The Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

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

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

  Tellman went after him as close as he dared.

  Remus stopped next to the man.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes sir?” Tellman said without hope.

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

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

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

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

  Tellman pulled a name out of memory. “Vaughan, sir. He’s a known handler of stolen goods.”

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

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

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

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

  “I hope that is the truth, Sergeant.” Wetron’s voice was icy. “Your instructions were very clear.”

  “Very,” Tellman agreed stiffly.

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

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

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

  “Yes sir,” Tellman responded expressionlessly.

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

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Are you being sarcastic, Tellman?”

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

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

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

  •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She looked blank. “ ’Oo was ’e?”

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

  “Wot?” She was aghast. “Wot are yer talkin’ about?”

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

  “An’ ’e were the teacher o’ poor Prince Eddy ’oo just died?”

  “That’s what they said,” he agreed.

  She frowned. “Wot’s that got ter do wi’ Cleveland Street? Wot were Adinett doin’ there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She nodded without interrupting.

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

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

  “You can’t ...” he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She swallowed hard. “O’right,” she said meekly. “I’ll do that.”

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

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

  “Be careful!” was all he said aloud.

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

  •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Were a while back,” she responded. “ ’E’s dead now, poor soul. William Crook. ’Member ’im?”

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

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

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

  “In’t yer seen ’er yerself ?” she countered.

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

  “And the others?” she said breathlessly.

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

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

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

  He shrugged.

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

  “Were he Annie’s lover?” she guessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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