Long Spoon Lane: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel

by Anne Perry

  Now Tellman was too wide awake to sleep, but his mind was made up. All that was still left to decide was who would he take with him to make the arrest. He dared not do it alone in case Jones fought, which he well might. In an area like Mile End or Whitechapel, there were enough dark alleys or closed-in courts for him to pull a knife on Tellman, and escape. No one would come to Tellman’s aid, and he dared not look to the local police anyway. Any one of them could be as corrupt as Jones himself, could even be Jones’s master, or a middleman between the two.

  He lay down, and did eventually sleep fitfully, but woke up with his mind turned again immediately to whom he could trust to take with him.

  In the event he had very little choice. It was either Stubbs or Cobham. Cobham was new, and disinclined to take orders easily. He tended to question, to want reasons for everything, and there was no time for explanations. It had to be Stubbs. All he knew about him was that, like Tellman himself, he was the oldest of a large family. He spoke occasionally of his mother but never his father. Perhaps he was dead. Stubbs might have ambitions or loyalties of his own, but that was true of everyone. Fear of that could stop Tellman from ever taking a step at all. That was one of the worst things about corruption, it crippled action, it blurred any decision until in the end you doubted everyone, even your ability to be right about yourself. It was a cool morning with a slight mist over the river and he set out very early to collect the forged note. By eight o’clock he had seen the landlord of the public house most likely to pay it on to Jones without giving him the slightest hint that there was anything unusual in this installment. But just to be as sure as possible, Tellman reminded him of the unpleasantness he would face were the operation to fail, as well as the advantages to his future if it succeeded.

  By nine o’clock he was at Bow Street as usual, about his duties and keeping well away from Wetron’s path. He decided not to risk telling Stubbs he would require him; instead, by lunchtime, he collected Stubbs from where he was writing up his paperwork in the ledger and said he had a job for him. Stubbs, who hated writing, was delighted to accept.

  They went together and questioned a pawnbroker about a stolen silver urn and pair of candlesticks. It was something Tellman could perfectly well have done alone, and they went farther east as if to continue the search. They had an amiable lunch at the Smithfield Tavern, then walked quietly towards the public house where Tellman expected Jones to collect extortion money. He had considered picking him up earlier, closer to where he lived, and following him until he reached the one where the note was. However, if Stubbs were loyal to the Circle, or anyone in it, in debt to them, or afraid, or even simply careless, he might manage to get some warning to Jones.

  So they were obliged to wait. The sky clouded over and occasional showers made them colder and left them shivering. Stubbs was growing steadily more puzzled, and less happy.

  Tellman chose not to explain. It would involve too many details he was not willing to discuss.

  Another shower drifted past. Momentarily, hailstones rattling against the windows of the shop behind them. Then Jones appeared, striding along the pavement, coat flapping, black hat jammed on his head. He went into the public house, and emerged ten minutes later, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, and set out across the cobbles to the far side of the street.

  “Come on!” Tellman said sharply. “He’s the one we want.”

  “What for?” Stubbs asked, obeying with alacrity. He stepped into a puddle and swore under his breath. “Who is he?”

  “Passer of forged money,” Tellman replied.

  “ ’Ow do yer know?” Stubbs caught up with him as, ahead of them, Jones ducked into an alley to take a shortcut towards his next stop.

  “It’s my job,” Tellman replied, crossing after Jones and going straight into the alley. He was reluctant to follow into a place he did not know, and where he could easily be ambushed, but he dared not lose Jones. Out of his sight for more than a moment or two, he could pass the money on and the whole arrest would fall through. The police corruption ate at Tellman like an ulcer in his flesh, and to fail in the battle against it for what amounted to cowardice would be unbearable. And he would have let Pitt down. That was almost as bad.

  The alley was dark, the rain clouds graying the sky and making the shadows heavy between the high walls. Jones was ahead of him, rapidly approaching another man, who was thickset with a massive chest and short, slightly bowed legs. He had a powerful, hatchet-shaped face with deep-set eyes. He stood in the center of the alley, right across Jones’s path, but Jones did not hesitate, and certainly made no move as if to turn or back away from him.

  Tellman had no choice. Once the money passed hands he would have no excuse to hold Jones.

  “We’ve got to take him,” Tellman said quietly. This would put to the test beyond doubt which side Stubbs was on. Tellman’s stomach knotted and his throat constricted so tightly for a moment he could barely breathe. He strode forward and lunged at Jones, grasping him from the back, twisting his arm around while keeping his body as a shield between himself and the other man. If he had a weapon of any sort it would be temporarily useless. He could hear Stubbs’s feet on the cobbles behind him.

  “Police, Mr. Jones,” Tellman said very clearly. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of passing forged money.”

  Jones yelped, partly in surprise, but mostly in pain as he tried to wriggle away; Tellman’s grip on his arm tightened. “You won’t find nothin’ on me!” he said in outrage.

  “You’re Bow Street,” the hatchet-faced man said softly. His voice was quite light and his diction unusually clear. It did not match his image at all. “What are you doin’ ’ere? My name’s Grover,” he went on. “From Cannon Street. Sergeant Grover.”

  “Sergeant Tellman. And I followed the money from the Bow Street area,” Tellman replied.

  “Liar!” Jones said indignantly. “I never bin nowhere near Bow Street.”

  “Are you sure o’ that, Sergeant Tellman?” Grover asked, taking a step towards them. He was now only about three yards away.

  Tellman stepped back, pulling Jones with him away from Grover and closer to Stubbs. “Yes, Sergeant, I am sure,” he said. “Easy enough to see if he’s got forged money on him. Let’s take a look. Constable Stubbs!” He did not ask Stubbs to hold Jones. If he let him go, intentionally or not, it could then be three against one, and Tellman would have no chance. “Look in his pockets,” he commanded.

  For a long, aching moment no one moved, then Stubbs came forward.

  Jones let out a snarl. “You’ll find nothing forged on me!” he said angrily. “Sergeant Grover! You know me. This is your patch. What are you letting this Bow Street man get away with?”

  “If you’ve nothing, I’ll apologize,” Tellman replied, tightening his grip even more and making Jones wince. “I’ll even buy you dinner. Get on with it, Stubbs! What’s the matter with you?” He was finding it harder to hold Jones, and he was aware of someone else at the far end of the alley, coming towards them from behind Grover. Grover must have heard him because he swung around. Then he looked back at Tellman, his expression curiously uncertain.

  The man from the far end came into the light. It was Leggy Bromwich, a petty thief Tellman had known for years. He had turned a blind eye to him once or twice when he was only getting his own back, so he owed Tellman a favor. Not that that counted for much.

  “Hello, Leggy,” Tellman said with a smile that was more a baring of his teeth. “Seen any good forgeries lately?”

  “Yer got one, Mr. Tellman?” Leggy asked, his face brightening.

  “I’m about to,” Tellman replied, “when Constable Stubbs here gets to doing his job.”

  Leggy stopped just beyond Grover’s reach, his eyes wide, a slight smile on his thin face.

  Stubbs felt in Jones’s pockets one after another, and picked out handfuls of money. “Just coins,” he said expressionlessly.

  Jones said nothing.

  Tellman felt his he
art sink. Had Jones passed the note to Grover already? Or had the publican betrayed Tellman and not given it to Jones at all? He could taste failure in his mouth like bile. “Try inside his shirt!” he said roughly.

  “Oh now, Mr. Tellman!” Jones protested. “You can’t do that! I’m an innocent man!”

  Tellman twisted Jones’s arm a little tighter. Jones yelled.

  “Sergeant, you’re out of your patch,” Grover began warningly.

  Stubbs glanced at Grover, then at Leggy. He put his hand inside Jones’s shirt and pulled out two five-pound notes.

  “Look at them,” Tellman told him. “Look close.”

  Stubbs did so. Even at a three-foot distance Tellman could see they were not alike. At least one of them had to be a forgery, and only a moderately good one.

  “Sergeant Grover?” Tellman said inquiringly. Now he was very glad Leggy Bromwich was here.

  “Mr. Jones, I’m disappointed in you,” Grover said with mock sadness. He took a step backwards. “It seems Sergeant Tellman is right after all. Careless, that. Very careless.”

  Tellman bared his teeth in another smile. “It is, isn’t it,” he agreed. “Not much use to anyone, a thing like that. I wouldn’t like to have my debts paid by a handful of those! Constable Stubbs, handcuffs, if you please. We have to take Mr. Jones with us. Good day, Mr. Grover, Leggy!” And he jerked Jones around to face the way out of the alley and pushed him forwards, Stubbs beside him.

  He walked out to the main street where with luck they would find a hansom soon. He did not look behind him to see Grover’s expression, or the satisfaction he imagined on Leggy Bromwich’s face. He would be wise not to cross Grover’s path for a month or two at least.

  That evening, after having delivered his news to Pitt, Tellman stood in the street outside the Gaiety Music Hall beside Gracie. She was glowing with excitement. He had promised to take her for nearly three weeks now, and twice had had to put it off, on Wetron’s orders or to pursue Pitt’s request. Tonight he put all other matters out of his head and came here regardless. Gracie’s shining face was sufficient reward to put the misery of suspicion out of his thoughts, at least until he was home again in his rooms and realization forced itself back upon him that he could afford to trust no one.

  Of course it was possible the anarchists were mistaken about the degree of corruption. They were not exactly stable or rational men. Whoever heard of anything so totally idiotic as destroying all order so you could create justice again from the resulting chaos?

  But the question of what Stubbs would have done if Leggy Bromwich had not been there nagged in his mind. And what would Stubbs tell Wetron? For that matter, what would Grover say to Simbister? Did he believe Jones had really dealt in forged money, or did he know perfectly well that Tellman had put it there himself? The one thing he was certain of was that Grover would not come out into the open and accuse the landlord of paying his extortion with forged money.

  But if the rot was as widespread as Pitt feared, and they did not beat it, then Tellman faced a whole new problem. He realized with sick misery that he could not stay in the police. He would have to find some other profession to follow, but what? He knew nothing else. He had asked Gracie to marry him. What could he offer her if he had no work?

  She was clinging onto his arm, largely to keep herself from being separated from him in the crowd surging forward as the doors were opened. It was a good feeling, warm and sweet. Heaven knows, he had waited long enough for her even to speak civilly to him! He remembered her original scorn towards him. She had swept by him with her chin in the air, which was an achievement, considering she barely made five feet and was as scrawny as a twopenny rabbit. But she had enough spirit for two women twice her size, and Tellman had been fascinated from the beginning. Admittedly, he had deceived himself for nearly a year that it was irritation with her meddling that moved him, nothing else.

  They pressed forward with the crowd, and were shown to their seats. There was chattering and laughter as everyone arranged their skirts, complained about their neighbors, called out to people they knew, and generally made themselves comfortable.

  It was an excellent bill: an acrobat, a juggler, two contortionists who worked together, a dancer, several singers, and two first-class comedians. He had bought Gracie chocolate and mint humbugs, and intended to buy her a lemonade in the interval. For three hours he could put everything to do with crime of any sort out of his mind.

  The curtain rose. To bursts of applause the master of ceremonies announced the acts in the customary flowing and ornate language. Gracie and Tellman thoroughly enjoyed the jugglers who were funny as well as clever, and the acrobat who was graceful and something of a mime artist as well. They were happy to join in enthusiastically with the singers, as was all the audience. The first half of the show finished with howls of laughter at one of the two comedians billed.

  When the applause had subsided and the red plush curtain had fallen, Tellman rose to his feet.

  “Would you like a lemonade?” he offered.

  “Thank you, Samuel,” she said courteously. “That would be very nice.”

  He returned barely ten minutes later. She accepted the glass from him and sat sipping, a very slight frown on her face.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously. “Is it too sour?”

  “It’s lovely,” she answered. “I’m just worried about Mr. Pitt.”

  “Why’s that?” he said, wanting to reassure her. If she had seen his anxiety, or the guilt eating at him because the force he had served and believed in all his adult life was riddled with corruption, then he must help divert her from the truth, and find some other explanation. “Special Branch is a hard job, you know,” he went on. “Not as straightforward as regular police.”

  “ ’Course it isn’t,” she agreed, sipping again at the lemonade. Her voice was very soft when she continued. The people next to them could not have heard. “ ’E’s tryin’ ter find out if them stupid bombers is tellin’ the truth about the police, or not. An’ it in’t ’ardly like ’e could ask anyone, is it? ’Oo could ’e trust?”

  “Most of us are as honest as anyone in Special Branch!” he said hotly. “And he knows that!”

  “ ’E knows you are,” she corrected him. “ ’E don’t know about nobody else.”

  “Yes he does. He knows…” He stopped, aware that he himself was not sure whom he could trust.

  She was looking at him, her eyes bright and sharp, seeing every flicker that crossed his face. He felt the heat in his cheeks, and knew he was coloring.

  “ ’E told you about it, din’t ’e?” she said levelly, ignoring the lemonade. “Yer know wot it is as ’e’s scared of, don’t yer?”

  Her friendship was too new, and far too precious to risk by telling lies, even half-lies. “I can’t talk about police business,” he said gravely. “Not even with you.” If he told her it was to protect her from worrying she would be furious. He had tried it before, and been accused of talking down to her. She had treated him like a leper for two months afterwards.

  “You don’t need to!” she said stiffly. “I worked for Mr. Pitt for near ten years. I know as ’e won’t let rottenness go by, whatever it costs ’im ter show it up. An’ Mrs. Pitt might be so scared for ’im she can’t barely see straight, but that won’t stop ’im neither.”

  “Isn’t that what you’d want?” he asked, hearing the fierce admiration in her voice, and seeing it in the brilliance of her eyes as she stared at him.

  She hesitated, somehow caught in doubt.

  He did not understand. “Well, isn’t it?” He was certain he had not misread her emotion. Apart from knowing her, it was what he believed himself.

  She looked away. “I know as ’e’s gotter do it,” she said so softly he only just heard her. Then she swung back, her eyes blazing, full of tears. “But you ’aven’t! If they guesses wot yer doin’, ’oo’s gonna pull yer out, eh?” She gulped, her body stiff, shoulders square and tight. “Yer in the police
all by yerself, an’ if they catch yer ’e can’t do nothin’ ter ’elp, nor can nobody else!”

  He opened his mouth to deny that he was doing anything dangerous.

  “An’ don’t yer lie ter me, Samuel Tellman!” she said, almost choking on the words. “Jus’ don’t yer dare!”

  “I wasn’t going to lie,” he said stiffly. Now he had no choice. If he allowed her to dictate to him what he was going to do, or not do, he would be making a rod for his back from which he would not be free for the rest of his life. No matter how he loved her, he was not going to have that. “I wanted to save you the worry of talking about it,” he went on. “But you pushed your way in, I don’t know how. I never told you, and I’m sure Mr. Pitt didn’t either.”

  “Yer don’t ’ave ter tell me,” she retorted, still whispering fiercely. “I can work it out for meself! Them anarchists blew up ’ouses wot belongs ter a rozzer from Cannon Street, on purpose, like. Parliament’s busy tryin’ ter make laws ter give yer all guns, wot Mr. Pitt don’t want, cos ’e says they’ll just make policin’ ’arder by puttin’ everyone’s back up agin yer. An ’is ’ole station o’ Bow Street is run by a schemin’ sod as we all know is ’ead o’ the Inner Circle wot near killed Mr. Pitt before.”

  “Gracie!” he hissed warningly. “Keep your voice down! You don’t know who’s listening!”

  She ignored him. “Lady Vespasia’s all worried about it, and Miss Emily,” she went on. “Yer can’t go ter the music ’all cos yer too busy, an’ when yer do, yer that tired yer got circles ’round yer eyes like someone’s ’it yer! Yer think I can’t work it out fer meself?”

  He should have known better than to hope she would remain ignorant of at least the size of the trouble. But it made no difference to his duty.

  “It seems you can,” he conceded. “I hoped you would not need to know, so you wouldn’t worry.”

  She snorted with contempt for the idea.