She looked around at the worn pavements, the uneven cobbles, the grimy, brick-faced buildings, some whose upper windows were broken or boarded. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys. Yard or alley entrances gaped darkly.
What shops were there? A maker of clay pipes and an artist’s studio. She knew nothing about art, and not much about pipes, but pipes she could guess about. She walked over to the door and went in, the story ready on her tongue.
“Mornin’, miss. Can I ’elp yer?” There was a young man, a year or two older than she was, behind the counter.
“Mornin’,” she replied cheerfully. “I ’eard yer ’ave the best pipes any place east o’ St. Paul’s. Matter o’ taste, o’ course, but I want summink special fer me pa, so wot ’ave yer got?”
The lad grinned. His hair grew in a cowlick at the front, giving him a casual, cheeky expression. “Did yer? Well, ’oever told yer that were right!”
“Were a while back,” she responded. “ ’E’s dead now, poor soul. William Crook. ’Member ’im?”
“Can’t say as I do.” He shrugged. “But then we gets ’undreds through ’ere. Wot kind of a pipe did yer fancy, then?”
“Maybe it were ’is daughter as bought it for ’im?” she suggested. “She used ter work up at the tobacconist’s.” She gestured up towards the farthest end of the street. “Knew ’er, didn’t yer?”
His face stiffened. “Annie? ’Course I did. She were a decent girl. ’Ave yer seen ’er lately? This year, like?” He looked at her eagerly.
“In’t yer seen ’er yerself?” she countered.
“Nobody ’ere seen ’er in more’n five years,” he replied sadly. “There were an ’ell of a row one day. A bunch o’ strangers, real ruffians, suddenly started ter fight. Bangin’ seven bells outa each other, they was. Two carriages come up, one ter number fifteen, w’ere the artist used to be, an’ the other ter number six. I remember, ’cos I were out in the street meself. Two men went inter the artist’s place, an’ a few minutes later they come out again draggin’ a young feller wif ’em, fair strugglin’ and yellin’. ’E were terrible upset, but din’t do ’im no good. They bundled ’im inter the carriage an’ drove off like the devil was be’ind ’em.”
“And the others?” she said breathlessly.
He leaned forward over the counter. “They went up ter number six, like I said, and they came out carryin’ poor Annie, an’ she were took, an’ all, an’ I never seen ’er since then. Nor ’as anyone else, far as I know.”
She frowned. It seemed a long time ago for Remus to be interested in now, or John Adinett.
“ ’Oo were the feller they took?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“Dunno. Gent, I know that. Lots o’ money, an’ real classy. Kind o’ quiet most o’ the time. Nice-lookin’, tall wi’ fine eyes.”
“Were he Annie’s lover?” she guessed.
“Reckon so. ’E came ’ere often enough.” His face darkened and his tone became defensive. “Though she were a decent girl, Catholic, so don’t go readin’ nothin’ scandalous inter it, because yer got no right.”
“Maybe it were a tragic love?” she suggested, seeing the pity in his face. “If ’e weren’t Catholic, maybe their families kept ’em apart?”
“Reckon so?” He nodded, eyes sad and far away. “It’s a shame. Wot kind o’ pipe d’yer want fer yer pa?”
She really could not afford a pipe. She must return as much of Tellman’s money to him as she could, and he certainly would have no use for a clay pipe—and she did not want him smoking one anyway.
“I reckon I’d best ask ’im,” she said regretfully. “In’t the kind o’ thing yer can come back wif’ if it in’t right. Ta fer yer advice.” And before he could attempt to persuade her differently, she turned and went out of the door.
In the street she kept walking back the way she had come, towards the Mile End Road, simply because it was familiar and busy, and she had very little idea what lay in the other direction.
Where should she go now? Remus could be anywhere. How much of this had he known? Probably all of it. It seemed to be common knowledge and easily enough obtained. But apparently Remus knew what it meant. He had been elated, and then gone to find out about William Crook’s death. Although that was apparently quite ordinary too.
From Cleveland Street he had gone first to Guy’s Hospital to ask something. What? Was he looking for William Crook then too? Only one way to find out: go there herself. She would have to invent a good story to explain her interest in that.
It took her all the bus journey back westwards, and south over London Bridge towards Bermondsey and the hospital, before she had worked it out in her mind. If you were going to lie, you might as well do it thoroughly.
She bought a fruit pie and a drink of lemonade from a peddler and stood looking at the river while she consumed them. It was a bright, windy day and there were lots of people out enjoying themselves. There were pleasure boats on the water, flags flying, people clutching onto their hats. Somewhere not very far away the sound of a hurdy-gurdy was cheerful and a little off-key. Half a dozen boys chased each other, shouting and squealing. A couple walked arm in arm, close to each other, the girl’s skirts brushing the young man’s trousers.
Gracie finished her pie, straightened her shoulders and turned towards Borough High Street and the hospital.
Once inside she went straight to the offices, composing her face into a serious expression and doing her best to look pathetic. She had tried this many years ago, before going to the Pitts’ to work. She had been small and thin then, with a sharp little face, usually dirty, and it had been very effective. Now it was not quite so easy. She was a person of some consequence. She was employed by the best detective in London, which meant the best in the world—even if he was temporarily unappreciated.
“What can I do for you?” the old man behind the desk asked her, peering down over the top of his spectacles.
