A Christmas Promise - Anne Perry [11]
There seemed to be an inordinate number of shoes, or perhaps they would more properly be called slippers. She couldn’t imagine anyone going outside in the wet street in such things. They were made of cloth, of soft leather, even of velvet, and they were stitched with all sorts of patterns like nothing she had ever seen before. Some had silly curling toes that would make anybody fall over in two steps. But they were beautiful!
There were brass dishes with curly writing all over them, no pictures at all, but the writing was so fancy it would do just as well. And everywhere she looked there were boxes of every kind and shape, painted, decorated with stones, shiny and dull, written on and plain. Some were so small they would have had trouble holding a thimble, others big enough to take your whole hand. And there was an enormous machine that looked like a cross between a boiler and a pipe to smoke, like gentlemen used. Though what use such a contraption might be, she had no idea.
She was still staring when a voice spoke from behind her.
“And what may I do for you, young lady?”
She was so startled she was sure her feet actually came off the floor. She jerked around and looked at the man not three feet away. He had come in silently, and she had heard nothing. He must have been wearing those velvet slippers.
“I …,” she began. “I …”
He waited. He was tall and lean and his hair was very black, with just a few streaks of white in it at the sides. His skin was coppery dark, his nose high-bridged and aquiline.
She drew in a deep breath. “I need ’elp,” she admitted. This was not a man you lied to. “An’ Mr. Wiggins says as ye’re the wisest man around ’ere, so I come ter ask.”
“Does he indeed?” Mr. Balthasar smiled with a definite trace of amusement. “You have the advantage of me.”
“Wot?” She blinked.
“You seem to know something of me,” he explained. “I know nothing of you.”
“Oh. I’m Gracie Phipps. I live in ’eneage Street. But I come cos o’ Minnie Maude. ’er uncle Alf got killed, an’ Charlie’s lost an’ could be all on ’is own, an’ in trouble.”
“I think you had better tell me from the beginning,” Mr. Balthasar said gently. “This sounds as if it might be quite a complicated matter, Gracie Phipps.”
Gracie drew in her breath and began.
Mr. Balthasar listened without interrupting, nodding now and then.
“…so I think as Jimmy Quick in’t tellin’ the truth,” she said finally. “Cos it don’t make no sense. But I still gotta find Charlie, or that daft little article in’t gonna give up till summink real bad ’appens.”
“No,” Mr. Balthasar agreed, and his face was very grim. “I can see that she isn’t. But I fear that you are right. Several people may not be telling the truth. And perhaps Minnie Maude is not quite as daft as you imagine.”
Gracie gulped. The room with its crowded shelves and endless assortment of treasures seemed smaller than before, closer to her, the walls crowding in. It was oddly silent, as if the street outside were miles away.
“Course she’s daft,” Gracie said firmly. “’oo’s gonna kill a rag an’ bone man? On purpose, like? ’e jus’ died an’ fell off, an’ as ’e were on Jimmy Quick’s patch, ’stead of ’is own, no one knew ’im, so ’e jus’ laid there till someone found ’im.”
“And what happened to Charlie?” Mr. Balthasar asked very gently.
“Charlie couldn’t pick ’im up,” Gracie replied. “An’ ’e couldn’t get ’elp, so ’e jus’ stayed there with ’im…sort o’…waitin’.”
“And why was he not there when poor Alf was found?”
Gracie realized her mistake. “I dunno. Someone must a stole ’im.”