The Whitechapel Conspiracy

chapter SEVEN
Tellman was stretched to the end of his patience, trying to keep his attention on the string of burglaries that had been assigned to him. All the time he was asking questions, looking at pictures of jewelry, his mind was on Pitt in Spitalfields, and what Adinett had been doing in Cleveland Street that could possibly have been of such intense interest to Lyndon Remus.

His intelligence told him that if he did not apply his mind to the problem of the robberies he would not solve them, and that would do nothing but add to his troubles. Nevertheless his imagination wandered, and completely uncharacteristically, as soon as the hour came when he could excuse himself from duty for the day, he did so. Without waiting for a word from anyone, he left Bow Street and started making serious enquiries as to the habits of Remus: where he lived, where he ate, which public houses he frequented and to whom he sold the majority of his stories. That pattern had changed over the last year or so, there being a steady increase in the number sold to Thorold Dismore, until over the months of May and June it had been almost exclusively so.

It took him until nearly midnight, after the public houses closed, before he had sufficient information to feel he could find Remus when he wanted him. He would lie to his immediate superior in the morning, a thing he had never done before. There was no evasion that would cover the situation, or his driving need to follow this far more urgent mystery. He would have to find an excuse later, if he were caught.

He slept badly, even though his bed was comfortable enough. He woke early, partly because his mind was teeming with ideas about all manner of personal vices or secrets that Adinett might have found in Mile End, and over which Martin Fetters had in some way threatened him. Nothing he thought of seemed to match his impression of the small tobacconist's shop on such an ordinary street.

He had a quick cup of tea in the kitchen and bought a sandwich from the first peddler he passed as he hurried to the corner opposite Remus's lodgings so he could follow him wherever he might go.

He had nearly two hours to wait, and was angry and miserable by the time Remus finally emerged looking freshly shaved, clean white collar high around his neck, and stiff enough to be uncomfortable. His hair was brushed back, still damp, and his face was sharp and eager as he walked rapidly within a few yards of Tellman, who was standing head down in the arch of a doorway. Remus was obviously intent upon where he was going and all but oblivious to anyone else on the footpath.

Tellman turned and followed him some fifteen yards behind, but prepared to move closer if the streets should become more crowded and he was faced with the prospect of losing him.

Half a mile later he had to sprint and only just caught the same omnibus, where he collapsed in a seat next to a fat man in a striped coat who looked at him with amusement. Tellman gasped for breath and cursed his overcaution. Never once had Remus glanced behind him. His mind was apparently absorbed in his purpose, whatever it was.

Tellman was perfectly aware it might have nothing whatsoever to do with Pitt's case. He could have concluded that story already and have found anything, or nothing. But Tellman had scanned the newspapers every morning for articles to do with Adinett, or Martin Fetters, or even a byline for Remus, and found nothing. The front pages were all filled with the horror of the Lambeth poisonings. Seemingly there were seven young prostitutes dead already. Either the Cleveland Street story had been eclipsed by this latest atrocity, or else Remus was still pursuing it... apparently towards St. Pancras.

Remus got off the bus and Tellman followed after him, taking care not to get too close, but still Remus did not look behind him. It was now mid-morning; the streets were busy and becoming choked with traffic.

Remus crossed the street, tipped the urchin sweeping the dung away, and increased his speed on the far side. A moment later he went up the steps of the St. Pancras Infirmary.

A second hospital! Tellman still had no idea why Remus had gone to Guy's, on the other side of the river.

He ran up behind him, glad he had brought a dark-colored cloth cap which he could pull forward to shade his face. Again, Remus made a brief enquiry of the hall porter, then turned and went towards the administration offices, walking rapidly, shoulders forward, arms swinging. Was he after the same thing as he had been at Guy's? Was it because he had failed to find whatever it was the first time? Or was there something to compare?

Remus's footsteps echoed on the hard floor ahead of him, and Tellman's own seemed like a mockery behind. He wondered that Remus did not turn to see who it was.

Two nurses passed, going in the opposite direction, middle-aged women with tired faces. One carried a pail with a lid on it, and from the angle of her body, it was heavy. The other carried a bundle of soiled sheets and kept stopping to pick up the trailing ends.

Remus turned right, went up a short flight of steps and knocked on a door. It was opened and he went in. A small notice said that it was the records office.

Tellman followed immediately behind. There was nothing to be learned standing outside.

It was a kind of waiting room, and a bald man leaned on a counter. There were shelves of files and paper folders behind him. Three other people were there seeking information of one sort or another. Two were men in dark, ill-fitting suits; from their resemblance to each other they were possibly brothers. The third was an elderly woman with a battered straw hat.

Remus took his place in the queue, shifting from one foot to the other with impatience.

Tellman stood closer to the door, trying to be inconspicuous. He stared at the floor, keeping his head down so his cap fell forward naturally, obscuring his face.

He could still watch Remus's back, see his shoulders high and tight, his hands clenching and unclenching behind him. What was he seeking that was so important to him he was unaware of being followed? Tellman could almost smell the excitement in him, and he had not even the shred of an idea what it was about, except that it had to do with John Adinett.

The two brothers had learned what they wished and went out together. The woman moved up.

It was several more minutes before she was satisfied and at last it was Remus's turn.

"Good morning, sir," he said cheerfully. "I am informed that you are the right person to ask if I have any enquiries about the patients in the infirmary. They say you know more about the place than any other man."

"Do they?" The man was not thawed so easily. "And what was it yer would be wanting to know, then?" He pushed out his lower lip. "I'm guessin' it in't about your own family, or yer'd 'a said so simple enough. Nor about the price of bein' cared for, which you could find out without the least trouble. You look like far too smart a gentleman to need my help for anything easy."

Remus was taken aback but he made the best of it very quickly.

"Of course," he agreed. "I'm trying to trace a man who may be a bigamist, at least that is what a certain lady has told me. I'm not so sure."

The clerk drew in his breath to make some remark, then apparently thought better of it. "And you think he may be 'ere, sir? I got records of the past, not who's 'ere now."

"No, not now," Remus replied. "I think he may have died here, which closes the matter anyway."

"So what's 'is name, then?"

"Crook. William Crook," Remus replied, his voice shaking a little. He seemed to be short of breath, and Tellman could see the back of his neck, where his stiff collar was so tight it pinched the flesh. "Did he die here, back end of last year?" Remus went on.

"And if 'e did?" the clerk questioned.

"Did he?" Remus leaned over the counter, his voice rising, his body rigid. "I... I need to know!"

"Yes, 'e did, poor soul," the man answered respectfully. "So do scores o' folk every year. You could find that out by lookin' in public records."

"I know!" Remus was not deterred. "What day did he die?"

The man remained motionless.

Remus put half a crown on the counter. "Look up the record for me, and tell me what religion he was."

"Wot religion?"

"Yes-isn't that plain enough? And what family: who came to see him, who outlived him."

The man looked at the half crown-a considerable amount of money-and decided it was easily enough earned. He swiveled around to the shelves behind him and took down a large blue bound ledger and opened it. Remus's eyes never left him. He was still oblivious of Tellman standing near the door, or of the thin man with sandy hair who came in the moment after.

Tellman racked his brain. Who was William Crook, and why did his death in an infirmary matter? Or his religion? Since he had died last year, what could he possibly have to do with Adinett or Martin Fetters? Was there any way in which he could have been murdered by Adinett, and Fetters had known of it? That would be motive to kill him.

The clerk looked up. "Died fourth o' December. A Roman Catholic, 'e was, accordin' ter 'is widder, Sarah, wot registered 'im."

Remus leaned forward. His voice was carefully controlled, but a pitch higher. "A Roman Catholic. Are you certain? That's what the record says?"

The clerk was irritated. "I jus' told yer, didn't I?"

"And his address before he came here?"

The clerk looked down at the page and hesitated.

Remus understood and produced another shilling, putting it on the counter with a sharp click.

" Nine St. Pancras Street," the clerk replied.

" St. Pancras Street!" Remus was stunned, his voice empty with disbelief. "Are you certain? Not Cleveland Street?"

" St. Pancras Street," the clerk repeated.

"How long had he been there?" Remus demanded.

" 'Ow would I know?" the clerk said reasonably.

"Number nine?"

"That's right."

"Thank you." Remus turned and left, his head bent in thought, and he did not even notice Tellman go after him without having taken his turn at the counter.

Tellman followed at a slight distance as Remus retraced his steps to the street, still apparently consumed in disappointment and confusion, but he did not hesitate to plunge into the crowd and walk briskly towards the end of St. Pancras Street and find number 9. He knocked and stepped back to wait.

Tellman remained on the footpath on the opposite side. Had he crossed to be close enough to overhear, even Remus in his preoccupied state would have noticed him.

The door was opened by a large woman, very tall indeed-Tellman judged her to be over six feet-and with a fierce expression.

Remus was very deferential, as if he held her in the greatest respect, and she seemed to soften a little. They spoke for several minutes, then Remus half bowed, doffed his hat and turned and walked away very quickly, so excited he all but skipped a couple of steps, and Tellman had to run to keep up with him.

Remus went straight to the St. Pancras railway station and in at the main entrance.

Tellman fished in his pockets and felt three half crowns, a couple of shillings and a few pennies. Probably Remus was only going a stop or two. It would be easy enough to follow him-but was it worth the risk? Presumably the tall woman at the door of number 9 had been William Crook's widow, Sarah. What had she told Remus that had banished his confusion and despondency? It must be that her late husband was the same William Crook who had once lived in Cleveland Street, or had some other close connection with it. They had spoken for several minutes. She must have told him more than he wished to know. Something about Adinett?

Remus went up to the ticket window.

At least Tellman should find out where he was going. There were other people in the hall. He could move closer without attracting attention. He kept half behind a young woman with a cloth bag and a wide, light blue skirt.

"Return to Northampton, please," Remus asked, his voice quick and excited. "When is the next train?"

"Not for another hour yet, sir," the ticket seller replied. "That'll be four shillings and eight pence. Change at Bedford."

Remus handed over the money and took the ticket.

Tellman turned away quickly and walked out of the station hall, down the steps and into the street. Northampton? That was miles away! What possible connection could be there? It would cost him both time and money, neither of which he could afford. He was a careful man, not impulsive. To follow Remus there would be a terrible risk.

Without making a deliberate decision he began walking back towards the infirmary. He had an hour before the train left; he could allow forty minutes at least and still give himself time to return, buy a ticket and catch the train-if he wanted to.

Who was William Crook? Why did his religion matter? What had Remus asked his widow, apart from whether they had any connection with Cleveland Street? Tellman was angry with himself for pursuing this at all, and angry with everyone else because Pitt was in trouble and no one was doing anything about it. There was injustice everywhere, while people went about their own affairs and looked the other way.

He thought how he would tell Gracie that it all made very little sense, and possibly had nothing to do with Adinett anyway. Every time he tried for the right words they sounded like excuses. He could see her face in his mind so clearly he was startled. He could picture her exactly, the color of her eyes, the light on her skin, the shadow of her lashes, the way she always pulled a strand or two of her hair a little too tightly at her right brow. The curve of her mouth was as familiar to him as his own in the shaving glass.

She would not accept defeat. She would despise him for it. He could see the expression in her eyes now, and it hurt him too much. He could not allow it to happen.

He changed direction and went westward towards number 9 St. Pancras Street. If he stopped to consider what he was doing his nerve would fail, so he did not think. He walked straight up to the door and knocked, his police identification already in his hand.

It was opened by the same giant of a woman.

"Yes?"

"Good morning, ma'am," he said, his breath catching in his throat. He showed her his identification.

She looked at it closely, her face immobile. "All right, Sergeant Tellman, what is it you want?"

Should he try charm or authority? It was difficult to be authoritative with a woman of her size and her frame of mind. He had never felt less like smiling. He must speak; she was losing patience and it was clear in her expression.

"I am investigating a very serious crime, ma'am," he said with more certainty than he felt. "I followed a man here about half an hour ago, average height, light reddish hair, sharp face. I believe he asked you certain questions about the late Mr. William Crook." He took a deep breath. "I need to know what they were, and what you told him."

"Do you? And why would that be, Sergeant?" She had a marked Scottish accent, soft, from the West Coast, surprisingly pleasing.

"I can't tell you why, ma'am. It would be breaking confidence. I just need to know what you told him."

"He asked if we used to live in Cleveland Street. Very urgent about it, he was. I'd a mind not to tell him." She sighed. "But what's the use? My daughter Annie used to work in the tobacconist's shop there." There was a sadness in her face which for a moment twisted at Tellman as if he had seen into a terrible grief. Then it was gone, and he heard himself press on.

"What else did he ask, Mrs. Crook?"

"He asked if I were related to J. K. Stephen," she answered him. There was a weariness in her voice as if she had no more will to fight the inevitable. "I'm not, but my husband was. His mother was J. K. Stephen's cousin."

Tellman was puzzled. He had never heard of J. K. Stephen.

"I see." All he knew was that it had mattered to Remus so intently he had gone straight to the station and booked a ticket to Northampton. "Thank you, Mrs. Crook. Was that all he asked?"

"Yes."

"Did he give you a reason why he wanted to know?"

"He said it was to correct a great injustice. I didn't ask him what. It could be any one of a million."

"Yes, it could. He was right in that... if that's why he cared." He inclined his head. "Good day, ma'am."

"Good day." She pushed the door closed.

The journey to Northampton was tedious, and Tellman spent the time turning over in his mind all the possibilities he could think of as to what Remus was chasing, getting more and more fanciful as the minutes passed. Perhaps it was all a wild-goose chase? The injustice might have been no more than his way of engaging Mrs. Crook's sympathy. Perhaps it was only some scandal he was pursuing? That was all he had cared about in the Bedford Square case, because the newspapers would buy it fast enough if it increased their readership.

But surely that was not why Adinett had been to Cleveland Street, and also left in excitement and gone to Dismore? He was no chaser of other people's misfortunes.

No, there was a reason here, if Tellman could only find it.

When they reached Northampton, Remus got off the train. Tellman followed him out of the station into the sunlight, where he immediately took a hansom cab. Tellman engaged the one behind it and gave the driver orders to follow him. Tellman sat forward, anxious and uncomfortable as he moved at a fast pace through the provincial streets until they finally drew up at a grim asylum for the insane.

Tellman waited outside, standing by the gate where he would not be noticed. When Remus emerged nearly an hour later, his face was flushed with excitement, his eyes were brilliant and he walked with such speed, arms swinging, shoulders set, that he could have bumped into Tellman and barely noticed.

Should he follow the reporter again and see where he went to now or go into the asylum himself and find out what he had learned? The latter, definitely. Apart from anything else, he had only a limited time to get to the station and catch the last train to London. It would be difficult enough as it was to explain his absence to Wetron.

He went into the office and presented his police identification. The lie was ready on his tongue.

"I'm investigating a murder. I followed a man from London, about my height, thirty years old or so, reddish colored hair, hazel eyes, eager sort of face. I need you to tell me what he asked you and what you answered him."

The man blinked in surprise, his faded blue eyes fixed on Tellman's face, his hand stopped in the air halfway to his quill pen.

"He wasn't askin' about no murder!" he protested. "Poor soul died as natural as yer like, if yer can call starvin' yerself natural."

"Starving yourself?" Tellman had not known what he was expecting, but not suicide. "Who?"

"Mr. Stephen, of course. That's who he was askin' about."

"Mr. J.K. Stephen?"

"S'right." He sniffed. "Poor soul. Mad as a hatter. But then 'e wouldn't 'a bin in 'ere if 'e were all right, would 'e!"

"And he starved himself?" Tellman repeated.

"Stopped eatin'," the man agreed, his face bleak. "Wouldn't take a thing, not a bite."

"Was he ill? Perhaps he couldn't eat?" Tellman suggested.

" 'E could eat, 'e just stopped sudden." The man sniffed again. "Fourteenth o' January. I remember that, 'cos it were the same day as we 'eard the poor Duke o' Clarence were dead. Reckon that's wot did it. Used ter know the Duke, real well. Talked about 'im. Taught 'im ter paint, so 'e said."

"He did?" Tellman was totally confused. The more he learned the less sense it made. It seemed unlikely that the man who had starved himself to death here in this place knew the Prince of Wales's eldest son. "Are you certain?"

"O' course I'm certain! Why d'yer wanna know?" His look narrowed considerably, and there was a note of suspicion in his voice. He sniffed again, then searched his pockets for a handkerchief.

Tellman controlled himself with an effort. He must not spoil it now.

"Just have to make sure I've got the right man," he lied, hoping it sounded believable.

The man found his handkerchief and blew his nose fiercely.

"Used ter be tutor to the Prince, didn't 'e!" he explained. "Reckon w'en 'e 'eard the poor feller'd died, 'e jus' took it too bad. 'E weren't right in the 'ead any'ow, poor devil."

"When did 'e die?"

"Third o' February," he said, putting his handkerchief away. "That's an' 'orrible way ter go." There was pity in his face. "Seemed ter mean summink ter the feller yer followin', but I'm blessed if I know wot. Some poor, sad lunatic decides ter die-o' grief, for all I know-an' 'e goes rushin' out of 'ere. Went orff like a dog after a rabbit. Fair shakin' wi' excitement, an' that's the truth. I don't know nuthink more."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful." Tellman was suddenly unpleasantly aware of the train timetable. "Thank you!" he repeated, and took his leave, sprinting down the corridor and outside, in search of a cab back to the railway station.

He just caught the train, and was glad to sit back in his seat. He spent the first hour writing down all he had learned, and the second trying to concoct in his mind a story for tomorrow that would somehow resemble the truth and still satisfy Wetron that he was on justifiable police business. He did not succeed.

Why had poor Stephen chosen to starve himself to death when he heard the news that the young Duke of Clarence had died? And what interest was that to Remus? It was tragic. But then the man had apparently been judged insane anyway, or he would not have been incarcerated in the Northampton asylum.

And what had it to do with William Crook, who had died last December in the St. Pancras Infirmary of perfectly natural causes? What was the connection with the tobacconist's shop in Cleveland Street? Above all, why should John Adinett have cared?

When they reached London, Tellman jumped out onto the platform and turned one way then the other to see Remus. He had almost given up when he saw him climb slowly out of the carriage two ahead of him. He must have fallen asleep. He stumbled a little, then set off towards the exit.

Again Tellman followed, running the risk of being seen rather than that of losing him. Fortunately it was close to the middle of summer, and the long evenings meant that at nine o'clock it was still sufficiently light to keep someone in sight for up to fifteen or twenty yards or more, even along a reasonably busy street.

Remus stopped at a public house and had a meal. He seemed to be in no hurry, and Tellman was on the point of leaving himself, having come to the conclusion that Remus was finished for the day and would shortly go home. Then Remus glanced at his watch and ordered another pint of ale.

So time mattered to him. He was going somewhere, or he expected somebody.

Tellman waited.

In another quarter of an hour Remus stood up and walked out into the street. He hailed a cab, and Tellman very nearly lost him before he could find one himself, urging the driver to follow him and keep up at all costs.

They seemed to be heading in the general direction of Regent's Park. Certainly this was not anywhere near where Remus lived. He was going to meet someone, to keep an appointment. Tellman held up his watch to catch the light of the next lamppost they passed. It was nearly half past nine, and growing darker.

Then without warning the cab stopped and Tellman leapt out.

"What's happened?" he asked abruptly, staring ahead. There were several cabs along the street next to the park.

"That one!" His driver pointed ahead. "That's the one you want. It'll be one and threepence, sir."

This was becoming a truly expensive exercise. Tellman cursed himself for his stupidity, but he paid quickly and walked towards the figure he could see dimly ahead. He recognized him by his gait, the urgency in him, as if he were on the brink of some tremendous discovery.

They were on Albany Street, just short of the entrance to Regent's Park to the left. Tellman could see the Outer Circle quite clearly, and the smooth grass beyond stretching in the dusk all the way to the trees of the Royal Botanical Gardens, about a quarter of a mile away.

Ahead of him, Remus set out to walk towards the park. Once he turned to look behind him, and Tellman stumbled in his step. It was the first time Remus had taken the slightest notice of his surroundings. There was nothing Tellman could do but continue as if this were the most natural thing in the world for him. He swung his arms and increased his pace a fraction.

Remus resumed his own journey, but now looking around. Was he expecting someone, or afraid of being observed?

Tellman moved closer under the shadows of the trees and dropped back a little.

There were several other people out, some in twos and threes, strolling together, one not far off, a man alone. Remus hesitated in his step, peered forward, then seemed satisfied and moved urgently again.

Tellman went after him as close as he dared.

Remus stopped next to the man.

Tellman ached to know what was said, but they spoke in voices little above a whisper. Even starting forward, hat pulled over his brow and walking within ten feet of them, he caught no distinct words, but he noticed their expressions. Remus was fiercely excited and listened to the other man with total attention, not even glancing around as Tellman passed on the other side of the path.

The other man was extremely well dressed, of more than average height, but his bowler hat was drawn so far forward and his coat collar so high that half his face was hidden. All Tellman could see for certain was that his boots were polished leather, beautifully cut, and his coat was fine and fitted him perfectly. It would have cost more than a police sergeant earned in months.

He continued to walk along the Outer Circle to the turnoff back to Albany Street, then went as far as the next omnibus stop to take him home. His mind was whirling. None of it fitted into a pattern, but now he was certain that there was one. He simply had to find it.

The next morning he slept later than he had meant to and arrived at Bow Street only just in time. There was a message waiting for him to report to Wetron's office. He went up with a sinking heart.

This was Pitt's office, even though his personal books and belongings had been removed and replaced already with Wetron's leather-bound volumes. A cricket bat, presumably of some personal significance, hung on the wall, and there was a silver-framed photograph of a fair-haired woman on the desk. Her face was soft and pretty and she wore a pale lace dress.

"Yes sir?" Tellman said without hope.

Wetron leaned back in his chair, his colorless eyebrows raised.

"Would you care to tell me where you were yesterday, Sergeant? Apparently you found it outside your ability to inform Inspector Cullen..."

Tellman had already decided what to say, but it was still difficult. He swallowed hard. "I didn't have the opportunity to tell Inspector Cullen yet, sir. I was following a suspect. If I'd stopped, I'd have lost him."

"And the name of this suspect, Sergeant?" Wetron was staring at him fixedly. He had very clear blue eyes.

Tellman pulled a name out of memory. "Vaughan, sir. He's a known handler of stolen goods."

"I know who Vaughan is," Wetron said tartly. "Did he have the Bratbys' jewels?" There was deep skepticism in his voice.

"No, sir." Tellman had considered embroidering the account, and decided it offered too much scope for being caught out. It was unfortunate that Wetron knew of Vaughan. He had not expected that. Please heaven no one could prove Vaughan had been in custody in some other station!

Wetron's mouth closed in a thin line. "You surprise me. When did you last see Superintendent Pitt, Sergeant Tellman? And your answer had better be the exact truth."

"The last day he was here at Bow Street, sir," Tellman said swiftly, allowing offense to bristle in his tone. "Nor have I written to him or had any other communication, before you ask."

"I hope that is the truth, Sergeant." Wetron's voice was icy. "Your instructions were very clear."

"Very," Tellman agreed stiffly.

Wetron did not blink. "Perhaps you would like to tell me why you were seen by the beat constable calling at Superintendent Pitt's house late in the afternoon two days ago?"

Tellman felt the cold shudder through him. "Certainly, sir," he replied steadily, hoping his color had not changed. "I'm courting the Pitts' maid, Gracie Phipps. I called on her. No doubt the constable reported that I went to the kitchen door. I had a cup of tea there, and then I left. I did not see Mrs. Pitt. I believe she was upstairs with the children."

"You're not being watched, Tellman!" Wetron said, the faintest color mounting his cheeks. "It was chance that you were observed."

"Yes sir," Tellman responded expressionlessly.

Wetron glanced at him, then down at the papers spread out on the desk in front of him. "Well, you'd better go and report to Cullen. Burglary is important. People expect us to keep their property safe. It's what we are paid for."

"Of course, sir."

"Are you being sarcastic, Tellman?"

Tellman opened his eyes very wide. "Me, sir? Not at all. I'm sure that is what the gentlemen of Parliament pay us for."

"You are damned insolent!" Wetron snapped. "Be careful, Tellman. You are not indispensable."

Wisely, Tellman did not answer this time, but excused himself to go to find Cullen and try to satisfy him as to where he had been and why he had nothing to report.

***

It was a long, hot and extremely difficult day, mostly spent trudging from one unproductive interview to another. It was not until nearly seven in the evening that Tellman, his feet burning, was able to extricate himself from duty and finally take an omnibus to Keppel Street. He had been waiting since yesterday night to tell Gracie what he had learned.

Fortunately again Charlotte was upstairs with the children. It seemed she had made a habit of reading to them at about this hour.

Gracie was folding linen and it smelled wonderful. Freshly laundered cotton was one of his favorite things. This was rough dry, ready for the iron, warm from the airing rail.

"Well?" she asked as soon as he was inside, before he had even sat down at the table.

"I followed Remus." He made himself comfortable, easing the laces of his boots and hoping she would put the kettle on soon. And he was hungry too. Cullen had not allowed him time to eat since midday.

"W'ere'd 'e go?" She looked at him with rapt attention, the last few pieces of linen forgotten.

"St. Pancras Infirmary, to check on the death of a man called William Crook," he answered, leaning back in the chair.

She looked blank. " 'Oo was 'e?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But he died there naturally, the end of last year. Remus seemed to care that he was Roman Catholic. The only thing I can see that mattered about him was that he had a daughter who worked at the tobacconist's in Cleveland Street-and his mother was cousin to the Mr. Stephen who starved himself to death in the madhouse in Northampton."

"Wot?" She was aghast. "Wot are yer talkin' about?"

He told her briefly about his train journey and what he had learned at the asylum. She sat in complete silence, her eyes fixed on him.

"An' 'e were the teacher o' poor Prince Eddy 'oo just died?"

"That's what they said," he agreed.

She frowned. "Wot's that got ter do wi' Cleveland Street? Wot were Adinett doin' there?"

"I don't know," he had to admit again. "But Remus is sure it all ties together. If you'd seen his face you'd know that. He was like a bloodhound on the scent. He practically quivered with excitement, his face was alight, like a child at Christmas."

"Summink 'appened at Cleveland Street, wot started all this goin'," she said thoughtfully, screwing up her face. "Or else it 'appened arter that, because o' wot 'appened at Cleveland Street. An' Fetters an' Adinett knew about it."

"It looks that way," he agreed. "And I intend to find out what it was."

"You be careful!" she warned him, her face pale, eyes frightened. Unconsciously she reached across the table towards him.

"Don't worry," he answered her. "Remus has no idea I'm following him." He put his hand over hers. He was amazed how small it was, like a child's. She did not pull away from him, and for a moment that was all he could think of.

"Not Remus, yer daft article," she whispered huskily. "Yer new boss wot took Mr. Pitt's place. 'E'll have yer if 'e catches yer out o' line, an' then w'ere will yer be? Out on the street wi' nuffink!"

"I'll be careful," he promised, but he was cold inside. He could not afford to have Cullen complain of him again, or to be seen by anyone where he should not be. He had worked since he was fourteen to reach the position he was in now, and if he were thrown out of the police force he would lose his income, and perhaps his character when he needed references for another job. Although there was no other job he wanted or was qualified to do. His whole life would be damaged, every value he had lived by overturned.

And with no job, and soon no lodgings, how could he ever be the man he wanted to be, like Pitt, with a home and a wife... how could he be the man Gracie wanted him to be?

He went on speaking to drive out the thoughts. He was committed now, whatever it cost him. He had to find out the truth-for Pitt, for Gracie, for the sake of honor.

"After Remus got back from Northampton he didn't go home. He had a meal in a public house, then he went by cab to Regent's Park and met a man there, by appointment, because he kept looking at his watch."

"Wot kind o' man?" she asked very quietly, still not moving her hands from his, but keeping them very still, as if not to remind him they were there.

"Very well dressed," he replied, feeling the small bones under his fingers and longing to hold them tighter. "Bit taller than ordinary, wearing a coat with the collar turned up, even at this time of year, and his hat pulled down. I couldn't really see his face. And even though I was only a few yards away, I couldn't hear a word they said."

She nodded without interrupting.

"Then Remus went off quickly again, excited, eager. He's after something so big he hardly knows how to contain himself-or he thinks he is. If it's to do with Adinett, it might be the proof that Mr. Pitt is right."

"I know that," she agreed quickly. "I'll follow 'im. No rozzer's gon' ter notice me, nor think anythin' of it if they do."

"You can't..." he began.

She took her hands away. "Yeah, I can. Least I can try. 'E don't know me, an' even if 'e saw me, it won't mean anythin' to 'im. Anyway... you can't stop me."

"I could tell Mrs. Pitt not to let you off," he pointed out, leaning back in his chair again.

"Yer wouldn't!" The look of dismay in her face was momentarily comical. "What about Mr. Pitt stuck in Spitalfields, an' all the lies they're sayin' about 'im?"

"Well, be careful," he insisted. "Don't follow too close. Just remember where he goes. And come home as soon as it begins to get dark. Don't go into any public houses." He fished in his pockets one after another and took out all his change. He put it on the table. "You'll need money for cabs, or omnibuses."

It was plain in her face that she had not thought of that. She stared across at him, struggling with herself over accepting it.

"Take it!" he ordered. "You can't follow him on foot. And if he goes outside the city again, leave him be. Do you understand?" He looked at her sharply, his stomach knotting. "You're not to go on any trains. No one would know where you are. Anything could happen to you, and where would we even begin to look?"

She swallowed hard. "O'right," she said meekly. "I'll do that."

He was not entirely sure he believed her. He was startled how deeply the fear bit into him that some harm might come to her. He drew breath to say something to stop her from doing it at all, then realized how absurd it would sound. He had no power to command her in anything, as she would be the first to point out. And also it would betray to her how he felt, and he was in no way ready to do that. He did not even know how to deal with it himself, let alone explain it to her. Friendship he could cope with, just. Even that much made demands he was unused to coping with and opened him up to hurt. It was a loss of the independence which had always been his greatest safety.

But he admired her for being willing to take up following Remus in his place. There was a deep warmth inside him when he thought of it. That was a kind of safety also, a knowledge of trust.

"Be careful!" was all he said aloud.

" 'Course I will!" She attempted to be indignant, but her eyes did not leave his, and she stayed still for several minutes before she finally stood up and went to get them both something to eat.

***

Next morning she asked Charlotte for the day off, saying it was something rather urgent she had to do. She had prepared an explanation if it was asked for, but Charlotte seemed satisfied to busy herself with various domestic chores. It took her mind off her anxieties, and if she had further plans to pursue the case herself, she did not share them.

Gracie took the first opportunity to leave. The last thing she wished for was a discussion which might too easily betray her own intentions.

She had very little idea where to find Lyndon Remus at this hour of the day. It was already nearly ten o'clock. But she knew how to get to Cleveland Street on the omnibus, and that was a very good place to begin.

It was a long ride, and she was glad now of Tellman's money, even though it made her feel uncomfortable to have accepted it. But it was definitely a case of necessity. Something had to be done to help Mr. Pitt, and personal feelings must be set aside. She and Tellman could sort out their relationship later, and if that proved to be difficult, well, they would just have to manage.

She reached the last stop for the omnibus in Mile End Road, and alighted. It was five past eleven. She walked along until she came to Cleveland Street, and turned left. It looked very unremarkable, a great deal wider and cleaner than the street where she had been born and grown up... really quite respectable. Not if you compared it with Keppel Street, of course-but then this was the East End.

Where should she start? The direct approach at the tobacconist's, or indirect, asking someone else about them? Indirect was better. If she went there first, and failed, then she would have spoiled it for trying to be discreet.

She looked around at the worn pavements, the uneven cobbles, the grimy, brick-faced buildings, some whose upper windows were broken or boarded. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys. Yard or alley entrances gaped darkly.

What shops were there? A maker of clay pipes and an artist's studio. She knew nothing about art, and not much about pipes, but pipes she could guess about. She walked over to the door and went in, the story ready on her tongue.

"Mornin', miss. Can I 'elp yer?" There was a young man, a year or two older than she was, behind the counter.

"Mornin'," she replied cheerfully. "I 'eard yer 'ave the best pipes any place east o' St. Paul 's. Matter o' taste, o' course, but I want summink special fer me pa, so wot 'ave yer got?"

The lad grinned. His hair grew in a cowlick at the front, giving him a casual, cheeky expression. "Did yer? Well, 'oever told yer that were right!"

"Were a while back," she responded. " 'E's dead now, poor soul. William Crook. 'Member 'im?"

"Can't say as I do." He shrugged. "But then we gets 'undreds through 'ere. Wot kind of a pipe did yer fancy, then?"

"Maybe it were 'is daughter as bought it for 'im?" she suggested. "She used ter work up at the tobacconist's." She gestured up towards the farthest end of the street. "Knew 'er, didn't yer?"

His face stiffened. "Annie? 'Course I did. She were a decent girl. 'Ave yer seen 'er lately? This year, like?" He looked at her eagerly.

"In't yer seen 'er yerself?" she countered.

"Nobody 'ere seen 'er in more'n five years," he replied sadly. "There were an 'ell of a row one day. A bunch o' strangers, real ruffians, suddenly started ter fight. Bangin' seven bells outa each other, they was. Two carriages come up, one ter number fifteen, w'ere the artist used to be, an' the other ter number six. I remember, 'cos I were out in the street meself. Two men went inter the artist's place, an' a few minutes later they come out again draggin' a young feller wif 'em, fair strugglin' and yellin'. 'E were terrible upset, but din't do 'im no good. They bundled 'im inter the carriage an' drove off like the devil was be'ind 'em."

"And the others?" she said breathlessly.

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 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 in the street again 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, 'oo 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' struggling 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, breaking the rule she had just made for herself. " ' 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.