question.

Gracie took a deep breath. “I dunno wot I think,” she admitted. She was about to add that she thought Jimmy Quick was not telling all the truth, then she decided not to. It would only upset Minnie Maude, and it was just a feeling, nothing as clear as an idea.

“I told yer ’e were a lyin’ sod,” Minnie Maude said very quietly. “It’s written clear as day on ’is face.”

“Mebbe ’e’s jus’ sad cos ’e liked yer uncle Alf,” Gracie suggested. “An’ if Alf’d bin on ’is own round, mebbe somebody’d ’ave ’elped ’im. But ’e could a still bin dead.”

“Yer mean not left lyin’ in the roadway.” Minnie Maude sniffed hard, but it did not stop the tears from running down her face. “Yer’d ’ave liked Uncle Alf,” she said almost accusingly. “’e’d a made yer laugh.”

Gracie would have liked to have an uncle who made her laugh. Come to think of it, she’d have liked a donkey who was a friend. They’d known lots of animals in the country, before her mother had died and she’d come to London: sheep, horses, pigs, cows. Not that there was a lot of time for friends now that she was thirteen. Minnie Maude had a lot to learn about reality, which was a shame.

“Yeah,” Gracie agreed. “I ’spec I would.”

They walked in silence for a while, back toward Brick Lane, and then Thrawl Street. It got colder with every moment.

“Wot are we gonna do?” Minnie Maude asked when they came to the curb and stopped, traffic rattling past them.

Gracie had been thinking. “Go back ’ome an’ see if Charlie’s come back on ’is own,” she replied. “’e could ’ave.”

“D’yer think?” Minnie Maude’s voice lifted with hope, and Gracie was touched by a pang of guilt. She had suggested it only because she could think of nothing better.

Gracie did not answer, and they walked the rest of the way past the end of the notorious Flower and Dean Walk in silence, passing figures moving in the shadows. Others stood still, watching and waiting. The ice made the cobbles slippery. The sleet came down a little harder, stinging their faces and rattling against the stone walls to either side of them in the narrow alleys. The gutters were filling up, water flecked with white that disappeared almost instantly, not yet cold enough to freeze solid. Their breath made white trails of vapor in the air.

Minnie Maude led the way into the back gate of a house exactly like its neighbors on either side. The only thing that distinguished it was the shed at the back, which, from Minnie Maude’s sniff and her eager expression, was clearly Charlie’s stable. Now she went straight to the door and pushed it open, drawing in her breath to speak, then stood frozen, her shoulders slumping with despair.

Gracie’s heart sank, too, although she should have understood better than to imagine the donkey would have come home. She already knew that something was wrong. Probably it was only some minor dishonesty, someone taking advantage of a man who had died suddenly and unexpectedly; a theft, not anything as far-fetched as a murder. But either way, Minnie Maude would hurt just as badly. She would miss the uncle who had made her laugh and had loved her, and the donkey who’d been her friend.

“We’ll find ’im,” Gracie said impulsively, swallowing hard, and knowing she was making a promise she would not be able to keep.

Minnie Maude forced herself not to cry. She took an enormous breath and turned to face Gracie, her cheeks tear-streaked, wet hair sticking to her forehead. “Yeah. Course we will,” she agreed. She led the way along the rest of the short path, barely glancing up as a couple of pigeons flapped above her and disappeared into the loft over the stable. She pushed the back door of the house open, and Gracie followed her inside.

A thin woman with a plain face stood over a chopping board slicing carrots and turnips, her large-knuckled hands red from the cold. She had the most beautiful hair Gracie had ever seen. In the lantern light it was burnished like autumn leaves, a warm color, as if remembering the sun. She looked up as Minnie Maude came in, then her pale eyes widened a little as she saw Gracie, and her hands stopped working.

“W’ere yer bin, Minnie Maude?”

“Lookin’ for Charlie,” Minnie Maude replied. “This is Gracie, from ’eneage Street. She’s ’elpin’ me.”

Aunt Bertha shook her head. “In’t no point,” she said quietly. “’e’ll come ’ome by ’isself…or ’e won’t. In’t nothing yer can do, child. An’ don’t go wastin’ other folks’ time.” She regarded Gracie with only the tiniest fraction of curiosity. There were dozens of children up and down every street, and there was nothing remarkable about her. “Good o’ yer, but in’t nothin’ yer can do. ’e must a got a scare when poor Alf died.” She started chopping the turnip again.

“’e wouldn’t be able ter find ’isself,” Minnie Maude agreed. “’e weren’t on ’is own route. ’e were on Jimmy Quick’s.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Minnie,” Bertha said briskly. “Course ’e weren’t. Why’d ’e be down there?” She chopped harder, drawing the knife through the tough vegetables with renewed force. “Yer got chores ter get on with.” She looked at Gracie. “Yer got ’em too, I ’spec.”