Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [167]
She was not completely sure what she intended to do, but she had been with Charlotte more than once when she had gone detecting. It was a matter of asking the right questions of the people who knew the answers, and most important, of asking them in the right way. Which was why she was better suited to this particular task than either Charlotte herself or even Pitt. She would meet Joe Slater as an equal, and she was convinced she would understand him better. She would know if he were lying, and possibly even why.
It was a windless day, but bitterly cold. The pavements were slippery with it, and the chill ate into the bones through thin shawls and stuff dresses. Her old boots were little protection from the icy stones.
When the omnibus stopped she alighted with several others and looked around her. It was only a hundred yards to the place Pitt had mentioned, and she walked smartly. It was a narrow street and all along the left side were barrows and stalls selling small goods, mostly of fabric and leather. She knew very few of them were new; nearly all were remade from old fabric, the good parts cut out and used again. The same was true of the shoes. The leather was unpicked, recut and restitched.
Now she must begin to look for Joe Slater. Slowly, as if searching for a bargain, she moved along the lines of rickety barrows and benches made of planks of wood, or even goods set out over the stones of the curb. She did not feel the guilt that Pitt did when seeing the pinched faces, hollow, anxious eyes, thin bodies shivering in threadbare clothes. She had tasted poverty too thoroughly herself. Its familiar smells and sounds settled over her, making her wish she could turn and go back to the omnibus and leave it all behind. There was a warm kitchen at home in Bloomsbury, and hot tea at eleven o’clock, sitting with her feet by the stove, and the odor of clean wood and flour and laundry.
The first half dozen sellers were middle-aged, or women, and she kept on going, eyes averted so she did not get drawn into haggling. When she finally found a youth she looked at him carefully before speaking.
“Yer want summink, or yer just ’ere ter stare?” he demanded irritably. “Do I know yer?”
Gracie shrugged and half smiled at him. “I dunno—do yer? Wot’s yer name?”
“Sid. Wot’s yours?”
“D’yer know Joe Slater?”
“Why?”
“Cos I wanter buy summink orf ’im, o’ course,” she snapped.
“I got plenty that’s good. Want a new pair o’ boots? I got boots abaht your size,” he said hopefully.
Gracie looked at the array of boots in front of him. She would have liked a new pair. But what would Charlotte say if she wore ones like these, remade from old leather, other people’s castoffs? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Who looked at boots under a long skirt? And all Gracie’s skirts were on the long side because she was so small.
“Mebbe …” she said thoughtfully. “ ’Ow much?”
He held up a light brown pair. “One and fivepence ha’penny, fer you.”
“One and twopence three farthings,” she said immediately. She would not have dreamed of paying the first price asked.
“One and fourpence farthing,” he replied.
“One and tuppence three farthings, or forget about it,” she said. They were very nicely shaped boots, and a good color. There was only one piece of leather on them that looked really scuffed. She made as if to turn away.
“All right! One and threepence,” he offered. “You can go a farthing.”
She fished in her large pocket and brought out her purse. She counted out two sixpences and a threepenny piece but kept them in her hand.
“Where can I find Joe Slater?”
“In’t them boots good enough for yer?”
“W’ere is ’e?” Her fingers closed over the money.
“Leather aprons, ’bout ten stalls down.” He held out his hand for the money.
She gave it to him, thanked him and took her boots.
She