Seven Dials - Anne Perry [109]
“Why not?” Charlotte asked. “Was he difficult?”
“Summink terrible, when ’e ’ad the stuff in ’im,” Tilda said very quietly. “But Martin’d never forgive me if ’e knew I’d told yer that. Yer don’t never tell no one about wot goes on in a lady or gentleman’s rooms, or yer’ll never work again. Out in the gutter an’ no place ter go—’cos no one else’ll ever take yer in. An’ worse ’n that, it’s betrayin’, an’ there in’t nothin’ worse than a betrayer.” Her voice was low and husky, as if even saying the words would contaminate her.
“What stuff?” Charlotte asked, keeping her tone so casual she could have been speaking of porridge.
“I dunno,” Tilda answered with such openness that Charlotte had to believe her.
Tellman put his cup down. “Did Martin ever go for a holiday with Mr. Stephen before? Anywhere?”
Tilda shook her head. “Not as I know. I’d ’a told yer.”
“Friends?” Tellman insisted. “What did Stephen do for pleasure? Where did he go—music, women, sports, anything?”
“I dunno!” she said desperately. “ ’E were miserable. Martin said as there weren’t nothing ’e really liked. ’E used ter sleep bad, ’ave terrible dreams. I think as ’e were ill summink awful.” Her voice dropped so they could barely hear it. “Martin told me as ’e were going ter look for a priest fer ’im . . . one as cared special fer soldiers.”
“A priest?” Tellman said with surprise. He glanced at Gracie, and at Charlotte, then back to Tilda. “Do you know if Mr. Garrick was religious?”
Tilda thought for a moment. “I . . . I s’pose ’e were,” she said slowly. “ ’Is pa is—Martin said that. Runs the ’ouse like ’e were a clergyman. Staff all say prayers every mornin’ an’ every night. An’ grace at table afore every meal. Mind most do that, o’ course.
“But there was other things as well, like exercise an’ cold water an’ bein’ extra clean an’ early fer everythin’. Martin said as they all lined up in the mornin’ afore breakfast an’ the butler led ’em in prayers for the Queen and the empire an’ their duty ter God, an’ again afore anyone were allowed ter go ter bed at night. So I ’spec’ Mr. Stephen were religious as well. Couldn’t ’ardly ’elp it.”
“Then why didn’t he speak with their regular minister?” Charlotte asked, not to Tilda in particular but to all of them. “They’d go to church on Sunday, wouldn’t they?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tilda said with certainty. “Every Sunday, sure as clockwork. The ’ole ’ouse. Cook’d leave cold cuts for luncheon, an’ ’eat up vegetables quick when she come back. Mr. Garrick’s very strict about it.”
“So why would Martin go to find a special priest for Stephen?” Charlotte said thoughtfully.
Tilda shook her head. “Dunno, but ’e told me about it. Someone as Mr. Stephen’d known a long time ago. ’E works wi’ soldiers as ’ave fallen on ’ard times, drink an’ opium an’ the like.” She gave a little shiver. “Down Seven Dials way, where it’s real rough. Sleepin’ in doorways, cold an’ ’ungry, an’ near enough wishin’ they was dead, poor souls. That in’t no way for a soldier o’ the Queen ter end up.”
No one answered her immediately. Gracie looked at Charlotte’s face and saw it filled with pity and confusion, then she turned to Tellman, and was startled to see the quickening of an idea in his eyes. “Wot is it?” she demanded.
Tellman swiveled to face Tilda. “Did Martin find this man?” he asked.
“Yeah. ’E told me. Why? D’yer think ’e’d know wot ’appened ter Martin?” The hope in her voice was needle sharp.
“He might know something.” Tellman tried to be careful, without crushing her. “Did he say his name, do you remember?”
“Yeah . . .” Tilda screwed up her face in effort. “Sand—summink. Sandy . . .”
Tellman leaned forward. “Sandeman?”
Tilda’s eyes opened wide. “Yeah! That’s it. Yer know ’im?”
“I’ve heard of him.” Tellman looked across at Charlotte.
“Yes,” she agreed before he asked the question. “Yes, we should try to find him. Whatever Martin said