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,