everything else temporarily out of her mind.
The music started. The master of ceremonies produced wonderful tongue-twisting introductions, to oohs and aahs from the audience, and bursts of laughter. The curtain went up on an empty stage. The spotlight fell in a bright pool, and into it stepped a girl in a shining, spangled dress. She sang lilting, rather daring songs, and in spite of knowing perfectly well what they meant, Gracie found herself singing along when the audience joined in. She was happy, full of warmth.
The girl was followed by a comedian in a baggy suit, partnered by another who must have been the tallest and thinnest man alive. The audience found this hilarious, and could hardly stop laughing when the contortionist came on, and then the juggler, the acrobats, a magician, and lastly dancers.
They were all good, but Gracie liked the music best, sad songs or happy, solos or duets, and best of all when everyone sang the choruses. She barely thought of the world outside the circle of temporary enchantment right until she was at the kitchen door in Keppel Street and she turned to thank Tellman, and say good night to him.
She had intended to exercise some dignity and say it had been very nice, and not let it go to his head, as if he had taken her somewhere she had never been before. It was very foolish to let a man get above himself and think he was too clever, or that you ought to be grateful to him.
But she forgot, and all her enthusiasm was in her voice when she told him, “That was wonderful! I never seen such…” She stopped. It was too late to be sophisticated now. She took a deep breath. She saw in the light from the street lamp the pleasure in his face, and suddenly she was absolutely certain how very much it mattered to him. He was so vulnerable all she wanted was for him to know how happy she was. She leaned forward very quickly and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you, Samuel. That was the best evenin’ I ever ’ad.”
Before she could step back he tightened his arm around her and turned his head slightly so he could kiss her on the lips. He was very gentle, but he had no intention at all of letting her go until he was ready. She tried to pull back a little, just to see if she could, and felt a tingle of pleasure on learning that it was impossible.
Then he eased his hold on her and she straightened up, gasping. She wanted to say something clever, or mildly funny, but nothing came. It was not a time for words that meant nothing.
“Good night,” she said breathlessly.
“Good night, Gracie.” His voice was a little husky as well, as if he too had been taken by surprise.
She turned around and felt for the scullery doorknob, twisted it and went inside, feeling her heart beating like a hammer, and knowing that she was smiling as if she had just been told the funniest and most wonderful thing in the world.
IN THE MORNING Gracie found Tilda out shopping, and brought her back to the kitchen in Keppel Street, where Tellman was sitting across the table with Charlotte, already discussing the subject. Only for an instant, almost too small to be noticed at all, Gracie’s eyes met Tellman’s, and she saw a half smile on his lips, a warmth. Then it vanished and he concentrated on business.
“Sit down, Tilda,” Charlotte said gently, indicating the fourth chair at the table. Gracie took the third one. There was a pot of tea there already and no need for duties of hospitality to intrude.
“Yer know somethin’?” Tilda asked anxiously. “Gracie wouldn’t say nothin’ to me in the street.”
“We don’t know where he is,” Charlotte answered straightaway. She could not hold out false hope; it was crueler in the end. “But we have learned more. A friend of mine spoke to Mr. Ferdinand Garrick, and he told her that Stephen had gone to the south of France, for his health, and taken his valet with him, in order to care for him while he is away.” She saw Tilda’s face clear and felt an ache of guilt. “Mr. Tellman has tried to see if that is true. He found someone who saw what was almost certainly Stephen Garrick and Martin leaving the house in Torrington Square. But there is no record of their having taken any boat to France, either from London or Dover. In fact, he cannot find a train they have taken. So it seems Martin has not been dismissed, but we don’t know where he is, or why he has not written to you to tell you of his circumstances.”
Tilda stared at her, trying to understand what it meant. “Then where’d they go? If it in’t France, why’d they go at all?”
“We don’t know, but we intend to find out,” Charlotte answered. “What more can you tell us about Martin, or about Mr. Stephen?” She saw the total bewilderment in Tilda’s face, and wished she could be plainer. She did not know herself what she was asking. “Try to think of everything Martin ever told you about the Garrick family, and Stephen in particular. He must have spoken about his life there sometimes.”
Tilda looked on the edge of tears. She was struggling hard to make her brain override her fear and the loneliness that crowded in on her. Martin was all the family she had, all the life she could remember. Her parents were beyond infant recall.
Gracie leaned forward, ignoring the cup of tea Tellman had poured for her.
“It in’t the time for bein’ discreet!” she said urgently. “We all tells our fam’ly. He trusted yer, din’t ’e? ’E must ’a told yer summink about life in the ’ouse. Was the food good? Did the cook ’ave a bad temper? Were the butler all spit and vinegar? ’Oo were the boss-the ’ousekeeper?”
Tilda relaxed a little as a faint smile touched her mouth. “Not the ’ousekeeper,” she replied. “An’ the butler wouldn’t say boo ter the master, but right tarter ’e were wi’ everyone else… at least that’s wot Martin said. Order everyone else around summink wicked, but not Martin, ’cos o’ Mr. Stephen. Martin were the only one as could look after ’im, an’ no one else wanted to any’ow, fer all their bein’ so upright an’ all.”
“Why not?” Charlotte asked. “Was he difficult?”
“Summink terrible, when ’e ’ad the stuff in ’im,” Tilda said very quietly. “But Martin’d never forgive me if ’e knew I’d told yer that. Yer don’t never tell no one about wot goes on in a lady or gentleman’s rooms, or yer’ll never work again. Out in the gutter an’ no place ter go-’cos no one else’ll ever take yer in. An’ worse ’n that, it’s betrayin’, an’ there in’t nothin’ worse than a betrayer.” Her voice was low and husky, as if even saying the words would contaminate her.
“What stuff?” Charlotte asked, keeping her tone so casual she could have been speaking of porridge.
“I dunno,” Tilda answered with such openness that Charlotte had to believe her.
Tellman put his cup down. “Did Martin ever go for a holiday with Mr. Stephen before? Anywhere?”
Tilda shook her head. “Not as I know. I’d ’a told yer.”
“Friends?” Tellman insisted. “What did Stephen do for pleasure? Where did he go-music, women, sports, anything?”
“I dunno!” she said desperately. “ ’E were miserable. Martin said as there weren’t nothing ’e really liked. ’E used ter sleep bad, ’ave terrible dreams. I think as ’e were ill summink awful.” Her voice dropped so they could barely hear it. “Martin told me as ’e were going ter look for a priest fer ’im… one as cared special fer soldiers.”
“A priest?” Tellman said with surprise. He glanced at Gracie, and at Charlotte, then back to Tilda. “Do you know if Mr. Garrick was religious?”
Tilda thought for a moment. “I… I s’pose ’e were,” she said slowly. “ ’Is pa is-Martin said that. Runs the ’ouse like ’e were a clergyman. Staff all say prayers every mornin’ an’ every night. An’ grace at table afore every meal. Mind most do that, o’ course.
“But there was other things as well, like exercise an’ cold water an’ bein’ extra clean an’ early fer everythin’. Martin said as they all lined up in the mornin’ afore breakfast an’ the butler led ’em in prayers for the Queen and the empire an’ their duty ter God, an’ again afore anyone were allowed ter go ter bed at night. So I ’spec’ Mr. Stephen were religious as well. Couldn’t ’ardly ’elp it.”
“Then why didn’t he speak with their regular minister?” Charlotte asked, not to Tilda in particular but to all of them. “They’d go to church on Sunday, wouldn’t they?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tilda said with certainty. “Every Sunday, sure as clockwork. The ’ole ’ouse. Cook’d leave cold cuts for luncheon, an’ ’eat up vegetables quick when she come back. Mr. Garrick’s very strict about it.”
“So why would Martin go to find a special priest for Stephen?” Charlotte said thoughtfully.
Tilda shook her head. “Dunno, but ’e told me about it. Someone as Mr. Stephen’d known a long time ago. ’E works wi’ soldiers as ’ave fallen on ’ard times, drink an’ opium an’ the like.” She gave a little shiver. “Down Seven Dials way, where it’s real rough. Sleepin’ in doorways, cold an’ ’ungry, an’ near enough wishin’ they was dead, poor souls. That in’t no way for a soldier o’ the Queen ter end up.”
No one answered her immediately. Gracie looked at Charlotte’s face and saw it filled with pity and confusion, then she turned to Tellman, and was startled to see the quickening of an idea in his eyes. “Wot is it?” she
