Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [49]
‘Were you there? I didn’t see you.’
‘I was late – crept into the church and sat in the back pew. Didn’t know the man personally, of course, but . . .’
‘But it’s the sort of funeral one wants to be seen at, eh?’
‘Quite,’ said Sylvester Unwin. ‘And, yes, keep me the tricorne. Just in case.’
‘Are you Mrs Macready?’ asked the woman. She was thin and was clutching at her stomach as if it was paining her.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘You don’t know me, but I assure you that I mean no harm to you or to anyone else, madam.’
Mrs Macready relaxed slightly. She liked being called madam. ‘Very well. Yes, I am she.’
‘And did you keep a lodging house up in Seven Dials until recently?’
‘I did. A very respectable and law-abiding establishment.’ She sighed. ‘They’ve pulled it down now.’
‘Indeed. That’s what I was told. Two young girls – sisters – had a room there.’
Mrs Macready nodded. ‘I know who you mean: Grace and Lily. Lovely girls, they were. One was a little bit simple, but her sister used to look out for her. Auburn curls, solemn face . . . a reg’lar beauty, she was.’
‘It’s that very girl who I’m seeking. Would you have any idea where she might be found?’
Mrs Macready shook her head. ‘None at all, dear.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The two of them sold watercresses, you know. Have you tried looking for them at Farringdon Market of a morning?’
‘I have.’ The woman nodded. ‘But no one’s seen them for months.’ A look of intense disappointment passed across her face. ‘You were my last hope. Is there any chance that you might see her again, do you think?’
‘Well, there’s always a chance, I suppose,’ said Mrs Macready in a voice which suggested the contrary.
‘If you ever do, please would you tell her that Mrs Smith wants to see her urgently.’
‘Mrs Smith?’ said Mrs Macready, raising one eyebrow.
‘That’s who she knew me as. I live at Tamarind Cottage in Sydney Street with my daughter. Can you remember that?’
‘’Course I can.’ Mrs Macready hesitated, then said, ‘But you look all in, dearie. Do you want to come and rest for a while?’
Mrs Smith shook her head. ‘I’ll be all right. But I’d be obliged if you could write down the address I’ve told you, just in case.’
‘Tamarind Cottage in Sydney Street. I’ll get my son to make a note of it as soon as I go in,’ said Mrs Macready, and she watched as the other woman walked slowly, nearly bent double, back down the street.
x
Chapter Eighteen
When the contingent of funeral workers from the Unwin Undertaking Establishment arrived at Waterloo Necropolis Station in the early morning, the train and its carriages were rimed with frost and its windows patterned with ice crystals, making it look ethereal and other-worldly; a ghost train, shining dully in the drear gas-lit station. Grace, going into the undertakers’ carriage and positioning herself at a window, fancied how it might look as it passed through the countryside, snaking through the icy landscape, white and glittering with frost, cold as Death itself.
Reaching the suburbs of London and nearing a level crossing, it gave a long, low whistle – an especially mournful tone. Looking out of the window, Grace noticed that several farm labourers who’d been working in the fields had downed tools, doffed caps and were standing with lowered heads as it passed them. As the train slowed at the crossing there was a moment of almost silence, when the anguished sobbing of someone in third class could be heard, then the train went across, scalding steam hissing and bubbling and the wheels clattering noisily on the rails as it picked up speed once more.
Approaching Brookwood, a final deep cloud of steam appeared, and then, out of the mist, came tall evergreen trees, followed by a neat brick station. This was as plain and ordinary as any country halt, but had the distinction of bearing a line of funeral workers in black frock coats and top hats upon it, bowing from the waist as the train drew in. As it stopped with a squeal of brakes, the undertakers