The Whitechapel Conspiracy

chapter NINE
Tellman tried to put Gracie out of his mind. It was difficult. Her eager face kept intruding every moment he relaxed and allowed his attention to wander from what he was doing. However the knowledge that Wetron was watching him and waiting for him to make the slightest error forced him to keep working as hard as he could on the wretched burglaries. He could not afford to be caught in even the smallest mistake.

His diligence was rewarded with a stroke of good luck, bringing the end of the case into sight.

He also thought more often than he wished, and with both discomfort and guilt, about Pitt, living and working in Spitalfields. It was quite obvious why they had put him there. It was ridiculous to think he was going to make any difference one way or the other regarding the anarchists. That was a specialized job and they had men doing it very well already. From Cornwallis's point of view it was an attempt to save him from any further danger; and for those who had commanded it, it was punishment for having convinced the jury that Adinett was guilty.

And he was left vulnerable because he could not prove why Adinett had done it; he could not even suggest a reason. That was why Tellman felt guilty. He was still a policeman, still free to pursue the truth and find it, and he had achieved nothing except to learn that Adinett had been excited about something in Cleveland Street which seemed to have unending ramifications, very little of which he understood.

He was standing near the flower market a couple of blocks down from the Bow Street police station when he realized someone had stopped near him and was watching him.

Gracie!

His first reaction was pure pleasure. Then he saw she was scrubbed and pale, and she stood very quietly, unlike her usual self. His heart sank. He walked over to her.

"What is it?" he said urgently. "What are you doing here?"

"I came ter see yer," she retorted. "Wot did yer think-I come for a bunch of flowers?" Her voice was sharp. It alarmed him. Now he was certain there was something badly wrong.

"Is Mrs. Pitt all right? Has she heard from him?" That was his first thought. He had barely seen Charlotte since Pitt had left, and that was over a month ago now. Perhaps he should have spoken with her? But it would have been intrusive, even impertinent, and what would he say? She was a lady, the real thing, and she had family.

What she relied on him to do was find out the truth and show that Pitt had been right, so he could be reinstated in Bow Street, where he belonged. And he had signally failed to do that!

A flower cart trundled past them and stopped a dozen yards away.

"What is it?" he said again, more sharply. "Gracie!"

She swallowed hard. He could see her throat jerk. Now he was really afraid. Too much of his life was tied up in Keppel Street. He could not shrug it off and walk away. He would be left incomplete, hurting.

"I followed Remus, like yer said." She looked at him defiantly.

"I didn't tell you to follow him! I told you to stay at home and do your job!"

"Yer told me first ter follow 'im," she pointed out stubbornly.

A couple walked past them, the woman holding newly bought roses up to smell the perfume.

Gracie was frightened. Tellman could see it in her face and in the way she stood, the stiffness inside her. Her whole body was rigid. It made him angry, made him want to protect her, and he felt the fear as if it had brushed him too with a breath of ice. He did not want this! He was vulnerable, wide open to being hurt, twisted, even broken.

"Well, you shouldn't have! You should stay at home where you're supposed to be, looking after Mrs. Pitt and the house!"

Her eyes were wide and dark, her lips trembling. He was making it worse. He was hurting her and leaving her alone with whatever it was that she had seen, or thought.

"Well, where did he go?" he asked more gently. It sounded grudging, but it was himself he was angry with-for being clumsy, feeling too much and thinking too little. He did not know how to behave with her. She was so young, fourteen years younger than he was, and so brave and proud. Trying to touch her was like trying to pick up a thistle. And there was nothing of her! He'd seen bigger twelve-year-olds. But he had never known anyone of any size with more courage or strength of will. "Well, then?" he prompted.

Her eyes did not waver from his. She ignored the passersby. "I spent all yer money," she said. "An' a bit wot I was give as well."

"You didn't go out of London! I told you..."

"No, I didn't," she said quickly, gulping. "But I don' 'ave ter do wot yer tells me. 'E went ter Whitechapel, Remus did... ter the back streets, Spitalfields way, Lime'ouse side. 'E asked if anyone seen a big carriage about four years ago, drivin' around, one as don't belong. Which were kind o' daft. Nobody around there's goin' ter 'ave a carriage. Shanks's pony, more like. Omnibus if yer sticks ter the main ' Igh Street."

He was puzzled. But at least this was not sinister. "Looking for a carriage? Do you know if he found anything?"

For a moment he thought she was going to smile, but it died before it began. There was an underlying terror inside her which snuffed out every shred of lightness. It gripped at him with a kind of pain he could hardly bear.

"Yeah, 'cos 'e never recognized me, so I let 'im ask me, like 'e asked anyone else," she answered. "An' I told 'im I'd seen a big black carriage four years ago. 'E asked me if anyone in it 'ad acted like they was lookin' fer anyone special. So I told 'im they 'ad."

"Who?" His voice came roughly, hoarse with tension.

"I said the first name as came ter me 'ead. I were thinking o' that girl wot wos took from Cleveland Street, so I said 'Annie.'" She shivered violently.

"Annie?" He took a step closer to her. He wanted to touch her, hold her by the shoulders, but she might have pushed him away, so he stood still. "Annie Crook?"

Her face was bleached white. She shook her head very slightly. "No... I didn't know it till later, hours later, w'en I followed 'im back to Whitechapel again, arter 'e'd bin ter the river police, wrote a letter ter somebody, an' met up wi' a gent in 'Yde Park an' accused 'im o' summink terrible, an' 'ad a real quarrel wif 'im, an' then gorn all the way back ter Whitechapel-" She stopped, breathless, her chest heaving.

"Who?" he demanded urgently. "If it wasn't Annie Crook, what does it matter?" Unreasonably, he was disappointed. Only the horror in her face held him from looking away.

She gulped again. "It were Dark Annie," she said in a strangled whisper.

"Dark... Annie...?" Slowly the horror began to dawn on him, cold as the grave.

She nodded. "Annie Chapman... wot Jack cut up!"

"The... Ripper?" He could barely say the word.

"Yeah!" she breathed. "The other places 'e were askin' about coaches were Buck's Row, w'ere Polly Mitchell were found, 'Anbury Street w'ere Dark Annie were, an' 'e finished up in Mitre Square, w'ere they got Kate Eddowes, wot wos the worst o' them all."

Horror washed over him as if something nameless, primeval, had come out of the darkness and stood close to them both, death in its heart and its hands.

He could not bring himself to say the name. "If you knew it then, you shouldn't have followed him the rest of the way back to the river police and..." he started, hysteria rising in his voice.

"I didn't!" she protested. " 'E went ter the police first, askin' about a coach driver called Nickley tryin' ter run down a little girl about seven or eight, wot 'e did twice, but never got 'er." She caught her breath. "An' after the second time 'e went an' jumped inter the river, but 'e took 'is boots off first, so 'e din't really mean ter kill 'isself, 'e jus' wanted folks ter think 'e did."

"What's that got to do with it?" he asked quickly. He caught hold of her arm and pulled her to the side of the pavement, out of the way of two men passing by. He did not let go of her.

"I dunno!" she said.

He was struggling to find sense in the story, to see the connections to Annie Crook and what it could have to do with Adinett and Pitt. But deeper, from the core of him, welling up in spite of all he could do to prevent it, he was fighting his fear for Gracie, and his fear for himself because she mattered to him more than he could control or knew how to deal with.

"But 'e knows," she said, watching him. "Remus knows. 'E's so lit up yer could see yer way across London by 'im."

He was still staring at her.

"I saw 'is face in the lamplight in Mitre Square," she repeated.

"That's w'ere Jack did Kate Eddowes... an' 'e knew that! Remus knew! That's w'y 'e were there."

Suddenly he realized what she was saying. "You followed him there at night?" He was aghast. "By yourself... into Mitre Square?" He heard his voice ascend up the scale, trembling and out of control. "Haven't you got the wits you were born with? Think what could have happened to you!" He shut his eyes so tightly it hurt, trying to force away the visions that were inside his head. He could remember the pictures of the bodies four years ago, hideous distortions of the human form, a mockery of the decencies of death.

And Gracie had gone there, at night, following a man who could be anything. "You stupid..." he shouted. "Stupid..." No word came to him that was adequate for his fear for her, his rage and relief, and the fury at his own vulnerability-because if anything had happened to her he would never have been happy again.

He was oblivious of people stopping to stare at him, even of an elderly gentleman who hesitated by Gracie, concerned for her safety. Then apparently he decided it was domestic, and hurried on.

Tellman did not want to care so much, about Gracie or anyone else, but particularly about her. She was prickly, wrong-headed about almost everything that mattered; she didn't even like him, let alone love him; and she was determined to stay in service to the Pitts. The very thought of being in service to anyone set his teeth on edge, like the sound of a knife scraping on glass.

"You are stupid!" he shouted at her again, swinging his arm around as if he would smash something on the ground, only he had nothing to throw. "Don't you ever think what you're doing?"

Now she was angry too. She had been frightened before, but he had insulted her, and she was not going to stand for that.

"Well, I found out wot Remus were after, an' that's more'n you did!" she shouted back. "So if I'm stupid, wot does that make you, eh? An' if yer in too much of a rage ter see wot I jus' told yer, an' use it ter 'elp Mr. Pitt, then I'll jus' 'ave ter do it me-self! I dunno 'ow, but I'll do it. I'll go an' find Remus again an' tell 'im I know wot 'e's doin', an' if 'e don't tell me-"

"Oh, no you won't!" He caught hold of her wrist as she turned to leave, almost cannoning into a large woman in a striped dress.

"Get off o' me!" Gracie tried to snatch herself away, but Tellman had her tightly, and he was too strong for her. She bent forward and bit him, hard.

He yelled with pain and let go of her. "You little beast!"

The large woman hurried away, muttering to herself.

"Then you keep yer 'ands ter yerself!" Gracie shouted back at Tellman. "An' don't yer try tellin' me wot ter do and wot not ter do! I don't belong ter nobody, an' I'll do wot I like. Yer can 'elp me an' Mr. Pitt, or yer can stand there an' call me names. It don't make no difference. We'll find out the truth, an' we'll get 'im back-you'll see!" This time she flounced her skirts around and stormed off.

He started to go after her, then stopped. His hand was thoroughly sore. Unconsciously he put it to his lips. He had no idea what to say to Gracie anyway. He felt crushed. He wanted to help, for Pitt's sake, and because it was right, and for Gracie's sake too. She would have to trust him, and he would be more than worthy of it.

But he was terrified for her, and it was a new and dreadful feeling, a fear like no other, cold and knotting him up inside.

She stopped a dozen yards away and swung around to face him again.

"Are you really jus' gonna stand there like a bleedin' lamppost? " she demanded.

He strode over to her. "I'm going to find Remus," he said gravely. "And you're going home to Keppel Street before Mrs. Pitt throws you out for not doing your job. I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that she's worried sick where you are-as if she didn't have enough to be scared about." He projected his own feelings onto Charlotte. "She's probably been awake half the night imagining all sorts of terrible things happening to you. She's lonely, doesn't know what to say or do for the best, and you should be there helping."

She looked at him, weighing her words. "Yer going ter find Remus, then?" she challenged.

"You deaf? I just told you I am!"

She sniffed. "Then I reckon as I've told you all I found out, I'll go 'ome an' get summink fer dinner... maybe make a cake." She shrugged and started walking away again.

"Gracie!"

"Yeah?"

"You did very well... in fact, brilliantly. And if you ever do it again, I'll tan your seat till you have to eat off the mantelpiece for a week. Do you hear me?"

She grinned at him, then kept on walking.

He did not want to smile, but he could not help it. Suddenly there was a joy beside the fear, a fierce, warm ache he never wanted to lose.

Tellman did not even consider remaining by the flower market pursuing the stolen goods. It was still early. If he went straightaway he might find Remus and be able to confront him and discover, either by threat or persuasion, exactly what he knew. For Pitt's sake he must find out what connection it had with Adinett-for everyone's, if Remus really knew the identity of the most fearful murderer ever to strike London, or possibly anywhere. All other names of terror paled beside his.

He walked rapidly away, head down, not looking right or left in case he caught the eye of anyone he knew. Where would Remus be at this hour? It was not yet five past nine. Perhaps he was still at his home? He had been out late enough last night.

He caught a hansom, to save time, giving the driver Remus's address.

If he were not there, then where would he be? Where would he go this morning? What pieces of the puzzle were left to find?

What did he know already? It had something to do with a coach driver called Nickley, who apparently had driven his master's carriage around Whitechapel searching for those five particular women, and then when he had found them, someone had butchered them in the most horrific manner. Why these women and not others? Why had he stopped with five? They had been ordinary enough, prostitutes of one sort or another. There were tens of thousands like them. Yet, according to Gracie, whoever it was had asked after at least one of them by name.

The cab jolted him along the street without interrupting his concentration.

So it was not a maniac simply out to kill. There was purpose. Why had Annie Crook been taken from the tobacconist's shop in Cleveland Street, and apparently ended up at Guy's Hospital? And attended by the Queen's surgeon! Why? Who paid for it? If she was insane it was hardly a surgical matter.

And who was the young man who had been taken from Cleveland Street at the same time, and also under protest?

He arrived, paid the driver but asked him to wait five minutes while he went and knocked on the door. The landlady told him Remus had gone out ten minutes before, but she had no idea where to.

Tellman thanked her and went back to the cab, directing the driver to the nearest railway station. He would take the underground train to Whitechapel, then walk the quarter mile or so to Cleveland Street.

Through the journey he sat turning the problem over in his mind. If Remus was not there, and he could not find him, he would have to start asking around himself. There did not seem any better place to begin. It all appeared to start with Annie Crook. There were several other pieces that so far had no connection, such as why was it important that Annie Crook had been Catholic?

Presumably the young man was not, and either his family or hers had objected. And her father, William Crook, had ended up dead in the St. Pancras Infirmary.

Who was Alice, that the coach driver had nearly run her down, not once, but twice? Why? What kind of a man wants to murder a seven-year-old child?

There was definitely a great deal more to learn, and if Remus knew any of it, then Tellman must get it from him, one way or another.

And who was the man Remus had met in Regent's Park, who seemed to have been giving him advice and instruction? And who was the man he had quarreled with at the edge of Hyde Park? From Gracie's description, a different man.

He got off at Whitechapel and walked rapidly to Cleveland Street, turning the corner and striding briskly.

This time luck was with him. He saw the figure of Remus less than a hundred yards ahead, standing almost still, as if uncertain which way to go.

Tellman increased his pace and reached him just as he was about to turn left and go towards the tobacconist's shop.

Tellman put out his hand and grasped Remus's arm.

"Before you go, Mr. Remus, I'd like a word with you."

Remus jumped as if he had been frightened half out of his wits.

"Sergeant Tellman! What the devil are-" Then he stopped abruptly.

"Looking for you," Tellman answered the question, even though it had not been completed.

Remus effected innocence. "Why?" He started to say something more, then thought better of it. He knew about protesting too much.

"Oh, a lot of things," Tellman said casually, but without letting go of Remus's arm. He could feel the muscles clenched under his fingers. "We can start with Annie Crook, go on through her abduction to Guy's Hospital and whatever happened to her, and the death of her father, and the man you met in Regent's Park, and the other man you quarreled with in Hyde Park..."

Remus was too badly shaken to conceal it. His face was white, fine beads of sweat on his lip and brow, but he said nothing.

"And we could go on to the coach driver who tried to run down the child, Alice Crook, and then threw himself into the river, only he swam out of it again," Tellman went on. "But most of all I want to know about the man inside the coach that drove around Hanbury Street and Buck's Row in the autumn of '88, and cut the throats of five women, ending up disemboweling Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square, where you were last night..." He stopped because he thought Remus was going to faint. He retained his grasp on him now as much to hold him up as to prevent him from running away.

Remus was shuddering violently. He tried to swallow, and nearly choked.

"You know who Jack is." Tellman made it a statement.

Remus's whole body was rigid, every muscle locked.

Tellman felt his own breath rasping. "He's still alive... isn't he?" he said hoarsely.

Remus jerked his head in a nod, but in spite of his fear there was a light returning to his eyes, almost a brilliance. He was sweating profusely. "It's the story of the century," he said, licking his lips nervously. "It'll change the world... I swear!"

Tellman was doubtful, but he could see that Remus believed it. "If it catches Jack that'll be enough for me," he said quietly. "But you had better do some explaining, and now." He could not think of a sufficiently effective threat, so he did not add one.

The challenge returned to Remus's eyes. He snatched his arm loose from Tellman's grip. "You won't prove it without me. You'll be lucky if you ever prove it at all!"

"Maybe it isn't true."

"Oh, it's true!" Remus assured him, his voice ringing with certainty. "I just need a few more pieces. Gull's dead, but there'll be enough left, one way or another. And Stephen's dead too, poor devil... and Eddy, but I'll still prove it, in spite of them."

"We," Tellman corrected him grimly. "We'll prove it."

"I don't need you."

"Yes you do, or I'll blow it wide open," Tellman threatened. "I don't care about making a story, you're welcome to that, but I want the truth for other reasons, and I'll get it, whether I make your story or ruin it."

"Then come away from the shop," Remus urged, glancing over his shoulder and back again at Tellman. "We can't afford to wait around here and be noticed." He turned as he spoke and started off towards the Mile End Road again.

The air smelled like thunder, damp and heavy.

Tellman hurried after him. "Explain it to me," he ordered. "And no lies. I know a great deal. I just haven't worked out how it all connects up... not yet."

Remus walked a few paces without answering.

"Who is Annie Crook?" Tellman asked, matching him step for step. "And more important, where is she now?"

Remus deliberately ignored the first question. "I don't know where she is," he answered without looking at him. Then, before Tellman could become angry, he added, "Bedlam, by now, I should think. She was declared insane and put away. I don't know whether she's still alive. There's no proper record of her at Guy's, but I know she went there and was kept there for months."

"And who was her lover?" Tellman went on. In the distance thunder rumbled over the rooftops and a few heavy spots of rain fell.

Remus stopped dead, so abruptly Tellman was a couple of steps beyond him before he stopped too.

Remus's eyes were wide; he started to laugh, a high, sharp, hysterical sound. Several people turned in the street to look at him.

"Stop it!" Tellman wanted to slap him, but it would have drawn even more attention to them. "Be quiet!"

Remus gulped and controlled himself with an effort. "You don't know a damn thing, do you? You're just guessing. Go away. I don't need you."

"Yes, you do," Tellman contradicted him with certainty. "You haven't got all the answers yet, and you can't get them, or you would have. But you know enough to be frightened. What else do you need? Maybe I can help. I'm police; I can ask questions you can't."

"Police!" Remus gave a guffaw of laughter, full of anger and derision. "Police? Abberline was police-and Warren! As high as you like... commissioner, even."

"I know who they are," Tellman retorted sharply.

"Of course you do," Remus agreed, nodding his head, his eyes glittering. The rain was heavier, and warm. "But do you know what they did? Because if you do, the next thing I know I'll be in one of these alleys with my throat cut as well." He took a step back as he said it, almost as if he thought Tellman might make a sudden lunge for him.

"Are you saying Abberline and Warren were involved?" Tellman demanded.

Remus's contempt was withering. "Of course they were! How else do you think it was all covered up?"

It was absurd. "That's ridiculous!" Tellman said aloud, ignoring the rain, which was now soaking them both. "Why would someone like Abberline want to cover up murder? He'd have made a name for himself that would have gone down in history if he'd solved that case. The man who caught the Whitechapel murderer could have called his own price."

"There are some things bigger even than that," Remus said darkly, but the tension and the excitement were back in his face again, and his eyes were bright and wild. The water was running down his face, plastering his hair to his head. Over the rooftops the thunder rumbled again. "This is bigger than fame, Tellman, or money, believe me. If I'm right, and I can prove it, it will change England forever."

"Rubbish!" Tellman denied it savagely. He wanted it to be false.

Remus turned away.

Tellman grabbed his arm again, bringing him up short. "Why would Abberline conceal the worst crimes that have ever happened in London? He is a decent man."

"Loyalty." Remus said the word hoarsely. "There are loyalties deeper than life or death, loyalties deep as hell itself." He put his hand to his throat. "Some things a man... some men... will sell their own souls for. Abberline is one, Warren 's another, and the coachman Netley-"

"What Netley?" Tellman asked. "You mean Nickley?"

"No, his name's Netley. When he said Nickley at the Westminster Hospital, he was lying."

"What's he got to do with them? He drove the coach around Whitechapel. He knew who Jack was, and why he did what he did."

"Of course he did... he still does. And I daresay he'll go to the grave telling no one."

"Why did he try to kill the child-twice?"

Remus smiled, his lips drawn wide over his teeth. "As I said before, you know nothing."

Tellman was desperate. The thought of Pitt's being thrown out of office in Bow Street because he had stuck to the truth infuriated him. Charlotte was left alone, worried and frightened, and Gracie was determined to help, no matter what the danger or the cost. The thought of the whole monstrous injustice of it all was intolerable.

"I know where to find a lot of senior policemen," he said very quietly. "Not just Abberline, or Commissioner Warren, but a fair few more as well, all the way up, if I have to. Those two might be retired, but others aren't."

Remus was ashen white, his eyes wild. "You... wouldn't! You'd set them on me, knowing what they did? Knowing what they're hiding?"

"I don't know!" Tellman responded. "Not unless you tell me."

Remus gulped and ran the back of his hand over his mouth. His eyes flickered with fear. "Come with me. Let's get out of the rain. Come to the pub across there." He pointed over the road.

Tellman was glad to agree. His mouth was dry and he had already walked a considerable distance. The rain did not bother him. They were both soaked to the skin.

Lightning flashed in a jagged fork, and thunder cracked overhead.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in a quiet corner with glasses of ale and the smell of sawdust and wet clothes all around them.

"Right," Tellman began. "Who did you meet in Regent's Park? And if I catch you in one lie, you're in trouble."

"I don't know," Remus said instantly, his face pained. "And so help me God, that's the truth. The man who put me onto all this, right from the beginning. I admit I wouldn't tell who he is if I knew, but I don't."

"Not a good start, Mr. Remus," Tellman warned him.

"I don't know!" Remus protested, a kind of desperation in his voice.

"What about the man in Hyde Park that you quarreled with and accused of hiding a conspiracy? Another mysterious informant?

"No. That was Abberline."

Tellman knew Abberline had been in charge of the Whitechapel murders investigation. Had he concealed evidence, even that he had known the identity of the Ripper, and not revealed it? If so, his crime was monstrous, and Tellman could think of no explanation that justified it.

Remus was watching him.

"Why would Abberline hide it?" he asked again. Then he framed the question that was beating in his mind. "What has Adinett got to do with it? Did he know too?"

"I think so." Remus nodded. "He was certainly onto something. He was at Cleveland Street, asking at the tobacconist's, and at Sickert's place."

Now Tellman was confused. "Who is Sickert?"

"Walter Sickert, the artist. It was at his studio they met. That was in Cleveland Street then," Remus answered.

Tellman guessed. "The lovers? Annie Crook, who was Catholic, and the young man?"

Remus grimaced. "How quaintly you put it. Yes, that's where they met, if you like to phrase it that way."

Tellman assumed from his words that it was more than a mere meeting. But the core of it all still escaped him. What had it to do with an insane murderer and five dead and mutilated women?

"You are not making sense." He leaned a little forward across the table between them. "Whoever Jack was-or is-he wanted particular women. He asked for them by name, at least he did for Annie Chapman. Why? Why did you go asking after the death of William Crook in St. Pancras, and the lunatic Stephen in Northampton? What has Stephen to do with Jack?"

"From what I can tell..." Remus's thin hands were clenched on his beer mug. It shook very slightly, rippling the liquid. "Stephen was the Duke of Clarence's tutor, and he was a friend of Walter Sickert. It was he who introduced them."

"The Duke of Clarence and Walter Sickert?" Tellman said slowly.

Remus's voice was half strangled in his throat. "The Duke of Clarence and Annie Crook, you fool!"

The room whirled around Tellman as if he were at sea in a storm. The eventual heir to the throne, and a Catholic girl from the East End. But the Prince of Wales had mistresses all over the place. He was not even particularly discreet about it. If Tellman knew, then probably all the world did.

Remus looked at Tellman's blank face.

"From what I know now, Clarence-Eddy, as he was called-was rather awkward, and his friends suspected he might have leanings towards men as much as women."

"Stephen..." Tellman put in.

"That's right. Stephen, his tutor, introduced him to a lot of more acceptable kinds of entertainment with Annie. He was very deaf, poor devil, like his mother, and found social conversation a bit difficult." For the first time there was a note of compassion in Remus's voice, and a sudden sadness filled his face. "But it didn't work out the way they meant. They fell in love... really in love. The core of it is..." He looked at Tellman with a strange mixture of pity and elation. His hands were shaking even more. "They might have been married..."

Tellman jerked his glass so hard that ale slopped over the edges onto the table. "What?"

Remus nodded, shivering. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And that's why Netley, poor Eddy's driver, who used to bring him here to see Annie in Cleveland Street, tried twice to kill the child... poor little creature..."

"Child?" Now it was plain. "Alice Crook..." Tellman gulped in air and nearly choked. "Alice Crook is the daughter of the Duke of Clarence?"

"Probably... and maybe in wedlock. And Annie was Catholic." Remus was whispering now. "Remember the Act of Settlement?"

"What?"

"The Act of Settlement," Remus repeated. Tellman had to lean right across the table to hear him. "Made law in 1701, but still in effect. It excludes any person who marries a Roman Catholic from inheriting the crown. The Bill of Rights of 1689 says the same thing."

The true enormity of it began to dawn on Tellman. It was hideous. It jeopardized the throne, the stability of the government and the whole country.

"So they forced them apart?" It was the only possible conclusion. "They kidnapped Annie and put her in a madhouse... and what happened to Eddy? He died? Or did they... surely...?" He could not even say it. Suddenly being a prince was a terrible thing, isolated, frightening, one individual lonely human being against a conspiracy that stretched everywhere.

Remus was looking at him with the pity still in his face.

"God knows"-he shook his head-"poor soul couldn't hear half of what was going on, and maybe he was a bit simpler than some. It seems he was devoted to Annie and the child. Maybe he created a fuss about them. He was deaf, alone, confused..." He stopped again, his face filled with misery for a man he had never seen but whose pain he could imagine too vividly.

Tellman stared ahead at the scruffy posters and the scribbling on the pub wall, profoundly grateful that he was there and not in some palace, watched over by murderous courtiers, a servant to the throne and not master of anything.

"Why the five women?" he said at last. "There has to have been a reason."

"Oh, there was," Remus assured him. "They were the ones who knew about it. They were Annie's friends. If they'd known what they were up against, they'd have disappeared. But they didn't. Word has it they were greedy, at least one of them was, and led the others. They asked Sickert for money in exchange for silence. He told his masters, and the women got silence all right-the silence of a blood-soaked grave."

Tellman buried his face in his hands and sat motionless, his mind in chaos. Was Lyndon Remus the real lunatic? Could any of this fearful story be true?

He looked up slowly, lowering his hands.

As if reading his thoughts, Remus spoke. "You think I'm mad?"

Tellman nodded. "Yes..."

"I can't prove any of it... yet. But I will. It's true. Look at the facts."

"I am. They don't prove it. Why did Stephen kill himself? How was he involved?"

"He introduced them. Poor Eddy was quite a good painter. Sight, you see. No hearing needed. Stephen loved him." He shrugged. "In love with him, maybe. Anyway, when he heard he was dead, God knows what he thought, but it finished him. Guilt, maybe, maybe not. Perhaps just grief. It doesn't affect the story."

"So who killed the women?" Tellman asked.

Remus shook his head a little. "I don't know. My guess is Sir William Gull. He was the royal physician."

"And Netley drove the coach going around Whitechapel, looking for them, so Gull could carve them up?" Tellman found himself shaking with an inner cold the warmth of the tavern could do nothing to help. The nightmare was inside him.

Again Remus nodded. "In the coach. That was why there was never that much blood, and why he was never caught in the act."

Tellman pushed away the last of his beer. The thought of eating or drinking made him sick.

"We just need the last pieces," Remus went on, his glass also untouched now. "I need to know more about Gull."

"He's dead," Tellman pointed out.

"I know." Remus leaned forward. The noise around them was increasing, and it was getting harder to hear. "But that doesn't alter the truth. And I need to have every fact possible. All the speculation in the world won't do any good without the facts that can't be argued away." He watched Tellman intently. "And you could get access to things I can't. They know who I am, and they won't tell me any more. I don't have an excuse." He nodded. "But you could. You could say it was to do with a case, and they'd talk to you."

"What are you going to do?" Tellman questioned. "What else do you need? And why? What will you do with it all when you have it, if you ever do? There's no good going to the police. Gull is dead, Abberline and Warren are both retired. Are you after the coachman?"

"I'm after the truth wherever it goes," Remus said grimly. A large man hesitated near them, and Remus waited until he was gone before he continued. "What I really want is the man behind it, the one who sent them out to do these things. He may not have been within five miles of Whitechapel, but he is the heart and mind of the Ripper. The others were just the hands."

Tellman had to ask. The sounds of ordinary life were all around them, talking, laughter, the clink of glasses, the shuffling of feet, the splash of beer. It seemed so sane, so commonplace, that such things as they were speaking of were surely impossible. And yet stop any one of these men in here and mention the horror of four years ago, and a sudden silence would fall, the blood would drain from faces and eyes would go cold and frightened.

Even now it would be as if someone had opened an inner door onto a darkness of the soul.

"Do you know who that is?" Tellman's voice was rough. He needed to drink to calm the dryness, but the thought choked him.

"I think so," Remus answered. "But I'm not telling you, so there's no point in asking. That's what I'm going after. You find out about Gull and Netley. Don't go near Sickert." There was sharp warning in his face. "I'll give you two days. Meet me back here then."

Tellman agreed. He had no choice, regardless of what Wetron or anyone else might do. Remus was right; if what he supposed were true, then it was a far bigger issue than any individual crime, bigger even than solving the most terrible murders London had ever seen.

But he could not forget Pitt, and his original reason for asking.

"How much of this did Adinett know?"

Remus shook his head. "I'm not sure. Some of it, that's certain. He knew about them taking Annie Crook from Cleveland Street to Guy's, and taking Eddy away too."

"And Martin Fetters? Where does he fit in? What did he know?"

"Who's Martin Fetters?" Remus looked momentarily confused.

"The man Adinett murdered!" Tellman said sharply.

"Oh!" Remus's face cleared. "I've no idea. If it had been the other way around, and Fetters had killed Adinett, I would say Fetters was one of them."

Tellman stood up. Whatever he was going to do, it must be quickly. If Wetron caught him even once more, he might be dismissed. If he trusted Wetron, or anyone apart from Pitt, he would tell what he knew and be given time, almost certainly help as well. But he had no idea how far the Inner Circle stretched or whose loyalty lay where. He must do this alone.

He left the public house and walked out into the thinning rain.

If Sir William Gull had been the man who had carried out those fearful deeds, then Tellman needed to learn for himself everything about him that he could. His mind was crowded with thoughts and imaginings as he walked towards the main street and the nearest omnibus stop. He was happy to travel slowly. He needed time to absorb the story that Remus had told him and think what to do next.

If the Duke of Clarence had really married Annie Crook, whatever form the ceremony had taken, and there were a child, then no wonder certain people had panicked to keep it secret. Quite apart from the laws of succession to the throne, the anti-Catholic feeling in the country was sufficiently powerful that knowledge of the alliance would be enough to rock the monarchy, fragile as it was at the moment.

But if it was exposed that the most hideous murders of the century had been committed by royal sympathizers, perhaps even with royal knowledge, there would be revolution in the streets and the throne would be swept away on a tide of rage which might destroy the government as well. What would arise afterwards would be strange, unfamiliar, and probably no better.

But whatever it was, Tellman was filled with dismay at the thought of the violence, the sheer weight of anger that would shatter so much that was good, as well as the relatively little that was not. How many ordinary people who were now going about their daily lives would have everything they knew swept away? Revolution would change those in power, but it would create no more food, houses, clothes, no more worthwhile jobs, nothing lasting to make life richer or safer.

Who would form the new government when the old was gone? Would they necessarily be any wiser or fairer?

He got out of the bus and walked up the slope towards Guy's Hospital. There was no time for subtlety. When Remus had enough evidence in his own mind, he would make it public. The man in Regent's Park who had prompted him would make sure of that.

Who was he? Remus himself had said he did not know. There was no time now to find out, but his motive was clear enough-revolution here in England, the end of safety and peace, even with all its iniquities.

Tellman went up the steps and into the front door of the hospital.

It took him the remainder of that day, talking to half a dozen different people about their recollections of the late Sir William Gull, to gain some impression of the man. What slowly gathered form was a picture of a man dedicated to the knowledge of medicine, most especially the workings of the human body, its structure and mechanics. He seemed impelled more by a desire to learn than by a wish to heal. He was driven by personal ambition and little visible compassion to relieve suffering.

There was one particular tale he heard about Gull's treatment of a man who died. Gull decided to perform a postmortem. The dead man's elderly sister was so profoundly concerned that the body should not be left mutilated that she insisted on remaining in the room during the operation.

Gull had not demurred, but carried out the whole procedure in front of her, removing the heart and putting it in his pocket to take away so that he might keep it. It revealed a streak of cruelty in him Tellman found abhorrent to the feelings of patients and their families.

But Gull had unquestionably been a good doctor, and served not only the royal family but also Lord Randolph Churchill and his household.

He could find no written record of Annie Crook's stay at Guy's, but three members of the hospital staff recalled her vividly and said that Sir William had performed an operation on her brain, after which she had very little memory left. In their opinion she was certainly suffering from some form of insanity, at least by the time she had been there for the hundred and fifty-six days of her stay.

What had happened to her after that they did not know. One elderly nurse was grieved by it, and still felt a sense of anger over the fate of a young woman she had been unable to help in her confusion and despair.

Tellman left a little before dark. He could wait no longer. Even if he jeopardized Pitt's mission in Spitalfields, which he believed was largely abortive anyway, he must find him and tell him what he knew. It was far more terrible than any anarchist plot to dynamite a building here or there.

He took the train as far as Aldgate Street, then walked briskly along Whitechapel High Street and up Brick Lane to the corner of Heneagle Street. Wetron might very well throw him off the force if he ever found out, but more was at stake than any one man's career, either his or Pitt's.

He knocked on the door of Karansky's house and waited.

It was several moments before the door was opened a few inches by a man he could barely see in the dim light. There was no more than the silhouette of head and shoulders against the background. He had thick hair and was a trifle stooped.

"Mr. Karansky?" Tellman asked quietly.

The voice was suspicious. "Who are you?"

Tellman had already made the decision. "Sergeant Tellman. I need to speak to your lodger."

There was fear in Karansky's voice. "His family? Something is wrong?"

"No!" Tellman said quickly, warmed by a sudden sense of normality, of life where affection was possible and the darkness outside was a temporary thing, and under control. "No, but I have learned something I must tell him now. I'm sorry to disturb you," he added.

Karansky pulled the door wider. "Come in," he invited. "Come in. His room is at the top of the stairs. Would you like something to eat? We have-" Then he stopped, embarrassed.

Perhaps they had very little.

"No, thank you," Tellman declined. "I ate just before I came." That was a lie, but it did not matter. Dignity should be preserved.

Karansky may not have meant it to, but the relief was in the tone of his voice. "Then you had best go and find Mr. Pitt. He came in half an hour ago. Sometimes we play a little chess, or talk, but tonight he was late." He seemed about to add something further, then changed his mind. There was anxiety in the air, as if something ugly and dangerous were expected, an inward clenching against hurt. Was it always like that here, the waiting for violence to erupt, the uncertainty as to what the next disaster would be, only the certainty that it would come?

Tellman thanked him and went up the narrow stairs and knocked on the door Karansky had indicated.

The answer was immediate but absentminded, as if Pitt knew who it would be and half expected it.

Tellman opened the door.

Pitt was sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped forward, deep in thought. He looked even more untidy than usual, his hair wild and too long over his collar, but his shirt cuffs had been neatly darned, and there was a pile of clean laundry on the chest of drawers, well ironed.

When Tellman closed the door without speaking Pitt realized it was not Karansky, and looked around. His mouth dropped with amazement, then alarm.

"It's all right!" Tellman said quickly. "But I've learned something I have to tell you tonight. It's..." He pushed his hand over his hair, slicked back as always. "Actually, it's not all right." He found he was shaking. "It's the most... it's the biggest... it's the most hideous and terrible thing I've ever heard, if it's true. And it's going to destroy everything!"

As Tellman told him, the last remaining color bleached out of Pitt's face and he sat motionless with horror, until his body began to shiver uncontrollably, as if the cold had gotten inside him.