The Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  The sergeant’s face softened a little. “Well, I’m afraid it were ’er. Sorry.”

  Remus put his hands up quickly, covering his face. Gracie, standing behind him, saw his body stiffen, and knew it was not grief he was hiding but elation. It took him a moment or two to recompose himself and look up again at the sergeant.

  “Thank you,” he said briefly. “Thank you for your time.” Then he turned on his heel and walked out rapidly past Gracie, leaving her to run after him if she wanted to keep up. If the sergeant even noticed her, he might have thought she was with Remus anyway.

  Remus walked back away from the river, looking to the right and left of him as if he were searching for something.

  Gracie stayed well back, keeping at least half behind other people in the street, laborers, sightseers, clerks on errands, news boys and peddlers.

  Then she saw Remus change direction and walk across the footpath to the post office and go inside.

  She went in after him.

  She saw him take out a pencil and write a very hasty note in a scribble, his hands shaking. He folded it up, purchased a stamp, and put the letter into the box. Then he set out again at considerable speed. Once more Gracie had to run a few steps every now and then to not lose him.

  She was delighted when Remus apparently decided he was hungry and stopped at a public house for a proper meal. Her feet were sore and her legs ached. She was more than ready to sit down for a while, eat something herself, and observe him in comfort.

  He chose an eel pie, something she had always disliked. She watched with wonder as he tucked into it, not stopping until he had finished, then wiping his lips with his napkin. She had a pork pie and thought it a lot better.

  Half an hour later he set out again, looking full of purpose. She went after him, determined to not lose him. It was early evening by now, and the streets were crowded. She had the advantage that Remus had no idea there was anyone behind him, and he was so set in his purpose that he never once looked over his shoulder or took the slightest steps to be inconspicuous.

  After two omnibus rides and a further short walk, Remus was standing by a bench in Hyde Park, apparently waiting for someone.

  He stood for five minutes, and Gracie found it taxed her imagination to think of something to explain her own presence.

  Remus kept looking around, in case whoever he was waiting for came from the opposite direction. He could not help seeing her. In time he had to wonder why she was here.

  What would Tellman have done? He was a detective. He must follow people all the time. Try to be invisible? There was nothing to hide behind, no shadows, no trees close enough. Anyway, if she hid behind a tree she would not see whom he met! Think of a reason to explain her being here? Yes, but what? Waiting for someone as well? Would he believe that? Lost something? Good, but why had she not started to look for it as soon as she got here?

  Got it. She had only just discovered it was missing.

  She started to retrace her steps very slowly, staring at the ground as if searching for something small and precious. When she had gone twenty yards she turned and started back again. She had almost reached her original position when finally a middle-aged man came towards him along the path and Remus stepped out directly in front of him.

  The man stopped abruptly, then made as if to walk around Remus and continue on his way.

  Remus moved to remain across his path and, from the attitude of the other man, apparently spoke to him, but so softly Gracie, thirty feet away, could not hear more than the faintest sound.

  The man was startled. He looked more closely at Remus, as if he expected to recognize him. Perhaps Remus had addressed him by name.

  Gracie peered through the soft evening light, but she dared not draw attention to herself by moving. The older man seemed to be in his fifties, handsome enough, of good height and growing a trifle portly. He was very ordinarily dressed, inconspicuous, well tailored but not expensively. It was the sort of clothing Pitt might have worn, had he not a genius for untidiness sufficient to make any garment ill-fitting. This man was neat, like a civil servant or retired bank manager.

  Remus was talking to him heatedly, and the man was replying now with some anger himself. Remus seemed to be accusing him of something; his voice was rising higher, sharp, excited, and Gracie could pick out the odd word.

  “... knew about it! You were in on ...”

  The other man dismissed whatever it was with a quick gesture of his hand, but his face was red and flustered. The indignation in his tone rang false.

  “You have no proof of that! And if you—”He gulped back his words, and Gracie missed the next sentence or two. “A very dangerous path!” he finished.

  “Then you are equally guilty!” Remus was furious, but there was a thin thread of fear clearly audible in his voice now. Gracie knew that with certainty and it sent a chill rippling through her, clenching the muscles in her stomach and tightening her throat. Remus was afraid of something, very afraid indeed.

  And there was something in the other man’s body, the angle of his head, the lines of his face that she could still see in the shadows and the thin gold of the evening light. She knew that he was afraid also. He was waving his hands now, jerky, angry movements, sharp denial. He shook his head.

  “No! Leave it! I’m warning you!”

  “I’ll find out,” Remus retaliated. “I’ll uncover every damned piece of it, and the world will know! We’ll not be lied to any longer ... not by you, or anyone!”

  The other man yanked his arm up angrily, then turned and strode away, back in the direction from which he had come.

  Remus took a step after him, then changed his mind and walked very rapidly past Gracie towards the road. His face was set in tense, furious determination. He almost bumped into a couple who were walking arm in arm, taking a late stroll in the summer dusk. He muttered an apology and kept straight on.

  Gracie ran after him. She had to keep running, he was going so rapidly. He crossed Hyde Park Terrace, continuing north over Grand Junction Road and up to Praed Street and straight into the station for the underground railway.

  Gracie’s heart lurched. Where was he going? How far? What was this all about? Who was the man he had met in the park and accused ... of what?

  She followed him down the steep steps to the ticket window and bought a fourpenny ticket as he did, and went after him. She had been on an underground train before, and seen them coming roaring and screaming out of the tunnels and stop alongside the platform. She had been rigid with terror, and it had taken all the courage she possessed to climb inside that closed tube and be hurtled, in deafening noise, through the subterranean passages.

  But she was not going to lose Remus. Wherever he was going, she was going too ... to find whatever it was he was pursuing.

  The train shot out of the black hole and ground to a stop. Remus got in. Gracie got in behind him.

  The train lurched and roared forward. Gracie clenched her fists and kept her lips tightly closed so she would not cry out. Around her everyone else sat stolidly, as if perfectly accustomed to charging through holes under the ground, closed inside part of a train.

  They came to the Edgware Road station. People got out, others got in. Remus did not even glance up to see where he was.

  The train moved off again.

  They passed Baker Street, Portland Road and Gower Street the same way. There was a long stretch to King’s Cross, then they seemed to lurch to the right and roar on, gathering speed.

  Where was Remus going to now? What was it that connected Adinett’s trips to Cleveland Street; the girl Annie Crook, who lived there and had been taken away by force, and her lover as well? She had ended up in Guy’s Hospital attended by the Queen’s surgeon himself, who had said she was mad. What had happened to the young man? It seemed no one had heard of him again.

  What were the coaches about in Spitalfields? Were they driven by the same man who had run down the little girl Alice Crook and then jumped into
the river—after taking off his coat and boots?

  The train stopped at Farringdon Street, then very quickly after that at Aldergate Street.

  Remus shot to his feet.

  Gracie almost fell in her surprise and haste to go after him.

  Remus got to the door, then changed his mind and sat down again.

  Gracie collapsed onto the nearest bench, her heart pounding.

  The train went on to Moorgate, and then Bishopsgate. It stopped at Aldgate, and Remus made for the door.

  Gracie went also, and climbed up the steps, hurrying into the darkness where Aldgate Street changed into the Whitechapel High Street.

  Which way was Remus going? She would have to keep close to him now. The lamps were lit, but they were dim, just pools of yellow here and there.

  Was he going back to Whitechapel again, where he’d been before? He was nearly a mile from Buck’s Row, which was the other end of the Whitechapel Road, beyond the High Street. And Hanbury Street was a good half mile to the north, more if you took into account all the narrow, winding streets and alleys and dogleg corners.

  But instead he turned right into Aldgate Street, back towards the City. Where was he going now? Did he expect to meet with someone further? She remembered the look on his face as he had walked away from the man in Hyde Park. He was angry, furiously angry, yet he was also excited and afraid. This was something of monstrous proportion ... or he thought it was.

  She was unprepared for it when he turned up Duke Street. It was narrower, darker. The eaves dripped in the gloom. The smells of rot and effluent hung in the air. She found herself shivering. The huge shadow of St. Botolph’s Church was just ahead. She was on the edge of Whitechapel.

  Remus had been walking as if he knew exactly where he was going. Now he hesitated, looking to his left. The dim light gleamed for a moment on his pale skin. What did he expect to see? Beggars, destitutes huddled in doorways, trying to find a place to sleep, street women looking for chance custom?

  She thought of the big black carriages he had asked about, the rumble of wheels on the cobbles growing louder and louder, black horses looming out of the night, the huge shape of the carriage, high, square, a door opening and a man asking ... what? For a woman, a specific woman. Why? What gentleman in a carriage would come here at night when he could stay up west and find somebody cleaner, more fun, and with a room and a bed to go to rather than some doorway?

  Remus was crossing the street into an alley beside the church.

  It was pitch-dark. She stumbled as she followed him. Where in the devil’s name was he going? She knew he was still ahead of her because she could hear his feet on the cobbles. Then she saw him outlined against a shaft of light ahead. There was an opening. There must be a street lamp there, around the corner.

  She reached it and emerged. It was a small square. He stood motionless, staring around; for a moment his face was turned towards the yellow glare of the one lamp. His eyes were wide, his lips parted and drawn back in a dreadful smile that was a mixture of terror and exultation. His whole body shook. He raised his hands a little, white-knuckled in the gaslight, clenched tight.

  She looked up at the grimy sign on the brick wall above the light. Mitre Square.

  Suddenly she was ice-cold, as if the breath of hell had touched her. Her heart almost stopped. At last she knew why he had come here—to Whitechapel, to Buck’s Row, to Hanbury Street, and now to Mitre Square. She knew who he was after in the big black coach that didn’t belong here. She remembered the names: Annie Chapman, known as Dark Annie; and Long Liz; and Kate; and Polly; and Black Mary. Remus was after Jack the Ripper! He was still alive, and Remus believed he knew who he was. That was the story he was going to break in the newspapers to make his name.

  She turned and ran, stumbling and gasping back through the alley. Her knees were weak, her lungs hurt as if the air were knives, but she was not staying in that hellish place a second longer. It drenched her imagination with horror, the blinding, paralyzing fear, the blood, the pain, the moment when the women met his eyes and knew who he was—that was the worst of all, seeing into the heart and the soul of someone who had done that ... and would do it again!

  She collided with someone and let out a scream, thrashing with her fists till she felt soft flesh, heard a grunt and a curse. She tore herself free and pounded into Duke Street and raced down towards Aldgate Road. She did not know or care whom she had struck, or whether Remus was behind her or not, whether he knew she had followed him ... just as long as she could get a bus or a train and get away, out of Whitechapel and its ghosts and demons.

  An omnibus was going west. She shouted and ran out into the street, startling the horses and making the driver curse her. She did not care in the slightest. Ignoring his protests, she scrambled on board and collapsed in a heap on the first vacant seat.

  “Devil after yer?” a man said kindly, a smile of amusement in his broad face.

  It was too close to the truth to be a joke. “Yeah ...” she said hoarsely. “Yeah ... ’e is!”

  She finally arrived home at Keppel Street after eleven o’clock, to find Charlotte pacing the kitchen floor, pale-faced and hollow-eyed.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded furiously. “I’ve been worried sick for you! You look terrible! What happened?”

  Gracie was so relieved to be home safe, in the warmth and light of the familiar kitchen with its smells of clean wood and linen, bread, herbs, and to know that Charlotte cared about her, that now at last she burst into tears and sobbed incoherently while Charlotte held her lightly in her arms.

  Tomorrow she would give her a very carefully edited version of the truth, with an apology for lying.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Tellman tried to put Gracie out of his mind. It was difficult. Her eager face kept intruding every moment he relaxed and allowed his attention to wander from what he was doing. However the knowledge that Wetron was watching him and waiting for him to make the slightest error forced him to keep working as hard as he could on the wretched burglaries. He could not afford to be caught in even the smallest mistake.

  His diligence was rewarded with a stroke of good luck, bringing the end of the case into sight.

  He also thought more often than he wished, and with both discomfort and guilt, about Pitt, living and working in Spitalfields. It was quite obvious why they had put him there. It was ridiculous to think he was going to make any difference one way or the other regarding the anarchists. That was a specialized job and they had men doing it very well already. From Cornwallis’s point of view it was an attempt to save him from any further danger; and for those who had commanded it, it was punishment for having convinced the jury that Adinett was guilty.

  And he was left vulnerable because he could not prove why Adinett had done it; he could not even suggest a reason. That was why Tellman felt guilty. He was still a policeman, still free to pursue the truth and find it, and he had achieved nothing except to learn that Adinett had been excited about something in Cleveland Street which seemed to have unending ramifications, very little of which he understood.

  He was standing near the flower market a couple of blocks down from the Bow Street police station when he realized someone had stopped near him and was watching him.

  Gracie!

  His first reaction was pure pleasure. Then he saw she was scrubbed and pale, and she stood very quietly, unlike her usual self. His heart sank. He walked over to her.

  “What is it?” he said urgently. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came ter see yer,” she retorted. “Wot did yer think—I come for a bunch of flowers?” Her voice was sharp. It alarmed him. Now he was certain there was something badly wrong.

  “Is Mrs. Pitt all right? Has she heard from him?” That was his first thought. He had barely seen Charlotte since Pitt had left, and that was over a month ago now. Perhaps he should have spoken with her? But it would have been intrusive, even impertinent, and what would he say? She was a lad
y, the real thing, and she had family.

  What she relied on him to do was find out the truth and show that Pitt had been right, so he could be reinstated in Bow Street, where he belonged. And he had signally failed to do that!

  A flower cart trundled past them and stopped a dozen yards away.

  “What is it?” he said again, more sharply. “Gracie!”

  She swallowed hard. He could see her throat jerk. Now he was really afraid. Too much of his life was tied up in Keppel Street. He could not shrug it off and walk away. He would be left incomplete, hurting.

  “I followed Remus, like yer said.” She looked at him defiantly.

  “I didn’t tell you to follow him! I told you to stay at home and do your job!”

  “Yer told me first ter follow ’im,” she pointed out stubbornly.

  A couple walked past them, the woman holding newly bought roses up to smell the perfume.

  Gracie was frightened. Tellman could see it in her face and in the way she stood, the stiffness inside her. Her whole body was rigid. It made him angry, made him want to protect her, and he felt the fear as if it had brushed him too with a breath of ice. He did not want this! He was vulnerable, wide open to being hurt, twisted, even broken.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have! You should stay at home where you’re supposed to be, looking after Mrs. Pitt and the house!”

  Her eyes were wide and dark, her lips trembling. He was making it worse. He was hurting her and leaving her alone with whatever it was that she had seen, or thought.

  “Well, where did he go?” he asked more gently. It sounded grudging, but it was himself he was angry with—for being clumsy, feeling too much and thinking too little. He did not know how to behave with her. She was so young, fourteen years younger than he was, and so brave and proud. Trying to touch her was like trying to pick up a thistle. And there was nothing of her! He’d seen bigger twelve-year-olds. But he had never known anyone of any size with more courage or strength of will. “Well, then?” he prompted.

  Her eyes did not waver from his. She ignored the passersby. “I spent all yer money,” she said. “An’ a bit wot I was give as well.”