by Anne Perry
Carmody blinked.
“Well, if he was a policeman, wouldn’t it make sense?” Pitt pressed his momentary advantage. “Why leave a witness? What’s the difference between one anarchist and another?”
“Magnus was our leader,” Carmody answered without hesitation. “Makes sense to kill the leader.”
“If it wasn’t one of your own, how would he know that?” Pitt said.
Carmody was silent, and he watched Pitt with absorption. The affectation of boredom had vanished.
“If we’d known anything about you, we would have arrested you long before you blew up Myrdle Street,” Pitt pointed out. “It makes us look incompetent. And of all the police in London, why Grover?”
“Because he ran all the dirty errands for Simbister at Cannon Street,” Carmody replied.
Pitt felt a tightening in his own chest. “How did you know?” he asked.
Carmody gave a grunt of impatience. “If you knew Magnus, you wouldn’t doubt it.”
“I didn’t know him.”
“He was careful. He collected times and places, amounts. He knew exactly who was paying and how much, who was making the threats and who was carrying them out. He even paid debts for some people.” There was pride in his voice and he stared at Pitt with a rage for helpless pain and the injustice of it, which he could not redress.
Pitt believed him, but he needed more information—and he could not expect Carmody to trust him. He tried to keep his own emotions from his face. “And you know this for certain?”
“Yes, I do!” Carmody leaned forward a little. “And you believe me. You know damn well I’m telling the truth. You can get me hanged for Magnus’s murder, if you lie enough, and get your men to lie too, but you’ll not silence all of us. There’s proof, and you’ll never find it. Whoever killed Magnus won’t stop his work from going on.”
“What did Magnus want?” Pitt asked. “Apart from chaos, no rules, no safety to grow food, or move it to the cities, no transport, no heat or light, no protection for the weak…”
“No, of course he didn’t want that!” Carmody said in disgust. “None of us wanted real chaos, just an end to oppression.” He shifted position a little. The air in the cell was clammy. “You can mock us all you like, but Magnus was a reformer, not a revolutionary. You asked me who would want to kill him? Not us. We believed in what he was doing and we were prepared to give everything we had to help. We still are!” He jabbed his finger towards the steel door. “Ask who has something to lose—motive. Isn’t that what detectives are supposed to look for? Who was Magnus going to hurt? Corrupt police. There’s your answer.”
“In Cannon Street?” Pitt said quietly.
“And Bow Street, Mile End, Whitechapel.”
“Who has the proof?” He did not expect an answer, but he had to ask.
Carmody snorted. “You think I’d tell you? If you really don’t know, start with Myrdle Street, and work west. Try Dirty Dick’s Tavern, at Bishopsgate. Or Polly Quick up at the Ten Bells by the Spitalfields Market.”
Pitt accepted that he would get no more than that, no matter how long he pursued the subject. He was compelled to prove or disprove it by following the trail of accusations.
He straightened up. “I will,” he answered.
“They’re all over the east end of the city,” Carmody added, a strange, naive note of hope in his voice. “If you want to, you’ll find them.”
Pitt went back to Keppel Street again before he followed Carmody’s directions. If he were going to learn anything in the East End he needed to be less conspicuously dressed. He kept clothes at home that were frayed at the hems, mud-spattered and ill-fitting, and boots that were scuffed and resoled several times, much to Charlotte’s distaste.
It was while wearing these that he arrived at Bishopsgate at about midday, mixing in with the peddlers, clerks, and laborers in the street. In this area men, women, and children worked all their waking hours to scrape enough to survive by making cheap furniture, weaving baskets, stitching clothes, trading in anything people would buy. The streets were crowded, noisy, and dirty. The smell of refuse, old soot, and close-pressed humanity clung in the nose and throat. A few gaunt cows and pigs rooted among the market refuse for anything edible. Dogs sniffed around hopefully and cats followed the trails of vermin.
Pitt had already removed anything of value from his pockets, and he walked up Bishopsgate without concern for petty theft. He passed Camomile Street, Wormwood Street, and then Houndsditch till he came to Dirty Dick’s. During the reign of Louis XVI of France, the tavern had been known as the Gates of Jerusalem. It had definitely come down in the world.
The door was open and a thickset man with hair plastered across his head was wheeling a barrel over the pavement to the trapdoors opening on the cellar.
Pitt stopped next to him.
The man looked up. “There’s someone inside ter serve yer,” he said with a nod.
“I don’t want ale,” Pitt answered, remaining where he stood.
The man straightened his back slowly. “ ’Oo are yer?” His voice was heavy with suspicion. He looked Pitt up and down, his eyes narrowing. “I in’t seen yer ’round ’ere before.” It was almost an accusation.
Pitt decided on at least something of the truth. “I haven’t been here much. Usually work up the Bow Street area.”
The man swore viciously, but there was as much despair in his voice as anger.
Pitt waited. Something was wrong, but he did not understand what it was.
The man’s face was bitter. “Well, I in’t givin’ yer nothin’! I paid already this week, an’ I in’t got no more. Close me down, then! Go on! Then yer get nothin’! Yer stinkin’ bastards!”
“I didn’t ask you for anything,” Pitt said slowly. “What made you think I wanted money?”
The man’s face was ugly with contempt, his lips twisted showing yellow teeth. “Yer stand ’ere, blockin’ me way. Yer don’t want ale. Yer think I’m stupid? Well, I in’t. An’ I in’t payin’ yer neither. Do yer worst! I in’t got no more.”
Pitt’s stomach turned cold. The man thought he had come for more protection money, just as Carmody had said. “Nobody can pay more than once,” he agreed. “Better not to pay at all…”
“An’ get me ’ead beat in?” the man said savagely. “An’ ’oo’s gonna ’elp me, eh? Police?” He spat on the ground at Pitt’s feet, but he was close to weeping with frustration. He choked on his words. “Go on, get out of ’ere!” He stood with his fists clenched, his shoulders tight, as if he were on the edge of losing control and lashing out.
“Tell me who’s taking the money, and I’ll…” Pitt started, then realized the futility of it. He was the enemy, no matter how much he worked to deny it. As far as this man was concerned, it was the truth. “Look…” he started again.
The man took a step towards him, head down, muscles bunched, ready to swing his fist.
Pitt moved back, then turned and walked away. He had not handled it well, and he had learned nothing that was of any use. The man believed his tormentors were policemen, but Pitt needed names, accounts, times of collection, something he could prove. He must do a great deal better than this.
He went up Bishopsgate and turned left past the bootlace seller on the corner of Brushfield Street towards Spitalfields Market. Three women were standing on the curb arguing. A child wailed. A chimney sweep’s boy passed by, soot-stained, round-shouldered. Half a dozen urchins played a game of bones on the pavement, tossing them up in the air and catching them again while they moved others as counters, absorbed in the skill of it. It was good for nimble fingers, training them for picking a pocket swiftly, unfelt.
He passed houses that were shabby now but had once been the homes and workshops of silk merchants who had fallen on much harder times. A costermonger’s cart trundled by, then a brewer’s dray, wagons of coal and timber being moved down towards the docks.
At the Ten Bells tavern, he went inside and asked for a pint of cider.
He let the clean taste of it wash away the sour flavor of the streets, at least for a few moments.
He was aware of the landlady watching him covertly, because he was a stranger here. She was small and buxom, with fair hair falling out of its pins. All the time she smiled, as she greeted most people by name. She was doing a good trade.
He walked over to the bar and ordered a second pint of cider, and a portion of bread and cheese. She passed it to him, the smile still curving her mouth, but her eyes were wary. Closer to, he noticed that her white neck was sagging a little and there were fine lines on her skin.
“Thank you.” He took the tankard and the plate. “You keep a good house here, mistress. A lot of trade.”
She stared at him. He knew in that careful look that she was already certain in her own mind that he was going to cause her trouble. He loathed doing this, but he had to have the information.
“Enough,” she said, keeping up the pretense of welcome.
“Enough to share the profit a bit,” he replied, making it a statement rather than a question.
The warmth in her face died. “I already pay,” she said coldly.
“I know!” he cut across her protest. “Can’t pay twice. I know that. Just pay me instead. I’ll take care of it. Pay me, and pay less, just see it’s regular.”
“Oh yeah?” she said bitterly. “An’ wot about ’im wot comes, then, eh? I’m just gonna tell ’im ’e don’t get nothin’, an’ ’e’ll jus’ go away, peaceful-like?”
“No, you’re going to tell me when he comes, and what he looks like, and I’m going to take care of him.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Yeah?” She looked around. “You an’ ’oo else? There’s ’undreds of ’em! There’s the ’ole bleedin’ police force! Take one out, an’ two more’ll fill ’is place. ’Ow many is there o’ you, then?”
He thought only a moment before he answered. “Don’t you worry about that. Just tell me who he is, when he comes, and what he looks like and I’ll get rid of him. Then you pay me.”
She looked wary and frightened. There was knowledge of defeat in her eyes. Pitt felt a surge of fury so savage that the look of it in his face made her back away. Then he wanted to apologize, but that would undo all he had achieved. “Name?” he said aloud.
“Jones,” she replied. “We call ’im Jones the Pocket.”
“What does he look like?”
“Sharp nose, black ’air,” she said, her mouth puckering up. “Not very tall. ’Ard ter tell if ’e’s thin or fat ’cos ’e wears a big coat, summer an’ winter. Could be anythin’ under it.”
“Does he come regularly?”
“Like taxes an’ death.”
“When?”
“Every Wednesday. Middle o’ the arternoon when there’s ’ardly anyone ’ere.”
“Then next Wednesday will be his last,” Pitt said with acute satisfaction.
She mistook his pleasure for the greed he had expressed earlier. She lifted her shoulders very slightly. “Makes no odds ter me. Pay ’im, pay you, it’s all the same. Can’t pay twice or I got nothin’ ter pay the brewer. Then we all got nothin’.”
Before he relented and tried to offer her some encouragement that soon it would all end, Pitt turned away and walked across the sawdust floor and out into the street.
By dusk that evening he was standing in the entrance of the alleyway across from the house where Samuel Tellman lodged, waiting for him to come home. The wind was colder and it smelled like rain. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He had turned the problem over in his mind, and there was no other solution that made sense. Tellman worked in Bow Street. If anyone could have seen or heard who was behind the corruption, without being part of it, it would be he.
The wind was rising chill with coming rain. Pitt turned up the collar of his coat and stood a little closer to the wall. Doubt began to eat into him. Perhaps the anarchists were not naive at all, but were manipulating his loyalties on purpose. Their prime motive was chaos. What better way to achieve it than to turn Special Branch against the police, sowing suspicion between them? Perhaps they were also doing exactly the same thing in reverse. Someone might even now be suggesting to the police that Narraway was responsible for the bombing and the murder of Magnus Landsborough, in order to carve out his own little kingdom of power. Pitt did not believe it for an instant, but he would not be able to prove it to anyone else. He was amazed how little he really knew of Narraway.
An old man with white hair poking out from under a bowler hat walked briskly through the pool of lamplight and away again. Then the moment after, Tellman himself appeared—lean, lantern-jawed, his shoulders stiff.
Pitt left the shadow of the alley and strode across the cobbles to catch up with him just as he reached his own door. Tellman looked around in surprise.
“I need to talk to you,” Pitt explained by way of apology. “As privately as possible.” He did not feel free to ask to go into Tellman’s rooms. He was seeking a favor, and it was extremely important that they were not observed together, otherwise he would have suggested going to any of the nearby taverns.
Tellman looked suspicious. He glanced at Pitt’s disreputable clothes, but he knew him well enough from their days together to realize why he was wearing them. “What’s happened?” His body was rigid. “It’s not to do with Gracie, is it?”
Pitt felt a stab of guilt for not having said so to begin with. He had watched their slow, tender, and awkward courtship and seen how intense was the caring. “No,” he said quickly. “It’s police business.”
The fear ironed out of Tellman’s face. “Come in. I’ve got a better room now, bigger.” He did not wait for agreement but opened the door with his key and led the way inside. The hall was narrow and linoleum-floored. Framed samplers adorned the wall. A pleasant aroma came from the back of the house, strongly pungent of onions. It reminded Pitt that he was hungry.
Tellman went up the stairs to the first floor and opened the door of the room overlooking the street. It was spacious, with a brass bed in one corner, a table and chair by the window, and two upholstered armchairs near the fireplace where the coals were already burning nicely. He invited Pitt to sit, then after loosening his bootlaces and taking off his jacket he sat in the other.
Pitt did not waste time. “The bombing in Myrdle Street,” he said without preamble. “Anarchists. One dead, we have two of the others. Another one, maybe two escaped.”
Tellman waited. He knew Pitt would not be asking police help in finding them.
“I’ve been questioning the ones we have,” Pitt went on. “They’re young, naive; they feel violently about social wrongs. In particular police corruption.” He watched Tellman’s face to see if there would be any anger in it, any leap to deny it. It was not there. He simply looked guarded, waiting for Pitt to explain.
“My first thought was ‘Why Myrdle Street?’” Pitt went on. “There didn’t appear to be any answer other than random violence. Then I learned that the central house that was destroyed belonged to a policeman from Cannon Street named Grover.”
Tellman nodded very slowly. “I know him.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Big man, about forty-five, heavy-built.” Tellman was visualizing him as he spoke. “Been in the force since he was twenty or so. Worked his way up to sergeant but never seemed to want to go any higher. He knows the streets like the back of his hand, and most of the people in them. There isn’t a screever or a fence he couldn’t name, and tell you his business.”
“How do you know?”
Tellman’s lips thinned. “Reputation. If you want to know anything going on in the Cannon Street patch, ask Grover.”
“I see. According to at least two sources, some policemen are collecting protection money from pubs around the Spitalfields area,” Pitt went on. “I checked it myself, at Dirty Dick’s and the Ten Bells. A man they know as Jones the Pocket comes for the money every Wednesday, midafternoon.”
“You sure he’s
in the police?” Tellman asked unhappily.
“No, I’m only sure the pub owners think he is. I have to know. I want him arrested, and I’ll take his place.”
“What for? He may connect with Grover eventually, but you’ll have to prove it. You don’t know who he reports to, first,” Tellman pointed out. “And he’s not going to tell you.”
“No,” Pitt agreed. “But if I have the money, someone will make it their business to find me.”
Tellman winced, his face grim. “Probably with a knife!”
“Not till they have the money from me, and know if I’m working alone.” But Pitt was perfectly aware of the danger, and he would much rather have found another way to the same end, but he could not think of one.
Tellman drew in his breath to argue, just as there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said, then stood up as his landlady entered. She was a handsome woman, between fifty and sixty, carrying a warm, savory smell of the kitchen with her. A stiff, white apron covered most of her cotton dress.
“You want me ter keep yer dinner, Mr. Tellman?” she asked. She stared at Pitt. “There’s enough fer yer caller, if ’e’d like it. Just bangers and mash, an’ a spot o’ cabbage, but yer welcome.”
Tellman looked at Pitt.
Pitt accepted warmly, and Tellman asked her to bring it as soon as she could. They waited until it was carried up on a tray, and the landlady duly thanked, before continuing with the conversation between mouthfuls. It was plain food, but it was well-cooked and generously portioned.
“Spitalfields is in the Cannon Street area,” Tellman said unhappily. “That’s Simbister’s patch. Wetron’s got pretty close to him lately. He seems to be making alliances all over the place, more than I’ve ever seen others do. Usually there’s a kind of…” he looked for the right word, “rivalry…but not now. It’s different. It feels…different.”
Pitt knew what he was thinking. The Inner Circle was a web of secret alliances, promises, and loyalties between men who on the surface had no connection with one another. Outsiders did not know who they were, just that some people succeeded when others failed. Certain business deals went one way rather than another. Some men were promoted above rivals who had more skill. But if Wetron, now the head of what was left of the Circle, were making alliances with potential rivals from the most senior police command in the country, it was cause for anxiety.