Tilly True (12 page)

‘Not likely. This is evidence and it's going straight to Mr Clarence.'

‘What have you got against me, Mr Jenks? I ain't done nothing to you.'

‘I don't hold with women taking a man's job. You need to learn your place, my girl.' Taking the letter with him, Jenks stamped out of the office.

‘Mr Bootle, are you going to let him talk to me like that?'

‘Jenks is a bad man to cross,' Bootle said, shaking his head. ‘I'd advise you to keep your own counsel when dealing with the likes of him.'

Sighing with frustration, Tilly sat down and fed a clean sheet of paper into the typewriting machine. Working in an office wasn't at all what she had imagined it to be, but she was not going to be beaten by the machine or by a mean-spirited, prejudiced man like Jenks.

Barney emerged from his office dressed for outdoors. ‘If anyone wants me, Bootle, I'll be in court observing a case.' He paused by Tilly's desk. ‘How are you today, Miss True?'

‘Fed up with Mr Jenks, to tell you the truth.'

Laughing, Barney patted her on the shoulder. ‘Don't pay any attention to old Jenks. He's been here so long he practically has moss growing out of his ears. He's just not used to having a pretty young lady around.'

As she watched him stroll out of the office, Tilly felt her cheeks burning at the compliment. Emily was reckoned to be the good-looker in the family; it made her feel all warm and squishy inside to know that Barney thought she was pretty. She caught Bootle staring at her and bent her head over her work. ‘All right, Mr Bootle, I'm getting on with it.'

It was raining when Tilly and Bootle left Hay Yard; steady, drenching rain that had them soaked to the skin before they had even crossed Chancery Lane. By the time they entered the grim interior of Pook's Building, Tilly was grateful just to escape from the foul weather and longing to get out of her wet clothes and into the old woollen dressing gown that Susan had loaned her. Mutton stew suddenly seemed the most appetising of meals and she could even put up with the Bootle children's clamour if it meant getting warm again.

The noise hit her as soon as Bootle opened the front door, but there was a stranger in the living room: a thin girl with a complexion like sour cream and fair, spiky hair that stuck out all round her head in a fair imitation of a dandelion clock.

‘My little Ethel.' Bootle dropped his hat and gloves on the floor and held out his arms. ‘What a wonderful surprise.'

Ethel hurled herself at him along with the six younger children and Bootle disappeared beneath a flailing mass of arms and legs.

‘Now, now, children,' Susan said, waving the wooden spoon at them. ‘Put your poor daddy down and let him get to the fire.' Her smile faded when she saw Tilly. ‘Goodness gracious, just look at you, Miss Tilly. You're dripping all over me clean floor.'

‘S-sorry, Mrs Bootle.' Tilly could hardly speak for her teeth chattering. ‘I-it's raining.'

‘And who are you?' Ethel demanded, glaring at Tilly.

‘I'm Tilly True.'

Ethel's white eyebrows met over the middle of her pointed nose. ‘Tilly True. You're the girl what worked for Mrs Blessed in Barbary Terrace.'

Tilly's heart lurched against her stays. ‘No. I mean . . .'

‘You're the one what stole her garnet brooch and attacked her with her own riding crop.' Pointing a finger at Tilly, Ethel turned to her parents. ‘She's a thief and the police are looking for her.'

Chapter Six

There was silence for a moment; even the children were quiet.

Clenching her teeth to stop them from chattering, Tilly stammered with outrage. ‘I never stole nothing and I never hit the old trout. It was her what beat me.'

‘Says you.' Ethel gave a scornful snort. ‘That ain't what I heard from the missis.'

‘That's a serious accusation, Ethel love.' Bootle's kindly face puckered with concern. ‘You have to be sure of your facts afore you accuse someone of a serious crime.'

‘Now, Nat, don't get on your legal high horse. It's our little girl what's talking here and I never knowed Ethel to tell a lie.' Casting a suspicious glance at Tilly, Susan moved closer to Ethel.

Smirking, Ethel slipped her arm round her mother's plump waist. ‘My missis takes tea with Mrs Blessed now that her old man has his own emporium. I heard Mrs Fletcher say as how she wouldn't have had nothing to do with Martha Blessed when her Stanley was just a costermonger, but now he's moved up in the world it's a different matter, and she might be able to get a bit knocked off the price of a good second-hand sofa.'

‘Your missis can't possibly know Mrs Blessed if she lives up West.' Tilly wasn't going to let Ethel get away with that one.

Ethel tossed her frizzy mop. ‘Mrs Fletcher lives in the best part of Islington, so there. She wouldn't be daft enough to employ a common girl like you.'

‘I ain't taking that from no one,' Tilly said, balling her hands into fists.

‘That's it, then.' Pushing Ethel behind her, Susan took a menacing step towards Tilly. ‘You had me fooled, miss. I thought as how I'd taken a decent, law-abiding young person into me home. Now I can see that you pulled the wool over our eyes good and proper.'

‘And she's dripping water all over your clean floor, Mum.' Keeping well behind her mother, Ethel poked her tongue out at Tilly.

Bootle stepped in between his wife and Tilly. ‘Now, now, let's not be hasty. A person is innocent until proven guilty. Let's hear what Miss Tilly has to say.'

‘You're too good for this world by half, Nat. But what happens if the police come a-looking for her? What happens if Mr Clarence finds out we're harbouring a criminal? What happens . . . ?'

‘And,' Ethel said, tossing her head, ‘she ain't having my bed so that's that.'

Susan nodded in agreement. ‘She'll have to go. I ain't having a felon under our roof.'

‘Felon, felon, felon.' The children, who had been quiet up until this moment, watching the scene wide-eyed, suddenly found their voices and began dancing round Tilly as though she were a maypole.

‘Have a heart, ducks.' Running his hand over his shining bald pate, Bootle cast an imploring look at Susan. ‘You can't turn the girl out on a night like this.'

‘Shut up!' Tilly shouted at the children and they froze on the spot, fingers plugged in mouths, staring at her wide-eyed in shock. ‘I wouldn't stay another night in this place if you paid me. I'm sick of your badly behaved brats, Mrs Bootle, and your bloody mutton stew makes me want to puke.'

‘Oh! You ungrateful bitch.' Susan sat down suddenly as if her legs had given way beneath her. ‘Get her out of here, Bootle, afore I do something I'll regret.'

‘Yes, get her out of here, Daddy,' repeated Ethel, fanning her mother with her apron. ‘Take her to the police station and turn her in.'

Jamming his hat on his head, Bootle cast an apologetic look at Tilly. ‘I'm sorry, Miss Tilly, but you can see how it is.'

Susan began to cry, hiding her face in her apron, and the children joined her, wailing in a cats' chorus.

‘You're going to hand her over to the rozzers then, Daddy?' Ethel's face lit up with glee.

‘Never you mind. Come along, Miss Tilly.'

‘Where are we going?' Tilly demanded as she ran to keep up with Bootle. ‘I never done it, I never stole nothing and I ain't going to the police station.'

‘And I'm not taking you there. Just follow me.'

There was nothing that Tilly could do except follow Bootle as he hurried along Chancery Lane, his chubbiness causing him to walk with a sailor's rolling gait, as if he had spent his whole life on the pitching deck of a ship. The rain was still tumbling out of the sky in stair rods, bouncing off the pavements and flowing along the gutters in rivulets that plunged with gurgling sounds down the drains. Tilly could hardly see for water running off her hair into her eyes and her teeth were chattering uncontrollably. They were heading along Fleet Street towards the City, but, as she was not very familiar with this part of London, she simply had to follow Bootle, keeping as close to the buildings as she could to avoid the spray sent up by the wheels of passing hansom cabs and hackney carriages. Gaslight from narrow shop fronts sent ragged beams of light onto the wet pavements; in one of the windows, a cobbler sat at his bench with his bald head bent over a last as he hammered hobnails into a boot. Barely able to see in the driving rain, Tilly hurried on, narrowly missing being run down by an organ grinder pushing his cart with a bedraggled monkey huddled on his shoulder. Further down Fleet Street, clouds of onion-scented steam belched from a wagon selling hot pies and tea to the newsmen working all night to keep the presses printing the morning papers. With her head down, Tilly almost tripped over a foot sticking out of a doorway. A child, barely older than Dan, huddled with his head tucked between his knees, his bare feet purple with cold and chilblains. With a lump in her throat, Tilly thrust her hand into her pocket and brought out a threepenny bit, tucking it into his clawed hand.

‘Here, love, get yourself a hot pie.'

Lifting his head, the boy opened his eyes, but they were expressionless as if all hope and feeling had left his emaciated body; with a vague nod of his head, he resumed his hunched position. It's a wicked world, Tilly thought as she hurried on after Bootle; some have it all while children starve to death or freeze in shop doorways. She broke into a run as Bootle disappeared into an abyss between two tall office buildings. The alleyway was dark and narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without walking sideways. Something brushed past her legs that could have been a cat or a rat and the cobbles were littered with soft, slippery matter but thankfully it was too dark to see what she was treading on. She could see Bootle's shape now as the alley opened out into a cobbled yard. Slivers of light from the odd window here and there gave the impression of tall, terraced town houses crammed together around a small square. Following Bootle up a flight of stone steps, Tilly stood shivering while he rapped on the door.

‘Wh-where are w-we, Mr Bootle?'

‘You'll see.' Bootle knocked again.

She could hear footsteps approaching along a stone passage, echoing and slightly menacing. Tilly was almost past caring; if she did not get warm soon she felt certain she would die of cold.

The door opened and a shaft of light from a paraffin lamp cast a pale beam into the smoky air. A man with a low brow and a boxer's chin held the lamp close to their faces. ‘What d'you want?'

Bootle took a step backwards, almost knocking Tilly off the top step. She didn't blame him; with his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose tattooed forearms, the man didn't look like someone to toy with.

‘We've come to see Mr Palgrave.'

The man grunted and went inside. ‘Come in then if you're coming.'

They followed him to the end of a stone-flagged passage. Kicking a door with the toe of his boot, the man shuffled off, leaving them in complete darkness. Bootle thumped on the door until it opened.

‘Good God, Bootle! What the devil's going on?'

‘Mr Barney, sir, there's been a development. Can we come in?'

Minutes later, Tilly was sitting by a fire in Barney's living room, wrapped in a blanket and sipping a glass of hot toddy.

Standing with his back to the fire, Barney turned to Bootle. ‘Well, man? Tell me what is this all about?'

Briefly, and in between sips of his drink, Bootle recounted the gist of Ethel's accusations.

‘My Ethel isn't a liar, sir, but I find it hard to believe that Miss Tilly is a thief.'

‘And I know she isn't.' Nodding at Tilly, Barney flashed her a smile. ‘My brother told me all about the sainted Mrs Blessed and her garnet brooch.'

‘The Reverend and Miss Hattie believed me,' Tilly said, dazzled by his smile and suddenly conscious of a warm feeling all over that was not entirely due to the rum in the toddy.

‘Well, sir,' Bootle said, flushing and running his finger round the inside of his starched shirt collar. ‘I believe her too, but it'll take a great deal to convince Mrs Bootle, especially now Ethel has come home to stay for a while. To be frank, sir, we haven't got room for Miss Tilly.'

Taking Bootle's glass from him, Barney refilled it from a jug on the hearth. ‘Drink this before you venture out again, Bootle. I'll look after Miss True.'

A sneeze tickled Tilly's nose and had exploded outwards before she could stop it. ‘I can look after meself, ta. I'll go home.'

‘But you're an orphan, Tilly.' Barney's voice was serious but a mischievous twinkle lit his eyes, turning them to the colour of warm honey. ‘Your family were all drowned in the
Princess Alice
tragedy, remember?'

‘Well, I . . .' Thinking was not easy with the fumes of hot rum dancing about in her brain, and Tilly was momentarily at a loss for words.

Draining his glass, Bootle got to his feet. ‘Ahem, I'd best get home, sir. If you're sure you can find somewhere suitable for Miss Tilly.'

‘I know a good lady who owes me a favour,' Barney said, following Bootle to the door.

‘And would that be a certain Mrs J, sir?'

‘It might, Bootle, it just might.'

‘I'll see myself out then, Mr Barney.' Bootle shot Tilly an apologetic smile. ‘I'm sorry it had to turn out this way, Miss Tilly.'

Closing the door on Bootle, Barney went to the fireplace and threw a shovelful of coal onto the fire. ‘Drink up, Tilly. We need to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch your death of cold.'