The Whitechapel Conspiracy (18 page)

“Thank you,” Tellman said to the tobacconist. “Good day.” And he went out into the street and along about forty yards to a wide doorway where he could stand almost unseen and watch for Remus to come out.

After about ten minutes he began to wonder if there were a way out of the shop and into a back street. What could Remus be doing in there so long? There was only one answer which made any kind of sense—Remus was there for the same reason he had come himself, scenting a story, a scandal, perhaps an explanation for murder. It must be to do with John Adinett. There could hardly be two murderers tied to that small tobacconist’s shop.

The minutes went by. Traffic passed along the street, some towards the Mile End Road, some the other way. After another ten minutes Remus came out at last. He looked to left and right, crossed the road and walked south, passing within a yard of Tellman, then realizing who he was, stopped abruptly.

Tellman smiled. “Onto a good story, Mr. Remus?” he asked.

Remus’s sharp, freckled face was a total blank for a matter of seconds, then he recovered his composure. “Not sure,” he said easily. “Lot of ideas, all disconnected at the moment. Since you’re here, maybe it does mean something.”

“Humbug,” Tellman said with a smile.

“Oh no … I don’t …” Remus began.

“Mint humbugs,” Tellman clarified. “That’s what I bought there.”

Remus’s expression smoothed out.

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

“Better than tobacco,” Tellman went on. “I don’t know one tobacco from another. Neither do you.”

“Not your beat, is it?” Remus said, shifting the subject back to Tellman. “Still on the Adinett case, are you? Interesting man.” His eyes narrowed. “But why bother? You got your conviction. What more do you want?”

“Me?” Tellman said, affecting surprise. “Not a thing. Why? What more do you think there is?”

“Motive,” Remus said reasonably. “Did Fetters ever come here?”

“What makes you think that? Did the tobacconist say he had?”

Remus raised his eyebrows. “I never asked him.”

“So it’s not Fetters you’re after,” Tellman deduced.

Remus was momentarily taken aback. He had let slip more than he’d intended. He recovered, looking at Tellman with a sly smile. “Fetters and Adinett … it’s all the same thing, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t say you were after Adinett,” Tellman pointed out.

Remus pushed his hands into his pockets and started to walk slowly in the direction of the Mile End Road, allowing Tellman to keep pace with him.

“Not exactly news now, is he?” he said thoughtfully. “For me or for you. He’d have to have had a really interesting reason for killing Fetters for me to bother to write it up. And I reckon it would have to be connected with another crime, a pretty big one, before you’d still be following it too … don’t you think?”

Tellman had no intention whatsoever of allowing him to know anything about Pitt. “Sounds sensible,” he agreed. “Presuming I wasn’t just after a mint humbug.”

“Humbug, maybe,” Remus said with a twisted smile, and increased his pace slightly. They walked in silence for a few moments, crossing an alleyway leading towards the brewery. “But be careful! There’s a lot of very important people’ll try to stop you. I suppose Mr. Pitt sent you here?”

“And Mr. Dismore sent you?” Tellman countered, remembering what the cabbie had said about Adinett’s going to Dismore’s newspaper after leaving Cleveland Street the last time.

Remus was momentarily nonplussed, then again he disguised his emotions and replied blandly. “I’m independent. Don’t answer to anyone. I thought you would know that … a sharp detective like you!”

Tellman grunted. He was not sure what he believed, except
that Remus thought he was onto a story which he had no intention of sharing.

They reached the Mile End Road, and Remus said good-bye and plunged into the stream of people going west.

Tellman decided on the spur of the moment to follow him. It proved more difficult than he had expected, partly because of the amount of traffic which was trade carts and wagons rather than hansoms, but mostly because Remus very apparently did not wish to be followed and was aware of Tellman behind him.

It took him a succession of very rapid sprints, a good deal of bribery, and a little luck not to lose him, but half an hour later Tellman was in a hansom crossing London Bridge. Just beyond the railway terminus, Remus stopped ahead of him and got out. He paid his fare, then ran up the steps of Guy’s Hospital and disappeared through the doors.

Tellman alighted also, paid off his driver and went up into the hospital as well.

But Remus was nowhere to be seen.

Tellman walked over to the porter and described Remus to him, asking which way he had gone.

“Asked after the offices,” the porter replied. “That’s that way, sir.” He pointed helpfully.

Tellman thanked him and went the same way, but search as he might, he found no further trace of Remus, and finally after nearly half an hour of wandering corridors, he left the hospital and took the train north over the river again. He found himself at Keppel Street just before six o’ clock in the evening.

He stood at the back door for several minutes before he summoned enough courage to knock. He wished there were some way he could see Gracie without having to encounter Charlotte. He was embarrassed by the fact that he had done nothing to help Pitt. He was sure she was going to be distressed, and he had no idea what to say or do.

It was only the very vivid imagination of Gracie’s total scorn for him that stopped him from turning around and hurrying away. He would have to face her sometime. Putting it off would only make it even more difficult. He took a deep
breath, then let it out again, still without knocking. Perhaps he should find out more before he spoke to her. After all, he didn’t have very much. He had no idea why Remus had gone to Guy’s Hospital, not even a guess.

The door opened and Gracie let out a shriek as she almost ran into him. The saucepan she was holding slipped out of her hands and fell onto the step with a crash.

“Yer stupid great article!” she said furiously. “Wot d’yer think yer doin’ standin’ there, wi’ a face like a pot lion? Wot’s the matter with yer?”

He bent down and picked up the saucepan and handed it back to her. “I came to tell you what I’ve found out,” he said tartly. “You shouldn’t drop the good saucepans like that. You’ll chip them and then they’ll be no good.”

“I wouldn’t ’a dropped it if yer ’adn’t give me the fright o’ me life,” she accused. “Why din’t yer knock, like any ordinary person?”

“I was about to!” That was not really a lie. Of course he would have knocked any moment.

She looked him up and down. “Well, yer’d better come in. I s’pose yer’ve got more ter say than can be done on the step?” She whisked around, her skirts swirling, and went back inside, and he followed her through the scullery into the kitchen, closing both doors behind him. If Charlotte were at home, she was nowhere to be seen.

“An’ keep yer voice down!” Gracie warned, as if reading his thoughts. “Mrs. Pitt’s upstairs reading ter Daniel and Jemima.”

“Jemima can read herself,” he said, puzzled.

“O’ course she can!” she said with an effort at patience. “But ’er papa’s not ’ome anymore, an’ we ’aven’t ’eard a thing from ’im. Nobody knows wot’s goin’ ter ’appen, if ’e’s bein’ looked after, or what! It does yer good ter be read to.” She sniffed and turned away from him, determined he should not see the tears spill down her face. “So wot ’ave yer found out, then? I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea? An’ cake?”

“Yes, please.” He sat down at the kitchen table while she
busied herself with the kettle, the teapot, two cups, and several wedges of fresh currant cake, all the time keeping her back to him.

He watched her quick movements, her thin shoulders under the cotton dress, a waist he could have put his hands around. He ached to be of some comfort to her, but she was far too prickly proud to let him. Anyway, what could he say? She would never believe lies that everything would be all right. More than twenty-one years of life had taught her that tragedy was real. Justice sometimes prevailed, but not always.

He must say something. The kitchen clock was ticking the minutes by. The kettle was beginning to sing. It was the same warm, sweet-smelling room as always. He had been ridiculously happy here, so comfortable, more than anywhere else he could remember.

She banged the teapot down, risking chipping it.

“Well, are yer goin’ ter tell me or not?” she demanded.

“Yes … I am!” he snapped back, furious with himself for wanting to touch her, to be gentle, to put his arms around her and hold her close. He cleared his throat and nearly choked. “Adinett went to Cleveland Street in Mile End at least three times. And the last time he was really excited about something. He went straight from there to visit Thorold Dismore, who owns the newspaper that’s always going on against the Queen and saying that the Prince of Wales spends too much money.”

She stood still, her brows furrowed, confusion in her eyes.

“Wot does a gentleman like Mr. Adinett go ter Mile End fer? If ’e’s lookin’ for an ’ore, there’s plenty closer, an’ cleaner! ’E could get ’isself done in, down Mile End way.”

“I know that. And that isn’t all. The place he went to isn’t a brothel, it’s a tobacconist’s shop.”

“ ’E went ter Mile End ter buy tobacco?” she said in disbelief.

“No,” he corrected her. “He went to the tobacconist’s shop for some other reason, but I don’t know what it was yet. But when I went back there today, and went into the shop myself, who should come in but Lyndon Remus, the journalist who
was trying to dig up all that dirt back when Mr. Pitt was working on the murder in Bedford Square.” He leaned forward urgently, putting his elbows on the scrubbed wood of the table. “He wouldn’t say anything while I was there, but he stayed another twenty minutes after I’d gone. I know because I waited for him. And when he left I spoke to him.”

She was transfixed, her eyes wide, the teapot forgotten. Only the screaming of the kettle brought her back to the moment. She pulled it off the hob and then ignored it.

“So?” she demanded. “Wot’d ’e want? Wot’s so special about Cleveland Street?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But he’s after scandal, and he thinks he’s really onto something. He tried to ask me what I was doing there. He was sort of excited to see me. He thought it proved he was right. It’s to do with Adinett, he as good as admitted that.”

She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Go on!” she urged.

“When he left I followed him. He tried to make sure I didn’t, but I stuck with him.”

“W’ere’d ’e go?” Her eyes never left his face.

“South of the river, to Guy’s Hospital … the offices. But I lost him there.”

“Guy’s ’Ospital,” she repeated slowly. Finally she stood up and made the tea and set it on the table to brew. “Now whyever did ’e not want yer ter know ’e went there?”

“Because it has something to do with Adinett,” he answered. “And Cleveland Street. But I’m damned if I know what.”

“Well, yer’ll just ’ave ter find out,” she said without hesitation. “ ’Cause we gotta prove Mr. Pitt is right an’ Adinett were as guilty as ’e said, an’ fer a wicked reason. D’yer want a piece o’ cake?”

“Yes, please.” He took the largest piece on the plate she offered He had long ago stopped pretending to be polite. Gracie made the best cake he had ever eaten.

She was looking at him earnestly. “Yer goin’ ter find out wot it is, in’t yer … I mean, wot really ’appened, an’ why?”

Tellman wished she had even a shred of the admiration for him that she had for Pitt. And yet the belief in her face now, even if it was born of desperation, was both wonderful and frightening. Could he live up to it? He had very little idea what to do next. What would Pitt have done were their roles reversed?

He liked Pitt, he had to admit that, in spite of not wanting to, not agreeing with him over dozens of things. He had disapproved violently of Pitt’s appointment. He was not a gentleman and had no more right to expect the rest of them to obey him than any other ordinary policeman had. But on the other hand he had been reasonable—most of the time. He was eccentric, took a lot of getting used to.

But for better or worse, Tellman was part of Pitt’s life. He had sat at their table too often, shared too many cases, good and bad. And there was Gracie.

“Yes, of course I will,” he said with his mouth full of cake.

“Yer goin’ ter foller this Remus?” she pressed. “ ’E’s onter it … whatever it is. Mrs. Pitt’s tryin’ ter find out more about Mr. Fetters, but she don’t ’ave nothin’ yet. I’ll tell yer if she does.” She looked tired and frightened. “Yer won’t stop, will yer?” she insisted. “No matter wot! There’s nob’dy ter do it but us.”

“I told you,” he said, meeting her eyes steadily. “I’ll find out! Now, eat some of your cake. You look like a fourpenny rabbit! And pour the tea!”

“It in’t brewed yet.” But she poured it anyway.

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