Gracie was prepared for that. “Rheumatical fever,” she said without hesitation. “Terrible poorly, she is.” She allowed her real fears for Martin, which were now gnawing deeply inside her, to invest her expression with pain.

Mrs. Culpepper must have seen it. “I’m sorry to ’ear that,” she said with what looked to be a genuine pity. “Wot is it yer want ’ere? Don’ stand there, Dottie! Fetch the girl a cup o’ tea!” She looked back at Gracie. “Sit down.” She pointed to a hard-backed kitchen chair on the other side of the table.

Dottie went to the stove and pushed the kettle over onto the heat. It began to whistle almost immediately.

Mrs. Culpepper did not miss a beat with her wooden spoon. “Now then, missy…” She had already forgotten Gracie’s name. “Wot is it yer want ’ere? ’Oo’s this message for, then?”

There was no more time for prevarication. Gracie watched Mrs. Culpepper’s face intently. Expression might tell her more than words. “Martin Garvie,” she replied. “ ’E’s ’er brother. She’s got nob’dy else. Their ma an’ pa died years back.”

Mrs. Culpepper’s face was unreadable, the slight sadness remained exactly the same, and her hand did not hesitate in the beating of the batter.

“Oh…” she said without looking up. “Well, that’s a pity, ’cos ’e in’t ’ere no more, an’ I dunno where ’e’s gorn.”

Gracie knew there was a lie in that somewhere, or at least less than the truth, but she had the strong feeling that it was unhappiness rather than guilt which prompted it. Suddenly very real, sharp fear gripped her and the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen with its hot ovens and steaming pans swam around her. She closed her eyes to stop it swaying.

When she opened them Mrs. Culpepper was staring at her and Dottie was standing on the other side of the table with a cup of tea in her hand.

“ ’Ead between yer knees,” the cook said practically.

“I in’t gonna faint!” Gracie was defensive, partly because she was not absolutely sure it was true. They were being kind. There was nothing to fight, and she did not know where to direct her emotions. “If ’e in’t ’ere, where’s ’e gorn?” She could not say that he had told no one, because Tilda was supposed to be too ill to know. She hoped fervently that when Tilda had called here asking for Martin herself, she had looked sufficiently distraught to appear on the edge of serious illness.

“We dunno,” Dottie answered before Mrs. Culpepper had weighed her own reply. The cook shot her a sharp glance of warning, but whether it was to guard a secret or to keep from unnecessary hurt, there was no way to tell.

“An’ why should yer know, girl!” Mrs. Culpepper found her tongue. “In’t nuffink ter do wif yer where the master sends ’is staff, now is it?”

Dottie put the tea down in front of Gracie. “You drink that,” she ordered. “O’ course it in’t, Mrs. Culpepper,” she agreed obediently. “But yer’d think as Bella’d know, all the same.” She turned to Gracie again. “Bella’s our parlor maid, and she kinda liked Martin. Nice, ’e were, too. I liked ’im meself… in a friendly sort o’ way,” she added quickly.

“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 her. “Loads of time.” She looked curiously at Gracie. She must have overheard the last few words of the conversation. “Not that I wouldn’t fancy a cup of tea myself, if it’s hot,” she added.

“This is Gracie,” Mrs. Culpepper said, suddenly recalling Gracie’s name. “She’s come ’cos Martin’s sister’s a friend of ’ers, an’ it seems the poor girl ’as the rheumatical fever, an’ she’s like ter dyin’, so Gracie’s lookin’ for Martin ter tell ’im, which is terrible ’ard.”

Bella shook her head, her face grave. “I wish we could help you, but we don’t know where he is,” she said candidly. “Usually when Mr. Stephen goes away it’s in the middle of the morning, and we all know for days beforehand, but this is different… He just… isn’t here.”

Gracie was not going to give up without trying every avenue. “Mrs. Culpepper’s been very gracious,” she said warmly. “An’ she says as Mr. Garrick really depended on Martin, so ’e wouldn’t a’ got rid of ’im on a fancy, like.”