“I suppose it is,” Constance said.
“He said I could,” the vagrant said defensively.
“Well, he would do, since you were friends.”
The man nodded curtly, clearly about to shamble back off to his own doorway.
“It was my step he died on,” she said quickly. “I’m trying to find out a bit about him and how he came to be there.”
“Why?”
For a moment, there seemed no answer to that would impress Nevvy’s friend enough to give her any information. Eventually, with inspiration, she said, “Respect.”
He seemed struck by that, gazing at her seriously before giving another of his decided nods.
“Shall we have a cup of tea and you can tell me about your friend?”
“Very well.”
She walked across the road to the movable stall and ordered two cups of tea and two pies from the man who was, presumably, Les. Then she went back to the yard and found her new acquaintance ensconced in Nevvy’s spot, with two blankets and a ragged bag of what must have been his own possessions.
She gave him one of the mugs, and both pies, before crouching down beside him. “What’s your name? Mine is Constance.”
He looked suspicious for a moment, then growled, “Harry.”
“Did you know Nevvy a long time, then?” she asked.
“Near fifteen years, off and on.” There was a pause while he bit into his pie and chewed, and seemed to come to a decision, because he blurted the next words in a rush. “I showed him the ropes, so to speak, when he first had nowhere to go. Then we tramped into the country together. I couldn’t take it there. Hedid some farm laboring for a time—backbreaking work, and I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take the silence, neither, and then they tried to shut me up in the workhouse, so I bolted, made my way back to London. By myself. But he came back in the end, a few years later. Maybe he shouldn’t have, ’cause he got ill. Went soft sleeping in barns, I reckon, and couldn’t take having no roof. Older, too, I suppose.” He sniffed, though whether with grief or because his nose was running wasn’t clear. “Never thought he’d go so soon, though. He said he liked going to St. Peter’s ’cause they gave him a bath. Funny old bugger, was Nevvy.”
“What did he do before he lived on the streets?” Constance asked.
Harry shrugged. “Dunno.” There was no interest in his face or voice. His existence was too immediate to dwell on history. He put the pies carefully away in his unspeakable pocket, presumably for later, and slurped his tea. “Think he come from the country. He liked it there.”
“Why did he come back to Town, then?”
“Missed his friends, he said.”
“Who were his friends?”
Harry raised both hands expansively, and some of his tea slopped over his knees. He didn’t seem to notice. “Everyone. People like Nevvy. Good fellow.”
“Did anyone come looking for him?”
He eyed her. “Like who?”
“Like someone who doesn’t live rough like you. Someone with money, perhaps. People from the hospital, or reformers, other charities…”
Harry returned to his tea, as though losing interest in her conversation. “Don’t know.”
She tried another tack. “Did people make him gifts?”
“He got his share of coins. Better share’n me, but he’d never let me go short, old Nevvy.” He sniffed again, gazing into his tea.
“Did someone give him a pocketknife with a mother-of-pearl handle?”
“It were his,” Harry said aggressively. “Told the rozzers that. He never stole it.”
“Then a rich man must have given him it.”
