by Anne Perry
The color in the man’s face fled. “I already told ’im!” he said in a strangled voice. “Alf come in ’ere ter see Rose, an’ ’e went out again. I di’n’t see nuffink! I dunno wot ’e done nor wot ’e took! Nor the cabbie neither! I swear!”
“The cabbie?” Balthasar repeated. “Just possibly you are telling the truth. Describe him.” It was an order.
“ ’E were a cabbie, fer Gawd’s sake! Cape on for the rain. Bowler ’at.”
Gracie knew what Balthasar had told her, but she spoke anyway.
“Wot about ’is legs?” she challenged. She knocked her knees together and then apart again. “Could ’e catch a runaway pig?”
Balthasar stared at her.
“Not in a month o’ Sundays,” the man replied. “Bowlegged as a Queen Anne chair.”
Balthasar took Gracie by the arm, his fingers holding her so hard she could not move without being hurt. “We will now see Rose,” he stated.
The man started to refuse, then looked at Balthasar’s face again and changed his mind.
The inside of the house was poorly lit, but surprisingly warm, and the smell was less horrible than Gracie had expected. They had been told that Rose’s was the third room on the left.
“I’m sorry,” Balthasar apologized to her. “This may be embarrassing for you, but it will not be safe to leave you outside.”
“I don’ care,” Gracie said tartly. “We gotta find Minnie Maude.”
“Quite.” Unceremoniously Balthasar put his weight against the door and burst it open.
What met Gracie’s eyes was nothing at all that she could have foreseen. What she had expected, after Balthasar’s words, was some scene of lewdness such as she had accidentally witnessed in alleys before, men and women half-naked, touching parts of the body she knew should be private. She had never imagined that it would be a half-naked woman lying on the floor in a tangle of bedclothes, blood splashed on her arms and chest, staining the sheets, bruises all over her face and neck.
Balthasar said something in a language she had never heard before, and fell onto the floor on his knees beside the woman. His long brown fingers touched her neck and stilled, feeling for something, waiting.
“Is she dead?” Gracie said in a hoarse whisper.
“No,” Balthasar answered softly. “But she has been badly hurt. Look around and see if you can find me any alcohol. If you can’t, fetch me water.”
Gracie was too horrified to move.
“Gracie! Do as I tell you!” Balthasar commanded.
Gracie tried to think where she should look. Where did people keep bottles of whisky or gin? Where it couldn’t be seen. In the bottom of drawers, the back of cupboards, underneath other things, in bottles that looked like something else.
Balthasar had Rose sitting up, cradled against his arm, her eyelids fluttering as if she were going to awaken, when Gracie discovered the bottle in the bottom of the wardrobe, concealed under a long skirt. She uncorked the top and gave it to him.
He said nothing, but there was a flash of appreciation in his eyes that was worth more than words. Carefully he put the bottle to Rose’s lips and tipped it until a little of the liquid went into her mouth. She coughed, half-choked, and then took in a shaky breath.
“Rose!” he said firmly. “Rose! Wake up. You’re going to be all right. He’s gone and no one is going to hurt you again. Now breathe in and out, slowly.”
She did so, and opened her eyes. She must have known from his voice that he was not whoever had beaten her. He had a slight foreign accent, as if he came from somewhere very far away.
“Rose,” he said gently. “Who did this to you, and why?”
She shook her head a little, then winced at the pain. “I dunno,” she whispered.
“It is too late for lies,” he insisted. “Why?”
“I dunno.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “Some geezer just went mad an’ …”
Gracie bent down in front of her, anger and fear welling up inside her. “Course yer know, yer stupid mare!” she said furiously. “If yer don’t tell us about the casket, an’ ’oo took it, Minnie Maude’s going ter be killed too, jus’ like Alf, an’ it’ll be on yer ’ead. An’ nobody’s never gonna fer-give yer! Now spit it out, before I twist yer nose off.”
Balthasar opened his mouth, and then changed his mind and closed it again.
Rose stared in horror at Gracie.
Gracie put her hand out toward Rose’s face, and Rose flinched.
“A’ right!” she squawked. “It were a toff with mad eyes, like a bleedin’ lunatic. Proper gent, spoke like ’e ’ad a mouth full of ’ot pertaters. ’E wanted the gold box wot Alf gave me, and when I couldn’t give it to ’im, ’e beat the ’ell out o’ me.” She started to cry.
Gracie was overcome with pity. Rose looked awful, and must have been full of pain in just about every part of her. Balthasar had wound the end of a sheet around the worst bleeding, but even the sight of so much scarlet was frightening. But if the toff had Minnie Maude, then obviously he could just as easily do the same to her, or worse. And Alf was already dead.
“Why di’n’t yer give ’im the box?” Gracie demanded, her voice sharp, not with anger but with fear. “Wot’s in it worth bein’ killed fer?”
“Cos I don’t ’ave it, eedjit!” Rose snapped back at her. “Don’t yer think I’d ’ave given ’im the bleedin’ crown jools, if I’d ’ave ’ad them?”
Gracie was dismayed. “Then ’oo ’as?” she said hollowly.
“Stan. Cos them Chinamen came to ’is place and beat the bejesus out of ’im for the money. ’E came ’ere jus’ before. I reckon the bastard knew that lunatic were be’ind ’im, an’ ’e went out the back. Then a few minutes after, this other geezer came in the front an’ started in on me as soon as I din’ give ’im the box.”
“That is not the complete truth,” Balthasar said quietly. “It makes almost perfect sense. Clearly Alf gave you the box, just before he was killed. At the time, no one else knew that, but Stan worked it out. I daresay he knew Alf well enough to be aware of his association with you, so it was only a matter of time before he came here. We may assume that the toff was aware of this also, but not where you were, and therefore he followed Stan.”
“ ’Ow’d ’e know about Stan?” Rose looked at him awkwardly. Her cheek where she had been struck was swelling up, and one eye was rapidly closing. In a day or two the bruises would look much worse.
Balthasar glanced at Gracie, then back to Rose. “I think we can deduce that Stan was the one who placed the casket and its contents on the road near where the toff was waiting for the opportunity to pick it up. He hid in order that whoever dropped off the box would not see him. His addiction is not something he would care to have widely known, or his association with such people. When his addiction is under control, I daresay he is a man of some substance, and possibly of repute, and would then look much like anyone else. We are seeing him when he has been deprived of his drug and is half-insane for the need of it.”
Gracie shivered involuntarily. It was a thing of such destructive force that the evil of it permeated the room. “If ’e were followin’ Stan, Minnie Maude weren’t wif ’im, were she?” She swung around and stared accusingly at Rose. “Well, were she?”
“No! ’E were by ’isself!”
Gracie looked at Balthasar, desperation swelling into panic inside her. “If the toff’s got ’er, why’d ’e chase after Stan? Where is she now? Is she … dead?”
Balthasar did not lie to her. “I don’t think so. All the toff wants is the casket. He needs what is inside it as a drowning man needs air. Minnie Maude is the one bargaining piece he has. He will return to get her before he goes to where he expects to find Stan, then he will offer a trade—Minnie Maude for the casket.”
Gracie gulped. “And Stan’ll give it to ’im, an’ Minnie Maude’ll be all right?”
“I hope so. But we must be there to make sure that he does, just in case he has it in mind to do otherwise.�
�� He looked at Rose. “We will send for a doctor for you.” He took a coin out of his pocket. “Where would Stan go, Rose?”
She hesitated.
“Do you want this ended, or shall we all come back here again?” he asked.
“Oriental Street, down off Pennyfields, near Lime’ouse Station,” she said, her eyes wide with fear. “There’s a stable there … it’s—”
“I know.” Balthasar cut her off. He put the shiny coin into her hand. “Pay the doctor with this. If you choose to spend it other than on your well-being, or lack of it, it is your own fault. Take care!” He stood up and went to the door. “Come on, Gracie. We have no time to waste.”
At the entrance he told the snaggletoothed man to send for a doctor, or he would risk losing good merchandise. Then, outside in the alley, Balthasar marched toward the larger road, swung to the right, and continued on at such a pace that Gracie had to run to keep up with him. At Commercial Road East he hailed a cab, climbed up into it, pulling her behind him, and ordered the driver to go toward Pennyfields, off the West India Dock Road, as fast as he could.
“ ’Ow can we catch up wif ’im?” Gracie asked breathlessly as she was being thrown around uncomfortably while the cab lurched over icy cobbles, veered around corners, and jolted forward again. She was pitched from one side to the other with nothing to hang on to. “ ’E must be ages ahead of us.”
“Not necessarily,” Balthasar insisted. “Stan will be ahead of us, certainly, but he does not know anyone is following him.”
“But the toff’ll catch up wif ’im long before we do!” She was almost pitched into his lap, and scrambled awkwardly to get back straight on her own seat again. If this was what hansoms were like usually, then she was very glad she didn’t ride in them often. “ ’E could kill ’im too, ter get the casket. Then wot’ll ’appen ter Minnie Maude?”
“I don’t think Stan will be so easy to kill,” Balthasar answered grimly. “He must know what is in the casket, and be used to dealing with the kind of men who trade in opium, and who buy it. The toff will know that, which is why he will take Minnie Maude with him. Stan will have to see her alive before he passes over anything.” He touched her arm gently. “At least until then, Minnie Maude will be safe. But that is why we must hurry. Stan is a very frightened man, and the toff is a very desperate one.”
Gracie turned and looked out the window. The houses were strange to her. Long windows had cracks of bright yellow light behind them, curtains drawn against the moonlit sky. She could see nothing beyond, as if the windows were blind, closed up within themselves. Maybe everyone inside the houses was all together, drinking tea by the fire, and eating toast and jam.
“Where are we?” she asked a few minutes later.
“We are still on Commercial Road.” He rapped on the front wall of the cab with his fist. “Turn left into Pennyfields, just before you get to the West India Docks Station. Halfway along it is Oriental Street. Now hurry!”
“Right you are, sir!” the cabby answered, and increased speed again.
Gracie looked out of the window again. There seemed to be traffic all around them, carriages, other cabs, a dray with huge horses with braided manes and lots of brass, a hearse, carts and wagons of all sorts. They were barely moving.
“We gotta go faster!” she said urgently, grasping Balthasar’s arm. “We won’t get there in time like this!”
“I agree. But don’t panic. They are stuck just as we are. Come, we shall walk the rest of the way. It is not far now.” He pushed the door open and climbed out, passing coins up to the startled driver. Then, grasping Gracie by the arm again, he set off, head forward, pushing his way through the crowds.
Gracie wanted to ask him if he was certain he knew where he was going, but the noise was a babble like a field full of geese, and he wouldn’t have heard her. It was hard enough just to keep hold of him and not get torn away by the people bumping and jostling their way, arms full of bags and boxes. One fat man had a dead goose slung over his shoulder. Another man had his hat on askew and a crate of bottles in his arms. There was a hurdy-gurdy playing somewhere, and she could hear the snatches of music every now and then.
She lost count of how far they went. She felt banged and trodden on with every other step, but if they could just find Minnie Maude in time, the rest was of no importance at all.
Here in the crowd it was not so cold. There was no space for the wind to get up the energy to slice through your clothes, and the shawl Mr. Balthasar had given her was much better than her own. Her boots were sodden, but perhaps it was as well that her feet were numb, so she couldn’t feel it every time a stranger stepped on them.
She did not know how long it was before they were gasping in a side alley, as if washed up by a turbulent stream into an eddy by the bank.
“I believe we have not far to go now,” Balthasar said with forced optimism.
She followed him along the dark alley, their footsteps suddenly louder as the crowd fell behind them. Ahead the cobbles looked humpbacked and uneven, the little light there was catching the ice, making it glisten. The doorways on either side were hollow, the dim shadows of sleeping people seeming more like rubbish than human forms. In a hideous moment, Gracie felt as if the sleepers were waiting for someone to collect them—someone who never came.
Ahead there was a sound of horses shifting weight, hooves on stone, a sharp blowing out of breath. It was impossible to see anything clearly. Lights were as much a deception as a help, a shaft of yellow ending abruptly, a halo of light in the gathering mist, a beam that stabbed the dark and went nowhere.
“Tread softly,” Balthasar whispered. “And don’t speak again. We are here, and both Stan and the toff will be here soon, if they are not already. Please God, we are soon enough.”
Gracie nodded, although she knew he could not see her. Together they crept forward. He was still holding on to her so hard she could not have stayed behind even if she had wanted to.
Foot by foot they crept across the open space, through the wide gates and into the stable yard. Still they could see only tiny pools of light, the edge of a door, a bale of hay with pieces sticking out of it raggedly, the black outline of a cab and the curve of one wheel. There was a brazier alight. Gracie could smell the burning and feel the warmth of it more than see it. A shadow moved near it, a man easing his position, turning nervously, craning to catch every sound. She had no idea if it was Stan or not.
Balthasar kept hard against the wall, half-hidden by a hanging harness, its irregular shape masking his and Gracie’s beside him. The tightening grasp of his hand warned her to keep still.
Seconds ticked by. How long were they going to wait? Somewhere ten or twelve yards away a horse kicked against the wooden partition of its stall with a sudden, hollow sound, magnified by the silence and the cold.
Stan let out a cry of alarm and jerked around so violently that for a moment his face was lit by the coals of the brazier, his cheeks red, his eyes wide with fear.
Nothing else moved.
Gracie drew in her breath, and Balthasar’s fingers tightened on her arm.
From the shadows at the entrance a figure materialized, long and lean, its face as gaunt as a skull, a top hat at a crazy angle over one side of the brow. Deep furrows ran from the nose around the wide mouth, and the eyes seemed white-rimmed in the eerie light as the brazier suddenly burned up in the draft.
Stan was rigid, like a stone figure. From the look on his face, the man in the doorway might have had death’s scythe in his hands. But it was nothing so symbolic that stirred beside the figure’s thin legs and the skirts of the man’s black frock coat. It was Minnie Maude, her face ash-pale, her hair straggling in wet rats’ tails onto her shoulders. He had hold of her by a rope around her neck.
Gracie felt the cold inside her grow and her own body tighten, as if she must do something, but she had no idea what. She felt Balthasar’s grip on her arm so hard it brought tears prickling into her eyes. She pulled away, to warn him, and h
e loosened it immediately.
“You did not deliver my box,” the toff said quietly, but his perfect diction and rasping voice filled the silence, echoing in the emptiness of the stable. Somewhere up in the loft there would be hay, straw, probably rats. “Give it to me now, and I will give you the girl. A simple exchange.”
“I left it fer yer,” Stan retorted with a naked fear one could almost smell. “In’t up ter me ter ’old yer ’and while yer sneak out an’ pick it up. In fact, yer’d prob’ly cut me throat fer seein’ yer if I did.”
“I would have preferred that we not meet,” the toff agreed with a ghastly smile. His teeth were beautiful, but his mouth twisted with unnameable pains. “But you have made that impossible.” He gave a quick tweak to the rope around Minnie Maude’s neck. “I have something that belongs to you. I will trade it for what you have that belongs to me. Then we will part, and forget each other. I imagine the men who supply you, and pay you whatever pittance it is, are not happy with you.”
Stan’s breath wheezed in his throat, as though the whole cage of his chest were too tight for him. “I in’t got it!”
“Yes, you have! Those who supply it want their money, and I want what is in my box. You want the child.” He made it a statement, but there was an edge of panic in his voice now, and his eyes were wild, darting from Stan to the shadows where the light from the lanterns flickered.
Gracie was motionless, afraid that even her blinking might somehow catch his attention.
“Yer’ve always ’idden,” Stan argued. “Now I’ve seen yer, wot’s ter say yer won’t kill me, like yer killed Alf?”
The toff drew in a quick breath. “So you do have it. Good. This is a beginning. You are quite right. I will kill to get what I need. With regret, certainly, but without hesitation.” He pulled Minnie Maude a little closer to him, using the rope around her neck. She looked very thin, very fragile. One hard yank could break the slender bones. The end of her life would be instantaneous.
Balthasar must have had the same conviction. He let go of Gracie’s arm and stepped forward out of the shadows.
