The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [58]
The door opened and Gracie let out a shriek as she almost ran into him. The saucepan she was holding slipped out of her hands and fell onto the step with a crash.
“Yer stupid great article!” she said furiously. “Wot d’yer think yer doin’ standin’ there, wi’ a face like a pot lion? Wot’s the matter with yer?”
He bent down and picked up the saucepan and handed it back to her. “I came to tell you what I’ve found out,” he said tartly. “You shouldn’t drop the good saucepans like that. You’ll chip them and then they’ll be no good.”
“I wouldn’t ’a dropped it if yer ’adn’t give me the fright o’ me life,” she accused. “Why din’t yer knock, like any ordinary person?”
“I was about to!” That was not really a lie. Of course he would have knocked any moment.
She looked him up and down. “Well, yer’d better come in. I s’pose yer’ve got more ter say than can be done on the step?” She whisked around, her skirts swirling, and went back inside, and he followed her through the scullery into the kitchen, closing both doors behind him. If Charlotte were at home, she was nowhere to be seen.
“An’ keep yer voice down!” Gracie warned, as if reading his thoughts. “Mrs. Pitt’s upstairs reading ter Daniel and Jemima.”
“Jemima can read herself,” he said, puzzled.
“O’ course she can!” she said with an effort at patience. “But ’er papa’s not ’ome anymore, an’ we ’aven’t ’eard a thing from ’im. Nobody knows wot’s goin’ ter ’appen, if ’e’s bein’ looked after, or what! It does yer good ter be read to.” She sniffed and turned away from him, determined he should not see the tears spill down her face. “So wot ’ave yer found out, then? I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea? An’ cake?”
“Yes, please.” He sat down at the kitchen table while she busied herself with the kettle, the teapot, two cups, and several wedges of fresh currant cake, all the time keeping her back to him.
He watched her quick movements, her thin shoulders under the cotton dress, a waist he could have put his hands around. He ached to be of some comfort to her, but she was far too prickly proud to let him. Anyway, what could he say? She would never believe lies that everything would be all right. More than twenty-one years of life had taught her that tragedy was real. Justice sometimes prevailed, but not always.
He must say something. The kitchen clock was ticking the minutes by. The kettle was beginning to sing. It was the same warm, sweet-smelling room as always. He had been ridiculously happy here, so comfortable, more than anywhere else he could remember.
She banged the teapot down, risking chipping it.
“Well, are yer goin’ ter tell me or not?” she demanded.
“Yes … I am!” he snapped back, furious with himself for wanting to touch her, to be gentle, to put his arms around her and hold her close. He cleared his throat and nearly choked. “Adinett went to Cleveland Street in Mile End at least three times. And the last time he was really excited about something. He went straight from there to visit Thorold Dismore, who owns the newspaper that’s always going on against the Queen and saying that the Prince of Wales spends too much money.”
She stood still, her brows furrowed, confusion in her eyes.
“Wot does a gentleman like Mr. Adinett go ter Mile End fer? If ’e’s lookin’ for an ’ore, there’s plenty closer, an’ cleaner! ’E could get ’isself done in, down Mile End way.”
“I know that. And that isn’t all. The place he went to isn’t a brothel, it’s a tobacconist’s shop.”
“ ’E went ter Mile End ter buy tobacco?” she said in disbelief.
“No,” he corrected her. “He went to the tobacconist’s shop for some other reason, but I don’t know what it was yet. But when I went back there today, and went into the shop myself, who should come in but Lyndon Remus, the journalist who was trying to dig up all that dirt back when Mr. Pitt was working on the murder in Bedford Square.” He leaned