Free Seven Dials by Anne Perry

could easily be with child as well! Or accused by the mistress of all manner of wrongdoing.
    Simple squabbles with other maids, lost trinkets, badly done jobs, the mistress’s favorite ornament broken or dress scorched, were so simple as to be almost welcome.
    “Wot’s ’appened?” she said earnestly. “ ’Ere, we’ve got time fer a cup o’ tea. There’s a place jus’ ’round the corner. Come an’ sit down an’ tell me.”
    “I i’nt got money fer a cup o’ tea right now.” Tilda stood motionless on the pavement. “An’ I think as it’d choke me any’ow.”
    Gracie began to appreciate that whatever troubled her, it was of a very serious order. “Can I ’elp?” she said simply. “Mrs. Pitt is ever so fair, an’ she’s clever as well.”
    Tilda frowned. “Well… it were Mr. Pitt as I were thinking of… if… I mean if…” She stopped, her face white, her eyes pleading.
    “It’s a crime?” Gracie said with a gulp.
    Tears brimmed Tilda’s eyes. “I dunno… not yet. Leastways… Oh, please Gawd, it ain’t!”
    Gracie took her by the arm and half dragged her along the pavement to be out of the way of bustling women using baskets almost like weapons. “Yer comin’ with me ter get a cup o’ tea,” she ordered. “Summink ’ot inside yer’ll ’elp. Then yer can tell me wot yer talkin’ ’bout. ’Ere… pick yer feet up or yer’ll fall flat on yer face over them cobbles, an’ that won’t ’elp no one.”
    Tilda forced herself to smile and quickened her pace to keep up. In the tea shop, Gracie informed the waitress exactly what they wanted, freezing the girl’s complaints that it was too early, and sent her scurrying away to do as she was told.
    “Now,” she said when they were alone. “So wot’s the matter then?”
    “It’s Martin,” Tilda said huskily. “Me brother,” she added before Gracie could misunderstand. “ ’E’s gone. ’E just in’t there, an’ ’e ’adn’t told me nothin’. An’ ’e wouldn’t do that, ’cos me an’ ’im is all we got. Our ma an’ pa died wi’ the cholera when I were six an’ Martin were eight. We always looked out for each other. There in’t no way as ’e’d go orff an’ not tell me.” She blinked rapidly, trying to control the tears, and failing. They slid more and more rapidly down the curve of her cheek, and without thinking she wiped them away with her cuff.
    Gracie attempted to be practical and force herself to think clearly. “When did yer see ’im last, Tilda?”
    “Three days ago,” Tilda answered. “It were me day orff, an’ ’is too. We ’ad ’ot pies from the man on the corner, an’ walked in the park. The band were playin’. ’E said as ’e were goin’ up Seven Dials. Only up an’ back, like, not ter stay there!”
    The waitress returned with a pot of tea and two hot scones. She glanced at Tilda’s tearstained face and seemed about to say something, then changed her mind. Gracie thanked her and paid for the tea, leaving a couple of pennies for her trouble. Then she poured out both cups and waited until Tilda had sipped hers and taken a bite out of the buttered scone. She tried to collect her thoughts, and behave as she thought Pitt would have.
    “ ’Oo did yer speak to where ’e works?” she asked. “Where is it, anyway?”
    “For Mr. Garrick,” Tilda replied, putting the scone down. “Torrington Square, just off Gordon Square, it is. Not far.”
    “ ’Oo did yer speak to?” Gracie repeated.
    “Mr. Simms, the butler.”
    “Wot did ’e say, exact?”
    “That Martin ’ad gone away an’ ’e couldn’t tell me where,” Tilda replied, ignoring her tea now, her eyes fixed on Gracie. “ ’E thought as I were walkin’ out wif ’im. I said as ’e were me brother, an’ it took me ages ter make ’im believe me. But me an’ Martin looks like each other, so ’e understood in the end.” She shook her head. “But ’e still wouldn’t tell me where ’e’d gone. ’E said as no