A Christmas Promise (8 page)

“No. ’e were all alone in the street. No cart, no Charlie.”

Cob’s face pinched with sadness. “Poor ol’ Alf.”

“’e di’n’t steal it. It were put out.” Minnie Maude looked at Cob accusingly.

Gracie’s mind was on something more important, and that didn’t fit in with any sense. “But ’oo
knew as ’e ’ad it?” she asked, looking gravely at Cob. ’e wouldn’t tell no one, would ’e? Did you say summink?”

Cob flushed. “Course I di’n’t! Not till after ’e were dead, an’ Stan come around askin’. I told ’im cos ’e ’ad a right, same as you.” He addressed this last to Minnie Maude.

“Yer told ’im as Uncle Alf got this box?” Gracie persisted.

“Di’n’t I jus’ say that?” he demanded.

Gracie looked at him more carefully. He wasn’t really lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth either, at least not all of it.

“’oo else?” she said quietly, pulling her mouth into a thin line. “Someone else ’ad ter know.”

Cob shrugged. “There were a tall, thin feller, wif a long nose come by, asked, casual like, after Jimmy Quick. I told ’im it wasn’t Jimmy that day, an’ ’e di’n’t ask no more. Di’n’t say nuffink about a gold box.”

“Thin an’ wot else?” Gracie asked. “Why were ’e lookin’ fer Jimmy Quick?”

“’ow’d I know? ’e weren’t a friend o’ Jimmy’s, cos ’e were a proper toff. Spoke like ’e ’ad a plum in ’is mouth, all very proper, but under it yer could tell ’e were mad as a wet cat, ’e were. Reckon as Jimmy ’ad some trouble comin’.”

“Jimmy, not Uncle Alf?” Gracie persisted.

“That’s wot I said. Yer got cloth ears, girl?”

“Wot else was ’e like?”

“Told yer, tall an’ thin, wif a long nose, an’ a coat that flapped like ’e were some great bird tryin’ ter take off inter the air. An’ eyes like evil ’oles in the back of ’his skull.

Gracie thanked him as politely as she could, and grasping Minnie Maude by the hand, half-dragged her away along the darkening street.

“Were ’e the one?” Minnie Maude asked breathlessly. “The toff wi’ the long nose? Did ’e kill Uncle Alf?”

“Mebbe.” Gracie stepped over the freezing gutter, still pulling Minnie Maude after her.

It was almost fully dark now, and the lamplighter had already been through. The elegant flat-sided lamps glowed like malevolent eyes in the growing mist. Footsteps clattered and then were instantly lost. There was hardly anyone else around. Gracie imagined them all sitting in little rooms, each with a fire, however small, and dreaming of Christmas. For women it might be flowers, or chocolates, or even a nice handkerchief, a new shawl. For men it would be whisky, or if they were very lucky, new boots. For children it would be sweets and homemade toys.

They stopped at the next corner, looking at the street sign, trying to remember if the shape of the letters was familiar. Gracie wasn’t even sure anymore if they were going east or west. One day she was going to know what the letters meant, every one of them, so she could read anything at all, even in a book.

It was then that they heard the footsteps, light and easy, as if whoever made them could walk for miles without ever getting tired. And they were not very far away. Gracie froze. She was thinking of the man Cob had described, tall, with a long nose. That was silly. Why would he be there now? If he had killed Uncle Alf, he must already have the golden casket.

Nevertheless she turned around to stare, and saw the long figure in the gloom as it passed under one of the lamps. For a moment she saw quite clearly the flapping coat, just as Cob had said.

Minnie Maude saw the figure too, and stifled a shriek, clasping her hand over her mouth.

As one, they fled, boots loud on the stones, slipping and clattering, jumping over gutters, swerving around the corner into an even darker alley, then stumbling over loose cobbles, colliding with each other and lurching forward, going faster again.

The alley was a mistake. Gracie crashed into an old man sleeping in a doorway, and he lashed out at her, sending her reeling off balance and all but falling over. Only Minnie Maude’s quick grasp saved her from cracking herself on the pavement.

Still the footsteps were there behind them.

The two girls burst out into the open street again, lamps now seeming almost like daylight, in spite of the thickening swathes of fog. The posts looked like elongated women with shining heads and scarves of mist trailing around their shoulders. The light shone on the wet humps of the cobbles and the flat ice of the gutters. Dark unswept manure lay in the middle of the road.

Gracie grabbed at Minnie Maude’s hand and started running again. Any direction would do. She had no idea where she was. It could not be very far from Commercial Road now, and from there she could find Whitechapel Road, and Brick Lane. But this part was so unfamiliar it could have been the other end of London.

Somewhere down on the river a foghorn let out its mournful cry, as if it were even more lost than they were. Gracie’s breath hurt in her chest, but the footsteps were still there behind them. Minnie Maude was frightened. Gracie could feel it in the desperate grasp of her thin, icy fingers.

“C’mon,” Gracie said, trying to sound encouraging. “We gotta get out o’ the light. This way.” She made it sound as if she knew where she was going, and charged across the road into the opening of a stable yard. She could hear shifting hooves behind doors, and she could smell hay and the warm animal odor of horses.

“We could stay ’ere,” Minnie Maude whispered, her voice wavering. “It’d be warm. ’orses won’t ’urt yer. ’e wouldn’t find us in ’ere.”

For a moment it sounded like a good idea, safe, no more running. But they were trapped. Once inside a stable, there would be no way to get out past him. Still, even if he looked, he wouldn’t see them in the dark, not if they got into the hay.

“Yeah …,” she said slowly.

Minnie Maude gripped her hand tighter. As one they turned to tiptoe across the yard toward the nearest stable door.

“Next one,” Gracie directed, just so as not to be obvious, in case the man did come in there. Although what difference would one door along make, if he really did look for them?

Then there he was, in the entrance, the street-lamp behind him making him look like a black cutout figure without a face. He was tall, and his chin was impossibly long, way down his chest.

“Gracie …” His voice was deep and hollow. “Gracie Phipps!”

She couldn’t even squeak, let alone reply.

He walked toward them.

Minnie Maude was hanging on to Gracie’s hand hard enough to hurt, and she was jammed so close to her side that she was almost standing on top of Gracie’s boots.

The man stopped in front of them. “Gracie,” he
said gently. “I told you not to go after the casket. It’s dangerous. Now do you believe me?”

“Mr.…Mr. Balthasar?” Gracie said huskily. “Yer … di’n’t ’alf scare me.”

“Good! Now perhaps you will do as you are told, and leave this business alone. Is it not sufficient for you that poor Alf is dead? You want to join him?”

Gracie said nothing.

Mr. Balthasar turned his attention to Minnie Maude. “You must be Minnie Maude Mudway, Alf’s niece. You are looking for your donkey?”

Minnie Maude nodded, still pressing herself as close to Gracie as she could.

“There is no reason to believe he is harmed,” he said gently. “Donkeys are sensible beasts and useful. Someone will find him. But where will he go if in the meantime this man who murdered Alf has killed you as well?”

Gracie stared at him. There was not the slightest flicker of humor in his face. She gulped. “We’ll go ’ome,” she promised solemnly.

“And stay there?” he insisted.

“Yeah… ’ceptin’ we don’ know w’ere ’ome is. I’m gonna learn ter read one day, but I can’t do it yet.”

He nodded. “Very good. Everyone should read. There is a whole magical world waiting for you, people to meet and places to go, flights of the mind and the heart you can’t even imagine. But you’ve got to stay alive and grow up to do that. Make me a promise—you’ll go home and stay there!”

“I promise,” Gracie said gravely.

“Good.” He turned to Minnie Maude. “And you too.”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his face. “I will.”

“Then I’ll take you home. Come on.”

T
he next day was just like any other, except that Gracie had more jobs to do than ever, and her gran was busy trying to make a Christmas
for them all. Gracie got up early, before anyone else was awake, and crept into the kitchen, where she cleared out the stove, and tipped the ashes on the path outside to help people from slipping on the hard, pale ice. Then she laid the wood and lit the new fire. She balanced the sticks carefully and blew a little on them to help the fire take. First she put the tiniest pieces of coal on and made sure they took as well. The small flames licked up hungrily, and she put on more. It was alarming how quickly they were eaten and gone. Lots of things went quickly. One moment they were there, and the next time you looked, they weren’t.

It would be Christmas in two days. There would be bells, and singing, lots of lights, people would wear their best clothes, and ribbons, eat the best food, be nice to one another, laugh a lot. Then the next day it would all be over, until another year.

The good things ought to stay; someone ought
to make them stay. The dresses and the food didn’t matter, but the laughing did, and you didn’t wear the bells out by ringing them. Did happiness wear out? Maybe things didn’t taste so sweet if you had them all the time?

She was still thinking about that when Spike and Finn came stumbling in, half-awake. Reluctantly they washed in the bucket of water in the corner. Then, wet-haired and blinking, they sat down to the porridge, which was now hot. They left plates almost clean enough to put away again.

By the end of the afternoon, Gracie’s chores were finished, and her mind kept going back to Minnie Maude. She had to be worrying about Charlie. What kind of a Christmas would it be for her if he was not found? If they went looking around the streets, just for Charlie, not asking about Uncle Alf, or the golden casket, would that be breaking their promise to Mr. Balthasar? It was the casket the toff wanted, not a donkey who really wasn’t any use to him.

She did not sleep very well, tossing and turning beside her gran, listening to the wind whistling through the broken slates. She woke up in the morning tired and still more worried. It was Christmas Eve. There was no reason why she should not at least go and see Minnie Maude and ask her how she felt about things.

She made sure the whole house was tidy, the stove backed up, the flatirons put where they could cool without scorching anything. Then she wrapped herselfin her heaviest shawl, with a lighter one underneath, and set out in the hard sleet-edged wind to find Minnie Maude. Although she knew what Minnie Maude would say. Donkeys had hair all over them, of course, but it wouldn’t be much comfort in this weather. When she had wet hair, she froze!

Bertha was in her kitchen, her face red, and she looked flustered. She opened the door, and as soon as she saw Gracie on the step, she put out a hand and all but hauled her inside, slamming the door shut after her.

“Yer seen Minnie Maude?” she said angrily. “Where’d that stupid little thing go now?”

Gracie’s heart beat wildly, and her breath almost choked her. There was something badly wrong; she hardly dared even think how wrong. She could see that the red marks on Bertha’s face were weals from someone’s hand striking her, and Bertha held one shoulder higher than the other, as if even when she wasn’t thinking of it, it hurt her and she needed to protect it.

“I in’t seen Minnie Maude since two days ago,” Gracie answered, looking straight into Bertha’s red-rimmed eyes. “We said as we wouldn’t look anymore ter see wot ’appened to ’er uncle Alf, cos it were too dangerous—” She knew immediately that she had made a mistake, but there was no way to take it back. Bertha would know the moment she lied. If you weren’t used to lying, and the lie mattered, it always showed in your face.

“Wot d’yer mean, dangerous?” Bertha asked,
her voice dipping very low. “Wot yer bin askin’? Wot’ve yer done?”

Something near the truth was best. “Where ’e were killed,” Gracie replied. “Minnie Maude wanted ter put a flower there.” She kept her eyes steady, trying not to blink too much. Bertha was watching her like a cat studying a mouse hole in the wall.

“Well, it don’t matter,” Bertha said at last. “Put it anywhere. Alf won’t care. ’e’s dead an’ gorn. You tell ’er that. She don’t listen ter me.”

“I will,” Gracie promised. “Where is she?”

Bertha’s face was white beneath the red weals. “I thought as she’d gorn ter sleep in the stable, but she in’t there. Then I thought as she’d mebbe gorn fer you.”

“No! In’t seen ’er since two days ago.” Gracie heard her own voice touched with panic. “When d’yer see ’er terday?”

Bertha’s voice was husky. “I di’n’t see ’er terday.”

A dark fear fluttered in the pit of Gracie’s stomach. “Wot did she take a miff about? Were it summink ter do wi’ Jimmy Quick, or the chestnut man?”

“It were summink ter do wif ’er always meddlin’,” Bertha replied. “Stan lost ’is temper wif ’er summink awful. I were afeared ’e were gonna ’it ’er, but ’e di’n’t. ’e jus’ lit out, white as paper, swearin’ witless, an’ next thing I know, she were gorn too.”