Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [98]
Charlotte felt sick, but the thought would not be turned away. It was the figure tiptoeing up the stairs, the blood, and the terrible serenity.
How far were they from Cardington Crescent? How many times had they turned? Tassie was still ahead of her, only ten or twelve yards; she dared not allow the distance to become greater in case Tassie turned suddenly and Charlotte lost her. She was a slight figure, almost as thin as the urchin in front of her and the other ragged shadows that swam on the edge of her vision.
It was too late to go back. Wherever Tassie went she would have to wait for her; alone she would not know how to find her way out of this slum.
One large figure took shape, detaching itself from the bulging, irregular walls. A man with broad shoulders. But far from being afraid, Tassie went towards him with a little murmur of pleasure and lifted her arms, accepting his embrace as naturally as a sweet and familiar blessing. The kiss was intimate, as easy as people who love each other with unquestioning trust, but it was swift, and the next moment Tassie disappeared into the nearest doorway, and the man after her, leaving Charlotte alone in the dark, chipped, and slimy pavement. The urchin had seemingly vanished.
Now she was really frightened. She could feel the darkness coming closer, figures moving uneasily with shuffling feet, a slithering in the alleys, a settling of beams and dripping of water leaking from hidden drains. If she were robbed and killed here, not even Pitt would ever find her.
What was this place? It looked like an ordinary, mean house. What inside it drew Tassie here alone, and at midnight? She would have to wait here till she came out, then follow her again until—
There was a hand on her shoulder and her heart jumped so violently the shriek was forced out of her in a shrill yelp that choked off in inarticulate terror.
“Wot yer be doin’ ’ere, Missy?” a voice growled in her ear. Hot, rank-smelling breath. She tried to speak, but her throat was so tight the words died. The hands over her mouth were coarse and the skin had the acrid smell of dirt. “Well, Missy meddler?” The voice was so close the breath moved her hair. “Wot yer want ’ere, then? Come spyin’, ’ave yer? Come ter tell tales, ’ave yer? Goin’ a runnin’ back for Papa ter tell ’im all abaht it, are yer? I’ll give yer summin worf tellin’, then!” And he yanked her savagely, bending her back and taking her off balance.
She was still shivering with fear, but anger was mounting as well, and she jabbed her elbow back sharply and at the same time trod back with her heel, putting all her weight into it. It caught the man on the instep and he howled with pained outrage.
It was just about to descend into something far uglier, when a woman’s voice cut across them angrily.
“Stop it! Mr. Hodgekiss, leave her alone this minute!” A lantern shone high and bright, making Charlotte wince and close her eyes. The man spluttered and let her go, growling wordlessly in the back of his throat.
“Mrs. Pitt!” It was Tassie’s voice, high with amazement. “Whatever are you doing here? Are you all right? Have you been hurt? You look terribly pale.”
There was no conceivable explanation but the truth. Tassie’s face when she lowered the light looked as innocent as a bowl of milk, eyes wide, dark with concern.
“I followed you,” Charlotte said hesitantly. It sounded foolish now, and dangerous.
But there was no anger in Tassie’s face. “Then you’d better come in.” She did not wait for a reply but turned back into the house, leaving the door open.
Charlotte stood on the pavement in an agony of indecision. Part of her wanted to escape, to run as fast as her feet would carry her away from these cramped, ill-smelling streets, the yawning house in front of her, and whatever blood and madness was inside it.