tell him.”
“That in’t no good,” she said quickly, shifting the boots around to hold them more firmly. “I were told special, no one but Mr. ’Arrimore ’isself. I’ll wait ’ere, an’ you go an’ tell ’im as it’s ter do wif a lad ’e met outside a thee- ayter, five year ago, an’ give a message ter. You tell ’im that, an’ ’e’ll come ter see me.”
“Nonsense! Be off with you, girl.”
She remained where she was.
“You go an’ tell ’im that—then I’ll go.”
“You go now!” He waved his hand briskly. “Or I’ll send for the police. Come ’ere botherin’ decent folk with your tales and messages!” He made as if to close the door.
“You don’t want the police ’ere,” she said with desperation. “That family’s ’ad enough o’ police an’ tragedy. You jus’ go an’ give ’im that message. It ain’t yer place ter decide for ’im ’oo ’e sees an’ ’oo ’e don’t. Or do yer think yer ’is keeper?”
It may have been her argument, or it may have been only the force of her personality and the determined look in her small, fierce face, but the footman decided against debating any further on the step, closed the door firmly and took the message inside.
Gracie waited, swallowing on a dry mouth, body shaking with cold and with tension. She held the boots in her arm; her hands were too cold to feel. Only once did she turn around to make sure Joe was still there on the opposite side of the street, well in the shadows, but peering towards Harrimore’s door.
It was several moments before at last it opened and a very large man stood staring at Gracie. He seemed to tower over her and to fill the entire doorway. His hatchet nose and sweeping brow were highly unusual, his deep- set eyes angry and full of surprise.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “I’ve never seen you before, and I don’t know what you are talking about a thee-ayter. Who put you up to this?”
Gracie backed away a step, thoroughly frightened.
He frowned, and came farther out of the doorway towards her.
She backed again and slipped on the wet marble, slithering backwards onto the pavement, and the only reason she did not fall flat on her back was that Joe had crept across the street and was there to catch her.
Harrimore stood transfixed, his face blank with dawning horror.
“Sorry, mister,” Joe said, staring up at Harrimore, his eyes devouring his features, his own face white. He gulped, his voice cracking. “She’s a bit touched, like,” he blurted. “She can’t ’elp it. I’ll take ’er ’orne. Good night, mister.” And before Harrimore could stop him he grabbed Gracie’s arm and dragged her away, plunging off the curb, running across the street and into the shadow of the alley on the far side. He stopped and swung her around, still holding her hand.
“That’s ’im,” he said between gasps. “That’s the geezer wot give me the message fer Mr. Blaine that night. Geez! ’e must ‘a’ bin the one wot killed ’im, and nailed ’im up like a cross. Gawd Almighty, wot are we goin’ ter do?”
“Tell the p’lice!” Her heart was racing, bumping inside her so hard she could scarcely get the words out. She had succeeded! She had detected a murderer!
“Don’ be daft,” Joe said furiously. “They didn’t believe me before, they in’t goin’ ter now, five years after, w’en they already ’anged the other poor sod.”
“There’s a new rozzer on it now, cos o’ Judge Stafford bein’ poisoned,” she argued, clinging onto the boots. “ ’E’ll believe yer, cos ’e already knows it weren’t Godman wot done it.”
“Yeah? An’ ’ow do you know that?”
“Cos I do.” She was not yet ready to admit to lying about who she worked for.
Suddenly he stiffened, his body rigid, shaking, and she could feel his terror like a charge of electricity. She swung around and saw the huge shadow of Prosper Harrimore outlined against the yellow haze of the street lamps. She could feel the breath strangle in her throat and her knees so weak she nearly crumpled where she stood.
With a cry Joe yanked her around so hard it wrenched her shoulder, and she almost dropped the boots. He started to run, half dragging her after him, the heavy, uneven steps of Prosper following close.
They ran down the alley to the far end, swinging around the corner into the lighted footpath again, Gracie clasping her long skirts to keep from tripping, then across the empty street and into the opposite alley, ducked into a dark areaway and crouched down beside the steps like two frightened animals, hearts thumping, blood pounding, faces and hands ice cold.
They dared not move at all, certainly not raise their heads to look, but they heard Prosper’s heavy, bumping tread pass along the pavement above them, then stop.
Joe put his hand over Gracie’s, holding her so hard had she not been numb with cold it would have hurt.
Slowly Prosper’s footsteps moved on, stopped again, then receded a little way into the distance.
Wordlessly Joe climbed to his feet, pulling her after him, and went back up the steps, looking from right to left all the time. Prosper was standing about a hundred yards away, turning slowly.
“Come on,” Joe whispered, and set off running along the pavement in the other direction.
But Prosper had heard them and swung around. He could run surprisingly swiftly for a man with such a limp.
They passed the next alley, but went down the one after, dodging rubbish bins, tripping over an old barrow and scrambling up again, out into the street beyond, and then back into a mews, past stables where a single light cast a yellow pool. Startled horses whinnied and snorted.
Gracie and Joe scrambled over a gate, Gracie tripping on the top, banging her legs and getting tied up in her long, wet skirts. Joe half dragged her through a garden, tripping over plants and borders, fighting their way through
