The Whitechapel Conspiracy

chapter EIGHT
Pitt 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."

Pitt smiled at him, following him into the small room where the table was set ready. The polished wood and the unique aromas were already familiar to him, Leah's embroidery on the linen, the picture of Isaac as a young man, the matchstick model of a Polish synagogue just a trifle crooked with age.

They had barely sat down to it when Isaac began talking.

"I'm glad you went to work for Saul," he remarked, cutting a slice of bread for Pitt and one for himself. "But you shouldn't be at that sugar factory at nights. It's not a good place."

Pitt knew him well enough now to be aware that this was only an opening gambit. There was far more to follow.

"Saul is a good man." Pitt took the bread. "Thank you. And I like going around the neighborhood. But I see a different side of things at the factory."

Isaac ate in silence for a while.

"There is going to be trouble," he said presently, looking not at Pitt but down at his plate. "A lot of trouble."

"At the sugar factory?" Pitt remembered what he had heard said in the taverns.

Isaac nodded, then looked up suddenly, his eyes wide and direct. "It's ugly, Pitt. I don't know what, but I'm frightened. Could be we'll get blamed for it."

Pitt did not need to ask whom he meant by "we." He was speaking of the immigrant Jewish population, easily recognizable, natural scapegoats. Pitt already knew from Narraway of the suspicions held of them by Special Branch, but it was his observation that they were, if anything, a stabilizing influence in the East End. They cared for their own, they set up shops and businesses and gave people something to work for. He had told Narraway that. He had not told him about their collection of money for those in trouble. He kept that a private thing, a matter of honor.

"It's only a whisper," Isaac went on. "It's not gossip. That's what makes me think it's real." He was watching Pitt closely, his face puckered with anxiety. "Something is planned, I don't know what, but it isn't the usual crazy anarchists. We know who they are, and so do the sugar makers."

"Catholics?" Pitt asked doubtfully.

Isaac shook his head. "No. They're angry, but they're ordinary people, like us. They want houses, work, a chance to get on, something better for their children. What good would it do them to blow up the sugar factories?"

"Is that what it is, dynamite?" Pitt said with a sudden chill, imagining the sheet of flame engulfing half of Spitalfields. If all three factories were set alight, whole streets would be ablaze.

"I don't know," Isaac admitted. "I don't know what it is, or when, just that something definite is planned, and at the same time there is going to be a big event somewhere else, but concerning Spitalfields. The two are to happen together, one built upon the other."

"Any idea who?" Pitt pressed. "Any names at all?"

Isaac shook his head. "Only one, and I'm not sure in what connection..."

"What was the name?"

"Remus."

"Remus?" Pitt was startled. The only Remus he knew was a journalist who tended to specialize in scandal and speculation. There were no scandals among the inhabitants of Spitalfields that would interest him. Perhaps he had misjudged Remus, and he was concerned with politics after all. "Thank you," he acknowledged. "Thank you for that."

"It's not much." Isaac dismissed it with a wave of his hand. " England has been good to me. I am at home here now." He smiled. "I even speak good English, yes?"

"Definitely," Pitt agreed warmly.

Isaac leaned back in his chair. "Now you tell me about this place you grew up in, the country with woods and fields and wide-open sky."

Pitt looked at the remnants of their meal on the table.

"What about this?"

"Leave it. Leah will do it. She likes to fuss. She will be angry if she catches me in her kitchen."

"You ever been in it?" Pitt said skeptically.

Isaac laughed. "No..." He gave a lopsided grin. "But I'm sure she would!" He pointed to a pile of linen on the side table. "There are your clean shirts. She makes a good job, yes?"

"Yes," Pitt agreed, thinking of the buttons he had found sewn on as well, and her shy, pleased smile when he had thanked her. "Very good indeed. You are a fortunate man."

Isaac nodded. "I know, my friend. I know. Now sit, and tell me about this place in the country. Describe it for me. How does it taste first thing in the morning? How does it smell? The birds, the air, everything! So I can dream it all and think I am there."

***

It was early the following morning as Pitt was walking to the silk-weaving factory that he heard the steps behind him and swung around to see Tellman less than two yards away. His stomach lurched with fear that something was wrong with Charlotte or the children. Then he saw Tellman's face, tired but unafraid, and he knew that at least the news was not devastating.

"What is it?" he said almost under his breath. "What are you doing here?"

Tellman fell into step beside him, pulling him around to continue the way he had been going.

"I've been following Lyndon Remus," he said very quietly. Pitt started at the name, but Tellman did not notice. "He is into something to do with Adinett," he went on. "I don't know what it is yet, but he's alight with it. Adinett was in this area, bit farther east, actually: Cleveland Street."

"Adinett was?" Pitt stopped abruptly. "What for?"

"Looks like he was following a story five or six years old," Tellman answered, facing him. "About a girl kidnapped from a tobacconist's shop there and taken to Guy's Hospital, then found insane. Seems as if he went straight to Thorold Dismore with it."

"The newspaper man?" Pitt asked, starting forward again and skirting around a pile of refuse and only just jumping back onto the footpath in time to avoid being struck by a cart loaded precariously with barrels.

"Yes," Tellman repeated, catching up with him. "But he's taking orders from someone he meets by appointment in Regent's Park. Someone who dresses very well indeed. A lot of money."

"Any idea who?"

"No."

Pitt walked in silence for another twenty yards, his mind whirling. He had determined not to think any more about the Adinett case, but of course it had plagued his mind, teasing every fact to try to make sense of a crime which seemed contrary to all reason or character. He wanted to understand, but more than that, he wanted to prove that he had been right.

"Have you been to Keppel Street?" he asked aloud.

"Of course," Tellman answered, keeping up with him. "They're all fine. Missing you." He looked away. "Gracie found out something about this girl from Cleveland Street. She was Catholic and she had a lover who looked like a gentleman. He disappeared too."

Pitt caught the mixture of emotions in Tellman's voice, the pride and the self-consciousness. At another time he would have smiled.

"I'll tell you if I find out anything else," Tellman went on, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him. "I've got to get back. We've got a new superintendent... Wetron's his name." His voice was laden with disgust. "I don't know what this is all about, but I don't trust anyone, and you'd be best not to either. Do you come this way every morning?"

"Usually."

"I'll tell you everything I find out." He stopped abruptly and swung around to face Pitt, his lantern jaw hollow in the gray light, his eyes dark. "You be careful." Then, as if he had said too much and embarrassed himself by showing his concern, he swiveled on his heel and strode off back the way he had come.

***

Gracie was still determined to follow Lyndon Remus, but she had no intention of allowing either Charlotte or Tellman to know it. That meant it was necessary that she give Charlotte some other reason for wanting to leave the house so early-and for remaining absent, possibly all day. It required considerable imagination to come up with a series of excuses, and she hated lying. If it were not absolutely necessary in order to rescue Pitt from injustice and get him home again, she would not even have contemplated it. She got up just after dawn to have the range lit and the water boiling and the kitchen scrubbed and spotless before anyone else came down. Even the cats were startled to see her at half past five, and not at all sure it was a good idea, especially since she disturbed their sleep in the laundry basket without offering them breakfast.

When Charlotte came down at half past seven Gracie was ready with her story.

"Mornin', ma'am," she said cheerfully. "Cup o' tea?"

"Good morning," Charlotte replied, looking around the kitchen with surprise. "Were you up half the night?"

"Got up a bit early." Gracie kept her voice quite casual, moving the kettle back onto the hob to bring it to the boil again. " 'Cos I wanted a favor, if that's all right." She knew Charlotte was aware of Tellman's regard for her, because they had conspired in the past to take advantage of it-only as a matter of necessity in the cause of detection, of course. She took a deep breath. This was the lie. She kept her back to Charlotte; she did not think she could do it looking at her.

"Mr. Tellman asked me ter go ter a fair wif 'im, if I could get the day off. An' I got an errand as well, bit o' shoppin', not much. But if I could go w'en the laundry's finished, I'd be ever so grateful..." It did not sound as good as she had hoped. She knew Charlotte was finding it increasingly hard to endure the loneliness and the worry, especially since there was so little she could do to help.

Charlotte had been back to see Martin Fetters's widow at least twice, and they were at a loss where to search for his missing papers. However, by now she probably knew as much of Fetters's career as anyone. She had told Gracie of John Adinett's travels, military skill and exploring adventures in Canada. But neither of them could see in any of it a reason why one man had murdered the other, only terrible, dangerous ideas. They had spoken of them together, often late into the evening, after the children were in bed. But without proof none of it helped.

Now it was up to Gracie to find the next link between John Adinett and the forces of anarchy... or oppression, or whatever it was that he had been doing in Cleveland Street and Remus was so excited about. She really had very little idea what it could be, only that Tellman was certain it was ugly and dangerous, and very big.

"Yes, of course," Charlotte replied to Gracie. There was reluctance in her voice, perhaps even envy, but she did not argue.

"Thank you," Gracie accepted, wishing she could tell the truth as to what she was doing; it was on the edge of her tongue. But if she did, Charlotte would stop her, and she must not allow that. It would be self-indulgent and stupid to say anything. She must pull herself together and get on with it.

She still had quite a bit of Tellman's money, and all she could collect of her own. She was ready to follow Remus wherever he went, and she was outside his rooms waiting for him by eight o'clock.

It was a very pleasant morning, warm already. Flower sellers were out with fresh blossoms come in during the early hours. She was glad she did not have to stand all day on corners, hoping to sell.

Delivery boys with fish, meat, vegetables passed by, knocking on scullery doors. There was a milk cart at the next crossroads. A thin woman was carrying a full can back to her kitchen. She walked leaning a little sideways from the weight of it.

A newspaper boy took up his position on the farther corner, every now and then shouting the latest headlines about the coming election. There had been a tornado in Minnesota in America. Thirty-three people had been killed. Already Adinett was forgotten.

Lyndon Remus came out of his front door and started to walk smartly along towards the main thoroughfare and-Gracie hoped profoundly-the omnibus stop. Hansoms were very expensive, and she guarded Tellman's money carefully.

Remus looked purposeful, his head forward, stride long and swinging. He was dressed very ordinarily, in old jacket and with no collar to his shirt. Whoever he intended calling on, it was not gentry. Perhaps he was going back to Cleveland Street?

She followed after him quickly, running a little to catch up. She must not lose him. She could stay quite close; after all, he did not know her.

She was right; he went to the omnibus stop. Thank heaven for that! There was no one else there, so she was obliged to stand more or less beside him to wait. But she need not have been concerned he would remember her if he saw her again. He seemed oblivious to anyone else, straining his eyes to watch the traffic for the omnibus and shifting from one foot to the other in his impatience.

She went with him as far as Holborn, then, as he changed for another omnibus eastwards, she did the same. She was taken unaware and nearly left behind when he got off at the farther end of Whitechapel High Street opposite the railway station. Surely he was not going somewhere else by train?

But he walked up Court Street towards Buck's Row and then stopped, staring around him, facing right. Gracie followed his gaze. She saw nothing even remotely interesting. The railway line north was ahead of them, the board school to the right, and the Smith & Co. distillery to the left. Beyond that was a burial ground. Please heaven he wasn't come to look at graves.

Perhaps he was! He had already enquired into the deaths of William Crook and J. K. Stephen. Was he after a trail of dead men? They couldn't all have been murdered... could they?

There was plenty of traffic in the street, carts and wagons, people going about their business.

She was shivering in spite of the close, airless warmth of the day. What was Remus looking for? How did a detective know, or find out? Perhaps Tellman was cleverer than she had given him credit for. This was not so easy.

Remus was moving forward, looking around him as if now he had something definite in mind, yet he did not seem to be reading numbers, so perhaps it was not an address.

She moved very slowly after him. In case he turned around, she glanced at doors, pretending to be searching also.

Remus stopped a man in a leather apron and spoke to him. The man shook his head and walked on, increasing his pace. He turned up Thomas Street, at the end of which Gracie could just see a notice proclaiming the Spitalfields Workhouse. Its huge, gray buildings were just visible, shelter and imprisonment at once. She had grown up dreading this place more than jail. It was the ultimate misery that awaited the destitute. She had known those who would rather die in the street than be caught in its soulless regimentation.

Remus spoke to an old woman carrying a bundle of laundry.

Gracie moved close enough to overhear. He seemed so absorbed in what he was asking she hoped he would not be aware of her. She stood sideways, staring across the street as if waiting for someone.

"Excuse me..." Remus began.

"Yeah?" The woman was civil but no more.

"Do you live around here?" he asked.

"White's Row," she answered, pointing a few yards to the east, where apparently the street changed its name. It was only a short distance before it finished in the cross street, facing the Pavilion Theater.

"Then perhaps you can help me," Remus said urgently. "Were you here four or five years ago?"

"O' course. Why?" She frowned, narrowing her gaze. Her body stiffened very slightly, balancing the laundry awkwardly.

"Do you see many coaches around here, big ones, carriages, not hansoms?" Remus asked.

Her expression was full of scorn. "Does it look ter yer like we keep carriages 'round 'ere?" she demanded. "Yer'll be lucky if yer can find an 'ansom cab. Yer'd be best orff ter use yer legs, like the rest of us."

"I don't want one now!" He caught hold of her arm. "I want someone who saw one four years ago, around these streets."

Her eyes widened. "I dunno, an' I don't wanner know. You get the 'ell out of 'ere an' leave us alone! Gorn! Get out!" She yanked her arm away from him and hurried away.

Remus looked disappointed, his sharp face surprisingly young in the morning light. Gracie wondered what he was like at home relaxed-what he read, what he cared about, if he had friends. Why did he pursue this with such fervor? Was it love or hate, greed, the hunger for fame? Or just curiosity?

He crossed the road past the theater and turned left into Hanbury Street. He stopped several people, asking the same questions about carriages, large closed-in ones such as might have been cruising to pick up prostitutes.

Gracie stayed well behind him as he went the length of the street right up to the Free Methodist Church. Once he found someone who gave him an answer he seemed delighted with. His head jerked up, his shoulders straightened and his hands moved with surprising eloquence.

Gracie was too far away to hear what had been said.

But even if there had been such a carriage, what did that tell her? Nothing. Some man with more money than sense had come to this area looking for a cheap woman. So he had coarse tastes. Perhaps he found a kind of thrill in the danger of it. She had heard there were people like that. If it had been Martin Fetters, what of it? If it were made public, would it matter so much, except to his wife?

Was Remus really chasing after the reason for Fetters's murder anyway? Perhaps she was wasting her time here, or to be more honest, Charlotte 's time.

She made a decision.

She came out of the doorway, squared her shoulders, and strode towards Remus, trying to look as if she belonged here and knew exactly what she was doing and where she was going. She was nearly past him when at last he spoke.

"Excuse me!"

She stopped. "Yeah?" Her heart was pounding and her breath was so tight in her throat her voice was a squeak.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "But have you lived here for some time? I am looking for someone with some particular knowledge, you see."

She decided to modify her reply a bit, so as not to be caught out by recent events-or the geography of the area, of which she knew very little.

"I bin away." She gulped. "I lived 'ere a few years back."

"How about four years ago?" he said quickly, his face eager, a little flushed.

"Yeah," she said carefully, meeting his sharp, hazel eyes. "I were 'ere then. Wot is it yer after?"

"Do you remember seeing any carriages around? I mean really good quality carriages, not cabs."

She screwed up her face in an effort of concentration. "Yer mean like private ones?"

"Yes! Yes, exactly," he said urgently. "Do you?"

She looked steadily at his face, the suppressed excitement, the energy inside him. Whatever he was looking for, he believed it was intensely important.

"Four year ago?" she repeated.

"Yes!" He was on the verge of adding more to prompt her, and only just stopped himself.

She concentrated on the lie. She must tell him what he expected to hear.

"Yeah, I 'member a big, fine-lookin' carriage around 'ere. Couldn't tell about it except, like, as it were dark, but I reckon as it were about then." She sounded innocent. "Someone yer know, was it?"

He was staring at her as if mesmerized. "I'm not sure." His breath caught in his throat. "Perhaps. Did you see anyone?"

She did not know what to answer because this time she was not sure what he was looking for. That was what she was here to find out. She settled for bland; that could mean anything.

"It were a big, black coach, quiet like," she replied. "Driver up on the box, o' course."

"Good-looking man, with a beard?" His voice cracked with excitement.

Her heart lurched too. She was on the brink of the truth. She must be very careful now. "Dunno about good-lookin'!" She tried to sound casual. "I reckon as 'e 'ad a beard."

"Did you see anyone inside?" He was trying to keep his face calm, but his eyes, wide and brilliant, betrayed him. "Did they stop? Did they talk to anyone?"

She invented quickly. It would not matter if the man he was looking for had not stopped. It could have been for any reason, even to ask the way.

"Yeah." She gestured ahead of her. "Pulled up an' spoke ter a friend o' mine, jus' up there. She said as they was askin' after someone."

"Asking after someone?" His voice was high and scratchy.

She could almost smell the tension in him.

"A particular person? A woman?"

That was what he wanted to hear. "Yeah," she said softly. "That's right."

"Who? Do you know? Did she say?"

She chose the one name she knew of connected with this story. "Annie summink."

"Annie?" He gasped and all but choked, swallowing hard so he could breathe. "Are you sure? Annie who? Do you remember? Try to think back!"

Should she risk saying "Annie Crook"? No. Better not overplay her hand. "No. Begins with a C, I think, but I in't certain."

There was utter silence. He seemed paralyzed. She heard someone laugh fifty yards away, and out of sight a dog barked.

His voice was a whisper. "Annie Chapman?"

She was disappointed. Suddenly all the sense in it collapsed. She was cold inside.

"Dunno," she said flatly, unable to conceal it. "Why? 'Oo was it? Some feller after a night out on the cheap?"

"Never mind," he said quickly, trying to conceal the importance of it to him. "You've been immensely helpful. Thank you very much, very much indeed." He fished in his pocket and offered her threepence.

She took it. At least she could return it to Tellman, give him something back of what she had spent. Anyway, depending upon where Remus went next, she might need it.

He left without even looking behind him, striding off over the cobbles, dodging a coal cart. Nothing was further from his mind than the possibility that he might be followed.

He went straight back down Commercial Street to the Whitechapel High Street. Gracie had to run every now and then to keep up with him. At the bottom he turned west and went to the first bus stop, but instead of traveling all the way back to the City, as she had expected, he changed again at Holborn and went south to the river and along the Embankment until he came to the offices of the Thames River police.

Gracie followed him straight in, as if she had business there herself. She waited behind him, her head down. She had taken the precaution of letting her hair out of its pins and rubbing a little dirt into her face. She now looked reasonably unlike the young woman Remus had stopped on Hanbury Street. In fact, she appeared rather like the urchins who scrambled for leftovers along the riverbank, and hoped she would be taken for one, if anybody bothered to look at her twice.

Remus was inventive also. When the sergeant who answered his call asked him what he wanted, he answered with a story Gracie was certain was created for the occasion.

"I'm looking for my cousin who's disappeared," he said anxiously, leaning forward over the counter. "I heard someone answering his description was nearly drowned near Westminster Bridge, on the seventh of February this year. Poor soul was involved in a coach accident that nearly killed a little girl, and in his remorse he tried to kill himself. Is that true?"

"True enough," the sergeant answered. "Was in the papers. Feller called Nickley. But I can't say as he really tried to kill 'isself." He smiled twistedly. "Took 'is coat an' 'is boots off afore 'e jumped, an' anyone 'oo does that don't mean it fer real." His voice was laden with contempt. "Swam, 'e did. Fetched up on the bank along a bit, like yer'd expect. Took 'im ter Westminster 'Ospital, but weren't nothin' wrong wif 'im."

Remus became suddenly casual, as if what he was asking now were an afterthought and scarcely mattered.

"And the girl, what was her name? Was she all right too?"

"Yeah." The sergeant's blunt face filled with pity. "Close call, poor little thing, but not 'urt, jus' scared stiff. Said it weren't the first time, neither. Nearly got run down by a coach before."

He shook his head, his lips pursed. "Said it were the same one, but don't suppose she can tell one fancy big coach from another."

Gracie saw Remus stiffen and his hands knot by his sides. "The second time? By the same coach?" In spite of himself his voice was sharp as if this new fact had momentous meaning for him.

The sergeant laughed. "No, 'course it weren't! Just a little girl... only seven or eight years old. What'd she know about coaches?"

Remus could not contain himself. He leaned farther forward. "What was her name?"

" Alice," the sergeant answered. "I think."

" Alice what?"

The sergeant looked at him a little more closely. "What's this all about, mister? You know summink as you should tell us?"

"No!" Remus denied it too quickly. "It's just family business. Bit of a black sheep, you know? Want to keep it quiet, if possible. But it would help a lot if I knew the girl's name."

The sergeant was skeptical. He regarded Remus with the beginning of doubt. "Cousin, you said?"

Remus had left himself no room to escape. "That's right. He's an embarrassment to us. Got a thing about this little girl, Alice Crook. I just hoped it wasn't her."

Gracie felt the name shiver through her. Whatever it was, Remus was still on the track of it.

The sergeant's face softened a little. "Well, I'm afraid it were 'er. Sorry."

Remus put his hands up quickly, covering his face. Gracie, standing behind him, saw his body stiffen, and knew it was not grief he was hiding but elation. It took him a moment or two to recompose himself and look up again at the sergeant.

"Thank you," he said briefly. "Thank you for your time." Then he turned on his heel and walked out rapidly past Gracie, leaving her to run after him if she wanted to keep up. If the sergeant even noticed her, he might have thought she was with Remus anyway.

Remus walked back away from the river, looking to the right and left of him as if he were searching for something.

Gracie stayed well back, keeping at least half behind other people in the street, laborers, sightseers, clerks on errands, news boys and peddlers.

Then she saw Remus change direction and walk across the footpath to the post office and go inside.

She went in after him.

She saw him take out a pencil and write a very hasty note in a scribble, his hands shaking. He folded it up, purchased a stamp, and put the letter into the box. Then he set out again at considerable speed. Once more Gracie had to run a few steps every now and then to not lose him.

She was delighted when Remus apparently decided he was hungry and stopped at a public house for a proper meal. Her feet were sore and her legs ached. She was more than ready to sit down for a while, eat something herself, and observe him in comfort.

He chose an eel pie, something she had always disliked. She watched with wonder as he tucked into it, not stopping until he had finished, then wiping his lips with his napkin. She had a pork pie and thought it a lot better.

Half an hour later he set out again, looking full of purpose. She went after him, determined to not lose him. It was early evening by now, and the streets were crowded. She had the advantage that Remus had no idea there was anyone behind him, and he was so set in his purpose that he never once looked over his shoulder or took the slightest steps to be inconspicuous.

After two omnibus rides and a further short walk, Remus was standing by a bench in Hyde Park, apparently waiting for someone.

He stood for five minutes, and Gracie found it taxed her imagination to think of something to explain her own presence.

Remus kept looking around, in case whoever he was waiting for came from the opposite direction. He could not help seeing her. In time he had to wonder why she was here.

What would Tellman have done? He was a detective. He must follow people all the time. Try to be invisible? There was nothing to hide behind, no shadows, no trees close enough. Anyway, if she hid behind a tree she would not see whom he met! Think of a reason to explain her being here? Yes, but what? Waiting for someone as well? Would he believe that? Lost something? Good, but why had she not started to look for it as soon as she got here?

Got it. She had only just discovered it was missing.

She started to retrace her steps very slowly, staring at the ground as if searching for something small and precious. When she had gone twenty yards she turned and started back again. She had almost reached her original position when finally a middle-aged man came towards him along the path and Remus stepped out directly in front of him.

The man stopped abruptly, then made as if to walk around Remus and continue on his way.

Remus moved to remain across his path and, from the attitude of the other man, apparently spoke to him, but so softly Gracie, thirty feet away, could not hear more than the faintest sound.

The man was startled. He looked more closely at Remus, as if he expected to recognize him. Perhaps Remus had addressed him by name.

Gracie peered through the soft evening light, but she dared not draw attention to herself by moving. The older man seemed to be in his fifties, handsome enough, of good height and growing a trifle portly. He was very ordinarily dressed, inconspicuous, well tailored but not expensively. It was the sort of clothing Pitt might have worn, had he not a genius for untidiness sufficient to make any garment ill-fitting. This man was neat, like a civil servant or retired bank manager.

Remus was talking to him heatedly, and the man was replying now with some anger himself. Remus seemed to be accusing him of something; his voice was rising higher, sharp, excited, and Gracie could pick out the odd word.

"... knew about it! You were in on..."

The other man dismissed whatever it was with a quick gesture of his hand, but his face was red and flustered. The indignation in his tone rang false.

"You have no proof of that! And if you-"He gulped back his words, and Gracie missed the next sentence or two. "A very dangerous path!" he finished.

"Then you are equally guilty!" Remus was furious, but there was a thin thread of fear clearly audible in his voice now. Gracie knew that with certainty and it sent a chill rippling through her, clenching the muscles in her stomach and tightening her throat. Remus was afraid of something, very afraid indeed.

And there was something in the other man's body, the angle of his head, the lines of his face that she could still see in the shadows and the thin gold of the evening light. She knew that he was afraid also. He was waving his hands now, jerky, angry movements, sharp denial. He shook his head.

"No! Leave it! I'm warning you!"

"I'll find out," Remus retaliated. "I'll uncover every damned piece of it, and the world will know! We'll not be lied to any longer... not by you, or anyone!"

The other man yanked his arm up angrily, then turned and strode away, back in the direction from which he had come.

Remus took a step after him, then changed his mind and walked very rapidly past Gracie towards the road. His face was set in tense, furious determination. He almost bumped into a couple who were walking arm in arm, taking a late stroll in the summer dusk. He muttered an apology and kept straight on.

Gracie ran after him. She had to keep running, he was going so rapidly. He crossed Hyde Park Terrace, continuing north over Grand Junction Road and up to Praed Street and straight into the station for the underground railway.

Gracie's heart lurched. Where was he going? How far? What was this all about? Who was the man he had met in the park and accused... of what?

She followed him down the steep steps to the ticket window and bought a fourpenny ticket as he did, and went after him. She had been on an underground train before, and seen them coming roaring and screaming out of the tunnels and stop alongside the platform. She had been rigid with terror, and it had taken all the courage she possessed to climb inside that closed tube and be hurtled, in deafening noise, through the subterranean passages.

But she was not going to lose Remus. Wherever he was going, she was going too... to find whatever it was he was pursuing.

The train shot out of the black hole and ground to a stop. Remus got in. Gracie got in behind him.

The train lurched and roared forward. Gracie clenched her fists and kept her lips tightly closed so she would not cry out. Around her everyone else sat stolidly, as if perfectly accustomed to charging through holes under the ground, closed inside part of a train.

They came to the Edgware Road station. People got out, others got in. Remus did not even glance up to see where he was.

The train moved off again.

They passed Baker Street, Portland Road and Gower Street the same way. There was a long stretch to King's Cross, then they seemed to lurch to the right and roar on, gathering speed.

Where was Remus going to now? What was it that connected Adinett's trips to Cleveland Street; the girl Annie Crook, who lived there and had been taken away by force, and her lover as well? She had ended up in Guy's Hospital attended by the Queen's surgeon himself, who had said she was mad. What had happened to the young man? It seemed no one had heard of him again.

What were the coaches about in Spitalfields? Were they driven by the same man who had run down the little girl Alice Crook and then jumped into the river-after taking off his coat and boots?

The train stopped at Farringdon Street, then very quickly after that at Aldergate Street.

Remus shot to his feet.

Gracie almost fell in her surprise and haste to go after him.

Remus got to the door, then changed his mind and sat down again.

Gracie collapsed onto the nearest bench, her heart pounding.

The train went on to Moorgate, and then Bishopsgate. It stopped at Aldgate, and Remus made for the door.

Gracie went also, and climbed up the steps, hurrying into the darkness where Aldgate Street changed into the Whitechapel High Street.

Which way was Remus going? She would have to keep close to him now. The lamps were lit, but they were dim, just pools of yellow here and there.

Was he going back to Whitechapel again, where he'd been before? He was nearly a mile from Buck's Row, which was the other end of the Whitechapel Road, beyond the High Street. And Hanbury Street was a good half mile to the north, more if you took into account all the narrow, winding streets and alleys and dogleg corners.

But instead he turned right into Aldgate Street, back towards the City. Where was he going now? Did he expect to meet with someone further? She remembered the look on his face as he had walked away from the man in Hyde Park. He was angry, furiously angry, yet he was also excited and afraid. This was something of monstrous proportion... or he thought it was.

She was unprepared for it when he turned up Duke Street. It was narrower, darker. The eaves dripped in the gloom. The smells of rot and effluent hung in the air. She found herself shivering. The huge shadow of St. Botolph's Church was just ahead. She was on the edge of Whitechapel.

Remus had been walking as if he knew exactly where he was going. Now he hesitated, looking to his left. The dim light gleamed for a moment on his pale skin. What did he expect to see? Beggars, destitutes huddled in doorways, trying to find a place to sleep, street women looking for chance custom?

She thought of the big black carriages he had asked about, the rumble of wheels on the cobbles growing louder and louder, black horses looming out of the night, the huge shape of the carriage, high, square, a door opening and a man asking... what? For a woman, a specific woman. Why? What gentleman in a carriage would come here at night when he could stay up west and find somebody cleaner, more fun, and with a room and a bed to go to rather than some doorway?

Remus was crossing the street into an alley beside the church.

It was pitch-dark. She stumbled as she followed him. Where in the devil's name was he going? She knew he was still ahead of her because she could hear his feet on the cobbles. Then she saw him outlined against a shaft of light ahead. There was an opening. There must be a street lamp there, around the corner.

She reached it and emerged. It was a small square. He stood motionless, staring around; for a moment his face was turned towards the yellow glare of the one lamp. His eyes were wide, his lips parted and drawn back in a dreadful smile that was a mixture of terror and exultation. His whole body shook. He raised his hands a little, white-knuckled in the gaslight, clenched tight.

She looked up at the grimy sign on the brick wall above the light. Mitre Square.

Suddenly she was ice-cold, as if the breath of hell had touched her. Her heart almost stopped. At last she knew why he had come here-to Whitechapel, to Buck's Row, to Hanbury Street, and now to Mitre Square. She knew who he was after in the big black coach that didn't belong here. She remembered the names: Annie Chapman, known as Dark Annie; and Long Liz; and Kate; and Polly; and Black Mary. Remus was after Jack the Ripper! He was still alive, and Remus believed he knew who he was. That was the story he was going to break in the newspapers to make his name.

She turned and ran, stumbling and gasping back through the alley. Her knees were weak, her lungs hurt as if the air were knives, but she was not staying in that hellish place a second longer. It drenched her imagination with horror, the blinding, paralyzing fear, the blood, the pain, the moment when the women met his eyes and knew who he was-that was the worst of all, seeing into the heart and the soul of someone who had done that... and would do it again!

She collided with someone and let out a scream, thrashing with her fists till she felt soft flesh, heard a grunt and a curse. She tore herself free and pounded into Duke Street and raced down towards Aldgate Road. She did not know or care whom she had struck, or whether Remus was behind her or not, whether he knew she had followed him... just as long as she could get a bus or a train and get away, out of Whitechapel and its ghosts and demons.

An omnibus was going west. She shouted and ran out into the street, startling the horses and making the driver curse her. She did not care in the slightest. Ignoring his protests, she scrambled on board and collapsed in a heap on the first vacant seat.

"Devil after yer?" a man said kindly, a smile of amusement in his broad face.

It was too close to the truth to be a joke. "Yeah..." she said hoarsely. "Yeah... 'e is!"

She finally arrived home at Keppel Street after eleven o'clock, to find Charlotte pacing the kitchen floor, pale-faced and hollow-eyed.

"Where have you been?" she demanded furiously. "I've been worried sick for you! You look terrible! What happened?"

Gracie was so relieved to be home safe, in the warmth and light of the familiar kitchen with its smells of clean wood and linen, bread, herbs, and to know that Charlotte cared about her, that now at last she burst into tears and sobbed incoherently while Charlotte held her lightly in her arms.

Tomorrow she would give her a very carefully edited version of the truth, with an apology for lying.