A Christmas Promise (7 page)

I
n the morning, shreds of the fog still lingered. The air was as still as the dead, a rime of ice covered the stones so that they were slick underfoot, and all the gutters were frozen over.

Gracie found Minnie Maude in the usual place, her shawl hugged around her, hands hidden under it. Every few moments the girl banged her feet on the ground to jar them into life. The instant
she saw Gracie, she came forward and the two girls fell into step, walking quickly to begin their detection.

Gracie recited the streets over in her mind, trying to make a pattern out of them, so she wouldn’t forget.

“I’m gonna learn ter read,” she muttered to herself as they trudged along.

“Me, too,” Minnie Maude added.

Cannon Street was busy with lots of carts and drays, and a sweeper to keep the manure off the main crossings at the corners. He was working hard now, his arms swinging the broom with considerable force as he got rid of the last droppings left only a few minutes before. It was difficult to tell how old he was. He was less than five feet tall, but his narrow shoulders looked strong. His trousers were too long for him, and frayed at the bottoms over his boots. His coat came past his knees, and his cap rested on his ears. When he smiled at them, they could see that one of his
front teeth was broken short, and for a moment his round face gave him the illusion of being about six.

“There y’are!” he said cheerfully, standing back to show the clean path across.

Gracie wished she had a penny to spare him, but he probably had more than she did. But she had a ha’penny, and he might also have information. She gave it to him.

He looked surprised, but he took it. For an instant, she felt rich, and grown-up. “D’yer know Alf, the rag an’ bone man wot got killed on Richard Street three days back?” she asked hopefully. “’e done Jimmy Quick’s round.”

“’e ’ad a donkey,” Minnie Maude added.

The boy thought for a while, frowning. “Yeah. It’d rained summink ’orrible. Gutters was all swillin’ over. ’ardly worth both’rin’.” He jerked the broom at the cobbles to demonstrate.

“Yer saw ’im?” Minnie Maude said excitedly. “Which way were ’e goin’?”

The boy frowned at her, and pointed east into the wind. “That way. Thought as ’e were orff ’is path. Jimmy’d a gorn up there.” He swung around and pointed westward, the way they had come. “Still an’ all, wot’s it matter? Poor devil. S’pose the cold got ’im.”

Minnie Maude shook her head. “’e were done in. Somebody ’it ’im.”

“Garn!” the boy said with disbelief. “Why’d anyone do that?”

“Cos ’e knowed summink,” Gracie said rapidly. “Mebbe ’e see’d summink as ’e weren’t meant ter.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Then yer shouldn’t go lookin’, or mebbe yer’ll know it, too! In’t yer got no more sense?”

“’e weren’t yer uncle,” Gracie responded, liking the sound of it, as if Alf had been hers. It gave her a kind of warmth inside. Then she thought of drawing the sweeper into it a bit more personally. “Wot’s yer name?”

“Monday,” he replied.

“Monday?” Minnie Maude said, and stared at him.

His face tightened a bit, as if the wind were colder. “I started on a Monday,” he explained.

She shrugged. “I dunno when I started. Mebbe I in’t really started yet?”

“Yeah yer ’ave,” Gracie said quickly. “Yer gonna find Charlie. That’s a good way ter start.” She turned back to Monday. “When were Alf ’ere, an’ where’d ’e go? We gotta find out. An’ tell us again, but do it clear, cos we don’ know this patch. It was Jimmy Quick’s, not Uncle Alf’s.”

Monday screwed up his face. “’e went that way, which weren’t the way Jimmy Quick goes. I see’d ’im go right down there, then ’e turned the corner, that way.” He jerked his hand leftward. “An’ I dunno where ’e went after that.”

“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.

Everyone seemed busy about their own business, buying and selling to get ready for Christmas. People were talking about geese, puddings, red candles and berries, spices and wine or ale, happy things, once-a-year sort of things to celebrate. There were no church bells ringing now, but Gracie could hear them in her mind: wild, joyful—there for everyone, rich or poor, freezing or warm beside a fire.

They just weren’t there for Alf, or for lost donkeys by themselves in the rain, and hungry.

It was late and heavy with dusk when they found the roasted-chestnut stand, on Lower
Chapman Street. The brazier was gleaming red and warm, sending out the smell of coals burning.

“’e’d a stopped ’ere,” Minnie Maude said with certainty. “If ’e’d a come this way. ’e loved chestnuts.”

Gracie loved them too, but she had already spent too much. Still, they had to ask.

“Please, mister,” Gracie said, going right up to the stand. “Did yer see the rag an’ bone man three days ago, ’oo weren’t Jimmy Quick? ’e were Uncle Alf, an’ ’e did Jimmy’s round for ’im that day, cos Jimmy asked ’im ter. D’yer see ’im?”

“’im wot died? Yeah, I saw ’im. Why?” The man’s face reflected a sudden sadness, even in the waning light.

“’e were me uncle,” Minnie Maude told him. “I wanna know w’ere ’e died, so I can put a flower there.”

The man shook his head. “I know w’ere ’e died, but I’d leave it alone, if I was you.”

Suddenly Gracie’s attention was keen again.
“Why? D’yer reckon summink ’appened ter ’im? We gotta know, cos we gotta find Charlie.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “’oo’s Charlie?”

“’is donkey,” Minnie Maude said quickly. “’e’s missin’, an’ ’e’s all by ’isself. ’e’s lorst.”

The man looked at her, puzzled.

“We can’t ’elp Uncle Alf,” Gracie explained. “But we can find Charlie. Please, mister, wot did Uncle Alf say to yer? Did ’e say anyfink special?”

“Me name’s Cob.” Wordlessly he passed them each a hot freshly cooked chestnut. They both thanked him and ate before he could change his mind.

Then Gracie realized what he had said. Cob! Was this the same Cob that Dora and Jimmy Quick had spoken of that Alf had shown the golden casket to? She swallowed the chestnut and took a deep breath.

“Did ’e tell yer wot ’e’d picked up?” she asked, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter all that much.

“Yeah,” Cob replied, eating a chestnut himself. “’e said as ’e’d got summink real special. Beautiful, it were, a box made o’ gold.” He shrugged. “Course it were likely brass, but all carved, an’ ’e said it were a beautiful shape, like it were made to ’old summink precious. I told ’im no one puts out summink like that. It’d be cheap brass, maybe over tin, but ’e said it were quality. Wouldn’t be shifted. Stubborn as a mule, ’e were.”

Minnie Maude’s face was alight. “’e ’ad it? Yer sure?”

“Course I’m sure. ’e showed it to me. Why? Weren’t it wif ’im when ’e were found?”