Anne Perry's Christmas Vigil (3 page)

“ 'Oo are you, then?” he said, puzzled.

“Minnie Maude Mudway,” she replied. “It were me uncle Alf as yer found in the street.” She hesitated. “An' this is me friend,” she added.

“Gracie Phipps,” Gracie said.

“We're lookin' fer Charlie,” Minnie Maude went on.

Jimmy Quick frowned at them. “I dunno no Charlie.”

“ 'E's a donkey,” Gracie explained. Someone needed to talk a little sense. “ 'E got lost, along wif Uncle Alf's cart, an' everyfink wot was in it.” She glanced around the yard and saw three old bicycles whose wheels had missing spokes, several odd boots and shoes, kettles, pieces of china and pottery, some of it so beautiful she stared at it in amazement. There were old fire irons, a poker with a brass handle, ornaments, pots and pans, pieces of carpet, a cabin trunk with no hinges, unwanted
books and pictures, all the things a rag and bone man collects, in with the actual rags or bones for glue.

Minnie Maude stood still, ignoring the scattered takings around her, just staring solemnly at Jimmy Quick. “ 'Ow'd yer find 'im, then?”

Jimmy seemed to consider evading the question, then changed his mind. “ 'E were jus' lyin' there in the road,” he said sadly. “Like 'e fell off, 'cept o' course 'e'd never 'ave done that, if 'e'd bin alive. I've seen Alf as tight as a newt, an' 'e didn't miss a step, never mind fell. 'E knew 'ow ter wedge 'isself, like, so 'e wouldn't—not even if 'e were asleep.” He shook his head. “Reckon as 'ow 'e must 'ave just died all of a sudden. Bin took, as it were. Visitation o' God.”

“No 'e weren't,” Minnie Maude contradicted him. “If 'e 'ad bin, Charlie'd 'ave brought 'im 'ome. An' wot were 'e doin' way out 'ere anyway? This in't 'is patch.” She sniffed fiercely as if on the edge of tears. “Someone's done 'im in.”

“Yer talkin' daft,” Jimmy said dismissively, but his face was very pink. “ 'Oo'd wanter 'urt Alf?” He looked uncomfortable, not quite meeting Minnie Maude's eyes. Gracie wondered if it was embarrassment because he did not know how to comfort her, or something uglier that he was trying not to say.

Gracie interrupted at last. “It in't daft,” she told him. “Wot 'appened ter Charlie, an' the cart? 'E di'n't go 'ome.”

Now Jimmy Quick was deeply unhappy. “I dunno. Yer sure the cart's not at yer aunt Bertha's?” he asked Minnie Maude.

She looked at him witheringly. “Course it in't. Charlie might get lorst, cos this in't where 'e usually comes. So why was 'e 'ere? Even if Uncle Alf died an' fell off, which 'e wouldn't 'ave, why'd nobody see 'im 'ceptin' you? An' 'oo took Charlie an' the cart?”

Put like that, Gracie had to agree that it didn't
sound right at all. She joined Minnie Maude in staring accusingly at Jimmy Quick.

Jimmy looked down at the ground with even greater unhappiness, and what now most certainly appeared to be guilt. “It were my fault,” he admitted. “I 'ad ter go up ter Artillery Lane an' see someone, or I'd a bin in real trouble, so I asked Alf ter trade routes wi' me. 'E'd do mine, an' I'd do 'is. That way I could be where I 'ad ter, wi'out missin' an 'ole day. That's why 'e were 'ere. 'E were a good mate ter me, an' 'e died doin' me a favor.”

“ 'E were on yer round!” Gracie said in sudden realization of all that meant. “So if someone done 'im in, p'raps they meant it ter be you!”

“Nobody's gonna do me in!” Jimmy said with alarm, but looking at his face, paler now and a little gray around his lips, Gracie knew that the thought was sharp in his mind, and growing sharper with every minute.

She made her own expression as grim as she
could, drawing her eyebrows down and tightening her mouth, just as Gran did when she found an immovable stain in someone's best linen. “But yer jus' said as 'e were alone cos 'e were doin' yer a favor,” she pointed out. “If nobody else knew that, they'd a thought as it were you sittin' in the cart!”

“I dunno,” Jimmy said unhappily.

Gracie did not believe him. Her mind raced over how it could matter, picking up people's odd pieces of throwaway, or the things they might buy or sell, if they knew where. What did rag and bone men pick up, anyway? If you could pawn it for a few pence, or maybe more, you took it to the shop. She glanced at Minnie Maude, who was standing hunched up, shaking with cold, and now looking defeated.

Gracie lost her temper. “Course yer know!” she shouted at Jimmy. “ 'E got done in doin' yer job, cos yer asked 'im ter. An' now the cart's gorn and Charlie's gorn, an' we're standin' 'ere freezin', an' yer sayin' as yer can't tell us wot 'e died fer!”

“Cos I dunno!” Jimmy said helplessly. He swung his arms in the air. “Come on inside an' Dora'll make yer a cup o' tea.” He led the way across the yard, weaving between bicycles, cart wheels, milk churns without lids, until he came to the back door of his house. He pushed the door wide, invitingly, and they crowded in after him.

Inside the kitchen was a splendid collection of every kind of odd piece of machinery and equipment a scrap yard could acquire. Nothing matched anything else, hardly two pieces of china were from the same set, yet it was all excellent, the most delicate Gracie had ever seen, hand-painted and rimmed in gold. No two saucepans were the same either, or had lids that fitted, but all were handsome enough, even if there was little to put in them besides potatoes, onions, and cabbage, and perhaps a few bones for flavor.

In the far corner stood a magnificent mangle, with odd rollers, one white, one gray; a collection of flatirons, most of them broken; and several
lanterns missing either sides or handles. Perhaps the bits and pieces might make two usable ones between them?

Mrs. Quick was standing expectantly by the stove, on which a copper kettle was gleaming in the gaslight, steam whistling out of the spout. She was an ample woman wearing a blue dress patched in a dozen places without thought for matching anything, and she wore a marvelous old velvet cape around her shoulders. It was vivid red, and apart from a burn on one side, appeared as good as new.

“Ah! So you're Bert Mudway's girl,” she said to Minnie Maude with satisfaction, then turned to Gracie. “An' 'oo are you, then? In't seen yer before.”

“Gracie Phipps, ma'am,” Gracie replied.

“Never 'eard of yer. Still an' all, I 'spec yer'd like a cup o' tea. That daft Jimmy kept yer standin' out there in the cold. Goin' ter snow, like as not, before the day's out.”

“They come about Alf,” Jimmy explained.

“Course they 'ave.” She took the kettle off the hob, warmed an enormous white and wine-colored teapot with half a handle, then made the tea, spooning the leaves from a caddy with an Indian woman painted on the front. “Got no milk,” she apologized. “Yer'll 'ave ter 'ave it straight. Give yer 'alf a spoon of 'oney?”

“Thank you,” Gracie accepted, and took the same for Minnie Maude.

When they were sitting on a random collection of chairs, Mrs. Quick expressed her approval of Uncle Alf, and her sympathy for Minnie Maude, and then for Bertha. “Too bad for 'er,” she said, shaking her head. “That bruvver of 'ers is more trouble than 'e's worth. Pity it weren't 'im as got done in.”

“Wouldn't 'ave 'appened to 'im,” Jimmy said miserably.

“I reckon as it were that golden tin, or wotever it were,” she said, giving Jimmy a sharp look, and
shaking her head again. “ 'E said as 'e thought they never meant ter put it out.”

Minnie Maude sat up sharply, nearly spilling her tea. “Wot were that, then?” she asked eagerly.

Jimmy glanced at his wife. “Don't go puttin' ideas inter 'er 'ead. We never saw no gold tin. It were jus' Tommy Cob ramblin' on.” He turned to Minnie Maude. “It ain't nothin'. Folk put out all kinds o' things. Never know why, an' it don't do ter ask.”

“A golden box?” Minnie Maude said in amazement. “ 'Oo'd put out summink like that?”

“Nobody,” Jimmy agreed. “It were jus' Tommy talkin' like a fool. Prob'ly an old piece o' brass, like as not, or even painted wood, or summink.”

“Mebbe that's why they killed Uncle Alf an' took the cart?” Minnie Maude was sitting clutching her porcelain teacup, her eyes wide with fear. “An' Charlie.”

“Don' be daft!” Jimmy said wearily. “If they put out summink by mistake, then they'd jus' go an'
ask fer it back. Mebbe give 'im a couple o' bob fer it, not go off killin' people.”

“But they did kill 'im,” Minnie Maude pointed out, sniffing and letting out her breath in a long sigh. “ 'E's dead.”

“I know,” Jimmy admitted. “An' I'm real sorry about that. 'Ave some more 'ot water in yer tea?”

That was all they would learn from him, and ten minutes later they were outside in the street again, and a fine rain was falling with a drift of sleet now and then.

“I've still gotta find Charlie,” Minnie Maude said, staring ahead of her, avoiding Gracie's eyes. “Uncle Alf doin' Jimmy's round jus' makes it worse. Charlie's really lorst now!”

“I know that,” Gracie agreed.

Minnie Maude stopped abruptly on the cobbles. “Yer think as there's summink real bad 'appened, don't yer!” It was a challenge, not a question.

Gracie took a deep breath. “I dunno wot I think,” she admitted. She was about to add that
she thought Jimmy Quick was not telling all the truth, then she decided not to. It would only upset Minnie Maude, and it was just a feeling, nothing as clear as an idea.

“I told yer 'e were a lyin' sod,” Minnie Maude said very quietly. “It's written clear as day on 'is face.”

“Mebbe 'e's jus' sad cos 'e liked yer uncle Alf,” Gracie suggested. “An' if Alf'd bin on 'is own round, mebbe somebody'd 'ave 'elped 'im. But 'e could a still bin dead.”

“Yer mean not left lyin' in the roadway.” Minnie Maude sniffed hard, but it did not stop the tears from running down her face. “Yer'd 'ave liked Uncle Alf,” she said almost accusingly. “ 'E'd a made yer laugh.”

Gracie would have liked to have an uncle who made her laugh. Come to think of it, she'd have liked a donkey who was a friend. They'd known lots of animals in the country, before her mother had died and she'd come to London: sheep, horses,
pigs, cows. Not that there was a lot of time for friends now that she was thirteen. Minnie Maude had a lot to learn about reality, which was a shame.

“Yeah,” Gracie agreed. “I 'spec I would.”

They walked in silence for a while, back toward Brick Lane, and then Thrawl Street. It got colder with every moment.

“Wot are we gonna do?” Minnie Maude asked when they came to the curb and stopped, traffic rattling past them.

Gracie had been thinking. “Go back 'ome an' see if Charlie's come back on 'is own,” she replied. “ 'E could 'ave.”

“D'yer think?” Minnie Maude's voice lifted with hope, and Gracie was touched by a pang of guilt. She had suggested it only because she could think of nothing better.

Gracie did not answer, and they walked the rest of the way past the end of the notorious Flower and Dean Walk in silence, passing figures
moving in the shadows. Others stood still, watching and waiting. The ice made the cobbles slippery. The sleet came down a little harder, stinging their faces and rattling against the stone walls to either side of them in the narrow alleys. The gutters were filling up, water flecked with white that disappeared almost instantly, not yet cold enough to freeze solid. Their breath made white trails of vapor in the air.

Minnie Maude led the way into the back gate of a house exactly like its neighbors on either side. The only thing that distinguished it was the shed at the back, which, from Minnie Maude's sniff and her eager expression, was clearly Charlie's stable. Now she went straight to the door and pushed it open, drawing in her breath to speak, then stood frozen, her shoulders slumping with despair.

Gracie's heart sank, too, although she should have understood better than to imagine the donkey would have come home. She already knew that something was wrong. Probably it was only
some minor dishonesty, someone taking advantage of a man who had died suddenly and unexpectedly; a theft, not anything as far-fetched as a murder. But either way, Minnie Maude would hurt just as badly. She would miss the uncle who had made her laugh and had loved her, and the donkey who'd been her friend.

“We'll find 'im,” Gracie said impulsively, swallowing hard, and knowing she was making a promise she would not be able to keep.

Minnie Maude forced herself not to cry. She took an enormous breath and turned to face Gracie, her cheeks tear-streaked, wet hair sticking to her forehead. “Yeah. Course we will,” she agreed. She led the way along the rest of the short path, barely glancing up as a couple of pigeons flapped above her and disappeared into the loft over the stable. She pushed the back door of the house open, and Gracie followed her inside.

A thin woman with a plain face stood over a chopping board slicing carrots and turnips, her
large-knuckled hands red from the cold. She had the most beautiful hair Gracie had ever seen. In the lantern light it was burnished like autumn leaves, a warm color, as if remembering the sun. She looked up as Minnie Maude came in, then her pale eyes widened a little as she saw Gracie, and her hands stopped working.

“W'ere yer bin, Minnie Maude?”

“Lookin' for Charlie,” Minnie Maude replied. “This is Gracie, from 'Eneage Street. She's 'elpin' me.”

Aunt Bertha shook her head. “In't no point,” she said quietly. “ 'E'll come 'ome by 'isself … or 'e won't. In't nothing yer can do, child. An' don't go wastin' other folks' time.” She regarded Gracie with only the tiniest fraction of curiosity. There were dozens of children up and down every street, and there was nothing remarkable about her. “Good o' yer, but in't nothin' yer can do. 'E must a got a scare when poor Alf died.” She started chopping the turnip again.