Gracie leaned forward, ignoring the cup of tea Tellman had poured for her.

“It in’t the time for bein’ discreet!” she said urgently. “We all tells our fam’ly. He trusted yer, din’t ’e? ’E must ’a told yer summink about life in the ’ouse. Was the food good? Did the cook ’ave a bad temper? Were the butler all spit and vinegar? ’Oo were the boss-the ’ousekeeper?”

Tilda relaxed a little as a faint smile touched her mouth. “Not the ’ousekeeper,” she replied. “An’ the butler wouldn’t say boo ter the master, but right tarter ’e were wi’ everyone else… at least that’s wot Martin said. Order everyone else around summink wicked, but not Martin, ’cos o’ Mr. Stephen. Martin were the only one as could look after ’im, an’ no one else wanted to any’ow, fer all their bein’ so upright an’ all.”

“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 to him, it might be important.” She bit her lip. “Apart from that, we don’t have anything better.”

“It may not be so easy,” Tellman warned. “It could take a while. We still haven’t got proof of any crime, so-”

“I’ll look,” Charlotte interrupted him.

“In Seven Dials?” Tellman shook his head. “You have no idea what it’s like. It’s one of the worst places…”

“I’ll go in daylight,” she said quickly. “And I’ll dress in my oldest clothes-believe me, they’ll pass as local. There’ll be plenty of women around between eight o’clock and six in the evening. And I’m looking for the priest. Other women with relatives who were soldiers must do that too.”

Tellman looked at her, then at Gracie. His conflicting emotions were startlingly clear in his face.

Charlotte smiled. “I’m going,” she said decisively. “If I find him I have more chance of learning something about Martin than you have, if he really went on Stephen Garrick’s behalf. I’ll start straightaway.” She turned to Tilda. “Now you go back to your duties. You cannot afford to have your mistress dismiss you, however justified your absence.” She looked at Tellman. “Thank you for all you have done. I know it took a lot of your time…”

He brushed it aside, but he did not have the ease with words-even to think them, let alone tell her why it had mattered to him.

She stood up, and the others accepted it as leave to go.

CHARLOTTE WALKED the streets of the Seven Dials area from midday onwards. She had dressed in a very old skirt, one she had accidentally torn and had had to stitch up rather less than successfully. Instead of a jacket over her plain blouse, she took a shawl, which was more in keeping with what other women shopping or working in that area would wear.

Even so, she was startlingly out of place. Poverty had a stench unlike anything else. She had thought she knew, but she had forgotten just how many people sat on the pavements, huddled in doorways, or stood sad-eyed and hopeless around piles of rags or boots, waiting for someone to haggle over a price, and perhaps walk away with nothing.

The open gutter ran down the center of the street, barely moving in the slight incline. Human dirt was everywhere, and human smell clogged the air because there was little clear water, even to drink, no soap, no warmth or dryness, nothing to ease the hunger and the overintimacy.

She walked among them with her head down, not merely to seem like the others, beaten by life, but because she could not look at them, and meet their eyes, knowing she would leave and they could not.

She began tentatively, asking for a soldiers’ priest. It cost her considerable resolve even to approach someone and speak. Her voice would betray her as not belonging, and there was no way to disguise it. To ape their speech patterns would be to make fun of them and mark herself as dishonest before she even framed her questions, let alone received an answer.

All she achieved the first day was to eliminate certain possibilities. It was the afternoon of the second day when she succeeded suddenly and without any warning. She was in Dudley Street, trying to make her way through the piles of secondhand shoes heaped not only on the broken cobbles of the pavement but strewn across the roadway as well. Children sat untended beside them, some crying, many just watching with half-seeing eyes as people trudged by.