Seven Dials (27 page)

But she forgot, and all her enthusiasm was in her voice when she told him, “That was wonderful! I never seen such…” She stopped. It was too late to be sophisticated now. She took a deep breath. She saw in the light from the street lamp the pleasure in his face, and suddenly she was absolutely certain how very much it mattered to him. He was so vulnerable all she wanted was for him to know how happy she was. She leaned forward very quickly and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you, Samuel. That was the best evenin’ I ever ’ad.”

Before she could step back he tightened his arm around her and turned his head slightly so he could kiss her on the lips. He was very gentle, but he had no intention at all of letting her go until he was ready. She tried to pull back a little, just to see if she could, and felt a tingle of pleasure on learning that it was impossible.

Then he eased his hold on her and she straightened up, gasping. She wanted to say something clever, or mildly funny, but nothing came. It was not a time for words that meant nothing.

“Good night,” she said breathlessly.

“Good night, Gracie.” His voice was a little husky as well, as if he too had been taken by surprise.

She turned around and felt for the scullery doorknob, twisted it and went inside, feeling her heart beating like a hammer, and knowing that she was smiling as if she had just been told the funniest and most wonderful thing in the world.

IN THE MORNING Gracie found Tilda out shopping, and brought her back to the kitchen in Keppel Street, where Tellman was sitting across the table with Charlotte, already discussing the subject. Only for an instant, almost too small to be noticed at all, Gracie’s eyes met Tellman’s, and she saw a half smile on his lips, a warmth. Then it vanished and he concentrated on business.

“Sit down, Tilda,” Charlotte said gently, indicating the fourth chair at the table. Gracie took the third one. There was a pot of tea there already and no need for duties of hospitality to intrude.

“Yer know somethin’?” Tilda asked anxiously. “Gracie wouldn’t say nothin’ to me in the street.”

“We don’t know where he is,” Charlotte answered straightaway. She could not hold out false hope; it was crueler in the end. “But we have learned more. A friend of mine spoke to Mr. Ferdinand Garrick, and he told her that Stephen had gone to the south of France, for his health, and taken his valet with him, in order to care for him while he is away.” She saw Tilda’s face clear and felt an ache of guilt. “Mr. Tellman has tried to see if that is true. He found someone who saw what was almost certainly Stephen Garrick and Martin leaving the house in Torrington Square. But there is no record of their having taken any boat to France, either from London or Dover. In fact, he cannot find a train they have taken. So it seems Martin has not been dismissed, but we don’t know where he is, or why he has not written to you to tell you of his circumstances.”

Tilda stared at her, trying to understand what it meant. “Then where’d they go? If it in’t France, why’d they go at all?”

“We don’t know, but we intend to find out,” Charlotte answered. “What more can you tell us about Martin, or about Mr. Stephen?” She saw the total bewilderment in Tilda’s face, and wished she could be plainer. She did not know herself what she was asking. “Try to think of everything Martin ever told you about the Garrick family, and Stephen in particular. He must have spoken about his life there sometimes.”

Tilda looked on the edge of tears. She was struggling hard to make her brain override her fear and the loneliness that crowded in on her. Martin was all the family she had, all the life she could remember. Her parents were beyond infant recall.

Gracie leaned forward, ignoring the cup of tea Tellman had poured for her.

“It in’t the time for bein’ discreet!” she said urgently. “We all tells our fam’ly. He trusted yer, din’t ’e? ’E must ’a told yer summink about life in the ’ouse. Was the food good? Did the cook ’ave a bad temper? Were the butler all spit and vinegar? ’Oo were the boss-the ’ousekeeper?”

Tilda relaxed a little as a faint smile touched her mouth. “Not the ’ousekeeper,” she replied. “An’ the butler wouldn’t say boo ter the master, but right tarter ’e were wi’ everyone else… at least that’s wot Martin said. Order everyone else around summink wicked, but not Martin, ’cos o’ Mr. Stephen. Martin were the only one as could look after ’im, an’ no one else wanted to any’ow, fer all their bein’ so upright an’ all.”

“Why not?” Charlotte asked. “Was he difficult?”

“Summink terrible, when ’e ’ad the stuff in ’im,” Tilda said very quietly. “But Martin’d never forgive me if ’e knew I’d told yer that. Yer don’t never tell no one about wot goes on in a lady or gentleman’s rooms, or yer’ll never work again. Out in the gutter an’ no place ter go-’cos no one else’ll ever take yer in. An’ worse ’n that, it’s betrayin’, an’ there in’t nothin’ worse than a betrayer.” Her voice was low and husky, as if even saying the words would contaminate her.

“What stuff?” Charlotte asked, keeping her tone so casual she could have been speaking of porridge.

“I dunno,” Tilda answered with such openness that Charlotte had to believe her.

Tellman put his cup down. “Did Martin ever go for a holiday with Mr. Stephen before? Anywhere?”

Tilda shook her head. “Not as I know. I’d ’a told yer.”

“Friends?” Tellman insisted. “What did Stephen do for pleasure? Where did he go-music, women, sports, anything?”

“I dunno!” she said desperately. “ ’E were miserable. Martin said as there weren’t nothing ’e really liked. ’E used ter sleep bad, ’ave terrible dreams. I think as ’e were ill summink awful.” Her voice dropped so they could barely hear it. “Martin told me as ’e were going ter look for a priest fer ’im… one as cared special fer soldiers.”

“A priest?” Tellman said with surprise. He glanced at Gracie, and at Charlotte, then back to Tilda. “Do you know if Mr. Garrick was religious?”

Tilda thought for a moment. “I… I s’pose ’e were,” she said slowly. “ ’Is pa is-Martin said that. Runs the ’ouse like ’e were a clergyman. Staff all say prayers every mornin’ an’ every night. An’ grace at table afore every meal. Mind most do that, o’ course.

“But there was other things as well, like exercise an’ cold water an’ bein’ extra clean an’ early fer everythin’. Martin said as they all lined up in the mornin’ afore breakfast an’ the butler led ’em in prayers for the Queen and the empire an’ their duty ter God, an’ again afore anyone were allowed ter go ter bed at night. So I ’spec’ Mr. Stephen were religious as well. Couldn’t ’ardly ’elp it.”

“Then why didn’t he speak with their regular minister?” Charlotte asked, not to Tilda in particular but to all of them. “They’d go to church on Sunday, wouldn’t they?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tilda said with certainty. “Every Sunday, sure as clockwork. The ’ole ’ouse. Cook’d leave cold cuts for luncheon, an’ ’eat up vegetables quick when she come back. Mr. Garrick’s very strict about it.”

“So why would Martin go to find a special priest for Stephen?” Charlotte said thoughtfully.

Tilda shook her head. “Dunno, but ’e told me about it. Someone as Mr. Stephen’d known a long time ago. ’E works wi’ soldiers as ’ave fallen on ’ard times, drink an’ opium an’ the like.” She gave a little shiver. “Down Seven Dials way, where it’s real rough. Sleepin’ in doorways, cold an’ ’ungry, an’ near enough wishin’ they was dead, poor souls. That in’t no way for a soldier o’ the Queen ter end up.”

No one answered her immediately. Gracie looked at Charlotte’s face and saw it filled with pity and confusion, then she turned to Tellman, and was startled to see the quickening of an idea in his eyes. “Wot is it?” she demanded.

Tellman swiveled to face Tilda. “Did Martin find this man?” he asked.

“Yeah. ’E told me. Why? D’yer think ’e’d know wot ’appened ter Martin?” The hope in her voice was needle sharp.

“He might know something.” Tellman tried to be careful, without crushing her. “Did he say his name, do you remember?”

“Yeah…” Tilda screwed up her face in effort. “Sand-summink. Sandy…”

Tellman leaned forward. “Sandeman?”

Tilda’s eyes opened wide. “Yeah! That’s it. Yer know ’im?”

“I’ve heard of him.” Tellman looked across at Charlotte.

“Yes,” she agreed before he asked the question. “Yes, we should try to find him. Whatever Martin said to him, it might be important.” She bit her lip. “Apart from that, we don’t have anything better.”

“It may not be so easy,” Tellman warned. “It could take a while. We still haven’t got proof of any crime, so-”

“I’ll look,” Charlotte interrupted him.

“In Seven Dials?” Tellman shook his head. “You have no idea what it’s like. It’s one of the worst places…”

“I’ll go in daylight,” she said quickly. “And I’ll dress in my oldest clothes-believe me, they’ll pass as local. There’ll be plenty of women around between eight o’clock and six in the evening. And I’m looking for the priest. Other women with relatives who were soldiers must do that too.”

Tellman looked at her, then at Gracie. His conflicting emotions were startlingly clear in his face.

Charlotte smiled. “I’m going,” she said decisively. “If I find him I have more chance of learning something about Martin than you have, if he really went on Stephen Garrick’s behalf. I’ll start straightaway.” She turned to Tilda. “Now you go back to your duties. You cannot afford to have your mistress dismiss you, however justified your absence.” She looked at Tellman. “Thank you for all you have done. I know it took a lot of your time…”

He brushed it aside, but he did not have the ease with words-even to think them, let alone tell her why it had mattered to him.

She stood up, and the others accepted it as leave to go.

CHARLOTTE WALKED the streets of the Seven Dials area from midday onwards. She had dressed in a very old skirt, one she had accidentally torn and had had to stitch up rather less than successfully. Instead of a jacket over her plain blouse, she took a shawl, which was more in keeping with what other women shopping or working in that area would wear.

Even so, she was startlingly out of place. Poverty had a stench unlike anything else. She had thought she knew, but she had forgotten just how many people sat on the pavements, huddled in doorways, or stood sad-eyed and hopeless around piles of rags or boots, waiting for someone to haggle over a price, and perhaps walk away with nothing.

The open gutter ran down the center of the street, barely moving in the slight incline. Human dirt was everywhere, and human smell clogged the air because there was little clear water, even to drink, no soap, no warmth or dryness, nothing to ease the hunger and the overintimacy.

She walked among them with her head down, not merely to seem like the others, beaten by life, but because she could not look at them, and meet their eyes, knowing she would leave and they could not.

She began tentatively, asking for a soldiers’ priest. It cost her considerable resolve even to approach someone and speak. Her voice would betray her as not belonging, and there was no way to disguise it. To ape their speech patterns would be to make fun of them and mark herself as dishonest before she even framed her questions, let alone received an answer.

All she achieved the first day was to eliminate certain possibilities. It was the afternoon of the second day when she succeeded suddenly and without any warning. She was in Dudley Street, trying to make her way through the piles of secondhand shoes heaped not only on the broken cobbles of the pavement but strewn across the roadway as well. Children sat untended beside them, some crying, many just watching with half-seeing eyes as people trudged by.

The man was walking towards her, moving easily as if he were accustomed to it. He looked perfectly ordinary, in his early forties, slim under his ragged coat. His head was uncovered and his brown hair was badly in need of cutting.

Charlotte stopped to allow him to pass. He had a purpose in his stride and she did not want to bar his way.

To her surprise he stopped also. “I hear you are looking for me.” His voice was soft and well educated. “My name is Morgan Sandeman. I work here with anyone who wants me, but especially soldiers.”

“Mr. Sandeman?” Her voice lifted more than she had meant, as if she were really some desperate wife in search of a lost husband he might know.

“Yes. How can I help you?” He stood beside her amid the piles of shoes.

There was no point in pretense, and perhaps no time to waste. “I am looking for someone who has gone missing,” she replied. “And I believe he may have spoken with you shortly before the last time he was seen. May I have a little of your time… please?”

“Of course.” He held out his hand. “If you would like to come with me, we can go to my office. I’m afraid I don’t have a church, more like an old hall, but it serves.”

“Yes, I’d like to,” she agreed without hesitation.

He led the way with no further speech, and she followed him back up the cobbles between the silent people, around the corner and along an alley towards a tiny square. The buildings were four or five stories high, narrow and leaning together, creaking in the damp, eaves crooked, the sour-sweet smell of rotting wood clinging to everything, choking the throat. There was no distinct sound, and yet there was not silence. Rat feet scuttled over stone, water dripped, rubbish moved and fluttered in the slight wind, wood sagged and settled a little lower.

“Over there.” Sandeman pointed to a doorway and walked ahead of her. It was stained with damp and swung open at his touch. Inside was a narrow vestibule and beyond a larger hall with a fire burning low in the huge open fireplace. Half a dozen people sat on the floor in front of it, leaning close to each other, but not apparently talking. It was a moment before Charlotte realized they were either insensible or asleep.

Sandeman held up his finger to request silence, and walked almost soundlessly across the stone floor towards a table in the corner to the right, at which there were two chairs.

She followed after him and sat as he invited.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I have nothing to offer you, and nowhere better than this.” He said it with a smile, not as if he were ashamed for it. It was more an accommodation to her than to himself. His face was gaunt and the marks of hunger were plain in his thin cheeks. “Who is it you are looking for?” he asked. “If I can’t tell you where he is, I can at least tell him that you asked, and perhaps he will find you. You understand that what is told me in confidence has to remain so? Sometimes when a man…” He hesitated, watching her intently, perhaps trying to judge something of the man she was seeking from her emotions.