A Christmas Promise

She found the shop of Mr. Balthasar on Whitechapel Road just about where Mr. Wiggins had said it would be, which surprised her. He had seemed to be too vague for her to trust his judgment. But the moment she stepped inside the dark, narrow doorway, she thought it was much less good an idea than Mr. Wiggins had implied. There was no one to be seen in the extraordinary interior, but objects of one sort or another seemed to fill every shelf from floor to ceiling, and be suspended by ropes, threads, and chains from above so that she was afraid to move in case she dislodged something and brought it all crashing down on herself.

There seemed to be an inordinate number of shoes, or perhaps they would more properly be called slippers. She couldn’t imagine anyone going outside in the wet street in such things. They were made of cloth, of soft leather, even of velvet, and they were stitched with all sorts of patterns like nothing she had ever seen before. Some had silly curling toes that would make anybody fall over in two steps. But they were beautiful!

There were brass dishes with curly writing all over them, no pictures at all, but the writing was so fancy it would do just as well. And everywhere she looked there were boxes of every kind and shape, painted, decorated with stones, shiny and dull, written on and plain. Some were so small they would have had trouble holding a thimble, others big enough to take your whole hand. And there was an enormous machine that looked like a cross between a boiler and a pipe to smoke, like gentlemen used. Though what use such a contraption might be, she had no idea.

She was still staring when a voice spoke from behind her.

“And what may I do for you, young lady?”

She was so startled she was sure her feet actually came off the floor. She jerked around and looked at the man not three feet away. He had come in silently, and she had heard nothing. He must have been wearing those velvet slippers.

“I …,” she began. “I …”

He waited. He was tall and lean and his hair was very black, with just a few streaks of white in it at the sides. His skin was coppery dark, his nose high-bridged and aquiline.

She drew in a deep breath. “I need ’elp,” she admitted. This was not a man you lied to. “An’ Mr. Wiggins says as ye’re the wisest man around ’ere, so I come ter ask.”

“Does he indeed?” Mr. Balthasar smiled with a definite trace of amusement. “You have the advantage of me.”

“Wot?” She blinked.

“You seem to know something of me,” he explained. “I know nothing of you.”

“Oh. I’m Gracie Phipps. I live in ’eneage Street. But I come cos o’ Minnie Maude. ’er uncle Alf got killed, an’ Charlie’s lost an’ could be all on ’is own, an’ in trouble.”

“I think you had better tell me from the beginning,” Mr. Balthasar said gently. “This sounds as if it might be quite a complicated matter, Gracie Phipps.”

Gracie drew in her breath and began.

Mr. Balthasar listened without interrupting, nodding now and then.

“…so I think as Jimmy Quick in’t tellin’ the truth,” she said finally. “Cos it don’t make no sense. But I still gotta find Charlie, or that daft little article in’t gonna give up till summink real bad ’appens.”

“No,” Mr. Balthasar agreed, and his face was very grim. “I can see that she isn’t. But I fear that you are right. Several people may not be telling the truth. And perhaps Minnie Maude is not quite as daft as you imagine.”

Gracie gulped. The room with its crowded shelves and endless assortment of treasures seemed smaller than before, closer to her, the walls crowding in. It was oddly silent, as if the street outside were miles away.

“Course she’s daft,” Gracie said firmly. “’oo’s gonna kill a rag an’ bone man? On purpose, like? ’e jus’ died an’ fell off, an’ as ’e were on Jimmy Quick’s patch, ’stead of ’is own, no one knew ’im, so ’e jus’ laid there till someone found ’im.”

“And what happened to Charlie?” Mr. Balthasar asked very gently.

“Charlie couldn’t pick ’im up,” Gracie replied. “An’ ’e couldn’t get ’elp, so ’e jus’ stayed there with ’im…sort o’…waitin’.”

“And why was he not there when poor Alf was found?”

Gracie realized her mistake. “I dunno. Someone must a stole ’im.”

“And the cart? They stole that also?”

“Must ’ave.”

“Yes,” Mr. Balthasar said very sincerely. “That, I fear, may be far more serious than you realize.” He searched her face, as if trying to judge how much she understood, and how much more he should tell her.

Suddenly she was brushed with genuine fear, a cold grip inside her that held hard. She fought against it. Now it was not just helping Minnie Maude because she was sorry for her, and felt a certain kind of responsibility. She was caught in it herself. She looked back at the strange features, the dark, burning eyes of Mr. Balthasar.

“Why’d anyone steal it?” she said in little more than a whisper.

“Ah.” He let out his breath slowly. “There I think you have it, Gracie. What was in it that someone believed to be worth a human life in order to steal?”

Gracie shivered. “I dunno.” The words barely escaped her lips. “D’yer think ’e really were killed?” It still seemed ridiculous, something Minnie Maude would make up, because she was only eight, and daft as a brush. Gracie swallowed hard. It was no longer a bit of a nuisance. She was scared. “She jus’ wants ’er friend Charlie back, an’ safe.”

Mr. Balthasar did not answer her.

“D’yer think they done ’im in, too?” Her voice wobbled a bit, and she could not help it.

“I doubt it,” he replied, but there was not even the ghost of a smile on his copper-colored face. “But be very careful, Gracie. It sounds to me as if it is possible that Minnie Maude’s uncle saw something he was not supposed to, or picked up something that was intended for someone else. You are quite sure you have the details correct?”

She nodded, her eyes not leaving his steady gaze. “’e done Jimmy Quick’s round fer ’im, an’ about ’alfway, or more, ’e died, an’ Charlie an’ the cart, an’ everythin’ in it, were gone.”

“And which streets were Jimmy Quick’s round?”

“I dunno.”

“But you said you and Minnie Maude went there, at least some of the way.”

Gracie looked down at her boots. “We did. I know where I went left, an’ where I went right, but I can’t read the names.”

“I see. Of course.” There was apology in his voice, as if he should have known she couldn’t read.

“I could find ’em again…I think,” she offered, her cheeks hot with shame.

“No doubt.” He smiled now, very briefly, then the gravity returned. “But I think it would be wiser if you didn’t. Donkeys are patient and useful beasts. Only a fool would hurt them. Charlie will be miserable for a little while, but he will be all right.”

He was lying to her, and she knew it. She had seen donkeys starved, beaten, shaking with cold and fear.

He saw it in her face, and now it was his turn to be ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “You are right to fear. I will see if I can learn anything. But in the meantime, you should say nothing, and ask no further questions. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

He did not look satisfied. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“What do you know about Uncle Alf?” he persisted.

“’e were funny an’ kind, an’ ’e made Minnie Maude laugh, and she said ’e knew about all sorts o’ places, and things. ’e saw things in like … brighter colors than wot most people do.” She took a deep breath, overcome with her own sense of the loss of something she had only imagined—a companion who’d had dreams and ideas, whose mind had been far away from disappointment and tired streets. She wondered what Uncle Alf had looked like. She saw him with white hair, a bit wild, as if he had been out in a great wind. He would have blue eyes that saw either very close or very far indeed, all the way to the horizon.

Then a flash of memory came to her of what Dora Quick had said, and Jimmy had been angry about.

Balthasar must have seen it in her face. “What is it, Gracie?”

“Mrs. Quick said as Alf picked up a gold-colored box that were special, real beautiful.”

“How did she know that?” he said quickly.

“It were someone called Cob wot told ’er. But Mr. Quick said ’e were talkin’ daft, an’ ter take no notice. An’ she never said any more.”

“I see. I think that is extremely good advice, Gracie. Say nothing more either. Above all, do not mention the casket.”

“Wot’s a casket?” she asked.

“A special kind of box to keep precious things in. Now go home and do your chores. I shall look into the matter.”

She blinked, staring back at him. “’ow’ll I know if yer do?”

“Because I shall send a message to you in Heneage Street.”

“Oh. Thank you…Mr. … Balthasar.”