A Christmas Revelation Read online

  A Christmas Revelation is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Anne Perry

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Hardback ISBN 9780399179945

  Ebook ISBN 9780399179952

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Karin Batten, adapted for ebook

  Cover illustration: Alan Ayers

  v5.4

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Christmas Revelation

  Dedication

  The Christmas Novels of Anne Perry

  About the Author

  WORM STOOD AND STARED, OVERCOME with wonder. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, in all his nine years of life. She was like sudden sunshine on a dark day—the place you looked without even thinking about it, all light and warmth and softness. She walked the way everybody should: gently, head up, smiling. Maybe other people looked like her at first glance, but when you looked again you saw she smiled, not as if there were something funny, but as if she knew something good that she could share, if you would stop and listen.

  But no one did. They all walked past her, hurrying on about their business as though they were late, or afraid they might miss something. In the street, there were carts of vegetables for market, a large brewer’s dray with magnificent horses, brasses gleaming, a barrow boy selling apples, and a hansom cab, the driver flicking his long whip above his horse’s ears, as if it could go any faster in that traffic.

  The lady was speaking to a man with one leg. He was leaning on a crutch, awkwardly, and trying to fish in his pocket with the other hand.

  The lady smiled and said something. She picked a second bunch of white heather from the tray suspended around the man’s neck and put her other hand gently on his arm, to stop him looking any further for change.

  He could be a soldier from the Crimean War. Worm knew about that. Of course, it was twelve years ago now—1854–56, long before Worm was even born—but those who saw it and those who didn’t see it had still all lost someone, and they didn’t forget.

  The lady with the light in her face was moving away now. The one-legged man smiled as he watched her go and, without thinking about it, Worm followed her. He had no idea where she was going, but he wanted to look at her a little longer. He wouldn’t get lost. He had always made his home somewhere around here, close to the river, until early last summer when someone had found him and taken him to live in the clinic on Portpool Lane. He had fended pretty well for himself on this bank, picking up bits of coal, or even brass when he was lucky, and selling it. He knew his way around.

  Claudine would be cross with him for being late, but after telling him off a bit, she would forgive him. She always did. Even when he didn’t have a front tooth, the smile always worked. His new teeth were almost grown through now.

  The lady was moving quite quickly. He nearly lost her, except that the clouds parted for a moment and a shaft of sunlight fell on her, making her hair bright for an instant. Worm pushed past a man in a heavy topcoat, just in time to see a man with gray hair walk up to the lady and put a hand on her arm.

  She flinched, as if he had gripped her too hard, and swung round to face him, anger in her eyes. Then, as though steeling herself, she stood a little straighter and said something to him that Worm was too far away to hear, but it was clear from her face that she was angry.

  The man’s expression became a twisted sneer and he pulled her toward him. No one else in the crowd took any notice. Was it a private quarrel with her father? Or an employer? Her clothes were ordinary; it was only her grace in wearing them that made them look good.

  The man pulled her again, roughly. She resisted and with her free hand slapped him hard across the face. Then instantly she looked terrified, as if realizing what she had done when it was too late.

  He was furious. He snarled something.

  Worm ran forward, shouting, “Stop it! Stop it!” Maybe there was nothing he could do, but he would try. He could kick really hard! And if he got hold of someone’s hand, he could bite. He charged at the man, head bent down to butt him in the stomach.

  At that moment, another man appeared, quite a lot younger. He was taller and slimmer and clean-shaven.

  “Fool!” he shouted at the older man, and before the older man could confront the lady again, or Worm could kick him in the stomach, the younger man had pulled the lady out of the way. She fell forward against him, and he put his hand on her and twisted her round, pulling her with him. She struggled for only an instant, then seemed to give up the fight and follow obediently. Perhaps she was afraid of being hurt again, or worse?

  The older man swore, then followed after them. Nobody appeared to have noticed Worm. He squeezed between two women with bags of laundry. They were so deep in conversation that they only swatted at him with one hand, for his impertinence, without missing a word.

  He could still see the older man, and he ran after him across an open space in the street, just behind a costermonger’s barrow full of vegetables and in front of a hansom whose driver was shouting at everyone to get out of the way. Might as well yell at the incoming tide, Worm thought, but some people felt better for complaining. Gave them the idea they were doing something.

  He could still see the older man as he turned a corner into an alley. Worm usually had more sense than to go into dark corners, but this time there was no help for it. He ran past an old woman with a dog, swerved round the corner, and thanked whatever heaven there was that the older man was still in sight, not far ahead. He had caught up with the younger one, who continued holding on to the lady. Was she all right? Had they hurt her again?

  If he didn’t want to be seen, Worm should hang back. But if he did that, he would not know which way they went. What use was following anyone if he did not go all the way? He walked quickly and quite quietly, since his boots were very thin, one stage before getting actual holes. He did not like to tell anyone at the clinic because he knew they needed all the money for the sick people. It was a pretty big thing that they gave him food every single day and a bedroom of his own, with a real bed and blankets. He knew enough not to be greedy.

  At the end of the alley, they turned left. That was inland, away from the river. Worm did not know this area so well. The river was his; at least it used to be. Now he lived inland a bit, and west of the patch of the bank he knew best. This was going east and inland, toward Mile End.

  Still, he had to find out where they were taking the lady. He followed them silently for what seemed like a long time. He could still see her. But he couldn’t see if she was struggling, or if they held her so tightly that she couldn’t. She must be frightened.

  He was catching up. He moved quickly, darting in front of a wagon and causing the driver to yell a string of imaginative abuses at him. The older man turned round, maybe at the color of the words. For a moment, his eyes met Worm’s. Worm froze. The wagon passed so close to him, the driver reached out and cuffed his ear. It stung, but Worm ignored him.

  The older man, still holding hard on the lady’s arm, shouted at Worm, “Get out of ’ere, or I’ll tan yer ’id
e till it falls off yer skinny bones!”

  The lady turned and saw Worm. There was recognition in her face. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but the younger man pulled her so hard she staggered against him.

  A group of people with a vegetable cart passed in front of Worm, and when he looked again, the pavement was empty. The lady was gone, and so were the two men who had taken her.

  Worm spent a long time looking for them, but he found no sign. Did that mean they were inside a house near here? He couldn’t ask anyone: “Have you seen a lady who smiles, with the sun in her hair? And two men who were taking her somewhere she didn’t want to go?”

  There was nothing to do but go all the way back to the clinic, where at least he would get something to eat. He was hungry and cold, and his legs ached. There was definitely a hole in his boot now, and it was going to freeze tonight. But what could you expect? It was nearly Christmas.

  He turned round slowly and started to walk westward. He would strike a main street he knew before too long.

  * * *

  Squeaky Robinson was in his office, working on the account ledgers for the clinic on Portpool Lane, when Worm returned. Squeaky was in his sixties; he declined to be more exact than that. He was always exact with money, however, to the farthing. He was quite tall, but scrawny, and he wore a black frock coat, year round, whatever the weather. He had a lugubrious face, teeth that did not even appear to possess any order at all, and white hair that straggled onto his shoulders. His bookkeeping was skilled, inventive, and meticulous.

  In the past, he had owned these two large houses on Portpool Lane and run them as a thriving brothel. But he had been tricked out of ownership by the lawyer Sir Oliver Rathbone, and permitted to stay in residence only on condition he keep the accounts for the new owner and run the place as a clinic for street women—prostitutes of greater or lesser degree—who needed medical help. This was all the plan of a woman who used to be an army nurse in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale. Mad as a hatter, she was, but brave. Squeaky would give her that. Actually, he would have given her just about anything she asked for, but, thank heaven, she did not know that.

  Squeaky had protested the injustice of the whole arrangement for several years, on and off. Now it was off. Too many people realized that he actually enjoyed it. It was too much to say he was respectable. It would sound like an obituary! But he had moments approaching respectability.

  He looked up as Worm knocked on the door and, without waiting for an answer, opened it and came in. He looked tired and bewildered, and he almost tripped over the loose part of the sole of his boot.

  “What is it?” Squeaky asked. It was hard enough to have the place turned into a virtual hospital; he would not have it turned into an orphanage as well!

  Worm closed the door and stood in front of it. He looked small and very miserable. It occurred to Squeaky that Worm looked this way on purpose. He had survived alone on the Thames bank for a long time; making people sorry for him was probably how he had achieved it.

  Worm drew a deep breath. “I saw a lady taken away by two men. She didn’t want to go, but they made her. I was too far away to help, but I followed her to see where they took her. I know where it is…sort of…nearly…”

  What on earth should Squeaky say? He looked at Worm’s face and knew there was no point in arguing with him. It was significant that he hadn’t gone to Claudine Burroughs with this mystery. It was she who had insisted that Worm stay here. But that was women for you! Sentimental. ’Specially about children. She spoiled Worm. Always giving him food…

  Claudine was a highly respectable middle-aged woman—actually more than respectable—she was well-to-do, almost rich. Heaven knew why she wanted to spend her time in a place like this, when she had a wealthy husband and a fine house somewhere! Actually, Squeaky knew why, but he pretended not to. It was…kinder here. No one wanted to admit to loneliness. He had despised Claudine when he’d first met her. He had told the Crimean nurse that Claudine was worthless.

  But then a strange thing had happened. He had discovered that Claudine was far more valuable than he had assumed, and more generous in her judgments of others—and of Squeaky in particular! Any woman of character would despise Claudine’s mean-spirited and domineering husband. She was better off here, and she knew it.

  But Claudine would not be any help in this situation, and Worm probably knew that. That was why he had come to Squeaky.

  Squeaky should have been pleased, but he wasn’t. Worm was only being practical. It was not that he had any deep trust in Squeaky.

  Worm was waiting, the bright hope slowly fading from his eyes.

  “Sort of?” Squeaky said, his wild eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah. I followed them to the street where they disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Squeaky said skeptically.

  Worm swallowed. “Went inside somewhere.”

  “What street was that?”

  “I don’t know. But I know where it is! I can take you there…”

  “Oh? And what would I do when I get there? Assuming that you could find it again?”

  “I could find it!”

  “For what?”

  “To find her! Rescue her from those men. They’re going to…”

  “What?” Squeaky was avoiding the real issue. He knew it and, what mattered, Worm knew it, too. Squeaky was honest to a fault—except when he was deliberately dishonest, and that was always for a reason. “Worm, there isn’t a thing you can do about it. Maybe they’re her brothers? Or one of them is her husband?”

  Worm had no family to compare this possibility with. His face filled with confusion and a kind of disappointment that family might be so ugly.

  Squeaky was immediately sorry. “Most families are good.” The words stuck in his throat. He had no family either. Never had, so far as he could remember. He chose not to try very hard. “But there are bad people.” This was ridiculous. Worm knew that, for heaven’s sake. “People lose their tempers!” he added sharply. “ ’Specially if they’re scared. Maybe they thought they’d lost her!”

  “She weren’t lost,” Worm insisted.

  “How do you know?”

  A sweet smile of memory lit Worm’s face. “ ’Cos she was smiling. Just standing there, all bright in the sun. And happy.”

  “There’s no sun today. It’s December!” Squeaky replied. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. He had spoiled something unnecessarily. “Not here, anyway,” he tried to fish it back. “Maybe where you were.” He refrained from asking where Worm had been, and why.

  “She weren’t lost,” Worm repeated. “And she didn’t want to go with them. They pulled. Hard! They held on to her, so she had to.”

  Squeaky tried to find a way out of this before it was too late. “You don’t know what happened,” he pointed out. “We can’t go around the streets knocking on doors and asking if anybody’s quarreling. They probably all are, one time or another. And it ain’t none of our business.” He had a sudden idea. “And if they think she’s been telling other people about family troubles, they’ll really be angry with her. Telling tales on family is real bad.”

  Worm stared at him.

  “If Mrs. Claudine were to make a mistake, or break something precious—if there was anything precious here—would you go and tell people?”

  “No!” Worm was indignant. “ ’Course not!”

  “See?”

  “Oh.”

  It was time to talk about something else, before Worm could think about it too hard. “Sometimes you get lost and you don’t want to be found, but sometimes you do. It’s what you get lost for,” he added. Actually, his mind was going back to the time Claudine had made a foolish mistake, had left the clinic and become lost. It was Squeaky who had found her. He could remember the incident well. She was miles fr
om the clinic, cold, wet, and scared stiff, all huddled up like a child. When she’d recognized Squeaky, to her embarrassment she had wept with sheer relief. He still felt a strange, pleasing warmth inside himself as he recalled her face. It was the first time either of them had seen the other as a person, with feelings they could understand. She was not a sarcastic wealthy woman, who had condescended to help the poor, to prove to herself and her neighbors that she was a Christian, whatever that meant. She was a lonely woman imprisoned in a purposeless marriage, without joy, without even honest affection.

  And he was not a worthless, scruffy ex-brothel-keeper who was not to be trusted in anything, least of all money. Ever since the day Oliver Rathbone—beg his pardon, Sir Oliver Rathbone—had entrusted him with the bookkeeping, Squeaky had accounted—and honestly—for every penny.

  “Christmas is coming,” Squeaky said, changing the subject to rid himself of the feelings that caught him unaware. “We’ve got to do things.”

  Worm blinked and looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because Christmas is special! It’s different from all the rest of the year.” Squeaky spoke as if that were self-evident, but actually he was struggling to think of a good reason, other than that people needed a cause to celebrate. It was dark most of the day, in fact the darkest, bleakest time of the year. The cold was biting. Sometimes there was snow, but that, pretty as it was, brought its own troubles. When it melted it was gray and sludgy, and unbelievably wet. It was a very good time to have a festival. And Christmas was a terrific festival. There were decorations, music, church bells ringing, good things to eat, and people were nice to each other for three days or so, especially to strangers.

  Worm was still waiting. He knew nothing of Christmas and was about to ask again about the lady with the bright hair.

  “You give presents to people,” Squeaky said, reading Worm’s thoughts and continuing with the first thing that came into his mind, determined to distract the child. “Things you think they will like.”