by Anne Perry
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 believ
e 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 Re
mus 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?