by Anne Perry
Pitt was angry with himself for not seeing it before. It was galling to have Voisey, of all people, spell it out for him. But he was right.
“Wetron would have the proof of it somewhere safe,” Voisey said grimly. “But getting it would in turn prove his complicity. We can’t afford to be without it, Pitt, whatever it costs. Whoever we have to use.” He was watching Pitt closely.
Pitt felt caught in a current too powerful to struggle against. It was foolish even to resent it. This at least was not Voisey’s doing.
“Yes.” He rose to his feet. He did not want to stay here. “I’ll speak to Tellman. There’s no one else we can trust.”
Voisey stepped back. “Good,” he acknowledged. “We must move quickly. They’re going to push the bill through as fast as they can.”
Pitt forbore from making any comment about Voisey including himself, as if he were risking anything. His mind was already on finding Tellman, and what he would say to him.
The first part proved easier than he had expected, the second more difficult. Tellman was at his lodgings and the landlady showed Pitt up without demur.
Tellman had taken off his boots and his stiff collar, and he looked completely comfortable. Pitt felt a twinge of guilt because he was going to shatter that.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Tellman asked urgently, his voice already strained.
Pitt explained about the dynamite on the Josephine, and how he and Voisey had nearly been killed.
“Grover?” Tellman said miserably. It was not that he liked Grover, but that he was a policeman. The betrayal of what was good still hurt him.
“Yes,” Pitt answered.
Tellman looked at him grimly. “I can’t arrest him.”
“I know. That is not what I’m here for. I told you because it’s part of the story. I’ve just come from Voisey now.” Pitt did not want to keep meeting Tellman’s eyes as he said this, knowing what he was going to ask, but to look away seemed not only cowardly, but as if he were refusing to share it or to understand. “He says Wetron has proof of all kinds of crimes people have committed, which is obvious. It’s his job. But his opportunity for blackmail is perfect for using someone to plant bombs.”
For a moment Tellman’s face was blank. Like Pitt, he had not even thought of using police information for that purpose. Then with a wash of grief he grasped it. His face changed; a light in it died. He did not say anything for several moments.
Pitt broke the silence. “Someone who committed a crime of impulse or desperation,” he said, echoing the conversation he had had with Voisey. “Someone with a lot to lose. There’s no blackmail without fear.”
Tellman looked at him. “I’ll find the evidence,” he said grimly. “I’ll look until I do. There can’t be that many places to look. He’d keep it, so he could show the man, make sure he knew the power he had over him. Thing is, where? If it’s at his home, how do we get to it? I don’t fancy burgling! And if he thinks we’re after it, he’ll destroy it. If he’s got the poor devil to let off bombs, that’d be enough to blackmail him with from now on.”
Pitt felt a heaviness settle over him. Perhaps Wetron had destroyed it already? It was dangerous to keep. Surely he would have thought of that too? He must know Voisey was obsessed with revenge.
Tellman was staring at him.
Perhaps it was worse than that? He might have left the evidence in existence, with a trail that could be followed, precisely so Voisey and Pitt would send someone after it, and they would be caught. Pitt, at least, would do anything he could to extricate them, and be caught himself. He looked at Tellman quickly. “It’s too dangerous. He must have thought of it. He’ll be waiting for one of us to try. He’ll…”
“He’ll beat us if we don’t,” Tellman interrupted. “I’d rather be beaten trying than give up first.”
“If we give up first, we’d be alive to go on fighting,” Pitt pointed out angrily. It was not Tellman he was furious with; it was Wetron, the circumstances that brought them to this point, the corruption, the stupidity, the fact that he did not know who to trust.
“Not much purpose in fighting after you’ve lost,” Tellman said with a sour smile. “Do you really think he’s thought of us coming after it?”
“We can’t afford to assume he didn’t,” Pitt said. “But that means there will be a trail of some sort drawing us in.”
“What made Voisey think of it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s obvious, if you aren’t blinded by loyalty, assumptions of decency that we made—and he didn’t.”
“Is that all, just a deduction that happened to come now?”
“I don’t know.”
Tellman contemplated it for a few more moments. It was dark outside now, no light through the crack in the curtains. “If whatever proof there is is in his home, then it makes it obvious that he’s using it somehow. The other way, if it’s in his office in Bow Street, it could be something he has innocently kept. He could say he’d just come across it, and was about to investigate it. He could blame anyone.”
“And it could be far easier to find,” Pitt added. “But it could be in his desk, where no one else would see it. The last thing he actually wants is for anyone else to see it and prosecute his man. He can’t afford to have him questioned at all, let alone in court.”
Pitt felt more and more sure the document, or whatever it was, had been destroyed. They would be caught searching without there ever having been a danger they would find it. And yet to be too afraid even to try was to admit defeat.
“I could look in Wetron’s office,” Tellman said. “There’s only moderate danger in that. We’ve already proved the connection between the anarchists, the police and the bombings. It’s reasonable for me to go looking for other names, suspicions, charges possibly unproved but still interesting.”
“True. But if he wants to be sure he can keep on using it, it won’t be where anyone in his station could find it,” Pitt assumed.
Tellman considered that for a few moments. “No, but I’ll start there.”
“That’s all!” Pitt warned. “Search there, then leave it!”
“Right,” Tellman answered. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
But even as he said it, Tellman had no intention of stopping if he found nothing at Bow Street. Actually, he did not expect to find proof of any crime Wetron could use. What he did think possible was that Wetron would have left some clue as to where such proof might be, exactly as Pitt had said, so someone would get caught looking for it, preferably Tellman himself.
He lay in bed that night staring up at the wavering light on the ceiling. The scant traffic passed by, carriage lamps bright, and the boughs of the lime tree outside the window were blown back and forth across the streetlamp on the other side.
He would need help. There was no use asking any of his colleagues. Apart from the fact that they would not believe him, he dared not trust them, especially Stubbs. Even the honest ones could be hostages to fear and old loyalties. However, the first issue was that they would not have the skills that he was looking for. He needed a thief, a first-class housebreaker, someone who could go in and out without a soul being the wiser until it was too late. He needed a man who could break a window with the soundless “star-glazing” method, climb in and find the right room in moments, not wake a domestic dog or light-sleeping footman, then open the safe with the manipulation of skeleton keys, and the careful use of a stethoscope.
He knew several such men, that was not a problem. The difficulty was to find one willing and able, and whose loyalty he could ensure, either by payment or some other kind of obligation. He did not like using fear; it gathered a harvest of dislike, and sooner or later some kind of revenge.
He slept only fitfully. At six o’clock, the summer daylight awoke him and he got up. If he were to find anyone, it would have to be before tonight. In fact, it would have to be before he went in to Bow Street for the start of the day.
He had two possible thieves in mind. Eithe
r would be difficult to find, and even harder to persuade. He dressed in his oldest clothes, in order to pass unnoticed among the labyrinths he would follow as he made his way east.
He bought a ham sandwich from a stall on Hackney Road, then walked south to Shipton Street. He knew where to find Pricey, who had had that nickname for as long as Tellman had known him. He had no idea whether it was derivative of his given name, or a comment on his fees for the nefarious services he performed for his clients. Tellman had never arrested him—that was a satisfactory state of things between them—and they had a good relationship that he could now call upon.
Pricey, having been out all night, was still asleep when Tellman knocked on his door. His rooms were at the top of a narrow staircase up from a quiet, broken cobbled courtyard. Had Tellman been less urgent in his need of help he might have been nervous being here, even though it was now broad daylight out in the street.
After several minutes there was a disgruntled voice from inside demanding to know who was there.
“Sergeant Tellman!” he answered. “I need a favor, which I’m willing to pay for.” There was no point in being evasive, nor was there time for it.
A bolt slammed back, then another, and the door opened slowly in well-oiled silence. Pricey was standing in his blue-and-white striped nightshirt, his feet bare on the wooden floor, a nightcap covering most of his lank, black hair. His sulky face was aquiline and lugubrious. On seeing Tellman dressed not in his usual suit and white shirt but inconspicuous grays, his expression sharpened with curiosity.
Tellman pushed his way in and closed the door behind him. He had been here before and he knew his way to the kitchen, such as it was. It was the only place with chairs on which they could sit, and with luck Pricey might even offer him a cup of tea. The ham sandwich was making him thirsty.
“Well I never,” Pricey said with interest. “Wot brings you ’ere at this hour, Mr. Tellman? It must be good.”
“It is,” Tellman replied, sitting gingerly on a wooden chair, which immediately rocked under his weight, little as that was. “I need a piece of evidence finding, and stealing. I expect it to be in someone’s house, probably in a safe or a locked desk drawer.”
“ ’Ow’ll I know when I see it, then?” Pricey asked, screwing up his face dubiously.
“That’s the awkward bit,” Tellman answered. “I’m going to find out more about that today, and I’ll tell you before you go. I’ll need to meet you somewhere convenient.”
Pricey weighed it up, watching Tellman with hard, bright eyes. “Wot sort of evidence is this, then? Why are yer sneakin’ it, then, instead o’ goin’ in an’ takin’ it, like reg’lar police? ’Oo’s got it, an’ wot d’yer want it fer? If yer asks me, it in’t square, or yer’d be doin’ it easier, an’ cheaper. I don’ work fer nuffin’. ’Oo’s payin’? You or the police, eh?”
Tellman knew he would not escape with a lie to Pricey, and if he tried he would offend him. His pride mattered intensely.
“Yes, it’s very dangerous,” Tellman admitted frankly. “I don’t want anyone else to know I have the evidence, especially the police.”
Pricey looked startled. “You bent, then, Mr. Tellman? Go on! I never thought it. I’m disappointed in yer, I am.”
“No, I’m not!” Tellman snapped. “It’s a bent policeman I want it stolen from. It’s proof of a crime, and he’s blackmailing someone to go on doing worse things, with the threat of using it. At least that’s what I think.”
“Do you?” Pricey was dubious. “That’s awful ’ard, Mr. Tellman, worse’n extortion, that is. Downright evil, I calls it.”
“So do I,” Tellman agreed. He thought of earning Pricey’s personal involvement as an added incentive. “It has to do with the bombings in Myrdle Street and Scarborough Street, if I’m right.”
Pricey let out a slow breath, and blasphemed carefully, emphasizing each syllable. “It’ll still cost yer!” he warned.
“Be at the Dog and Duck at seven o’clock this evening, and wait for me, however long it takes,” Tellman answered. “I’ll have the information for you then. I’ll keep the owner of the house busy somewhere else.”
“Why? I never bin caught, not so as yer could prove it, Mr. Tellman! You know that!” He grinned suddenly. “Not that yer ’aven’t tried real ’ard.”
“Dog and Duck, seven o’clock,” Tellman repeated, rising to his feet. It was later than he wished, and it was time he was at Bow Street.
Tellman had one of the worst days of his career, which by now spanned over twenty years. He spent the morning with his mind racing over every possibility he could imagine, however far-fetched, for him to draw Wetron away from his home that evening.
But before he did that, he must search Wetron’s office and see if the evidence was there, and Pricey’s intervention would be unnecessary.
Fortune favored him in that Wetron went out to luncheon, and Tellman overheard him say that he would be gone for the best part of two hours. He was meeting with a member of Parliament to give his advice on the new bill being proposed to arm the police. It occurred to Tellman that the member in question could well also be one of the Inner Circle, recruiting more votes to support Tanqueray.
As soon as Wetron had gone, Tellman prepared his story in case anyone should ask him, and went into Wetron’s scrupulously tidy office with its pictures of the Queen, and began his search. If questioned, he would use the forgery case involving Jones the Pocket, and his suspected connection with the Scarborough Street bombings. It was a subject the police should concern themselves with, since Special Branch was obviously not up to the job. As it turned out he was only questioned once, and received a broad grin of appreciation when he gave his answer.
“Somebody needs ter catch the bastards!” the other man replied. “Can I ’elp yer?”
“Could if I knew what I was looking for,” Tellman replied, his heart pounding. “I won’t know till I see it.”
“Got an idea, ’ave yer?” the constable stood in the doorway curiously.
“Don’t know,” Tellman said, more or less honestly. “But if I’m wrong, I’ll be in a hell of a hole. So let me get on with it before the superintendent gets back, eh?”
“Right! Yeh.” The constable backed out quickly, not wanting to take any risks.
Tellman went back to searching the papers.
It was only another ten frantic minutes before, with shaking fingers, he held a sheet of paper up and read it. He went through it again before he was absolutely certain. It was an oblique reference to a crime committed roughly three years earlier, and a note that all action was pending. No further notice was to be taken of the event without Wetron’s express direction. It was what he was looking for, and Wetron had left it where he could find it, not too easily, just with sufficient difficulty to be worth the effort, and allay suspicion. The proof would be in Wetron’s house, as Pitt had thought.
The event had happened three years ago, in a rooming house off Marylebone Road. The address was supplied. Now he had something specific to give Pricey.
The next thing was to find a way to lure Wetron away from home.
Tellman went out of the office and closed the door behind him. He was surprised to find that his hands were sweating and he could hear the beat of his pulse in his ears. He walked quickly down the corridor to the stairs and to his own small room. He sat down, shaking a little, and thought.
What would be irresistible to Wetron? Tellman had to keep him out all night, or at least until three or four in the morning, to give Pricey the chance to find proof. Wetron wanted the police bill passed, above all things. It was key to his entire plan. Was there any way in which Tellman could use that? Wild and incoherent thoughts raced around his head, scraps of ideas, nothing whole. What could he offer Wetron? What would tempt him? Or frighten him? What could threaten to go wrong so seriously that he would be compelled to deal with it himself? Who mattered?
Slowly it began to come together, the desire and fear intermeshed. But he
would need help. Someone must be in danger, someone Wetron needed and could not replace. Tanqueray did not matter. If he were killed, the bill could be sponsored by someone else. He would have been a martyr. It might even help!
But Edward Denoon was different. He was powerful and unique, the strongest public supporter of the bill, with a newspaper read by most of the men of influence in the south of England.
Who could threaten Denoon? Enemies of the bill. Voisey was obvious. And what would please Wetron more than to catch Voisey in a criminal act?
Tellman got to his feet. He must find Pitt or Narraway, someone to help make it believable. Wetron had to accept the plan and feel compelled to help implement it himself.
It worked. At least it seemed to. The weather was mild, a light wind rustling the leaves of the trees, the smell of chimney smoke in the air. A little after midnight Tellman stood by a hansom cab. It was drawn up twenty yards from Denoon’s house, and to a casual glance he was a driver waiting for a fare. Wetron was on the footpath talking to one of his men, as if they were two gentlemen having a late-night stroll and conversation. They had been waiting for over an hour, and were growing restive.
Tellman kept glancing across at Denoon’s house, hoping for a sign that Pitt was keeping his word. He could not hope to coerce Wetron to remain much longer. And trying to explain this tomorrow morning could be uncomfortable, to say the very least.