The sardines were soon gone. Brother and sister were still hungry, but at least they were out of the rain.
That night they slept in a house, behind locked doors, curled up in a dusty rug on the kitchen floor, where some of the stove’s warmth reached them. Barely into October, and it was cold.
Next day, waking up in a foodless house and observing that the rain had stopped, they were soon out and about on the streets of London, trying to do something to earn some money, and keep out of trouble. But in each endeavor they had only limited success. Carrie was certain that the neighbors had begun to notice them, and not in any very friendly way. So had the bobby who walked the beat during the day.
There was one bright spot. On the sideboard, as if someone had left it there deliberately, they found a key which matched the locks on both front door and back.
Vincent still had his eye on them too, or at least on Carrie. And “Don’t see your parents about,” one of the neighbors remarked as she came by. She answered with a smile, and hurried inside to share with Christopher the handful of biscuits she had just stolen from a shop.
Shortly after sunset, threatening trouble broke at last. The rain had stopped, and people were ready to get out and mind each other’s business. One of the neighbors began it, another joined in, followed by the walrus-mustached policeman, who, when voices were raised, had decided it was his duty to take part.
And joined at a little distance by the nasty Vincent, who before the policeman arrived boldly put in a word, offering to place Carrie under his protection. He had some comments on her body that made her face flame with humiliation and anger.
Carrie could not slam the door on Vincent, because he had his foot pushed in to hold it open. He withdrew the foot as the bobby approached, but Carrie did not quite dare to close the door in the policeman’s face.
“What’s your name, girl?” he wanted to know, without preamble.
“Carrie. Carrie Martin. This’s my brother Chris.”
“Is the woman of the house in?” demanded the boldest neighbor, breaking in on the policeman’s dramatic pause.
Carrie admitted the sad truth, that her mother was dead.
Another neighbor chimed in. “Your father about, then?”
The girl could feel herself being driven back, almost to the foot of the stairs. “He’s very busy. He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
Somehow three or four people were already inside the door. There was still enough daylight to reveal the shabbiness and scantiness of the furnishings, and of the children’s clothes, once quite respectable.
“Looks like the maid has not come in as yet.” That was said facetiously.
“Must be the butler’s day off too,” chimed in another neighbor.
“You say your father’s, here, miss?” This was the policeman, slow and majestic, in the mode of a large and overbearing uncle. “I’d like to have a word with him, if I may.”
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed.” Carrie could hear her own voice threatening to break into a childish squeal. For a little while, for a few hours, it had looked like they might be able to survive. But now…
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs. But—”
“Asleep, then, is he?”
“I—I—yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Oh yes, you are, I don’t think! See here, my girl, unless I have some evidence that you and the young ‘un here are under some supervision, you’ll both be charged with wandering, and not being under proper guardianship.”
Carrie, standing at bay at the foot of the stair, gripping her brother by his shoulder, raised her voice in protest, but the voices of the others increased in volume too. They seemed to be all talking at once, making accusations and demands—
Suddenly their voices cut off altogether. Their eyes that had been fixed on Carrie rose up to somewhere above her head, and behind her on the stair there was a creak of wood, as under a quiet but weighty tread.
She turned to see a tall, well-built, well-dressed man coming down with measured steps. Perfectly calm, as if he descended these stairs every day, a gentleman in his own house. His brownish hair, well-trimmed, was touched with gray at the temples, and an aquiline nose gave his face a forceful look. At the moment he was fussing with his cuffs, as if he had just put on his coat, and frowning in apparent puzzlement at the assembly below him.
Carrie had never seen him before in her life; nor had Christopher, to judge by the boy’s awestruck expression as he watched from her side.
The newcomer’s voice was strangely accented, low but forceful, suited to his appearance, as his gaze swept the little group gathered in his front hall. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Officer? Carrie, what do these people want?”
Carrie could find no words at the moment. Not even when the man came to stand beside her in a fatherly attitude, resting one hand lightly on her back.
“Mr. Martin—?” The bobby’s broad face wore a growing look of consternation. Already he had retreated half a step toward the door. Meanwhile the nosy neighbors, looking unhappy, were moving even faster in the same direction.
“Yes? Do you have official business with me, officer?”
Vincent had disappeared.
The policeman recovered slightly, and stood upon official dignity; thought there might be some disturbance. Duty to investigate. But soon he too had given way under the cool gaze of the man from upstairs. In the space of a few more heartbeats the door had closed on the last of them.
The mysterious one stood regarding the door for a moment, hands clasped behind his back—they were pale hands, Carrie noted, strong-looking, and the nails tended to points. Then he reached over to the hat rack on the wall behind the door, and plucked from it a gentleman’s top hat, a thing she could not for the life of her remember seeing there before. But of course she had scarcely looked. And then he turned, at ease, to regard her with a smile too faint to reveal anything of his teeth.
“I take it you are in fact the lady of the house? The only one I am likely to encounter on the premises?”
The children stared at him.
Gently he went on. “I am not given to eavesdropping, but this afternoon my sleep was restless, and the talk I could hear below me grew ever and ever more interesting.” The foreign accent was stronger now; but in Soho accents of all kinds were nothing out of the ordinary.
“Yes sir.” Carrie stood with an arm around her brother. “Yes sir—that is, there is no other lady, er woman, girl, living here at present.”
“That is good. It would seem superfluous to introduce myself, as you have already, in effect, introduced me to others. Mr. Martin I have become, and so I might as well remain. But when others are present, you, Carrie, and you, young sir, will address me as ‘Father.’ For however many days our joint tenancy of this dwelling may last. Understand, I do not seek to adopt you, but a temporary arrangement should be to our mutual advantage. A happy, close-knit family, yes, that is the face we present to the world. When it is necessary to present a face. Ah, you will kindly leave the upper regions of the house to me—if anyone should ask you, it is really my house, paid for in coin of the realm. In the name of Mr. de Ville.”
“Yes sir,” said Carrie, elbowing her brother until he echoed the two words.
“And now, my children.” Mr. Martin, or de Ville, set his hat upon his head, and gave it a light tap with two pale fingers, as if to settle it exactly to his liking. Carrie noticed that as he did so, he ignored the old mirror on the wall beside the hat rack. And she could see why, or she imagined she could, because the small mirror did not show the man at all, but only the top hat, doing a neat half-somersault unsupported in the air, its reflected image disappearing utterly just as the hat itself came to rest on the head of the mysterious one.