The Whitechapel Conspiracy (26 page)

He leaned forward over the counter. “They went up ter number six, like I said, and they came out carryin’ poor Annie, an’ she were took, an’ all, an’ I never seen ’er since then. Nor ’as anyone else, far as I know.”

She frowned. It seemed a long time ago for Remus to be interested in now, or John Adinett.

“ ’Oo were the feller they took?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Dunno. Gent, I know that. Lots o’ money, an’ real classy. Kind o’ quiet most o’ the time. Nice-lookin’, tall wi’ fine eyes.”

“Were he Annie’s lover?” she guessed.

“Reckon so. ’E came ’ere often enough.” His face darkened and his tone became defensive. “Though she were a decent girl, Catholic, so don’t go readin’ nothin’ scandalous inter it, because yer got no right.”

“Maybe it were a tragic love?” she suggested, seeing the pity in his face. “If ’e weren’t Catholic, maybe their families kept ’em apart?”

“Reckon so?” He nodded, eyes sad and far away. “It’s a shame. Wot kind o’ pipe d’yer want fer yer pa?”

She really could not afford a pipe. She must return as much of Tellman’s money to him as she could, and he certainly would have no use for a clay pipe—and she did not want him smoking one anyway.

“I reckon I’d best ask ’im,” she said regretfully. “In’t the kind o’ thing yer can come back wif’ if it in’t right. Ta fer yer advice.” And before he could attempt to persuade her differently, she turned and went out of the door.

In the street she kept walking back the way she had come, towards the Mile End Road, simply because it was familiar and busy, and she had very little idea what lay in the other direction.

Where should she go now? Remus could be anywhere. How much of this had he known? Probably all of it. It seemed to be common knowledge and easily enough obtained. But apparently Remus knew what it meant. He had been elated, and then gone to find out about William Crook’s death. Although that was apparently quite ordinary too.

From Cleveland Street he had gone first to Guy’s Hospital to ask something. What? Was he looking for William Crook then too? Only one way to find out: go there herself. She would have to invent a good story to explain her interest in that.

It took her all the bus journey back westwards, and south over London Bridge towards Bermondsey and the hospital, before she had worked it out in her mind. If you were going to lie, you might as well do it thoroughly.

She bought a fruit pie and a drink of lemonade from a peddler and stood looking at the river while she consumed them. It was a bright, windy day and there were lots of people out enjoying themselves. There were pleasure boats on the water, flags flying, people clutching onto their hats. Somewhere not very far away the sound of a hurdy-gurdy was cheerful and a little off-key. Half a dozen boys chased each other, shouting and squealing. A couple walked arm in arm, close to each other, the girl’s skirts brushing the young man’s trousers.

Gracie finished her pie, straightened her shoulders and turned towards Borough High Street and the hospital.

Once inside she went straight to the offices, composing her face into a serious expression and doing her best to look pathetic. She had tried this many years ago, before going to the Pitts’ to work. She had been small and thin then, with a sharp little face, usually dirty, and it had been very effective. Now it was not quite so easy. She was a person of some consequence. She was employed by the best detective in London, which meant the best in the world—even if he was temporarily unappreciated.

“What can I do for you?” the old man behind the desk asked her, peering down over the top of his spectacles.

“Please sir, I’m tryin’ ter find out wot ’appened ter me
granpa.” She guessed that William Crook’s age made that the most believable relationship to use.

“Was ’e brought in sick?” the man asked kindly.

“I reckon as ’e must ’a bin.” She sniffed. “I ’eard ’e died, but I in’t sure.”

“What was his name?”

“William Crook. It’d a bin a while back. I only just bin told.” She sniffed again.

“William Crook,” he repeated, puzzled, pushing his spectacles back up so he could see through them. “Don’t recall ’im, not off’ and, like. Yer sure ’e was brought ’ere?”

She tried to look lost and abandoned. “That’s wot they tol’ me. Yer got nobody called Crook bin’ ’ere? Not ever?”

“I dunno about ever.” He frowned. “We ’ad an Annie Crook ’ere fer ages. Sir William hisself brought ’er ’ere. Mad, she were, poor soul. Did everything ’e could fer ’er, but it weren’t no good.”

“Annie?” Gracie gulped, trying not to let the edge of excitement in her voice betray her. “She come ’ere?”

“You know her?”

“ ’Course.” She did a rapid calculation. “She were me aunt. Not that I ever knew ’er, like. She … she kind o’ vanished, years back, around ’87 or ’88. Nobody never said as she were mad, poor soul. I suppose they wouldn’t, would they!”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head slowly. “It can ’appen to all kinds o’ folk. That’s wot I told the other young man as asked. But ’e weren’t family to ’er.” He smiled at her. “She got the very best care there is, I can promise yer that. Yer still want as I should look for yer granpa?”

“No, ta. I reckon as I must ’a got it wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Yeah. I am too.” She turned and walked out of the office, closing the door quietly behind her and hurrying away before he sensed the excitement inside her.

Once again in the street and the bright sharp wind and the sun, she ran down towards the place where the omnibuses
stopped. Now she must go back home and catch up with some of her work. And with luck, Tellman would come this evening and she could tell him what she had found out. He would be impressed—very impressed. She was singing a little song to herself as she stood in the queue.

“You went where?” Tellman demanded, his thin face pale, his jaw tight.

“Cleveland Street,” Gracie replied, pouring the tea. “I’ll follow Remus tomorrow.”

“You won’t! You’ll stay here and do the work you’re supposed to do, where you’re safe!” he retorted harshly, leaning forward across the table. There were shadows under his eyes and a smudge on his cheek. She had never seen him look so tired.

He was certainly not going to tell her what she could or could not do … but on the other hand, it gave her a pleasant, warm, almost comfortable feeling that he was concerned that she not be in danger. She could hear the edge of fear in his voice and knew that it was real. It might make him furious, and he might very well deny it the next minute, but he cared very much what happened to her. It was in his eyes, and she recognized it with a little bubble of pleasure.

“Don’t yer wanna ’ear wot I found out?” she asked, aching to tell him.

“What?” he said grudgingly, sipping the tea.

“There were a girl called Annie Crook, ’00 were the daughter o’ William Crook wot died in St Pancras.” Her words fell over each other. “An’ she were kidnapped from the tobacconist’s in Cleveland Street about five year ago and took ter Guy’s ’Ospital, w’ere the poor creature were called mad, an’ no one ever seed ’er again.” She had the cake out but in her excitement she had forgotten to cut him a slice. “It were somebody called Sir William wot said as she were mad, an’ ’e couldn’t ’elp ’er no more. An’ someone else just asked about ’er too. I reckon as that were Remus. An’ that’s not all! There were a young man kidnapped from the artist’s place in Cleveland
Street the same time, a real fine-lookin’ feller wi’ good clothes, a gentleman. ’E were taken out kickin’ an’ strugglin’, poor soul.”

“Do you know who he was?” He was too elated with the information to remember his anger—or the cake. “Any idea at all?”

“The lad at the pipe-maker’s thought ’e were Annie’s lover,” she answered. “But ’e don’t know fer sure. But ’e said as she were a decent girl, Catholic, an’ I shouldn’t spread scandal about ’er, ’cos it wouldn’t be right or true.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe their families did it ’cos she were Catholic an’ ’e weren’t?”

“What could that have to do with Adinett?” He frowned, pursing his lips.

“I dunno yet. Gimme a chance!” she protested. “But there’s a lot o’ people wot’s off their ’eads, poor devils. There’s the feller wot died up in Northampton too. D’yer reckon as there’s madness somewhere where it really matters, then? Maybe Mr. Fetters knew about it too?”

He was quiet for several minutes. “Maybe,” he said at last, but there was no lift in his voice.

“Yer scared, in’t yer?” she said softly. “That mebbe it don’t ’ave nothin’ ter do wi’ Mr. Pitt, an’ we aren’t ’elpin’ ’im?” She wished she could say something to comfort him, but it was the truth, and they were in it together, neither pretending.

He was on the point of denying it; she could see it in his face as he drew in his breath. Then he changed his mind.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Remus thinks he’s on a big story, and I wish I believed it was the reason Adinett killed Fetters. But I can’t see any way Fetters fits into it at all.”

“We will!” she said determinedly “ ’Cos, ’e must ’a done it fer some reason, an’ we’ll go on until we find out wot it is.”

He smiled. “Gracie, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said softly, but the light in his eyes denied his words.

“Yeah, I do,” she argued, and she leaned forward and kissed him very lightly, then drew back quickly and picked up the
knife to cut the cake for him, looking away. She did not see the color rush up his face or his hand tremble so hard he had to leave his cup on the table in case he spilled it.

8

P
ITT CONTINUED
to work at the silk weaver’s and to run as many errands as possible, watching and listening. At night now and then he took a watch at the sugar factory, standing under the shadow of the huge building and hearing the steady hiss of steam from the boilers, kept going around the clock, and the occasional clatter of footsteps across the cobbles. The smell of the waste washed off the syrup filled the darkness like an oversweet rot.

Occasionally he patrolled inside, carrying a lantern along the low passages, hunting the shadows, listening to the myriad small movements. He exchanged a little gossip, but he was an outsider. He would have to be here years before he would be accepted, trusted without question.

Increasingly he heard the ugliness of anger under the surface of what appeared casual conversation. It was everywhere: in the factory, in the streets, in the shops and public houses. A few years ago it would have been a good-natured complaining; now there was an undertone of violence in it, a rage close under the surface.

But the thing that frightened him the most was the hope that flashed every now and again among men sitting and brooding over a pint of ale, the whispers that things would soon change. They were not victims of fate but protagonists who governed their own lives.

He was also aware how many different kinds of people there were in Spitalfields, refugees from all over Europe fleeing
one kind of persecution or another, financial, racial, religious or political. He heard a dozen languages spoken, saw faces of every cast and color.

On the fifteenth of June, the day after a series of poisonings in Lambeth occupied all the headlines, he arrived back late and tired at Heneagle Street to find Isaac waiting for him. His face was strained with anxiety and his eyes were shadowed as if he had slept little in many nights.

Pitt had developed a considerable affection for him, apart from the fact that Narraway had trusted him with Pitt’s safety. He was an intelligent man, well-read and he liked to talk. Perhaps because Pitt did not belong to Spitalfields, he enjoyed their time after dinner when Leah was in the kitchen or had gone to bed. They argued over all manner of philosophy and belief. Pitt learned much from him of the history of his people in Russia and Poland. Sometimes Isaac told the tale with a wry, self-mocking humor. Often it was unimaginably tragic.

Tonight he obviously wished to talk, but not in the general way of conversation.

“Leah is out,” he said with a shrug, his dark eyes watching Pitt’s face. “Sarah Levin is sick and she has gone to be with her. She has left dinner for us, but it’s cold.”