by Perry, Anne
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.”
“Well, I in’t goin’.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“The geezer wot really done it is still out there,” she protested.
“Don’t matter ter me. Now go away an’ leave me alone
, won’t yer?”
“No. I in’t goin’ ter leave yer till yer come wif me an’ ’ave a real look at this geezer, an’ say if ’e were the one or not.”
“Yer can’t foller me ’round!”
“I can.”
“Look.” He was exasperated. “I can’t do nuffink fer yer. An’ I go places as it in’t right for yer to come. Nah go away!”
“I in’t goin’ till yer comes an’ ’as a look at this geezer.”
“Well, yer goin’ ter wait a long time.” And with that he turned his back and began talking to a potential customer, making a considerable show of ignoring Gracie.
Gracie followed him back to his stall, and then stood clasping her coat closer around her and waited, watching. It was cold and her feet were so chilled she had lost feeling in them. But she was certainly not going to give up, if she had to follow him until he went to bed.
Late in the afternoon Joe tidied his stall and locked his few goods away for the night, then left. Gracie came to attention and followed after him. Twice he turned around, caught sight of her, and glared, at the same time waving his hand to shoo her away. She made a face back at him and continued to follow.
He went into a public house and pushed his way to the counter, and she went in after him, wriggling and following through people to find a place beside him, luxuriating in the warmth after the biting cold outside.
“Go away,” Joe said furiously, glaring at her.
Half a dozen people turned to look at him, then at Gracie.
“Not till yer come an’ look at the bloke wot did it,” she replied stubbornly, sniffing as the sudden warmth made her nose run.
“Don’t yer never give up?” he whispered. “I told yer—they won’t believe me, whatever I say. I’d be wastin’ me time. Don’t yer ’ave no wits at all?”
She did not bother to argue her intelligence.
“You just come an’ look at this bloke. If it were ’im, they’ll believe yer.”
“Yeah? Why’s that then?” Skepticism was deep in his thin face.
She was not going to tell him Pitt knew Harrimore was guilty. He might not understand the necessity for proof. Nor could she easily explain how she knew such a thing.
“I can’t explain everything to yer.” She sniffed again.
“Yer don’t know.”
“Yes, I do so. An’ I’m still goin’ ter foller yer till yer ’ave a real look at ’im. The rozzers won’t bovver yer, if that’s wot yer scared of.”
“Don’t yer talk down ter me like that, yer miserable little article,” he said furiously. “Yer’d be scared too, if’n yer ’ad two wits to rub tergether. You any idea wot them rozzers can do, if they takes a real nasty to yer? And they do, if yer says as their evidence in’t no good. Ask me—I know!”
“You don’t ’ave ter tell the rozzers, not ter begin wif,” she said triumphantly. “Jus’ come and look at ’im, and tell me.” He turned away and she pulled at his sleeve. “An’ I swear I’ll leave yer alone. If’n yer don’t, I’ll come wif yer everyw’ere.”
“No rozzers?” he said warily.
“I swear it.”
“Then I’ll meet yer ’ere at six, and we’ll go an’ look at ’im. Now leave me alone to ’ave a pint in peace.”
“I’ll wait outside for yer.” She sniffed again.
“Gawd, woman. I said I’ll come.”
“Yeah—and mebbe I believe yer, an’ mebbe I don’t.”
“Go on outside then. And stop sniffing!”
As a show of goodwill Gracie withdrew reluctantly out into the biting cold again. She waited patiently in the dark and the slow drizzle, watching carefully in case he should try to slip out past her.
But half an hour later she saw his thin form and pale face with a surge of relief as if he had been a long-standing friend. She darted forward, nearly slipping on the slick stones and finding her feet were totally numb. She was cold to the bone.
“Yer ready now, then?” she said eagerly.
He looked at her sideways with disgust, and she knew with a funny little sinking inside her that he had hoped she had given up and gone. She grunted with determination, and a full intention of showing how she did not care. This was entirely a matter of business. Who cared what he thought of her?
Wordlessly they walked side by side along the narrow footpath, freezing paving stones gleaming under the lamps as they passed from one pool of light to another. Dim halos of rain ringed each one, and beside them in the street wheels splashed and hissed on the wet road. Carriages loomed out of the darkness and disappeared into it again.
“Can’t yer keep up?” Joe demanded, then immediately gripped her hand and held it hard, keeping her close to him as they passed groups of people, some huddled around braziers of hot chestnuts or other food, others pressing into the half shelter of doorways.
“We gotter get an omnibus,” Gracie said breathlessly. “It’s up west. ’e’s a toff.”
“W’ere west?” he demanded.
“Chelsea—Markham Square.”
“Then we’ll go on the train,” he replied.
“Wot train?”
“The underground train. Ter Sloane Square. In’t yer never bin on the underground train?”
“I never ’eard of it.” Then she realized how ignorant that made her sound. “Me mistress goes by ’ansom, or in someone’s carriage,” she added. “We don’t ’ave no need o’ trains unless we’re goin’ away.”
“In’t you grand,” he said sarcastically. “Well, if yer got money fer an ’ansom I’ll be very ’appy ter ride wif yer.”
“Don’ be daft.” She dismissed the suggestion with equal scorn. “So we’ll go in the train. ’Ow much?”
“Depends ’ow far we go—but not much. Penny or so,” he replied. “Now save yer breath an’ keep up wif me.”
She trotted along beside him for what seemed like miles, carrying her new boots under her arm, but it was probably not much more than a mile and a half. Then they went down flights of steps into a cavernous railway station where the trains ran like moles through tunnels, roaring and clanking in a manner which would have terrified her if she had had time to think about it, and not been far too excited, and too determined to match Joe for wits, courage and any other quality he cared to think of.
She did not like the sensation of sitting in a carriage as it hurtled through a tunnel, and had to concentrate very hard on thinking of something else, or she might have shrieked as she was bumped from side to side, knowing how far she was from daylight and fresh air. She looked sideways at Joe once or twice, and found he was looking at her, so she turned away again quickly. But her heart was thumping with pleasure, and the fear did not matter so much.
At last they came out at Sloane Square station and set out to walk again, this time according to Gracie’s instructions, until in a fine, cold rain they came to Markham Square and stopped under the trees at the far side of Prosper Harrimore’s house.
“All right, then,” Joe said with exaggerated patience. “Now wot? Wot if ’e don’t come out again ternight? W’y should ’e? Only fools and them as ’as no ’omes comes out an’ stands in the rain.”
Gracie had already thought of that. “So we gotta get ’im out, ain’t we?”
“Oh yeah? An’ ’ow yer goin’ ter do that?”
“I’m goin’ ter knock on the door.”
“An’ o’ course ’e’s goin’ ter answer it ’isself—’is footmen ’ave all got the night off,” he said wearily. “Yer the daftest woman I ever met, an’ that’s say in’ a lot w’ere I come from.”
“Yeah, well I don’t come from w’ere you come from,” she said quickly, although it was probably not true. “You jus’ watch ’im.” And with that she marched across the street, boots under her arm, and up the steps of the Harrimore house and knocked on the door.
She did not really know much about the houses of the well-to-do, only the little bits she had overheard from Charlotte, and what she had gathered from her newfound ar
t of reading. However, she had fully expected the door to be opened by a footman, so she was not taken by surprise when it was.
“Yes, miss?” he said, eyeing her with disgust. He was about to suggest she go to the servants’ entrance, thinking her a relative of one of the maids, although even they should not have received callers at this hour. When she spoke, her words came out in a rush, her heart beating so it nearly choked her.
“Please, sir, I got a message for Mr. ’Arrimore, personal like, an’ I darsen’t give it ter no one else.”
“Mr. Harrimore does not take messages from the likes of you,” the footman said stiffly. “If you give it to me, I’ll tell him.”
“That in’t no good,” she said quickly, shifting the boots around to hold them more firmly. “I were told special, no one but Mr. ’Arrimore ’isself. I’ll wait ’ere, an’ you go an’ tell ’im as it’s ter do wif a lad ’e met outside a thee-ayter, five year ago, an’ give a message ter. You tell ’im that, an’ ’e’ll come ter see me.”
“Nonsense! Be off with you, girl.”
She remained where she was.
“You go an’ tell ’im that—then I’ll go.”
“You go now!” He waved his hand briskly. “Or I’ll send for the police. Come ’ere botherin’ decent folk with your tales and messages!” He made as if to close the door.
“You don’t want the police ’ere,” she said with desperation. “That family’s ’ad enough o’ police an’ tragedy. You jus’ go an’ give ’im that message. It ain’t yer place ter decide for ’im ’oo ’e sees an’ ’oo ’e don’t. Or do yer think yer ’is keeper?”
It may have been her argument, or it may have been only the force of her personality and the determined look in her small, fierce face, but the footman decided against debating any further on the step, closed the door firmly and took the message inside.
Gracie waited, swallowing on a dry mouth, body shaking with cold and with tension. She held the boots in her arm; her hands were too cold to feel. Only once did she turn around to make sure Joe was still there on the opposite side of the street, well in the shadows, but peering towards Harrimore’s door.
It was several moments before at last it opened and a very large man stood staring at Gracie. He seemed to tower over her and to fill the entire doorway. His hatchet nose and sweeping brow were highly unusual, his deep-set eyes angry and full of surprise.
