The Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  “Usually.”

  “I’ll tell you everything I find out.” He stopped abruptly and swung around to face Pitt, his lantern jaw hollow in the gray light, his eyes dark. “You be careful.” Then, as if he had said too much and embarrassed himself by showing his concern, he swiveled on his heel and strode off back the way he had come.

  •

  Gracie was still determined to follow Lyndon Remus, but she had no intention of allowing either Charlotte or Tellman to know it. That meant it was necessary that she give Charlotte some other reason for wanting to leave the house so early—and for remaining absent, possibly all day. It required considerable imagination to come up with a series of excuses, and she hated lying. If it were not absolutely necessary in order to rescue Pitt from injustice and get him home again, she would not even have contemplated it. She got up just after dawn to have the range lit and the water boiling and the kitchen scrubbed and spotless before anyone else came down. Even the cats were startled to see her at half past five, and not at all sure it was a good idea, especially since she disturbed their sleep in the laundry basket without offering them breakfast.

  When Charlotte came down at half past seven Gracie was ready with her story.

  “Mornin’, ma’am,” she said cheerfully. “Cup o’ tea?”

  “Good morning,” Charlotte replied, looking around the kitchen with surprise. “Were you up half the night?”

  “Got up a bit early.” Gracie kept her voice quite casual, moving the kettle back onto the hob to bring it to the boil again. “ ’Cos I wanted a favor, if that’s all right.” She knew Charlotte was aware of Tellman’s regard for her, because they had conspired in the past to take advantage of it—only as a matter of necessity in the cause of detection, of course. She took a deep breath. This was the lie. She kept her back to Charlotte; she did not think she could do it looking at her.

  “Mr. Tellman asked me ter go ter a fair wif ’im, if I could get the day off. An’ I got an errand as well, bit o’ shoppin’, not much. But if I could go w’en the laundry’s finished, I’d be ever so grateful....” It did not sound as good as she had hoped. She knew Charlotte was finding it increasingly hard to endure the loneliness and the worry, especially since there was so little she could do to help.

  Charlotte had been back to see Martin Fetters’s widow at least twice, and they were at a loss where to search for his missing papers. However, by now she probably knew as much of Fetters’s career as anyone. She had told Gracie of John Adinett’s travels, military skill and exploring adventures in Canada. But neither of them could see in any of it a reason why one man had murdered the other, only terrible, dangerous ideas. They had spoken of them together, often late into the evening, after the children were in bed. But without proof none of it helped.

  Now it was up to Gracie to find the next link between John Adinett and the forces of anarchy ... or oppression, or whatever it was that he had been doing in Cleveland Street and Remus was so excited about. She really had very little idea what it could be, only that Tellman was certain it was ugly and dangerous, and very big.

  “Yes, of course,” Charlotte replied to Gracie. There was reluctance in her voice, perhaps even envy, but she did not argue.

  “Thank you,” Gracie accepted, wishing she could tell the truth as to what she was doing; it was on the edge of her tongue. But if she did, Charlotte would stop her, and she must not allow that. It would be self-indulgent and stupid to say anything. She must pull herself together and get on with it.

  She still had quite a bit of Tellman’s money, and all she could collect of her own. She was ready to follow Remus wherever he went, and she was outside his rooms waiting for him by eight o’clock.

  It was a very pleasant morning, warm already. Flower sellers were out with fresh blossoms come in during the early hours. She was glad she did not have to stand all day on corners, hoping to sell.

  Delivery boys with fish, meat, vegetables passed by, knocking on scullery doors. There was a milk cart at the next crossroads. A thin woman was carrying a full can back to her kitchen. She walked leaning a little sideways from the weight of it.

  A newspaper boy took up his position on the farther corner, every now and then shouting the latest headlines about the coming election. There had been a tornado in Minnesota in America. Thirty-three people had been killed. Already Adinett was forgotten.

  Lyndon Remus came out of his front door and started to walk smartly along towards the main thoroughfare and—Gracie hoped profoundly—the omnibus stop. Hansoms were very expensive, and she guarded Tellman’s money carefully.

  Remus looked purposeful, his head forward, stride long and swinging. He was dressed very ordinarily, in old jacket and with no collar to his shirt. Whoever he intended calling on, it was not gentry. Perhaps he was going back to Cleveland Street?

  She followed after him quickly, running a little to catch up. She must not lose him. She could stay quite close; after all, he did not know her.

  She was right; he went to the omnibus stop. Thank heaven for that! There was no one else there, so she was obliged to stand more or less beside him to wait. But she need not have been concerned he would remember her if he saw her again. He seemed oblivious to anyone else, straining his eyes to watch the traffic for the omnibus and shifting from one foot to the other in his impatience.

  She went with him as far as Holborn, then, as he changed for another omnibus eastwards, she did the same. She was taken unaware and nearly left behind when he got off at the farther end of Whitechapel High Street opposite the railway station. Surely he was not going somewhere else by train?

  But he walked up Court Street towards Buck’s Row and then stopped, staring around him, facing right. Gracie followed his gaze. She saw nothing even remotely interesting. The railway line north was ahead of them, the board school to the right, and the Smith & Co. distillery to the left. Beyond that was a burial ground. Please heaven he wasn’t come to look at graves.

  Perhaps he was! He had already enquired into the deaths of William Crook and J. K. Stephen. Was he after a trail of dead men? They couldn’t all have been murdered ... could they?

  There was plenty of traffic in the street, carts and wagons, people going about their business.

  She was shivering in spite of the close, airless warmth of the day. What was Remus looking for? How did a detective know, or find out? Perhaps Tellman was cleverer than she had given him credit for. This was not so easy.

  Remus was moving forward, looking around him as if now he had something definite in mind, yet he did not seem to be reading numbers, so perhaps it was not an address.

  She moved very slowly after him. In case he turned around, she glanced at doors, pretending to be searching also.

  Remus stopped a man in a leather apron and spoke to him. The man shook his head and walked on, increasing his pace. He turned up Thomas Street, at the end of which Gracie could just see a notice proclaiming the Spitalfields Workhouse. Its huge, gray buildings were just visible, shelter and imprisonment at once. She had grown up dreading this place more than jail. It was the ultimate misery that awaited the destitute. She had known those who would rather die in the street than be caught in its soulless regimentation.

  Remus spoke to an old woman carrying a bundle of laundry.

  Gracie moved close enough to overhear. He seemed so absorbed in what he was asking she hoped he would not be aware of her. She stood sideways, staring across the street as if waiting for someone.

  “Excuse me ...” Remus began.

  “Yeah?” The woman was civil but no more.

  “Do you live around here?” he asked.

  “White’s Row,” she answered, pointing a few yards to the east, where apparently the street changed its name. It was only a short distance before it finished in the cross street, facing the Pavilion Theater.

  “Then perhaps you can help me,” Remus said urgently. “Were you here four or five years ago?”

  “O’ course. Why?” She frowned, narrow
ing her gaze. Her body stiffened very slightly, balancing the laundry awkwardly.

  “Do you see many coaches around here, big ones, carriages, not hansoms?” Remus asked.

  Her expression was full of scorn. “Does it look ter yer like we keep carriages ’round ’ere?” she demanded. “Yer’ll be lucky if yer can find an ’ansom cab. Yer’d be best orff ter use yer legs, like the rest of us.”

  “I don’t want one now!” He caught hold of her arm. “I want someone who saw one four years ago, around these streets.”

  Her eyes widened. “I dunno, an’ I don’t wanner know. You get the ’ell out of ’ere an’ leave us alone! Gorn! Get out!” She yanked her arm away from him and hurried away.

  Remus looked disappointed, his sharp face surprisingly young in the morning light. Gracie wondered what he was like at home relaxed—what he read, what he cared about, if he had friends. Why did he pursue this with such fervor? Was it love or hate, greed, the hunger for fame? Or just curiosity?

  He crossed the road past the theater and turned left into Hanbury Street. He stopped several people, asking the same questions about carriages, large closed-in ones such as might have been cruising to pick up prostitutes.

  Gracie stayed well behind him as he went the length of the street right up to the Free Methodist Church. Once he found someone who gave him an answer he seemed delighted with. His head jerked up, his shoulders straightened and his hands moved with surprising eloquence.

  Gracie was too far away to hear what had been said.

  But even if there had been such a carriage, what did that tell her? Nothing. Some man with more money than sense had come to this area looking for a cheap woman. So he had coarse tastes. Perhaps he found a kind of thrill in the danger of it. She had heard there were people like that. If it had been Martin Fetters, what of it? If it were made public, would it matter so much, except to his wife?

  Was Remus really chasing after the reason for Fetters’s murder anyway? Perhaps she was wasting her time here, or to be more honest, Charlotte’s time.

  She made a decision.

  She came out of the doorway, squared her shoulders, and strode towards Remus, trying to look as if she belonged here and knew exactly what she was doing and where she was going. She was nearly past him when at last he spoke.

  “Excuse me!”

  She stopped. “Yeah?” Her heart was pounding and her breath was so tight in her throat her voice was a squeak.

  “I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “But have you lived here for some time? I am looking for someone with some particular knowledge, you see.”

  She decided to modify her reply a bit, so as not to be caught out by recent events—or the geography of the area, of which she knew very little.

  “I bin away.” She gulped. “I lived ’ere a few years back.”

  “How about four years ago?” he said quickly, his face eager, a little flushed.

  “Yeah,” she said carefully, meeting his sharp, hazel eyes. “I were ’ere then. Wot is it yer after?”

  “Do you remember seeing any carriages around? I mean really good quality carriages, not cabs.”

  She screwed up her face in an effort of concentration. “Yer mean like private ones?”

  “Yes! Yes, exactly,” he said urgently. “Do you?”

  She looked steadily at his face, the suppressed excitement, the energy inside him. Whatever he was looking for, he believed it was intensely important.

  “Four year ago?” she repeated.

  “Yes!” He was on the verge of adding more to prompt her, and only just stopped himself.

  She concentrated on the lie. She must tell him what he expected to hear.

  “Yeah, I ’member a big, fine-lookin’ carriage around ’ere. Couldn’t tell about it except, like, as it were dark, but I reckon as it were about then.” She sounded innocent. “Someone yer know, was it?”

  He was staring at her as if mesmerized. “I’m not sure.” His breath caught in his throat. “Perhaps. Did you see anyone?”

  She did not know what to answer because this time she was not sure what he was looking for. That was what she was here to find out. She settled for bland; that could mean anything.

  “It were a big, black coach, quiet like,” she replied. “Driver up on the box, o’ course.”

  “Good-looking man, with a beard?” His voice cracked with excitement.

  Her heart lurched too. She was on the brink of the truth. She must be very careful now. “Dunno about good-lookin’!” She tried to sound casual. “I reckon as ’e ’ad a beard.”

  “Did you see anyone inside?” He was trying to keep his face calm, but his eyes, wide and brilliant, betrayed him. “Did they stop? Did they talk to anyone?”

  She invented quickly. It would not matter if the man he was looking for had not stopped. It could have been for any reason, even to ask the way.

  “Yeah.” She gestured ahead of her. “Pulled up an’ spoke ter a friend o’ mine, jus’ up there. She said as they was askin’ after someone.”

  “Asking after someone?” His voice was high and scratchy.

  She could almost smell the tension in him.

  “A particular person? A woman?”

  That was what he wanted to hear. “Yeah,” she said softly. “That’s right.”

  “Who? Do you know? Did she say?”

  She chose the one name she knew of connected with this story. “Annie summink.”

  “Annie?” He gasped and all but choked, swallowing hard so he could breathe. “Are you sure? Annie who? Do you remember? Try to think back!”

  Should she risk saying “Annie Crook”? No. Better not overplay her hand. “No. Begins with a C, I think, but I in’t certain.”

  There was utter silence. He seemed paralyzed. She heard someone laugh fifty yards away, and out of sight a dog barked.

  His voice was a whisper. “Annie Chapman?”

  She was disappointed. Suddenly all the sense in it collapsed. She was cold inside.

  “Dunno,” she said flatly, unable to conceal it. “Why? ’Oo was it? Some feller after a night out on the cheap?”

  “Never mind,” he said quickly, trying to conceal the importance of it to him. “You’ve been immensely helpful. Thank you very much, very much indeed.” He fished in his pocket and offered her threepence.

  She took it. At least she could return it to Tellman, give him something back of what she had spent. Anyway, depending upon where Remus went next, she might need it.

  He left without even looking behind him, striding off over the cobbles, dodging a coal cart. Nothing was further from his mind than the possibility that he might be followed.

  He went straight back down Commercial Street to the Whitechapel High Street. Gracie had to run every now and then to keep up with him. At the bottom he turned west and went to the first bus stop, but instead of traveling all the way back to the City, as she had expected, he changed again at Holborn and went south to the river and along the Embankment until he came to the offices of the Thames River police.

  Gracie followed him straight in, as if she had business there herself. She waited behind him, her head down. She had taken the precaution of letting her hair out of its pins and rubbing a little dirt into her face. She now looked reasonably unlike the young woman Remus had stopped on Hanbury Street. In fact, she appeared rather like the urchins who scrambled for leftovers along the riverbank, and hoped she would be taken for one, if anybody bothered to look at her twice.

  Remus was inventive also. When the sergeant who answered his call asked him what he wanted, he answered with a story Gracie was certain was created for the occasion.

  “I’m looking for my cousin who’s disappeared,” he said anxiously, leaning forward over the counter. “I heard someone answering his description was nearly drowned near Westminster Bridge, on the seventh of February this year. Poor soul was involved in a coach accident that nearly killed a little girl, and in his remorse he tried to kill himself. Is that true?”

&
nbsp; “True enough,” the sergeant answered. “Was in the papers. Feller called Nickley. But I can’t say as he really tried to kill ’isself.” He smiled twistedly. “Took ’is coat an’ ’is boots off afore ’e jumped, an’ anyone ’oo does that don’t mean it fer real.” His voice was laden with contempt. “Swam, ’e did. Fetched up on the bank along a bit, like yer’d expect. Took ’im ter Westminster ’Ospital, but weren’t nothin’ wrong wif ’im.”

  Remus became suddenly casual, as if what he was asking now were an afterthought and scarcely mattered.

  “And the girl, what was her name? Was she all right too?”

  “Yeah.” The sergeant’s blunt face filled with pity. “Close call, poor little thing, but not ’urt, jus’ scared stiff. Said it weren’t the first time, neither. Nearly got run down by a coach before.”

  He shook his head, his lips pursed. “Said it were the same one, but don’t suppose she can tell one fancy big coach from another.”

  Gracie saw Remus stiffen and his hands knot by his sides. “The second time? By the same coach?” In spite of himself his voice was sharp as if this new fact had momentous meaning for him.

  The sergeant laughed. “No, ’course it weren’t! Just a little girl ... only seven or eight years old. What’d she know about coaches?”

  Remus could not contain himself. He leaned farther forward. “What was her name?”

  “Alice,” the sergeant answered. “I think.”

  “Alice what?”

  The sergeant looked at him a little more closely. “What’s this all about, mister? You know summink as you should tell us?”

  “No!” Remus denied it too quickly. “It’s just family business. Bit of a black sheep, you know? Want to keep it quiet, if possible. But it would help a lot if I knew the girl’s name.”

  The sergeant was skeptical. He regarded Remus with the beginning of doubt. “Cousin, you said?”

  Remus had left himself no room to escape. “That’s right. He’s an embarrassment to us. Got a thing about this little girl, Alice Crook. I just hoped it wasn’t her.”

  Gracie felt the name shiver through her. Whatever it was, Remus was still on the track of it.