Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [111]
He took his leave, holding the vase, taking Nellie with him. He had no choice. He must forget about Sybilla, whose connection with Clarabelle Mapes he could not understand and very probably was coincidental and had nothing to do with her murder. He must go back to the Bloomsbury churchyard, now that he knew who he was looking for, and try all the residents and habitues to see if even one of them could place Septimus Wigge there three weeks ago. It could be a long task.
First he must find a safe place to leave Nellie, where Mrs. Mapes would not discover her. It was after two, and they had not eaten.
“Are you hungry, Nellie?” He asked only out of politeness; from the child’s hollow eyes and the sunken, slack quality of her flesh he knew she was always hungry.
“Yes, mister.” She did not sound surprised that he should ask; she obviously believed him sufficiently eccentric to do anything.
“So am I. Let’s have luncheon.”
“I ain’t got nuffin.” This time she looked at him anxiously.
“You’ve been a great help to me, Nellie, I think you’ve earned luncheon.” She was fifteen, quite old enough to understand patronage, and she did not deserve it. She had little enough dignity and he was determined not to seduce that from her. Nor would he question her yet about the house in Tortoise Lane. He knew what it was; he did not need to lead her into betraying it. “I know a very good public house where they’ll give us fresh bread and cold meat and pickle and pudding.”
She did not yet believe it. “Thank you, mister,” she said, her expression unchanged.
The pub he had in mind was only half a mile away, and they walked to it in silence, quite companionable for his part. As soon as he went in, the landlord recognized him. He was a moderately law-abiding citizen, most of the time, and that area of his business which was questionable Pitt left alone. It was to do with game bought from poachers, the occasional avoidance of excise taxes on tobacco and similar goods, and a great deal of judicious blindness. Pitt was concerned with murder.
“Afternoon, Mr. Tibbs,” he said cheerfully.
“Afternoon, Mr. Pitt, sir.” Tibbs came hurrying towards him, wiping his hands on the sides of his trousers, eager to keep on the right side of the law. “Luncheon for yer, Mr. Pitt, sir? Got a luvly piece o’ mutton—or a good Cheshire, or a Double Gloucester? An’ me best pickle, Mrs. Tibbs’s own, put it up last summer an’ it’s proper tasty. What’ll it be?”
“Mutton, Mr. Tibbs,” Pitt replied. “For me and the lady. And a jar of ale each. And then pudding. And Tibbs, there are some very unpleasant people who might come looking for the lady, to do her harm. I’d like you to keep her safe for a while. She’s a good little worker, when she’s fed. Find her a place out of sight in your kitchens. She can sleep by the stove. It won’t be for long, unless you decide to keep her. She’ll earn her way.
Tibbs looked doubtfully at Nellie’s skinny little body and pinched face. “Wot’s she done?” he asked, giving Pitt a narrow look.
“Seen something she shouldn’t,” Pitt replied immediately.
“All right,” Tibbs said reluctantly. “But you’ll answer fer anythin’ she takes, Mr. Pitt.”
“You feed her properly and don’t beat her,” Pitt agreed, “and I’ll answer for her honesty. And if I don’t find her here when I come back for her, you’ll answer with a lot more than money. Are we understood?”
“It’s a favor I’m doin’ yer, Mr. Pitt.” Tibbs wanted to make sure he was laying up future repayment.
“It is,” Pitt conceded. “I don’t forget much, Mr. Tibbs—good or bad.”
“I’ll get yer mutton.” Tibbs disappeared, satisfied.
Pitt and Nellie sat down at one of the small tables, he with relief, she gingerly, still confused.
“Why yer talkin’ abaht me wiv ’im fer?” she asked, screwing up her face and staring at him, a trace of fear in her eyes.
“Because I’m going to leave you here to work in his kitchen,” he answered.