Farrier's Lane (50 page)

She stood still, her face a little flushed, her eyes very solemn but a very slight smile about her mouth. For several seconds they both stood motionless. Then she held out her hand towards him, palm down, as if to take hold of his. It was an offer, and with a surge of joy he knew it. He was
smiling, his heart beating in his throat. He wanted to sing, shout, but to have made a noise at all would have spoiled it. He strode forward and took her hand, pulling her very gently closer to him. Countless times he had longed to do this, imagined it, and now she was here. He could feel the warmth of her body through the fabric of her dress, smell her hair and her skin, more urgent and exciting than all the perfumes of lavender or roses.

Gently he kissed her, then more powerfully, then at last with total passion, and she answered him with a completeness he could not have dreamed.

    Gracie also had made a decision. She was going to help solve this case, and she knew how; not exactly—that would have to wait until she learned a little more—but certainly she knew how she would begin, and what she intended to accomplish. She would find this wretched boy from the streets who refused to tell Pitt about the man who had given him the message for Kingsley Blaine at the theater door. From what the mistress had said, Aaron Godman, poor soul, had looked very little indeed like Mr. Prosper Harrimore. For a start, Harrimore had been twice his age, and twice his height! The boy could not be such a fool as not to have noticed such a thing, if he put his mind to thinking about it, and remembering.

It would take a little time, a day or two at least, and it would not be easy to make an excuse that would be believed. But she had been a good liar in the past and no doubt could be again, in the right cause. She had already learned the boy’s name from Pitt, and thus how to find him.

“Please, ma’am,” she said with downcast eyes, “me mam’s in a spot o’ difficulty. May I ’ave a day orf ter go an ’elp ’er? I’ll try an’ be back as soon as I can; if I can sort everythin’ terday, can I go termorrer? I’ll get up at five an’ do all the fires and the kitchen floor afore I go. An’ I’ll be back in the evenin’ ter do the veges and the dishes after dinner, an’ the beds an’ things. Please, ma’am?”

The only thing that struck guilt into her heart was the look of concern on Charlotte’s face, and the readiness with
which she gave her permission. But it was a good cause. Now please heaven she could find this miserable boy and shake some sense into him!

She hurried out before any more questions could be asked, and set to her present chores with a will.

The following morning she was as good as her promise. She rose at five, stumbling in the dark and shivering with cold. She crept down the stairs to riddle the ashes in the kitchen fire, clean it out, black the grate, lay it and light it and fetch up the coal; then the parlor fireplace, black it and lay it. Next she filled the pail with water and scrubbed the kitchen table, then the floor, and by seven she had swept the parlor and passage as well and left everything ready for breakfast.

By quarter past seven, just before daylight, she let herself out of the front door before Charlotte came down to put on the kettle. Once she was out in the street, the gray dawn still lit by the yellow of the lamps, she hurried towards the main thoroughfare and the omnibus stop where she could begin her journey to Seven Dials.

She was not completely sure what she intended to do, but she had been with Charlotte more than once when she had gone detecting. It was a matter of asking the right questions of the people who knew the answers, and most important, of asking them in the right way. Which was why she was better suited to this particular task than either Charlotte herself or even Pitt. She would meet Joe Slater as an equal, and she was convinced she would understand him better. She would know if he were lying, and possibly even why.

It was a windless day, but bitterly cold. The pavements were slippery with it, and the chill ate into the bones through thin shawls and stuff dresses. Her old boots were little protection from the icy stones.

When the omnibus stopped she alighted with several others and looked around her. It was only a hundred yards to the place Pitt had mentioned, and she walked smartly. It was a narrow street and all along the left side were barrows and stalls selling small goods, mostly of fabric and leather.
She knew very few of them were new; nearly all were remade from old fabric, the good parts cut out and used again. The same was true of the shoes. The leather was unpicked, recut and restitched.

Now she must begin to look for Joe Slater. Slowly, as if searching for a bargain, she moved along the lines of rickety barrows and benches made of planks of wood, or even goods set out over the stones of the curb. She did not feel the guilt that Pitt did when seeing the pinched faces, hollow, anxious eyes, thin bodies shivering in threadbare clothes. She had tasted poverty too thoroughly herself. Its familiar smells and sounds settled over her, making her wish she could turn and go back to the omnibus and leave it all behind. There was a warm kitchen at home in Bloomsbury, and hot tea at eleven o’clock, sitting with her feet by the stove, and the odor of clean wood and flour and laundry.

The first half dozen sellers were middle-aged, or women, and she kept on going, eyes averted so she did not get drawn into haggling. When she finally found a youth she looked at him carefully before speaking.

“Yer want summink, or yer just ’ere ter stare?” he demanded irritably. “Do I know yer?”

Gracie shrugged and half smiled at him. “I dunno—do yer? Wot’s yer name?”

“Sid. Wot’s yours?”

“D’yer know Joe Slater?”

“Why?”

“Cos I wanter buy summink orf ’im, o’ course,” she snapped.

“I got plenty that’s good. Want a new pair o’ boots? I got boots abaht your size,” he said hopefully.

Gracie looked at the array of boots in front of him. She would have liked a new pair. But what would Charlotte say if she wore ones like these, remade from old leather, other people’s castoffs? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Who looked at boots under a long skirt? And all Gracie’s skirts were on the long side because she was so small.

“Mebbe …” she said thoughtfully. “ ’Ow much?”

He held up a light brown pair. “One and fivepence ha’penny, fer you.”

“One and twopence three farthings,” she said immediately. She would not have dreamed of paying the first price asked.

“One and fourpence farthing,” he replied.

“One and tuppence three farthings, or forget about it,” she said. They were very nicely shaped boots, and a good color. There was only one piece of leather on them that looked really scuffed. She made as if to turn away.

“All right! One and threepence,” he offered. “You can go a farthing.”

She fished in her large pocket and brought out her purse. She counted out two sixpences and a threepenny piece but kept them in her hand.

“Where can I find Joe Slater?”

“In’t them boots good enough for yer?”

“W’ere is ’e?” Her fingers closed over the money.

“Leather aprons, ’bout ten stalls down.” He held out his hand for the money.

She gave it to him, thanked him and took her boots.

She found Joe Slater approximately where Sid had told her. She regarded him discreetly for several minutes, judging what she would say to him, how to begin. He was a lean, scrawny youth with fair hair and careful gray eyes. She liked his face. Of course it was a swift judgment, and she was very prepared to change it if it proved necessary, but so far there was a quality in his features which pleased her.

She made up her mind. She lifted her chin, straightened her back and walked over to him, her eyes bright and very direct.

“You Joe Slater?” she asked cheerfully, her voice conveying her own certainty that he was.

“ ’Oo are you?” he said with mild suspicion. One had to be careful.

“I’m Gracie ’Awkins,” she replied with total candor. “I want ter talk to yer.”

“I’m ’ere ter sell, not talk ter bits o’ girls,” he said. But
there was no abruptness in his voice, and his expression was not unpleasant.

“I in’t stoppin’ yer sellin’,” she pointed out. Now came the lie, at least the first one. “I works for a lady in the thee-ayter wot yer could ’elp, if yer cared to.”

“Wot’s in it fer me?”

“I dunno! Nuffink fer me, that’s certain. But I reckon as fer you it could be summink good. She in’t poor, and she in’t mean.”

“So why me? Wot does she want me ter do for ’er?” He screwed up his face in considerable doubt. “You ‘avin’ me on?”

“I got better things ter do wif me time than come traipsin’ down ’ere lookin’ fer someone I never ’eard of afore, just ter ’ave yer on!” She laughed sharply and with derision. “It ’as ter be you, cos yer the only one wot knows.”

“Knows wot?” In spite of himself he was interested.

“The face of a man wot killed someone. Murdered ’im pretty ’orrible, an’ got the wrong man ’anged fer it.”

His expression pinched and a closed, angry look came into his eyes.

“Yer mean ’im wot was murdered in Farriers’ Lane, don’t yer? Well, I already told the rozzers all I know an’ I in’t sayin’ no more ter no one. The rozzers send yer ’ere after me? Gawd, won’ them bastards never leave me alone?” Now there was real bitterness in him and his body was stiff, his hands clenched tight.

“Oh yeah?” she said sarcastically, angry with herself for having spoiled the mood, and with him. “I’m part o’ the rozzers, I am. I only look like this w’en I’m out on a case. Really I’m six foot ’igh and strong as an ox. A real rozzer, I just left me uniform at ’ome terday.”

“Oh, very smart tongue,” he sneered. “So you in’t a rozzer. Why d’yer want ter know about ’im, eh? It’s all over, and in’t nuffink ter me now. The bleedin’ rozzers ’ave ’ounded me like a rat ever since then. First they tried ter tell me I saw a man as I didn’t. They near broke me arms.” He hunched his shoulders experimentally to see if it still
pained. “ ’Urt fer munfs after, they did. Then w’en the trial came up they ’ounded me again. I argued wif ’em an’ they told me as they’d put me in the Coldbath Fields fer thievin’.” He scowled. “D’yer know ’ow many folks dies in there o’ gaol fever? Fousands! Put me on the treadmill, one of them cockchafers—w’ere yer can’t breathe fer suffocation, and if yer don’t keep on walking them steps yer fall over, an’ the ’ole thing ’urts yer privates terrible. I in’t tell-in’ nobody nuffink about that night, not fer you nor yer lady in the thee-ayter. Now go away and bother someone else. Garn!” He flapped his hand, dismissing her, and glared out of narrow, angry eyes.

For a moment she was stumped. She did not argue; she knew enough of the police from the wrong side of the law to believe what he said. She had had uncles and a brother who had been hounded, and a distant cousin who had been sent to prison. She had seen him when he had come out, slow-witted, wasted by gaol fever, his joints aching, his walk shambling and uncertain from the agony of the cockchafer.

“Gam,” he said again, more sharply. “I can’t tell yer nuffink!”

She stepped back a bit, disconcerted, but not defeated, not yet.

A customer came and haggled for several minutes before finally buying an apron, then another one came, argued, and bought nothing. For over an hour Gracie stood and watched, getting colder and colder, her hands becoming stiff holding the new boots.

Joe left and went to a barrow on the next street to get himself an eel pie. Gracie followed him, and bought herself one as well. It was hot and tasted delicious.

“There in’t no use yer followin’ me,” Joe said when he saw her. “I in’t tellin yer nuffink! Nor I certainly in’t goin’ ter no rozzers.” He sighed, licking the juice off his lips. “Listen, yer stupid lump! The rozzers swear they got the right geezer. They ’ad ’im arrested and tried! The toffs were ’appy wif it! They argued ’round an’ ’round, like they always do. They said ’e were guilty, they’d done right ter
nab ’im, and they ’anged the poor swine.” He took another bite of his pie and went on with his mouth full. “If yer think they’re goin’ ter say now as they was wrong, on the word o’ some nobody orf the street, then yer daft enough fer Bedlam, an that’s a fact.” He swallowed. “Yer mistress is dreamin’ an she’ll only ’urt ’erself, an’ you too, if you’ve got no more sense than to listen to ’er.”

“It weren’t ’im wot done it,” Gracie began.

“ ’Oo cares?” he cut across her angrily. “Listen, you idjut! It don’t matter ’oo done it. Wot matters now is ’oo’s made ter look bad cos they ’anged the wrong bloke. They in’t goin’ ter say as they did that—no matter wot.” He jerked his hand in the air with his pie in it. “Think abaht it, if yer’ve got anyfink in yer ’ead at all besides sawdust. Which o’ them toffs is goin’ ter say as they ’anged the wrong bloke? None o’ them—and yer can lay money on that.”

“They won’t ’ave no choice,” she said fiercely, biting into her own pie. “The p’lice already knows as it weren’t the man they ’anged. They’ve got proof. An’ they know ’oo it were—they just can’t get proof o’ that neither.”

“I don’t believe yer.”

“I don’t tell lies,” Gracie said furiously, filled with indignation because this was not a lie but the absolute truth. “An’ yer got no right to say as I do. Yer just ’aven’t got the guts ter stand up to ’em and say wot yer know.” She tried to fill her expression with utmost contempt, but having her mouth half full got in her way.

“Yer damn’ right I in’t,” he agreed. “An’ fer why? Because it won’t do no good. Now you go back ter yer mistress and tell ’er ter ferget it. Garn!”

“I in’t goin’ nowhere till yer come an’ look at this geezer wot really done it.” She took another huge bite of her pie. “An’ then yer say as if it were ’im wot spoke to yer outside the thee-ayter. An’ we should find them geezers wot was ’anging ’round the end o’ Farriers’ Lane that night, an’ find out wot they really saw, not wot the rozzers told ’em they saw.”

“Wotcher mean ‘we’?” His voice rose to a squeak. “I in’t
goin’ anywhere. I ’ad more’n enough o’ the rozzers w’en the murder ’appened—I don’t need ter go lookin’ fer ’em now.”

“O’ course you as well,” Gracie said exasperatedly, swallowing the bite of pie. “In’t no point me goin’ by meself. I weren’t there. I din’t see ’im.”