by Anne Perry
“Yeah, I hear. But yer scared too, an’ don’t tell me yer in’t.” It was not a charge against him. She would think him a fool were he not. She needed the closeness of sharing the fear for herself, and she wanted it for him. “Yer scared fer Remus?” she went on.
“They’d think nothing of killing him,” he answered.
“That’s if ’e’s right,” she argued. “What if ’e’s wrong? Wot if it weren’t nothin’ ter do wi’ Prince Eddy, an’ the Inner Circle is makin’ it all up?”
“I’m still scared for him,” he replied. “They’d use him and throw him away, too.”
“Wot are we gonna do?” she said simply.
“You’re going to do nothing,” he answered sharply. “You’re going to stay here at home and keep the door locked.” He swiveled around in his seat. “You should’ve had that back door locked.”
“At ’alf past four in the afternoon?” she said incredulously. “There in’t nob’dy arter me. If I kept the scullery locked they’d think I really ’ad got summink goin’ on.”
He blushed faintly and looked away.
She found herself smiling, trying to hide it, and failing. He was frightened for her and it was making him overprotective. Now he was embarrassed because he had given himself away.
He looked at her and saw the smile. For once he interpreted it correctly, and his color deepened. At first she thought it was anger; then she looked at his eyes and knew it was pleasure. She had equally given herself away too. Oh, well ... she couldn’t play games forever.
“So wot are we gonner do, then?” she repeated. “We gotta warn ’im. If ’e won’t be told, then we can’t ’elp it. But we gotta try, in’t we?”
“He won’t listen to me,” he said wearily. “He thinks he’s onto the newspaper story of the century. He won’t give that up, no matter where it leads him. He’s a fanatic. I’ve seen it in his face.”
She remembered the wild look in Remus’s eyes and the horror and terrible excitement she’d sensed in him as he had stood in Mitre Square, and she knew Tellman was right.
“We still gotta try.” She leaned forward across the table. “ ’E’s scared as well. Let me come wiv yer. We’ll both ’ave a go at ’im.”
He looked doubtful. The lines of strain were deep in his face. No one was looking after him. He had no one else to share his fears with, or the sense of guilt he would feel if something happened to Remus and he had not tried to warn him.
She stood up, accidentally scraping her chair legs on the floor. “I’ll get yer some tea. ’Ow about bubble an’ squeak? We got lots o’ cabbage an’ taters left over, an’ fresh onion. ’Ow’ll that be?”
He relaxed. “Are you sure?”
“No!” she said crisply. “I am standin’ ’ere ’cos I can’t make me mind up. Wot yer think?”
“You’ll cut yourself with that tongue,” he replied.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. She meant it. She did not know why she had been so quick with him. Perhaps because she wanted to do far more to comfort him, look after him, than he would like or accept.
That realization made her blush suddenly, and she swung around and strode into the larder to get the cold vegetables and start cooking. She brought them back and kept her back to him while she chopped and fried the onions, then added the rest and moved it gently till it was steaming hot on the inside and crisp brown on the outside. She put it all onto a warm plate and set it in front of him. Then she boiled the kettle again and made fresh tea.
At last she sat down on the chair opposite him again.
“So are we goin’ ter find Remus and tell ’im just ’ow big this is? In case ’e’s so ’ell-bent on getting ’is story ’e in’t realized ’oo ’e’s up agin?”
“Yes,” he replied with his mouth full, trying to smile at the same time. “I am. You aren’t.”
She drew in her breath.
“You aren’t!” he said quickly. “Don’t argue with me. That’s the end of it.”
She sighed heavily and said nothing.
He bent his attention to eating the bubble and squeak. It was hot, crisp and fragrant with onions. It did not seem to occur to him that she had given in rather easily.
When he had finished, he thanked her with a touch of real admiration. He remained another ten minutes or so, then left out of the scullery door.
Gracie had followed Remus successfully all the way to Whitechapel and back again. She thought she was really rather good at it. She now took her coat and hat from the peg at the back door and went after Tellman. She did not especially like Lyndon Remus, but she had learned something about him, his likes and dislikes, seen the excitement and the terror in him. She did not want to think of him hurt, not seriously. A little chastening would not harm, but there was nothing moderate about any part of this.
Of course, following Tellman would be much harder because he knew her. On the other hand, he was not expecting her to follow, and she knew where he was going: to Remus’s rooms to await his return from whatever story he was working on apart from the Whitechapel murders.
She had only about one shilling and fivepence. There had been no time to look for any more. Unfortunately, there had also not been time to write more than a hasty note for Charlotte explaining where she had gone. Even that had been done in the larder on a brown paper bag, and written with a kitchen pencil. Her spelling was a little uncertain, but since it was Charlotte who had taught her to read and write, she would understand what Gracie meant.
Tellman strode down Keppel Street purposefully towards Tottenham Court Road. He was going for the omnibus. That would make things rather difficult. If she caught the same one, he would be bound to see her. If she waited for the next one, she would be too late by up to a quarter of an hour.
But she knew where Remus’s rooms were. She had a good chance of arriving there at about the same time if she took the underground train. It was worth the risk.
She turned sharply away in the opposite direction, and then started to run. If she was lucky, it would work. And she would have enough money, easily.
She paced the platform, and when the train came, sat fidgeting from stop to stop. As soon as it arrived she charged through the door, across the platform and up the stairs.
The street was busy, and it took her a moment or two to realize exactly where she was. She had to ask directions of a muffin girl, then set out at a half run again.
She got there and swung around the last corner and cannoned straight into Tellman, almost overbalancing him.
He swore with feeling and more color than she had known him capable of.
“That’s terrible!” she said in amazement.
He blushed scarlet. He was so embarrassed it robbed him temporarily of the ability to stand on his dignity and order her to go home again.
She straightened her hat and stared back at him. “So, ’e in’t ’ere yet, then?”
“No ...” He cleared his throat. “Not yet.”
“Then we’d best wait,” she pronounced, looking away from him and assuming a position of great patience.
He drew in his breath and started to argue, but after the first word he realized the futility of it and stopped again. She was here. He had no power or ability to send her away. He might as well make an ally of her.
They stood side by side on the corner of the street opposite the entrance of Remus’s lodging house. After five minutes of silence and the curious stares of one or two passersby, Gracie decided to give her opinion.
“If yer don’t want ter be noticed, we’d do better ter talk ter each other. Like this we look like we’re ’ere fer no good. Sayin’ nothin’ we don’t even look like we’ve quarreled. Nob’dy keeps up a sulk forever.”
“I’m not sulking,” he said quickly.
“Then talk ter me,” she responded.
“I can’t just ... talk.”
“Yes, yer can.”
“What about?” he protested.
“Anythink. If yer could go anywhere in
the world fer a visit, where’d yer go? If yer could talk ter anybody out of ’istory, oo’d it be? Wot’d yer say ter ’em?”
He stared at her, his eyes wide.
“Well?” she prompted. “An’ don’ look at me. Watch for Remus. That’s wot we’re ’ere fer. Oo’d yer meet, then?”
There were faint spots of color in his cheeks again. “Who’d you meet?”
“Florence Nightingale,” she said immediately.
“I knew you’d say that,” he replied. “But she isn’t dead yet.”
“Don’t matter. She’s still ’istory. Oo’d you meet?”
“Admiral Nelson.”
“W’y?”
“Because he was a great leader as well as a great fighter. He made his men love him,” he replied.
She smiled. She was glad he had said that. It sometimes showed a lot to know who people’s heroes were, and why.
He grasped her arm suddenly. “There’s Remus!” he said fiercely. “Come on!” He yanked her forward and plunged across the road, dodging in between traffic and reaching the footpath at the far side just as Remus went in through the door.
“Remus!” Tellman called out, stopping just short of actually bumping into him.
Remus turned, startled. As soon as he recognized Tellman his face darkened. “No time to talk to you,” he said briskly. “Sorry.” He took another step forward, his back to Tellman, and started to close the door.
Tellman put his foot in the doorway, still dragging Gracie with him by the hand, not that she was unwilling.
Remus stopped, his expression changing to one of anger.
“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve nothing else to say, and no time. Now, get out of my way!”
Tellman tensed his body as if to resist a blow, and remained exactly where he was. “If you’re still going after the Whitechapel murderer and the story of Annie Crook, you should leave it. It’s too dangerous to do alone—”
“It’s a damned sight too dangerous to tell anyone about until I’ve got the proof,” Remus retorted. “And you, of all people, should know that!” He turned to Gracie. “And you, whoever you are.”
“I know who you can trust,” Tellman said urgently. “Let them know. It’s the only safeguard you’ve got.”
Remus’s eyes were bright, and there was a decided sneer on his lips. “No doubt you’d like me to tell the police. Perhaps starting with you, eh?” He gave an abrupt little laugh, full of contempt. “Now, get your foot out of my door. I know how dangerous it is, and the police are the last people I’d trust.”
Tellman struggled to find an argument, and failed.
Gracie could think of nothing either. In Remus’s place she would have trusted no one.
“Well, be careful,” she said. “Yer know wot they done ter them women.”
Remus smiled at her. “Of course I know. I am careful.”
“No, you in’t!” she challenged, the words spitting out. “I followed yer all the way ’round Whitechapel, even spoke ter yer, an’ yer never knowed. Followed yer ter Mitre Square, too, but yer was so full o’ wot yer was thinkin’ yer ’ad no idea!”
Remus paled. He stared at her. “Who are you? Why would you follow me—if you did?” But there was fear in his voice now. Perhaps the mention of Mitre Square had made him realize she spoke the truth.
“It don’t matter ’oo I am,” she argued. “If I can follow yer, so can they! Do like ’e says.” She gestured to Tellman. “An’ be careful.”
“All right! I’ll be careful. Now go away,” Remus replied, stepping farther inside and beginning to push the door closed.
Tellman accepted that they had done all they could, and he retreated, Gracie with him.
Back across the street again he stopped, looking at her questioningly.
“ ’E’s onter summink,” she said decisively. “ ’E’s scared, but ’e in’t givin’ up.”
“I agree,” Tellman said in a low voice. “I’m going to follow him, see if I can protect him at all. You go home ...”
“I’m comin’ wif yer.”
“No, you’re not!”
“I’m comin’—wif yer or be’ind yer!”
“Gracie ...”
But at that moment Remus’s door opened again and he came out, looked from left to right and back again, and apparently concluding that they had gone, he set out. There was no time to argue. They went after him.
They followed him successfully for nearly two hours, first to Belgravia, where he stayed for about twenty-five minutes, then east and south to the river and along the Embankment just short of the Tower. They finally lost him as he was going east again. It was just growing dusk.
Tellman swore in frustration, but this time watching his language far more carefully.
“He did that on purpose,” he said furiously. “He knew we were here. We must have shown ourselves, got too close to him. Stupid!”
“ ’E mebbe knew we would be,” she pointed out. “Or p’rhaps it weren’t us ’e were tryin’ ter shake? Mebbe ’e were bein’ careful, like we told ’im?”
Tellman stood on the footpath, staring along the street in the direction they had last thought they saw Remus, his eyes squinted, his mouth pulled tight.
“We’ve still lost him. And he’s going towards Whitechapel again!”
It was growing dark. The lamplighter was working the farther side of the street and he was hurrying.
“We’ll never find him in this.” Tellman looked around at the traffic, the rattle and clatter of hooves and wheels over the cobbles, the occasional shouts of drivers. Everyone seemed to be pressing forward as fast as they could. They could barely see fifty yards ahead in any direction in the gloom and the shifting mass of horses and people.
Gracie felt a bitter disappointment. Her feet were tired and she was hungry, but she could not dismiss the fear that Remus had not truly understood the danger he was in; there must be something they could still do to make him realize it.
“Come on, Gracie,” Tellman said gently. “We’ve lost him. Come and have something to eat. And sit down.” He gestured towards a public house on the farther side of the street.
The thought of sitting down was even better than that of food. And there was really nothing else to do.
“Or’ right,” she agreed, not moving reluctantly so much as utterly wearily.
The food was excellent, and the chance to relax blissful. She enjoyed it with relish, since usually when they ate together it had been in the kitchen in Keppel Street, and she had prepared the food. They talked about all manner of things, about Tellman’s early years in the police force. He told her stories of his experiences; some of them were even funny, and she found herself laughing aloud. She had never appreciated before that in his own fashion he had a sharp sense of the absurd.
“Wot’s yer name?” she said suddenly as he finished a tale of adventure, and a certain degree of self-revelation.
“What?” He was confused, not certain what she meant.
“Wot’s yer name?” she repeated, now self-conscious. She did not want to go on thinking of him as “Tellman.” She wanted a name, a name that his family used.
The color deepened in his face, and he looked down at his empty plate.
“Sorry,” she said unhappily. “I shouldn’t ’a asked.”
“Samuel,” he replied quickly, almost swallowing the word.
She liked it. In fact she liked it very much.
“Hmph. Too good fer yer. That’s a real name.”
He looked up quickly. “You like it? You don’t think it’s ...”
“ ’Course it is,” she agreed. “I jus’ thought I’d like ter know, that’s all. It’s time I was goin’ ’ome.” But she made no move to stand up.
“Yes,” he said, also not moving.
“Yer know summink,” she said thoughtfully. “That Remus thinks ’e’s got the answer now. ’E knows the truth, I seen it in ’is face. ’E were tryin’ ter ’ide it so we didn’t see, but ’e’s got it all, an�
�� ’e’s gonna tell that story termorrer.”
Tellman did not argue. He sat looking at her across the table, his eyes steady, his face pinched and earnest.
“I know. But I don’t know how to stop him. Telling him all the damage it would do won’t help. It’s his chance to be famous, and he isn’t going to give it up for anyone.”
“They’ll know that too,” she said, feeling the fear well up inside her again, cold and sick. “Yer know, I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter Whitechapel again, one more time afore ’e tells ’em ... mebbe afore ’e writes the last bit of ’is piece fer the papers. I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter visit them places again—’Anbury Street, Bucks Row an’ all.”
She saw by the quick widening of his eyes that he believed it the moment she spoke. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
“I’m going there. You catch a hansom and go home. I’ll give you the money.” He began to fish in his pocket.
“Not on yer life!” She stood up also. “I in’t lettin’ yer go there by yerself. Don’t waste time talkin’ abaht it. We’ll get the rozzer on the beat ter come wif us from the ’Igh Street, and if there’s nothin’, we’ll look like fools. Yer can tell ’im it were my fault.” And without waiting for him she started for the door.
He followed after her, pushing his way past others coming in, calling apologies over his shoulder. Outside on the pavement he waved down the first hansom and directed the driver to the Whitechapel High Street.
He ordered the cab to stop when he saw a constable, a tall, helmeted figure in the gaslight and the mist.
Tellman leaped down and went up to him. Gracie scrambled after and arrived just as he was explaining to the constable that they feared an informant was in danger and needed his assistance immediately.
“That’s right.” Gracie nodded vigorously.
“Gracie Phipps,” Tellman said quickly. “She’s with me.”
“Where is this informant o’ yours?” the constable asked, looking around.
“Mitre Square,” Gracie said instantly.
“Hey!” the hansom driver called. “Yer finished wi’ me, or not?”
Tellman went back and paid him, then rejoined Gracie and the constable. They set out to walk back along the High Street and into Aldgate Street, then around the corner up Duke Street. They did not speak and their footsteps echoed in the mist. It was far quieter here and it was farther between lamps. The cobbles were slippery. The dampness clung in the throat.
