Seven Dials - Anne Perry [53]
“Yer got too busy a tongue in yer ’ead!” Mrs. Culpepper said critically. “If Bella knows where ’e’s gorn, wot’s it she should tell you, eh?”
Dottie shrugged. “I know,” she said without resentment. Then her face clouded. “But I wish as I knew wot ’ad ’appened ter Martin meself.”
“Don’ yer go talkin’ like that, you stupid girl!” Mrs. Culpepper snapped in sudden rage, her face pink. She slammed the bowl down on the table. “Anyone’d think as ’e were dead, or summink ’appened to ’im! Nothin’s ’appened to ’im! ’E just in’t ’ere, that’s all. You button yer lip, my girl, an’ go an’ do summink useful. Go an’ grate them ol’ potatoes ready ter soak. Yer can’t ne’er ’ave too much starch. Don’ stand there like yer was a ruddy ornament!”
Dottie pushed her hair back with her hand, shrugged good-naturedly, and wandered off to the scullery to do as she was told.
“I’m glad nuthin’ in’t ’appened to ’im,” Gracie said with suitable humility. “But I still gotter tell ’im about Tilda.” She knew she was pressing her good fortune, but she had no choice. So far she had learned no more than Tilda had already told them. “Somebody’s gotta know, in’t they?”
“O’ course somebody ’as,” Mrs. Culpepper agreed, reaching for a baking tin and a muslin cloth with a little butter on it. She greased the tin with a single, practiced movement. “But it in’t me.”
Gracie took a sip of the tea. “Tilda said as ’e were Mr. Stephen’s valet. ’As ’e got a new one, then?”
Mrs. Culpepper looked up sharply. “No, ’e ’asn’t. Don’ yer go . . .” Then her face softened. “Look, girl, I can see that yer upset, an’ it’s awful ’ard ter face someone real sick, as yer can’t ’elp. Gawd knows, I wouldn’t want a dog ter die alone, but so ’elp me, I dunno where Martin’s gorn, an’ that’s the Gawd’s truth. ’Ceptin’ ’e’s a good man, an’ I don’t believe as ’e’d ne’er give no one any trouble.”
Gracie sniffed and blinked, her mind on Tilda and the fear inside her. It had been almost a week already. Why was there no letter, no message? “Wot’s ’e like, Mr. Stephen? Would ’e get rid o’ someone if they ’adn’t done nothin’ wrong?”
Mrs. Culpepper wiped her hands on her apron, abandoned the batter and poured herself a cup of tea. “Lord knows, girl,” she said, shaking her head. “ ’E’s a poor mixed-over kind o’ man. But even on ’is worst days I don’t think as ’e would ’a got rid o’ Martin, ’cos Martin’s the only one wot can do a thing wit ’im when ’e gets bad.”
Gracie tried hard to keep her expression calm, and knew she did not entirely succeed. This was new information, and it alarmed her even though she was not sure if she understood it. She looked up at Mrs. Culpepper, blinking several times to try to disguise her thoughts. “Yer mean when ’e’s sick, like?”
Mrs. Culpepper gave a start and did not reply. Her hand stayed frozen on the handle of her cup.
Gracie was afraid she had made her first serious mistake, but she knew enough not to try to mend it. She said nothing, waiting for Mrs. Culpepper to speak first.
“Yer could say that,” Mrs. Culpepper conceded at last, raising the cup to her lips and sipping the hot tea. “An’ I’m not ’ere ter say diff’rent.” That was a warning.
Gracie understood instantly. Sick was a euphemism for something far worse, almost certainly blind drunk. Some men collapsed in a heap, or were thoroughly ill, but there were always the odd few who became belligerent and started fighting people, or took their clothes off, or otherwise were an embarrassment and a nuisance. It sounded as if Stephen Garrick was of the last sort.
“ ’Course not,” Gracie said demurely. “Nobody says diff’rent. In’t our place.”
“Not that I’m not tempted, sometimes, mind!” Mrs. Culpepper added with some heat, just as the very handsome parlor maid came into the kitchen and stopped abruptly. “You’ve not come for luncheon already, ’ave yer?” Mrs. Culpepper said in amazement. “I dunno where the day’s gorn ter. I in’t nothin’ like ready.”
“No, no!” Bella assured