Anne Perry's Christmas Vigil (9 page)

“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 herself in 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.”

Gracie was too frightened to be angry, and she could see that beneath Bertha's arrogance and self-defense, she was frightened also. There was no point in asking her for help.

“Well, if she in't 'ere, no point in me lookin',” Gracie said, as if that were some kind of reason.

Bertha opened her mouth as if to answer, then closed it again without speaking.

Gracie turned and left, walking away across the yard and out into the street again. She did not go back toward her own home; there was nothing
to see that way. Where would Minnie Maude go, and, more urgently, why? What was Stan so angry about, and why was Bertha afraid? If Bertha were just afraid that Minnie Maude had been gone all night, she would have been looking for her herself, not standing around working in the kitchen.

Gracie's step slowed because she had no idea where to begin. One thing she was certain of as the wind sliced through her shawl, chilling her body, was that no one stayed out all night in this weather without a reason so harsh it overrode all sense of safety or comfort. Minnie Maude was looking for Charlie, but she must have had some idea where he was, or else there was something she was so frightened of at home that staying out alone in the icy streets was better.

What Gracie needed was to work out what Minnie Maude would have done. Something pretty urgent, or she would have waited until today, and told Gracie about it. Unless she'd thought Gracie had given up!

She stood at the curb watching the water flecked with ice running high over the gutters, as the wind whined in the eaves of the houses in the street behind her. The hooves of a horse pulling a dray clattered on the stones, wheels rumbling behind it.

Gracie had promised Mr. Balthasar not to ask any more questions about Uncle Alf's death. Minnie Maude knew that Gracie had meant it. Minnie Maude wouldn't have gone to look for Gracie; she would have gone off on her own. But where? Jimmy Quick wasn't going to tell them anything more. Even Minnie Maude wouldn't wander around the streets hoping to catch sight of Charlie. She must have gone somewhere in particular.

Which way had they gone before? Gracie looked left, and right. Minnie Maude would have gone down to the Whitechapel High Street and over into Commercial Road, for sure, then into the narrower roads with people's names, on either
side of Cannon Street. If Gracie could just find those streets, she would know where to begin.

She set off briskly, and was on the far side of the goods yard before she was lost.

She looked to the left and couldn't remember any of the shop fronts or houses. She turned the other way. There was a broken gutter sticking out in the shape of a dogleg that she thought she'd seen before. That was as good a reason as any for making a decision. She went that way.

She passed an ironmonger's window with all sorts of strange tools in it, things she couldn't imagine using in a kitchen. She couldn't have been there before. If she'd seen those things, she would have remembered them.

Where on earth had Minnie Maude gone? It was Gracie's fault. She should have known better than to trust her. Minnie Maude loved that wretched donkey as much as if it had been a person, maybe more! Donkeys didn't lie to you, or
swear at you, or tell you off, say that you were useless or lazy or cost the earth to keep. Maybe Charlie even loved her back. Maybe he was always happy to see her?

All right, so maybe Minnie Maude wasn't stupid to be loyal to a friend, just daft to go off without telling anyone. Except who cared anyway? Bertha? Maybe, but she didn't act like it. She was more scared than anything—maybe of Stan?

There was no point in standing there in a strange street. Gracie set off again, briskly this time. At least she would get a bit warmer. A few hot chestnuts would be a good thing right then. Maybe Minnie Maude had gone back to Cob, to see if he knew anything more? Or if not Cob, then maybe Paper John, although he hadn't said anything very helpful.

Who else might she have looked for? The crossing sweeper, Monday? Without realizing it she was walking more slowly, thinking hard, grasping for memory, and reasons. What had Minnie
Maude done that had made Stan so angry? Or was he just scared too, but would rather get angry than admit being scared? If Alf really had been killed by someone over the golden casket, then could Stan know something about it?

How did he know what Minnie Maude had been doing? She had said something, she must have. But what? Had she told him something, or asked him? Or he'd said something, and she had remembered … or understood—but what?

Gracie stopped in the shelter of a high building with a jutting wall. There was no point in going any farther until she worked things out. She might be going in the wrong direction, and would only have to go all the way back. The wind was harder and there were occasional pellets of ice in it. Her fingers were numb. She leaned against the wall where an uneven door frame offered her a little shelter.

Why had Minnie Maude gone? She must have had a reason, something that had happened—or
something that had suddenly made sense to her. If Stan had said something, what could that be? How would he know anything about it anyway?

Or was it some meaning she'd put together, and then she'd seen a pattern?

A hawker pushed his barrow across the street, wheels bumping in the gutter, the wind in his face.

Think!
Gracie said to herself angrily.
You were there all the time. Everything Minnie Maude heard, so did you! What did she understand all of a sudden?

She was shaking with the cold, but there was no point in walking anywhere if she didn't know where to go. And the other thing, if she was really thinking as hard as she could, she wouldn't be noticing where she was, and she'd get even more lost. That wouldn't help Minnie Maude or Charlie, or anyone else.

Where had she and Minnie Maude been when they'd followed Jimmy Quick's route? What had
they seen, or heard? They'd spoken to Monday, the crossing sweeper on Cannon Street. She tried to recall everything he had said. None of it seemed to matter much. Certainly it wouldn't have sent Minnie Maude out of the house, breaking her promise, and on a bitter night with ice on the wind.

Then there'd been Florrie, the peddler; and Paper John. Then there was Cob, the chestnut seller. He'd said a lot. He was the one who'd seen the toff, and Alf had actually told him about the golden casket.

But the more Gracie thought about it all, the less did she see anything in it that she hadn't seen two days before. Nobody had spoken of anything suspicious. It was exactly the same route, though backward, as Jimmy Quick always took—the same streets, the same people saw him. He had even started at about the same time. She could remember most of the streets, only not necessarily in the same order. But Alf would have had it right,
because it made sense. One street led into another. There was only one way to go.

She tried again to remember exactly what everyone had said. She closed her eyes and hunched her shoulders, wrapping her shawl even more tightly around herself, and pictured the roasted-chestnut man. He was the only one who had seen Alf after he'd had the casket. Cob had looked worried, but not really downright frightened. She could see it in her mind's eye, the way he'd stood, his expression, the way he had waved his arms to show which way the man he'd called the toff had come … except that he had been coming the way Alf was going, not the way he had just passed! That made no sense.

She tried it again, but with Cob waving the other way. Except that he couldn't have. He was standing next to the brazier, about the length of his forearm from it. If he had waved that arm, he would have hit the brazier, and very likely burned
himself. He might even have knocked it over. So it couldn't be right.