Farrier's Lane (51 page)

“Well, I in’t goin’.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“The geezer wot really done it is still out there,” she protested.

“Don’t matter ter me. Now go away an’ leave me alone, won’t yer?”

“No. I in’t goin’ ter leave yer till yer come wif me an’ ’ave a real look at this geezer, an’ say if ’e were the one or not.”

“Yer can’t foller me ’round!”

“I can.”

“Look.” He was exasperated. “I can’t do nuffink fer yer. An’ I go places as it in’t right for yer to come. Nah go away!”

“I in’t goin’ till yer comes an’ ’as a look at this geezer.”

“Well, yer goin’ ter wait a long time.” And with that he turned his back and began talking to a potential customer, making a considerable show of ignoring Gracie.

Gracie followed him back to his stall, and then stood clasping her coat closer around her and waited, watching. It was cold and her feet were so chilled she had lost feeling in them. But she was certainly not going to give up, if she had to follow him until he went to bed.

Late in the afternoon Joe tidied his stall and locked his few goods away for the night, then left. Gracie came to attention and followed after him. Twice he turned around, caught sight of her, and glared, at the same time waving his hand to shoo her away. She made a face back at him and continued to follow.

He went into a public house and pushed his way to the counter, and she went in after him, wriggling and following
through people to find a place beside him, luxuriating in the warmth after the biting cold outside.

“Go away,” Joe said furiously, glaring at her.

Half a dozen people turned to look at him, then at Gracie.

“Not till yer come an’ look at the bloke wot did it,” she replied stubbornly, sniffing as the sudden warmth made her nose run.

“Don’t yer never give up?” he whispered. “I told yer—they won’t believe me, whatever I say. I’d be wastin’ me time. Don’t yer ’ave no wits at all?”

She did not bother to argue her intelligence.

“You just come an’ look at this bloke. If it were ’im, they’ll believe yer.”

“Yeah? Why’s that then?” Skepticism was deep in his thin face.

She was not going to tell him Pitt knew Harrimore was guilty. He might not understand the necessity for proof. Nor could she easily explain how she knew such a thing.

“I can’t explain everything to yer.” She sniffed again.

“Yer don’t know.”

“Yes, I do so. An’ I’m still goin’ ter foller yer till yer ’ave a real look at ’im. The rozzers won’t bovver yer, if that’s wot yer scared of.”

“Don’t yer talk down ter me like that, yer miserable little article,” he said furiously. “Yer’d be scared too, if’n yer ’ad two wits to rub tergether. You any idea wot them rozzers can do, if they takes a real nasty to yer? And they do, if yer says as their evidence in’t no good. Ask me—I know!”

“You don’t ’ave ter tell the rozzers, not ter begin wif,” she said triumphantly. “Jus’ come and look at ’im, and tell me.” He turned away and she pulled at his sleeve. “An’ I swear I’ll leave yer alone. If’n yer don’t, I’ll come wif yer everyw’ere.”

“No rozzers?” he said warily.

“I swear it.”

“Then I’ll meet yer ’ere at six, and we’ll go an’ look at ’im. Now leave me alone to ’ave a pint in peace.”

“I’ll wait outside for yer.” She sniffed again.

“Gawd, woman. I said I’ll come.”

“Yeah—and mebbe I believe yer, an’ mebbe I don’t.”

“Go on outside then. And stop sniffing!”

As a show of goodwill Gracie withdrew reluctantly out into the biting cold again. She waited patiently in the dark and the slow drizzle, watching carefully in case he should try to slip out past her.

But half an hour later she saw his thin form and pale face with a surge of relief as if he had been a long-standing friend. She darted forward, nearly slipping on the slick stones and finding her feet were totally numb. She was cold to the bone.

“Yer ready now, then?” she said eagerly.

He looked at her sideways with disgust, and she knew with a funny little sinking inside her that he had hoped she had given up and gone. She grunted with determination, and a full intention of showing how she did not care. This was entirely a matter of business. Who cared what he thought of her?

Wordlessly they walked side by side along the narrow footpath, freezing paving stones gleaming under the lamps as they passed from one pool of light to another. Dim halos of rain ringed each one, and beside them in the street wheels splashed and hissed on the wet road. Carriages loomed out of the darkness and disappeared into it again.

“Can’t yer keep up?” Joe demanded, then immediately gripped her hand and held it hard, keeping her close to him as they passed groups of people, some huddled around braziers of hot chestnuts or other food, others pressing into the half shelter of doorways.

“We gotter get an omnibus,” Gracie said breathlessly. “It’s up west. ’e’s a toff.”

“W’ere west?” he demanded.

“Chelsea—Markham Square.”

“Then we’ll go on the train,” he replied.

“Wot train?”

“The underground train. Ter Sloane Square. In’t yer never bin on the underground train?”

“I never ’eard of it.” Then she realized how ignorant that
made her sound. “Me mistress goes by ’ansom, or in someone’s carriage,” she added. “We don’t ’ave no need o’ trains unless we’re goin’ away.”

“In’t you grand,” he said sarcastically. “Well, if yer got money fer an ’ansom I’ll be very ’appy ter ride wif yer.”

“Don’ be daft.” She dismissed the suggestion with equal scorn. “So we’ll go in the train. ’Ow much?”

“Depends ’ow far we go—but not much. Penny or so,” he replied. “Now save yer breath an’ keep up wif me.”

She trotted along beside him for what seemed like miles, carrying her new boots under her arm, but it was probably not much more than a mile and a half. Then they went down flights of steps into a cavernous railway station where the trains ran like moles through tunnels, roaring and clanking in a manner which would have terrified her if she had had time to think about it, and not been far too excited, and too determined to match Joe for wits, courage and any other quality he cared to think of.

She did not like the sensation of sitting in a carriage as it hurtled through a tunnel, and had to concentrate very hard on thinking of something else, or she might have shrieked as she was bumped from side to side, knowing how far she was from daylight and fresh air. She looked sideways at Joe once or twice, and found he was looking at her, so she turned away again quickly. But her heart was thumping with pleasure, and the fear did not matter so much.

At last they came out at Sloane Square station and set out to walk again, this time according to Gracie’s instructions, until in a fine, cold rain they came to Markham Square and stopped under the trees at the far side of Prosper Harrimore’s house.

“All right, then,” Joe said with exaggerated patience. “Now wot? Wot if ’e don’t come out again ternight? W’y should ’e? Only fools and them as ’as no ’omes comes out an’ stands in the rain.”

Gracie had already thought of that. “So we gotta get ’im out, ain’t we?”

“Oh yeah? An’ ’ow yer goin’ ter do that?”

“I’m goin’ ter knock on the door.”

“An’ o’ course ’e’s goin’ ter answer it ’isself—’is footmen ’ave all got the night off,” he said wearily. “Yer the daftest woman I ever met, an’ that’s say in’ a lot w’ere I come from.”

“Yeah, well I don’t come from w’ere you come from,” she said quickly, although it was probably not true. “You jus’ watch ’im.” And with that she marched across the street, boots under her arm, and up the steps of the Harrimore house and knocked on the door.

She did not really know much about the houses of the well-to-do, only the little bits she had overheard from Charlotte, and what she had gathered from her newfound art of reading. However, she had fully expected the door to be opened by a footman, so she was not taken by surprise when it was.

“Yes, miss?” he said, eyeing her with disgust. He was about to suggest she go to the servants’ entrance, thinking her a relative of one of the maids, although even they should not have received callers at this hour. When she spoke, her words came out in a rush, her heart beating so it nearly choked her.

“Please, sir, I got a message for Mr. ’Arrimore, personal like, an’ I darsen’t give it ter no one else.”

“Mr. Harrimore does not take messages from the likes of you,” the footman said stiffly. “If you give it to me, I’ll 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 bushes, branches snapping back in their faces, only just avoiding thick, prickly holly. Gracie still clung to her boots. They ran over a gravel drive which sounded like an avalanche of rocks to their pounding hearts.