Seven Dials Read online

  Beyond the windows in the garden a bird was hopping over the grass and the late roses glowed in vivid ambers and reds.

  “Then she was killed,” Vespasia went on, startling Pitt so he gasped and coughed.

  She glanced at him with a very slight, wry smile. “Not murdered, Thomas. It was an accident. I suppose if it happened now, you might be sent to investigate it, although I doubt you would find any more than they did then.” She sat very still as she went on. “She was on holiday in Ireland. It was one of their periodic unpleasantnesses, and she was caught in the crossfire. It was criminal, of course, in that they were shooting each other. It was an ambush intended for political victims, and it was accidental that Libby Ryerson moved into the path at exactly that moment.”

  Pitt felt a stark sadness for Ryerson. It was a harsh way to lose someone. Had he blamed himself that he had not prevented it, somehow foreseen and guarded against it?

  “Where was he?”

  “In London.”

  “Why was she in Ireland?”

  “She had many Anglo-Irish friends. She was a beautiful woman, restless for experience—adventure.”

  He was not sure what she meant, and hesitant to ask. It seemed intrusive not only to the dead woman but to Vespasia’s implicit understanding of her as well. “Had they children?” he asked instead.

  “No,” she replied with a touch of sadness. “They had only been married two or three years.”

  “And he never married again?”

  “No.” Now her eyes met his candidly. “And before you ask me why, I do not know. He certainly had mistresses enough, and many women who would have accepted him.” A thread of humor touched her mouth. “If you are looking for some dark secret in his personal life, I do not believe you will find it … not in that area, anyway. And I know of no other scandal, financial or political.”

  He thought carefully before asking the next question, but he realized as he formed the words in his mind that it was the one which had driven all the others and weighed most heavily on him.

  “Do you know anything that connects him to Victor Narraway, professionally or personally?”

  Vespasia’s eyes widened very slightly. “No. Do you believe there is something?”

  “I don’t know.” That was not strictly true. He did not know in a rational sense, but he was perfectly sure that Narraway was gripped by a hard and profound emotion when he thought of Ryerson. He had sent Pitt to see him instead of going himself for a reason so powerful it overrode judgment. He had rationalized it afterwards, not before. “I had that impression,” he added aloud.

  Vespasia leaned a little towards him, only the slightest yielding of the stiffness of her back. “Be careful, Thomas. Saville Ryerson is a man of intelligence and deep political judgment, but above all he is a man of feeling. He has worked hard for his beliefs and for the people he represents. He has not spared his time or his means to benefit Manchester, and much of the north of England, and he has done it alone, and quite often with too little thanks.” She lifted her thin shoulders very slightly. “The Lancashire people are loyal, but they are quick-tempered and not overfond of London-made decisions. They have not always understood him. Because he is clever he has made enemies in Westminster: ambitious young men who want to topple him and take his place. Be very sure you are right before you accuse him of anything. It will ruin him, and you cannot undo that by withdrawing the charge afterwards.”

  “I’m trying to save him, Aunt Vespasia!” Pitt responded fervently. “I simply don’t know how to!”

  She turned away, staring at the gilt-edged mirror on the far wall, its beveled glass reflecting the leaves of the birch trees twisting and flickering in the slight wind outside.

  “Perhaps you can’t,” she replied so softly he barely heard her. “He may love this Egyptian woman enough to have been complicit in her crime. Do what you have to, Thomas, but please do it as gently as you can.”

  “I will,” he promised, wondering how on earth he would.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  AFTER HER INDOOR DUTIES were completed, Gracie set out on her errands of the morning. It was a bright, mild day with only the slightest breeze, and she enjoyed walking, even in new boots. These were excellent ones, with black buttons, and heels that for the first time in her life made her over five feet tall.

  She went briskly along Keppel Street and Store Street into the Tottenham Court Road, where she stopped at the fishmonger’s and picked out some succulent-looking kippers, nice and fat, with a rich, smoky color. She did not trust the boy who brought them around on a barrow; he tended to stretch the truth a little regarding their freshness.

  She had just come out onto the pavement again and was about to turn south towards the greengrocer’s to get some plums, when she saw her friend Tilda Garvie, who was maid in a household a short distance away in Torrington Square. Tilda was a nice-looking girl, an inch or two taller than Gracie and a good deal plumper, which still left her becomingly slender. Usually she had a cheerfulness about her which made her agreeable company. However, today she walked past the flower girl without even a glance. Her face was set in lines of anxiety, and she seemed to be looking around her absentmindedly, as if not truly seeing what was there.

  “Tilda!” Gracie called out.

  Tilda stopped, swung to face Gracie and on recognizing her, her expression flooded with relief. She nearly bumped into a large woman with a shopping basket balanced on her hip and dragging an unwilling child with the other hand.

  “Gracie!” Tilda gasped, just avoiding being mown down by the woman and not bothering to apologize for cutting across her path. “I’m so glad ter see you!”

  “Wot’s the matter?” Gracie asked, moving closer to the inside of the footpath and pulling Tilda out of the way. “Yer look like yer lost summink. D’yer drop yer purse?” It was the first and most natural thought. She had done that herself and still remembered the horror of it. That was nearly six shillings gone—a week’s worth of food.

  Tilda dismissed it with a shake of her head so slight it was barely a comment at all. “Can I talk to yer for a moment … please, Gracie? I’m that worried I dunno wot ter do. I was ’opin’ I’d see yer. Ter be honest, that’s why I come this way.”

  Gracie’s concern was instant. All sorts of domestic possibilities flashed through her mind. The house in which Tilda worked was quite a large one, and there were several other servants. The first, most obvious troubles would be accusations of theft or one of the male staff’s making improper demands. Gracie had never feared either of those herself, but she knew very well that it could happen. Worse still, of course, was the master of the house, making demands. Refusal and acceptance were both fraught with pitfalls. To be caught, and dismissed without a character reference, was only the lightest. One could easily be with child as well! Or accused by the mistress of all manner of wrongdoing.

  Simple squabbles with other maids, lost trinkets, badly done jobs, the mistress’s favorite ornament broken or dress scorched, were so simple as to be almost welcome.

  “Wot’s ’appened?” she said earnestly. “ ’Ere, we’ve got time fer a cup o’ tea. There’s a place jus’ ’round the corner. Come an’ sit down an’ tell me.”

  “I i’nt got money fer a cup o’ tea right now.” Tilda stood motionless on the pavement. “An’ I think as it’d choke me any’ow.”

  Gracie began to appreciate that whatever troubled her, it was of a very serious order. “Can I ’elp?” she said simply. “Mrs. Pitt is ever so fair, an’ she’s clever as well.”

  Tilda frowned. “Well … it were Mr. Pitt as I were thinking of … if … I mean if …” She stopped, her face white, her eyes pleading.

  “It’s a crime?” Gracie said with a gulp.

  Tears brimmed Tilda’s eyes. “I dunno … not yet. Leastways … Oh, please Gawd, it ain’t!”

  Gracie took her by the arm and half dragged her along the pavement to be out of the way of bustling women using baskets almost
like weapons. “Yer comin’ with me ter get a cup o’ tea,” she ordered. “Summink ’ot inside yer’ll ’elp. Then yer can tell me wot yer talkin’ ’bout. ’Ere … pick yer feet up or yer’ll fall flat on yer face over them cobbles, an’ that won’t ’elp no one.”

  Tilda forced herself to smile and quickened her pace to keep up. In the tea shop, Gracie informed the waitress exactly what they wanted, freezing the girl’s complaints that it was too early, and sent her scurrying away to do as she was told.

  “Now,” she said when they were alone. “So wot’s the matter then?”

  “It’s Martin,” Tilda said huskily. “Me brother,” she added before Gracie could misunderstand. “ ’E’s gone. ’E just in’t there, an’ ’e ’adn’t told me nothin’. An’ ’e wouldn’t do that, ’cos me an’ ’im is all we got. Our ma an’ pa died wi’ the cholera when I were six an’ Martin were eight. We always looked out for each other. There in’t no way as ’e’d go orff an’ not tell me.” She blinked rapidly, trying to control the tears, and failing. They slid more and more rapidly down the curve of her cheek, and without thinking she wiped them away with her cuff.

  Gracie attempted to be practical and force herself to think clearly. “When did yer see ’im last, Tilda?”

  “Three days ago,” Tilda answered. “It were me day orff, an’ ’is too. We ’ad ’ot pies from the man on the corner, an’ walked in the park. The band were playin’. ’E said as ’e were goin’ up Seven Dials. Only up an’ back, like, not ter stay there!”

  The waitress returned with a pot of tea and two hot scones. She glanced at Tilda’s tearstained face and seemed about to say something, then changed her mind. Gracie thanked her and paid for the tea, leaving a couple of pennies for her trouble. Then she poured out both cups and waited until Tilda had sipped hers and taken a bite out of the buttered scone. She tried to collect her thoughts, and behave as she thought Pitt would have.

  “ ’Oo did yer speak to where ’e works?” she asked. “Where is it, anyway?”

  “For Mr. Garrick,” Tilda replied, putting the scone down. “Torrington Square, just off Gordon Square, it is. Not far.”

  “ ’Oo did yer speak to?” Gracie repeated.

  “Mr. Simms, the butler.”

  “Wot did ’e say, exact?”

  “That Martin ’ad gone away an’ ’e couldn’t tell me where,” Tilda replied, ignoring her tea now, her eyes fixed on Gracie. “ ’E thought as I were walkin’ out wif ’im. I said as ’e were me brother, an’ it took me ages ter make ’im believe me. But me an’ Martin looks like each other, so ’e understood in the end.” She shook her head. “But ’e still wouldn’t tell me where ’e’d gone. ’E said as no doubt Martin would let me know, but that in’t right, Gracie. Yesterday was me birthday, an’ Martin wouldn’t never forget that unless summink was terrible wrong. ’E never ’as, not since I were little.” She gulped and blinked, the tears running down her cheeks again. “Always gives me summink, even if it’s only a ribbon or an ’andkerchief or like that. Reckoned it mattered more ’n Christmas, ’e said, because it were special ter me. Christmas is everyone’s.”

  Gracie felt a sharp twist of anxiety. Maybe this was more than a domestic threat, ugly as they were. Perhaps it was something Pitt should know about. Except that he was not with the police anymore. And she did not really know what Special Branch did, except that it was secret, and she got to hear a great deal less about Pitt’s work than she used to when it was the ordinary sort of crime that was written in the newspapers for anyone to read.

  Whatever had happened to Martin, it was up to her to find out, at least for now. She took a sip of tea to give herself time to think.

  “Did yer speak to anyone else ’ceptin’ the butler?” she said finally.

  Tilda nodded. “Yeah. I asked the bootboy, ’cos bootboys often gets ter see all sorts, and they’re too cheeky, most of ’em, not ter tell yer. They don’t get listened to much, so they got ter make up fer it when they can.” The momentary humor vanished from her face. “But ’e said as Martin just disappeared sudden. One day ’e were there, just like usual, the next day ’e weren’t.”

  “But ’e lives in, don’t ’e?” Gracie said, puzzled.

  “Yeah, course ’e does! ’E’s Mr. Stephen Garrick’s valet. Does everythin’ for ’im, ’e does. Mr. Stephen swears by ’im.”

  Gracie took a deep breath. This was too serious for allowing kindness to overrule honesty. “Could Mr. Garrick ’ave lost his temper over summink and dismissed ’im, and Martin been too ashamed ter tell yer until ’e finds another position?” She hated suggesting such a thing, and she saw from the crumpled look in Tilda’s face how much the idea hurt.

  “No!” Tilda shook her head fiercely. “No! Martin wouldn’t never do nothin’ ter get ’isself dismissed. An’ Mr. Garrick leans on ’im. I mean fer real, not jus’ ter tie ’is cravats an’ keep ’is clothes nice.” Her hands were clenched, the buttered scones forgotten. “ ’E looks after ’im when ’e drinks too much or gets sick, or does summink daft. Yer can’t jus’ find someone else ter do that fer yer in a moment, like. It’s … it’s loyalty.” She stared at Gracie with bright, frightened eyes, pleading to be understood and believed that loyalty was too precious not to extend both ways. It deserved better than to be discarded simply because one had the power to do so.

  Gracie had no such faith in the honor of employers. She had worked for the Pitts since she was thirteen and had no personal experience of anybody else, but she knew enough stories of others not to be so happily naÏve.

  “Did yer speak ter Mr. Garrick ’isself?” she asked.

  Tilda was startled. “No, o’ course I din’t! Cor, Gracie, you in’t half got a cheek! ’Ow’d I get speakin’ ter Mr. Garrick?” Her voice rose in amazement. “It took all the nerve I got ter go an’ ask Mr. Simms, an’ ’e looked at me like I’d overstepped meself. ’E’d ’alf a mind ter send me packin’, till ’e realized Martin were me brother. Yer gotter respec’ family, like. That’s only decent.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” Gracie said with determination. She had made up her mind. Pitt might be too busy with Special Branch things, but Tellman was not. He used to be Pitt’s sergeant at Bow Street, and was now promoted. He had been in love with Gracie for some time, even though he was only just admitting it to himself now, and that with deep reluctance. She would tell him, and he would be able to make the proper enquiries and solve the case. And it was a case, Gracie acknowledged that. “I’ll get it done for yer,” she added, smiling across at Tilda with assurance. “I know someone as’ll look at it proper, an’ find the truth.”

  Tilda relaxed at last, and very tentatively smiled back. “Can yer really? I thought if there was anyone, it’d be you. Thanks ever so … I dunno wot ter say, ’ceptin’ I really am grateful to yer.”

  Gracie felt embarrassed, and afraid she had promised too much. Of course Tellman would do it, but the answer might not be one that would bring Tilda any happiness. “I in’t done nuffink yet!” she said, looking down and concentrating on finishing her tea. “But we’ll get it sorted. Now yer’d better tell me everythin’ ’bout Martin, all where ’e’s worked an’ things like that.” She had no pencil or paper with her, but she had only just recently learned to read and write, so her memory was long trained in accuracy, as it had needed to be.

  Tilda began the account, remembering details from the same necessity. When she was finished they went outside into the busy street and parted, Tilda to continue her errands, her head higher, her step brisker than before, Gracie to return to Keppel Street and ask Charlotte if she might have the evening off in order to find Tellman.

  It was granted without hesitation.

  GRACIE WAS FORTUNATE at the second attempt. Tellman was not at the Bow Street station, but she found him two blocks away in a public house having a pint of ale with a constable with whom he had been working. She stood just inside the entrance, her feet on the trampled sawdust, the smell of beer in the air and the noise of men’s
voices and clinking glasses all around her.

  She had to look for several moments before she saw Tellman tucked away in the farthest corner, his head bent, staring somberly into his glass. The young man opposite him regarded him with deference. Since Pitt’s departure Tellman was a senior officer, although it still sat uneasily on him. He knew more than almost anyone else of the truth about the way Pitt had been plotted against, and who was responsible. He loathed the man who had replaced him, and more seriously than that, he also distrusted him. All his experience since Wetron’s arrival had indicated that he had motives and ambitions that were far from the simple success of solving crime. It was even possible that Wetron aimed as high as taking over leadership of the terrible secret organization of the Inner Circle.

  Gracie knew that both Mr. Pitt and Tellman feared that, but she had only overheard it and did not dare to speak of it openly to either of them. She looked across at Tellman now and wondered how heavily that weighed upon him. She could see in him none of the ease he had had when working with Pitt, even if he would never have admitted to it.

  She made her way through the crowd towards him, elbowing her way between men all but oblivious of her, pushing and poking to make them step aside, and she was almost at Tellman’s seat before he looked up and saw her. His face filled with alarm, as if she could only bring bad news.

  “Gracie? What is it?” He rose to his feet automatically, but ignored his companion, not seeing any need to introduce them.