“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 naIve.
“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.
She had rather hoped to approach the subject obliquely, and that he would be pleased to see her, but she had to admit to herself that in the past she had only sought him out without invitation when she had needed his help. When it was purely personal she had waited for him to speak first. After all, to begin with she had been unwilling to offer him anything more than a rather impatient friendship. He was a dozen years older than she and firmly entrenched in his beliefs, which in most cases were contrary to hers. He passionately disapproved of being in service-it offended all his principles of social justice-whereas she saw it as an honorable way to earn a living and a very comfortable day-to-day existence. She felt no subservience and was impatient with his prickly and unrealistic pride.
She forced herself to be more polite now than she felt. She was speaking to him in front of his junior and she should treat him with respect.
“I come for yer advice,” she said meekly. “If yer can spare me ’alf an hour or so.”
He was startled by her unusual courtesy, and only after a moment realized it was for the constable’s benefit. His lean face softened with an unusual touch of humor. “I’m sure I could do that. Is Mrs. Pitt all right?” It was not good manners that made him ask-he cared profoundly. Pitt and Charlotte were as close to him as anyone he knew. He was a stiff, proud, and lonely man, and friendship did not come easily to him. He had resented Pitt when they first met. Pitt had been promoted to a position Tellman felt was only suitable for gentlemen, or those who had served in the army or navy. The son of a gamekeeper had no qualifications for command, and for men like Tellman to be expected to call them “sir” and offer them the deference of position stuck in his throat. Pitt had won his respect only a step at a time, but once earned it was a loyalty as deep as a bond of blood.
“Well, this isn’t a right place for you,” Tellman said, regarding Gracie with a slight frown. “I’ll walk you to the omnibus, and you can tell me what it’s about.” He turned to the constable. “See you in the morning, Hotchkiss.”
Hotchkiss stood up obediently. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, miss.”
“Good night, Constable,” Gracie replied, then turned to Tellman as he moved past her and led the way, parting the crowd for her. She followed him out of the door onto the pavement, where they were now alone. “It matters, or I wouldn’t ’a bothered yer,” she said gravely. “There’s someone as is missing.”
He offered her his arm, and impatiently she took it, then found to her surprise that it was rather pleasant. She noticed that he shortened his step to make it easier for her to match stride with him. She smiled, then realized he had seen it, and became instantly sober again. It would not do to let him know it mattered. “It’s me friend, Tilda Garvie,” she said in a businesslike tone. “ ’Er brother Martin ’as gone from the ’ouse ’e works in. Said nothin’ to ’er, nor to no one else, just gone. Three days now.”
Tellman pursed his lips, his face dark, brows drawn together. He walked with his shoulders a little hunched as if his muscles were tight. It was a fine evening, but the lamps were lit and the wind gusting up from the river smelled damp. The street was quiet, just one carriage in the distance, turning the corner away from them, and in the other direction a couple of men arguing good-naturedly.
“People leave jobs,” Tellman said cautiously. “More likely he was dismissed. Could be a lot of reasons, not necessarily his fault.”
“ ’E’d ’ave told ’er!” Gracie said quickly. “It were ’er birthday, an’ ’e never sent ’er a card nor flowers nor nothin’.”
“People forget birthdays,” he dismissed it. “Even when there’s nothing wrong, let alone if they’re out of a job and a roof over their heads!” he argued, his voice impatient.
She knew he was angry with the injustice of the dependence, not with her, but it still irritated her, perhaps
