“Please sir, I’m tryin’ ter find out wot ’appened ter me granpa.” She guessed that William Crook’s age made that the most believable relationship to use.
“Was ’e brought in sick?” the man asked kindly.
“I reckon as ’e must ’a bin.” She sniffed. “I ’eard ’e died, but I in’t sure.”
“What was his name?”
“William Crook. It’d a bin a while back. I only just bin told.” She sniffed again.
“William Crook,” he repeated, puzzled, pushing his spectacles back up so he could see through them. “Don’t recall ’im, not off’ and, like. Yer sure ’e was brought ’ere?”
She tried to look lost and abandoned. “That’s wot they tol’ me. Yer got nobody called Crook bin’ ’ere? Not ever?”
“I dunno about ever.” He frowned. “We ’ad an Annie Crook ’ere fer ages. Sir William hisself brought ’er ’ere. Mad, she were, poor soul. Did everything ’e could fer ’er, but it weren’t no good.”
“Annie?” Gracie gulped, trying not to let the edge of excitement in her voice betray her. “She come ’ere?”
“You know her?”
“ ’Course.” She did a rapid calculation. “She were me aunt. Not that I ever knew ’er, like. She … she kind o’ vanished, years back, around ’87 or ’88. Nobody never said as she were mad, poor soul. I suppose they wouldn’t, would they!”
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head slowly. “It can ’appen to all kinds o’ folk. That’s wot I told the other young man as asked. But ’e weren’t family to ’er.” He smiled at her. “She got the very best care there is, I can promise yer that. Yer still want as I should look for yer granpa?”
“No, ta. I reckon as I must ’a got it wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Yeah. I am too.” She turned and walked out of the office, closing the door quietly behind her and hurrying away before he sensed the excitement inside her.
Once again in the street and the bright sharp wind and the sun, she ran down towards the place where the omnibuses stopped. Now she must go back home and catch up with some of her work. And with luck, Tellman would come this evening and she could tell him what she had found out. He would be impressed—very impressed. She was singing a little song to herself as she stood in the queue.
“You went where?” Tellman demanded, his thin face pale, his jaw tight.
“Cleveland Street,” Gracie replied, pouring the tea. “I’ll follow Remus tomorrow.”
“You won’t! You’ll stay here and do the work you’re supposed to do, where you’re safe!” he retorted harshly, leaning forward across the table. There were shadows under his eyes and a smudge on his cheek. She had never seen him look so tired.
He was certainly not going to tell her what she could or could not do … but on the other hand, it gave her a pleasant, warm, almost comfortable feeling that he was concerned that she not be in danger. She could hear the edge of fear in his voice and knew that it was real. It might make him furious, and he might very well deny it the next minute, but he cared very much what happened to her. It was in his eyes, and she recognized it with a little bubble of pleasure.
“Don’t yer wanna ’ear wot I found out?” she asked, aching to tell him.
“What?” he said grudgingly, sipping the tea.
“There were a girl called Annie Crook, ’00 were the daughter o’ William Crook wot died in St Pancras.” Her words fell over each other. “An’ she were kidnapped from the tobacconist’s in Cleveland Street about five year ago and took ter Guy’s ’Ospital, w’ere the poor creature were called mad, an’ no one ever seed ’er again.” She had the cake out but in her excitement she had forgotten to cut him a slice. “It were somebody called Sir William wot said as she were mad, an’ ’e couldn’t ’elp ’er no more. An’ someone else just asked about ’er too. I reckon as that were Remus. An’ that’s not all! There were a young man kidnapped from the artist’s place in Cleveland Street the same time, a real fine-lookin’ feller wi’ good clothes, a gentleman. ’E were taken out kickin’ an’ strugglin’, poor soul.”
“Do you know who he was?” He was too elated with the information to remember his anger—or the cake. “Any idea at all?”
“The lad at the pipe-maker’s thought ’e were Annie’s lover,” she answered. “But ’e don’t know fer sure. But ’e said as she were a decent girl, Catholic, an’ I shouldn’t spread scandal about ’er, ’cos it wouldn’t be right or true.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe their families did it ’cos she were Catholic an’ ’e weren’t?”
“What could that have to do with Adinett?” He frowned, pursing his lips.
“I dunno yet. Gimme a chance!” she protested. “But there’s a lot o’ people wot’s off their ’eads, poor devils. There’s the feller wot died up in Northampton too. D’yer reckon as there’s madness somewhere where it really matters, then? Maybe Mr. Fetters knew about it too?”
He was quiet for several minutes. “Maybe,” he said at last, but there was no lift in his voice.
“Yer scared, in’t yer?” she said softly. “That mebbe it don’t ’ave nothin’ ter do wi’ Mr. Pitt, an’ we aren’t ’elpin’ ’im?” She wished she could say something to comfort him, but it was the truth, and they were in it together, neither pretending.
He was on the point of denying it; she could see it in his face as he drew in his breath. Then he changed his mind.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Remus thinks he’s on a big story, and I wish I believed it was the reason Adinett killed Fetters. But I can’t see any way Fetters fits into it at all.”
“We will!” she said determinedly “ ’Cos, ’e must ’a done it fer some reason, an’ we’ll go on until we find out wot it is.”
