The Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  Tellman answered with exactness, obedient and unsmiling. The man had taken Pitt’s place, and he had no right to it. It might not have been of his choosing, but that excused nothing. He had forbidden Tellman to contact Pitt or take any further interest in the Adinett case. That was his fault all right. Tellman stared at his round, smooth-shaven face with bland, dumb insolence.

  By late Tuesday afternoon he again had time to himself, and the first thing he did was to leave Bow Street, buy a ham sandwich from a peddler, and a drink of fresh peppermint, then walk slowly up towards Oxford Street, thinking hard.

  He had taken another look at the notes he had made during the investigation and had seen that there were several spaces of time, often as much as four or five hours, in which they did not know where Adinett had been. It had not seemed to matter then, because they were concerned with the details of the physical facts. Where Adinett had spent his time seemed to be irrelevant, only a matter of catching all the details. Now it was all he had.

  He walked more slowly. He had no idea where he was going, except that he must pursue something definite, both for Pitt’s sake and because he had no intention of going back to Gracie empty-handed.

  Why would a man like John Adinett go three times to a place such as Cleveland Street? Who lived there? Was it possible he had odd tastes in personal vice which Fetters had somehow discovered?

  Even as he said it to himself, he did not believe it. Why should Fetters care anyway? If it were not criminal, or even if it was, it was no one else’s concern.

  But perhaps Fetters had discovered something about Adinett which he could not possibly afford to have known. That would have to be something criminal. What?

  He increased his pace slightly. Perhaps the answer was in Cleveland Street. It was the only thing so far that was unexplained.

  At Oxford Street he caught an omnibus going east, changed at Holborn, and went on towards Spitalfields and Whitechapel, still turning the question over and over in his mind.

  Cleveland Street was very ordinary: merely houses and shops, tired, grubby, but reasonably respectable. Who lived here that Adinett had come to see three times?

  He went into the first shop, which sold general hardware.

  “Yes sir?” A tired man with thinning hair looked up from a kettle he was mending. “What can I get yer?”

  Tellman bought a spoon, more for goodwill than because he wanted it. “My sister’s thinking of getting a house around here,” he lied easily. “I said I’d look at the area for her first. What’s it like? Quiet, is it?”

  The ironmonger thought about it for a moment, the metal patch in one hand, the kettle in the other.

  Tellman waited.

  The ironmonger sighed. “Used ter be,” he said sadly. “Got a bit odd five or six years ago. Got kids, ’as she, yer sister?”

  “Yes,” Tellman said quickly.

  “Better a couple o’ streets over.” He indicated where he meant with a nod of his head. “Try north a bit, or east. Keep away from the brewery an’ the Mile End Road. Too busy, that is.”

  Tellman frowned. “She thought of Cleveland Street. The houses look about right for her. Right sort of price, I should think, and well enough kept. But it’s busy, is it?”

  “Please yerself.” The ironmonger shrugged. “I wouldn’t live ’ere if I didn’t already.”

  Tellman leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There are not houses of ill repute, are there?”

  The ironmonger laughed. “Used ter be. Gorn now. Why?”

  “Just wondered.” Tellman backed away. “What’s all the traffic, then? You said it was busy lately.”

  “Dunno.” The ironmonger had obviously changed his mind about being so candid. “Just people visiting, I expect.”

  “Carriages and the like?” Tellman tried to assume an air of innocence.

  He must have failed, because the ironmonger was imparting nothing more. “Not more than most places.” He returned his attention to the kettle, avoiding Tellman’s eyes. “Quieter now. Just a bit busy a while back. Forget what I said. I in’t ’eard there was nothin’ for sale, but if the price is right, you go fer it.”

  “Thank you,” Tellman said civilly. There was no point in making an enemy. Never knew when you might want to speak to him again. He left the shop and walked slowly down the street, looking from side to side, wondering what had taken Adinett’s attention, and why.

  There were several houses, a few more shops, an artist’s studio, a small yard that sold barrels, a maker of clay pipes, and a cobbler. It could have been any of a thousand streets in the poorer parts of London. The smell of the brewery not far away was sweet and stale in the air.

  He stopped and bought a sandwich from a peddler at the end of the road where it turned into Devonshire Street.

  “Glad to find you,” he said conversationally. “Do much business here? I’ve hardly seen a soul.”

  “Usually stop down the Mile End Road,” the peddler replied. “On me way ’ome now. Yer got the last one.” He smiled, showing chipped teeth.

  “My luck’s changed,” Tellman said sourly. “Been here all evening on an errand for a friend of my boss’s who came here a few weeks back and dropped a watch fob. ‘Go and look for it,’ he tells me. ‘I must have left it behind.’ Wrote it down for me, and I lost the paper.”

  “Name?” the peddler asked, staring at Tellman with wide blue eyes.

  “Don’t know. Lost it before I read it.”

  “Watch fob?”

  “That’s right. Why? You know where it might be?”

  The peddler shrugged, grinning again. “No idea. What’s your boss like, then?”

  Tellman instantly described Adinett. “Tall, military-looking gentleman, very well dressed, small mustache. Walks with his head high, shoulders back.”

  “I seen ’im.” The peddler looked pleased with himself. “Not in a few weeks, like,” he added.

  “But he was here?” Tellman tried not to let his eagerness betray him, but he could not keep it out of his voice. “You saw him?”

  “I jus’ said I did. Din’t yer say as ’e were yer guvner an’ ’e sent yer ter fetch ’is fob?”

  “Yes. Yes, I know. But if you saw him, maybe you knew which house he went into.” Tellman lied to cover his mistake. “He’s a hard man. If I go back without a good explanation, he’ll say I took it!”

  The peddler shook his head, sympathy in his face. “Times I’m glad I don’t work fer no one. Get good days an’ bad days, but nob’dy’s on me back, like.” He pointed down the road. “Were that one down there, on that side. Number six. Tobacconist and confectioner. Lots o’ folk comin’ an’ going there. That’s w’ere all the trouble were, four or five year back.”

  “What trouble?” Tellman said casually, as if it were of no real interest.

  “Carriages comin’ and goin’ at all hours, and that bit o’ a fight wot there were,” the peddler replied. “Not that much, I s’pose. Bin a lot worse since then, in Spitalfields and ’round there. But it seemed kind o’ nasty at the time. Lot o’ yellin’ an’ cursin’ an’ so on.” He screwed up his face. “Odd thing, though, they was all strangers! Not a one o’ them local, like.” He looked at Tellman narrowly. “Now w’y would a lot o’ strangers wanner come ’ere just ter fight each other? Then quick as yer like, they was all gorn again.”

  Tellman could feel his heart beating in his chest.

  “At the tobacconist’s?” His voice caught. It was ridiculous. It probably meant nothing.

  “Reckon so.” The peddler nodded, still watching him. “That’s w’ere yer guv’ner went, any’ow. Asked me the same thing, ’e did, an’ then went orff like a dog wi’ two tails w’en I told ’im.”

  “I see. Thank you very much. Here.” Tellman fished in his pocket and brought out a sixpence. His fingers were shaking. It was a bit extravagant, but he felt suddenly optimistic and grateful. “Have a pint on me. You’ve probably saved me a packet.”

  “Ta.” The peddler took th
e sixpence and it disappeared instantly. “ ’Ere’s ter yer ’ealth.”

  Tellman nodded and then walked quickly down to where the peddler had indicated. It looked much like any other shop on the outside, a small area for selling sweets and tobacco, with living quarters above. What on earth could be here that John Adinett had found exciting? He would have to come back when the shop was open. He would find a way of doing that tomorrow, when Wetron would not find out.

  He walked back towards the Mile End Road with a spring in his step.

  But when he managed to return to Cleveland Street in the middle of the next afternoon, after some considerable difficulty, and having stretched the truth to his inspector so far it bore little resemblance to the facts, the shop seemed exactly like a thousand others.

  He bought threepence worth of mint humbugs and tried to start a conversation with the owner, but there was little to talk about except the weather. He was becoming desperate when he made a remark about heat and fevers, and poor Prince Albert’s having died of typhoid.

  “I suppose no one’s safe,” he said, feeling foolish.

  “Why should they be?” the tobacconist said ruefully, chewing his lip. “Royals ain’t no better off than you nor me when it comes to some things. Eat better, I s’pose, an’ certainly wear better.” He fingered the thin cloth of his own jacket. “But get sick like we do, an’ die, poor sods.” There was a sharp note of pity in his voice which struck Tellman as extraordinary from a man in such an area, who obviously owned little and worked hard. This was the last place he would have expected compassion for those who seemed to have everything.

  “You reckon they’ve got troubles like ours?” Tellman said, trying to keep all expression out of his voice.

  “Yer free to come an’ go as yer please, aren’t yer?” the tobacconist asked, gazing at Tellman with surprisingly clear gray eyes. “Believe what yer want, Catholic, Protestant, Jew, or nothin’? God wi’ six arms, if that’s what takes yer fancy? An’ marry a woman wot believes anything, if she’s willing?”

  Gracie’s sharp little face came instantly to Tellman’s mind with its bright eyes and determined chin. Then he was furious with himself for his weakness. It was ridiculous. They disagreed about everything. She would have felt with this tobacconist and his sympathies. She saw nothing wrong in being in service, whereas Tellman was outraged that anyone, man or woman, should be fetching and carrying and calling other people “sir” and “ma’am” and cleaning up after them.

  “Of course I can!” he said far more tartly than he meant. “But I wouldn’t want to marry a woman who couldn’t believe the same things I do. More important than religion, about rights and wrongs on how people behave, what’s just and what isn’t.”

  The tobacconist smiled and shook his head patiently.

  “If yer fall in love, yer won’t think about w’ere she came from or what she believes, yer’ll just wanna be with ’er.” His voice was soft. “If yer sittin’ arguin’ over rights an’ wrongs o’ things, yer in’t in love. ’Ave ’er fer a friend, but don’t marry ’er.” He shook his head, his voice making plain his opinion of such a choice. “ ’Less she’s got money or summink, an’ that’s wot yer want, like?”

  Tellman was offended. “I wouldn’t marry anyone for money!” he said angrily. “I just think that a person’s sense of fairness matters. If you’re going to spend your whole life with someone, have children, you should agree on what’s decent and what isn’t.”

  The tobacconist sighed heavily, his smile vanishing. “Could be you’re right. Gawd knows, fallin’ in love can bring yer enough grief, if yer beliefs an’ yer station in life is different.”

  Tellman put one of the humbugs in his mouth as the shop door opened behind him. He turned instinctively to see who it was, and he recognized the man who came in but could not place him.

  “Afternoon, sir.” The tobacconist dismissed Tellman from his mind and looked to the new customer. “What can I get yer, sir?”

  The man hesitated, glanced at Tellman, then back at the tobacconist. “That gentleman was before me,” he said politely.

  “ ’E’s bin served,” the tobacconist answered. “Wot will it be fer you?”

  The man looked at Tellman again before replying. “Well, if you’re sure. Half a pound of tobacco ...”

  The tobacconist’s eyebrows shot up. “Half a pound? Right you are, sir. What kind’ll it be? I got all sorts ... Virginia, Turkish—”

  “Virginia,” the man cut him off, fishing in his pocket for his money.

  It was the voice that Tellman recognized. It took him a moment or two, then he knew where he had heard it before. The man was a journalist named Lyndon Remus. He had followed Pitt around asking questions, probing, during the Bedford Square murder. It was he who had written the piece which had done so much damage, implying scandal.

  What was he doing here in Mile End? Certainly not buying tobacco, half a pound at a time! He didn’t know Virginia from Turkish, or care. He had come in for something else, then changed his mind when he saw Tellman.

  “Thank you,” Tellman said to the tobacconist. “Good day.” And he went out into the street and along about forty yards to a wide doorway where he could stand almost unseen and watch for Remus to come out.

  After about ten minutes he began to wonder if there were a way out of the shop and into a back street. What could Remus be doing in there so long? There was only one answer which made any kind of sense—Remus was there for the same reason he had come himself, scenting a story, a scandal, perhaps an explanation for murder. It must be to do with John Adinett. There could hardly be two murderers tied to that small tobacconist’s shop.

  The minutes went by. Traffic passed along the street, some towards the Mile End Road, some the other way. After another ten minutes Remus came out at last. He looked to left and right, crossed the road and walked south, passing within a yard of Tellman, then realizing who he was, stopped abruptly.

  Tellman smiled. “Onto a good story, Mr. Remus?” he asked.

  Remus’s sharp, freckled face was a total blank for a matter of seconds, then he recovered his composure. “Not sure,” he said easily. “Lot of ideas, all disconnected at the moment. Since you’re here, maybe it does mean something.”

  “Humbug,” Tellman said with a smile.

  “Oh no ... I don’t ...” Remus began.

  “Mint humbugs,” Tellman clarified. “That’s what I bought there.”

  Remus’s expression smoothed out.

  “Oh! Yes, of course.”

  “Better than tobacco,” Tellman went on. “I don’t know one tobacco from another. Neither do you.”

  “Not your beat, is it?” Remus said, shifting the subject back to Tellman. “Still on the Adinett case, are you? Interesting man.” His eyes narrowed. “But why bother? You got your conviction. What more do you want?”

  “Me?” Tellman said, affecting surprise. “Not a thing. Why? What more do you think there is?”

  “Motive,” Remus said reasonably. “Did Fetters ever come here?”

  “What makes you think that? Did the tobacconist say he had?”

  Remus raised his eyebrows. “I never asked him.”

  “So it’s not Fetters you’re after,” Tellman deduced.

  Remus was momentarily taken aback. He had let slip more than he’d intended. He recovered, looking at Tellman with a sly smile. “Fetters and Adinett ... it’s all the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “You didn’t say you were after Adinett,” Tellman pointed out.

  Remus pushed his hands into his pockets and started to walk slowly in the direction of the Mile End Road, allowing Tellman to keep pace with him.

  “Not exactly news now, is he?” he said thoughtfully. “For me or for you. He’d have to have had a really interesting reason for killing Fetters for me to bother to write it up. And I reckon it would have to be connected with another crime, a pretty big one, before you’d still be following it too ... don’t you think?”

  Te
llman had no intention whatsoever of allowing him to know anything about Pitt. “Sounds sensible,” he agreed. “Presuming I wasn’t just after a mint humbug.”

  “Humbug, maybe,” Remus said with a twisted smile, and increased his pace slightly. They walked in silence for a few moments, crossing an alleyway leading towards the brewery. “But be careful! There’s a lot of very important people’ll try to stop you. I suppose Mr. Pitt sent you here?”

  “And Mr. Dismore sent you?” Tellman countered, remembering what the cabbie had said about Adinett’s going to Dismore’s newspaper after leaving Cleveland Street the last time.

  Remus was momentarily nonplussed, then again he disguised his emotions and replied blandly. “I’m independent. Don’t answer to anyone. I thought you would know that ... a sharp detective like you!”

  Tellman grunted. He was not sure what he believed, except that Remus thought he was onto a story which he had no intention of sharing.

  They reached the Mile End Road, and Remus said good-bye and plunged into the stream of people going west.

  Tellman decided on the spur of the moment to follow him. It proved more difficult than he had expected, partly because of the amount of traffic which was trade carts and wagons rather than hansoms, but mostly because Remus very apparently did not wish to be followed and was aware of Tellman behind him.

  It took him a succession of very rapid sprints, a good deal of bribery, and a little luck not to lose him, but half an hour later Tellman was in a hansom crossing London Bridge. Just beyond the railway terminus, Remus stopped ahead of him and got out. He paid his fare, then ran up the steps of Guy’s Hospital and disappeared through the doors.

  Tellman alighted also, paid off his driver and went up into the hospital as well.

  But Remus was nowhere to be seen.

  Tellman walked over to the porter and described Remus to him, asking which way he had gone.

  “Asked after the offices,” the porter replied. “That’s that way, sir.” He pointed helpfully.

  Tellman thanked him and went the same way, but search as he might, he found no further trace of Remus, and finally after nearly half an hour of wandering corridors, he left the hospital and took the train north over the river again. He found himself at Keppel Street just before six o’ clock in the evening.