“Mebbe we could ask Mr. Garrick, ’oo’s still ’ere in London, fer an address?” Gracie suggested. “It’s fair, as ’is family should want ter know where ter write ter ’im.”

Tellman pursed his lips. “It is fair,” he agreed. “But we’ve already tried. Tilda herself tried, and then you did. I’ll see what I can find out about their leaving.”

She looked at him steadily. She knew every expression of his face; she could have pictured it exactly with her eyes closed. She was surprised and a little embarrassed to realize how often she had done so, not really telling herself the truth as to her reasons, or admitting the odd sense of comfort it gave her. She knew now that he was worried, and also that he was trying to hide it from her to protect her, and partly because he was uncertain.

“Yer think there’s summink wrong, don’t yer?” she said softly. “People don’t lie fer nothin’.”

He was cautious, gentle. “I don’t know. Can you get the evening off the day after tomorrow?”

“If I need ter. Why?”

“I’ll tell you what I’ve found. It may take me a while. I’ll need to get witnesses, see train and ferry records and the like.”

“ ’Course. Mrs. Pitt’d never stand in the way of an investigation. I’ll be ’ere. Yer jus’ tell me wot time.”

“How about early? We’ll go to the music hall, see something good?” His face was eager, but the shadow in his eyes betrayed that her acceptance mattered to him, and he by no means took it for granted. This was a social engagement, something to do together for pleasure, not just as part of a case. It was the first time he had done such a thing, and they were both suddenly acutely aware of it.

She found herself blushing; the color was hot in her cheeks. She wanted to behave with lightness, as if his offer meant nothing unusual, and she was not managing it. She was awkward again.

“Yeah…” she said, trying to be casual, and catching her breath in a hiccup. She was going to have to make a big decision soon, and she was not ready for it. She had known for ages how he felt. She should have made up her mind by now. “Yeah. I like music.” What would she wear? It must be good enough. She wanted him to think she was pretty, but she was also afraid of it. What if he got emotional, and she did not know how to handle it? Perhaps she should have said no, kept it to business.

“Good.” He gave her no time to change her mind. Had he seen the indecision in her face?

“Well…” she began.

“Seven o’clock,” he went on too quickly. “We’ll have something to eat, and I’ll tell you what I’ve found, and we can go to the music hall.” He stood up, as if he felt self-conscious and wanted to escape before he did something that made him feel even more foolish.

She stood up too, knocking against the table. Thank heaven there was nothing on it to spill; the motion just rattled the glasses a little.

He waited for her to go ahead of him, and followed her out into the street. It was harder to speak there. A dray with a load of barrels was backing awkwardly around the corner into the inn yard, the driver holding the lead horse’s bridle and calling out orders. Another man balanced half a dozen kegs on a trolley as he wheeled them across the cobbles, rattling at every step. Traffic clattered past in the roadway, hooves loud, harness jingling.

Gracie was glad of it, and looking quickly at Tellman’s face, she thought he was too. Perhaps he would get cold feet and say nothing for ages? That would give her longer to think. About what? She would say yes. It was just how she would say it that was still to be considered. Change was frightening. She had been with the Pitts since she had been thirteen. She couldn’t leave them.

Tellman was saying something, shouting above the noise.

“Yeah!” she agreed, nodding. “I’ll be ’ere at seven, day arter termorrer. You find out wot ’appened ter Martin Garvie. ’Bye.” And without waiting for him to say anything else she smiled brilliantly and turned on her heel.

TWO EVENINGS LATER they met at the same table in the corner of the public house. Tellman was dressed in a plain dark jacket and his white shirt looked even stiffer-collared than usual. Gracie had put on her best blue dress and bonnet, and allowed her hair to be less tightly scraped back than usual, but that was all the concession she would make to an extraordinary occasion. However, as soon as she saw Tellman’s face, preoccupation with herself vanished.

“Wot?” she said urgently, as soon as they were seated and their order given. “Wot is it, Samuel?” She was not even aware of using his name.

He leaned forward. “Plenty of people saw Stephen Garrick leave his house, and they described the man who went with him-fair-haired, in his twenties, pleasant face. From what they say, he was a servant, almost certainly a valet, but there were only two small cases, no trunks or boxes. Mr. Garrick was ill. He had to be half carried out from the house and it took two men to help him into the carriage, but it was his own carriage, not an ambulance, and driven by the household coachman.”

“ ’Oo said?” she asked quickly.

“Lamplighter,” he replied. “Just beginning.”

“About six in the evening?” She was surprised. “In’t that a funny time ter start on a journey ter France? Is it summink ter do wi’ tides, or the like? Where’d ’e go from? London docks?”

“Morning,” he replied. “Putting the lamps out, not lighting them. But that’s the funny thing. I checked all sailings from the London docks that day, and they weren’t on anything to France, not Mr. Garrick alone, nor with anyone else.”

Their order arrived, a very good early supper of winkles and bread and butter, and there would be apple pie afterwards. Tellman thanked the serving girl and pronounced the meal excellent. Gracie picked up the long pin for digging out the flesh and held it up in her hand. “Mebbe they went from Dover? People do, don’t they?”

“Yes. But I tried the station for the train, and the porter who’d been on the Dover platform said that, to the best of his recollection, there was no one with anything like that description all day. No invalid, no one that needed helping of any kind, except with heavy baggage.”

She was puzzled. “So they din’t go from London, an’ they din’t go from Dover. Where else is there?”

“Well, they could have gone anywhere else, like somewhere on the Continent that wasn’t France, or anywhere in England-or Scotland, for that matter,” he replied. “Except that if Stephen Garrick has poor health, and the English climate is too harsh for him, he’d hardly go to spend the winter in Scotland.” He discarded his last winkle shell and finished his bread and butter.

She was even more puzzled. “But Lady Vespasia was very plain that that was wot Mr. Garrick said,” she argued. “An’ why would ’e lie to ’er? Rich folk often go away fer their ’ealth.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It doesn’t make sense. But wherever they went, it wasn’t straight to a ship and across to France.” He looked intensely serious. “You were right to be worried, Gracie. When people lie and you can’t see the reason, it usually means that the reason is even worse than you thought.” He sat silent for a moment, his face puckered with concern.

“Wot?” she urged.

He looked up at her. “If they weren’t going to catch a train, or a boat, why go at that time in the morning? They must have got up at five, when it was still dark.”

A kind of heaviness settled inside her. “ ’Cos they didn’t wanter be seen,” she replied. Suddenly matters of who loved whom and what to say or do about it had no urgency at all. She looked at him without any pretense. “Samuel, we gotta find out, ’cos if someone like old Mr. Garrick is tellin’ lies, even ter ’is own ’ouse’old, an’ Tilda don’t know where her brother is, then the answer in’t anythin’ good.”

He did not argue. “Trouble is, we’ve got no crime that we know of,” he said grimly. “And Mr. Pitt’s in Egypt, so we can’t even ask his help.”