“I never knew you in St. Giles, sir,” Mrs. Young said, resuming her seat. Her accent was coarser than her sister’s, and the wisps of hair escaping her plain cotton cap were white instead of gray. “But I knew of you well enough. And so I told your man, Mr. Walsh.”

Effie sat down in one of the pair of threadbare armchairs facing Mrs. Young. Gabriel took the chair next to her. The printed curtains on the small window were open, letting the sun shine into the room.

“He claims you knew of someone else as well,” Gabriel said. “A servant woman who used to work for Mrs. Flite’s family some years ago.”

Mrs. Young’s wizened face took on an acquisitive air. “Mr. Walsh indicated as how there might be some small reward involved.”

“There might be,” Gabriel said, “if the information you provide is useful to Mrs. Flite.”

Mrs. Young turned her bleary gaze toward Effie. “This servant of yours, she end up in the Rookery, did she?”

“I believe she did,” Effie said. “It was a very long time ago. I’m anxious to learn what became of her.”

“I don’t recollect Mrs. Grace having been anyone’s servant,” Mrs. Young said. “She could never have stuck it.”

Effie’s brows elevated. “Mrs. Grace?” she repeated. “I thought…That is, wasn’t Grace her given name?”

“Oh no. Called herself Amelie or Celine or summat. A lot of them girls had similar-like French names what came out of Madam Marie’s. Though she weren’t there long. Couldn’t stick that, either. The madam threw her out, if I remember.”

Effie felt Gabriel cast her a frowning look.

At the moment, his curiosity was the least of her problems.

She leaned forward in her seat. “You mean to say she was a—”

“Oh, she were, right enough. A pretty lass. Never knew her real name. None of us respectable folk did. Wouldn’t want to know it. She were that unpleasant.”

Effie flattened her palms in her lap.

She refused to quail at discovering that Mrs. Grace—a woman who might very well be Effie’s mother—had been a prostitute. Many poor females had been similarly reduced to selling themselves. What choice had they? It was often either that or starvation and death. One couldn’t attach a moral valuation to survival. Even so…

Effie was suddenly cold. “Yes, I see.”

“That wouldn’t have been the woman,” Gabriel said.

“T’were the only woman named Grace I remember from that time,” Mrs. Young replied.

“Did you tell them, Vera?” Mrs. Sturges entered with the tea tray. “I warned that man he hadn’t got the right woman.” She set the tray down with a clatter on a low walnut table by the sofa. “Tea, Mrs. Flite? Mr. Royce?”

Effie managed a thin thank-you as Mrs. Sturges poured out her tea. She took the cup, grateful for something to warm her.