But he would have made her laugh about it later. He would have given her a hug and whispered something pleasant in her ear. He would have been sweet. He would have been kind. He would have put the whole rest of the world in perspective somehow.
She tried to think of what Walter might say to her now. She wasn’t exactly a match girl, he would have told her. Money was tight, corners had to be trimmed, pennies pinched, but her children had a fine home and food to eat. It wasn’t as bad as all that. Was it?
She pushed herself off the wall. Plumm’s would have lots of the kinds of things she wanted to see. All sorts of wooden items for sale, and she would be inspired just seeing them all. She would finish her new book and then maybe she would write more rhymes after all. It occurred to her that she ought to invite Fiona Kingsley to come along with them.
What they all needed was a splendid outing to lift the doldrums.
18
T he case of the missing Hargreave brother was much bigger and more important than the usual sort of inquiry Hatty Pitt undertook, and she saw it as an opportunity to prove herself in Mr Hammersmith’s eyes. She’d wasted no time in getting to work on it and had made a list of the places she thought Joseph Hargreave might be hiding. He lived his life as many London gentlemen of decent means did. He had an apartment in the city that he shared with his brother where he spent the bulk of the week. He and his brother also owned a cottage in Brighton, where they whiled away the weekend hours. Hatty thought she might be able to gain access to both places. Hargreave had his club, of course, and Hatty had no chance of getting in there, so she had drawn a question mark next to that item on her list of locations. Lastly, he had his place of employment: Plumm’s. That would be the easiest place to get into, and so she had underlined it on her list, but decided to save it for later in the week when she would be more tired and might need something relatively simple to do.
She did not worry about the fact that she didn’t know what shewas doing. Nobody, after all, knew what they were doing when they started a new job. They learned. And Hatty was a quick study.
A man gave her his seat on the train to Brighton and she fell asleep, and so felt groggy and bad-tempered when she arrived. She followed a family on holiday off the train, and a solemn woman handed Hatty a pamphlet about the new clock tower. Hatty took it and smiled at her, but the woman didn’t smile back. The sky was a dusty blue color, and she could taste salt on the air. No fog to be seen in any direction. The breeze was a bit chilly, but Hatty wasn’t the sort to complain. She avoided the taxi rank outside the station and oriented herself before setting out, shading her eyes with one hand (the sun wasn’t visible anywhere in the sky, but it was still brighter than anything she’d been accustomed to of late), while in her other hand she clutched a torn piece of notepaper on which she had written Hargreave’s address.
She walked south down Queens Road and stopped to admire the clock tower, referring to the pamphlet the woman had given her. The tower was tall and all of polished stone, with decorative arches and little statues guarding little nooks at all the corners. Hatty thought it looked nearly as solid as the woman with the pamphlets. A pair of troubadours sang “Mr and Mrs Brown” while strolling round the square. “Dear Mistress Brown, your clock is fast, I know as well as you . . .” The man played violin, and the woman held out a hat. Hatty dropped a ha’penny in, pretending to herself she was on a seaside holiday.
After the clock tower the road changed to West Street, and she turned left onto Duke and followed that along to the end of Prince Albert Street, where she found the small detached cottage. The home shared by Joseph and Dr Richard Hargreave was in need of a coat of paint and a new roof. The garden needed tending, and
She tried to think of what Walter might say to her now. She wasn’t exactly a match girl, he would have told her. Money was tight, corners had to be trimmed, pennies pinched, but her children had a fine home and food to eat. It wasn’t as bad as all that. Was it?
She pushed herself off the wall. Plumm’s would have lots of the kinds of things she wanted to see. All sorts of wooden items for sale, and she would be inspired just seeing them all. She would finish her new book and then maybe she would write more rhymes after all. It occurred to her that she ought to invite Fiona Kingsley to come along with them.
What they all needed was a splendid outing to lift the doldrums.
18
T he case of the missing Hargreave brother was much bigger and more important than the usual sort of inquiry Hatty Pitt undertook, and she saw it as an opportunity to prove herself in Mr Hammersmith’s eyes. She’d wasted no time in getting to work on it and had made a list of the places she thought Joseph Hargreave might be hiding. He lived his life as many London gentlemen of decent means did. He had an apartment in the city that he shared with his brother where he spent the bulk of the week. He and his brother also owned a cottage in Brighton, where they whiled away the weekend hours. Hatty thought she might be able to gain access to both places. Hargreave had his club, of course, and Hatty had no chance of getting in there, so she had drawn a question mark next to that item on her list of locations. Lastly, he had his place of employment: Plumm’s. That would be the easiest place to get into, and so she had underlined it on her list, but decided to save it for later in the week when she would be more tired and might need something relatively simple to do.
She did not worry about the fact that she didn’t know what shewas doing. Nobody, after all, knew what they were doing when they started a new job. They learned. And Hatty was a quick study.
A man gave her his seat on the train to Brighton and she fell asleep, and so felt groggy and bad-tempered when she arrived. She followed a family on holiday off the train, and a solemn woman handed Hatty a pamphlet about the new clock tower. Hatty took it and smiled at her, but the woman didn’t smile back. The sky was a dusty blue color, and she could taste salt on the air. No fog to be seen in any direction. The breeze was a bit chilly, but Hatty wasn’t the sort to complain. She avoided the taxi rank outside the station and oriented herself before setting out, shading her eyes with one hand (the sun wasn’t visible anywhere in the sky, but it was still brighter than anything she’d been accustomed to of late), while in her other hand she clutched a torn piece of notepaper on which she had written Hargreave’s address.
She walked south down Queens Road and stopped to admire the clock tower, referring to the pamphlet the woman had given her. The tower was tall and all of polished stone, with decorative arches and little statues guarding little nooks at all the corners. Hatty thought it looked nearly as solid as the woman with the pamphlets. A pair of troubadours sang “Mr and Mrs Brown” while strolling round the square. “Dear Mistress Brown, your clock is fast, I know as well as you . . .” The man played violin, and the woman held out a hat. Hatty dropped a ha’penny in, pretending to herself she was on a seaside holiday.
After the clock tower the road changed to West Street, and she turned left onto Duke and followed that along to the end of Prince Albert Street, where she found the small detached cottage. The home shared by Joseph and Dr Richard Hargreave was in need of a coat of paint and a new roof. The garden needed tending, and
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