Bedford Square - Anne Perry [54]
“If you’ve got it to spare,” he said, breathing in deeply.
“ ’Course I ’ave,” she answered without looking at him. “So wot is it yer come ter say as is so important? Yer found out summink?”
“Of course I have.” He mimicked her tone. “I’ve been looking into Albert Cole’s life. Something of a mystery, he is.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms, making himself more comfortable. He watched as she moved about the kitchen swiftly. She cut an onion off the string hanging by the scullery door and took it to the chopping board. She melted a lump of lard in the skillet and then with swift, light movements began to chop the onion into tiny cubes and drop them into the hissing fat. It smelled and sounded good. It was nice to watch a woman busy.
“So wot’s the mystery?” she said. “ ’Ceptin’ ’oo killed ’im or why, an’ why did they leave ’im on the General’s doorstep.”
“Because he’s a decent soldier who served his Queen and country in a crack regiment, then, when he was wounded, came home and sold bootlaces in the street,” he replied. “And by night he’s a quarrelsome thief who picked the wrong house to burgle in Bedford Square.”
She swiveled around to look at him. “So yer got it all solved then?” she said with wide eyes.
“No, of course I haven’t,” he retorted rather sharply. He wished he could have presented her with some brilliant answer, maybe even before Pitt did. But all he had were pieces, and they did not make sense.
She remained staring at him. Her face softened.
He thought in her own way that she really was pretty, but with character; not all peaches and cream, with no taste.
“Some people said ’e was good an’ said ’e was a thief too?” she asked.
“No. Different people,” he answered. “Seems to have had two quite opposite sides to his life. But I don’t know why. It’s not as if he had any family, or any job where he had to impress people.”
“Oh!” She whisked around as the fat in the pan sputtered loudly. She pushed the onions around with a spoon, then stirred the cabbage in with the mashed potato and spooned the whole lot into the skillet. While it was heating and browning nicely, she carved three generous pieces off the cold mutton joint and set them on one of the blue-and-white kitchen plates. She put out a knife and fork for him, then made the tea and fetched him a mug, and then brought the jug of milk back from the larder as she returned the mutton.
When it was all ready she served it up and put it in front of him, tea steaming gently in the mug. He had not meant to smile, but he found himself almost grinning. He tried to change his expression to something less enthusiastic—and less obvious.
“Thank you,” he said, lowering his eyes from hers. “Very civil of you.”
“Yer welcome, I’m sure, Mr. Tellman,” she answered, pouring herself a mug of tea and sitting opposite him. Then she remembered her apron and shot to her feet to remove it before sitting down again, this time a little more daintily. “So ’oo did yer get all this information from, then? I’d better tell Mr. Pitt proper, not just bits an’ pieces.”
Trying not to talk with his mouth full, he recounted to her all the contradictory facts and opinions he had learned over the last two days. He considered suggesting she should write it down not to forget it, but he was not totally sure she could write. He knew Mrs. Pitt had taught her to read, but writing was another thing, and he did not want to embarrass her.
“Will you remember all that?” he asked. The bubble and squeak was the best he had ever had. He had eaten rather too much.
“ ’Course I will,” she replied with great dignity. “I got a perfick memory. ’Ave ter ’ave. Only just learned to write since I come ’ere.”
He felt slightly abashed. He really should leave. He would rather Pitt did not come home and find him here with his feet under