by Anne Perry
“Enid is choking on the cat hair!” Cordelia snapped. “You know she is allergic to cats! For heaven’s sake, Sheridan is just as bad. The wretched creature is supposed to remain in the servants’ quarters, but obviously it got in here somehow. I shooed it out this morning, but it has left hair behind.”
Denoon went reluctantly to the window and opened it unnecessarily wide, letting in the cool air and the smell of damp, mown grass.
“Thank you,” Enid said, and sneezed again. “I apologize,” she turned to Vespasia. “I like cats—they are very useful creatures—but we can’t keep one. Both Piers and I are sensitive to them. All our family is, Sheridan as well.” This last remark was directed at Cordelia.
“That is why it is restricted to the servants’ quarters,” Cordelia pointed out. “He never goes in there.”
“Where is he anyway?” Denoon asked. “Is he expected home this afternoon? We could greatly use his assistance in the cause. He could speak more powerfully than anyone else. His weight behind the campaign would be superb. If he changes his mind from the liberal position he used to take, that would move more people than anything else I can think of.”
“Of course he’s going to be here,” Cordelia replied. “He’s late!” There was both anger and contempt in her face.
“I think we should continue our plans without him,” Denoon said. “Inform him when he comes.”
Vespasia turned slightly and caught a look of intense hatred on Enid’s face as she stared at her husband. It was so virulent that it stunned her. Then an instant later it was ironed away, and Vespasia wondered if it had been her imagination or a trick of the shifting summer light through the window.
There were footsteps in the hall, voices. The door to the withdrawing room opened and Sheridan Landsborough came in. He glanced around the group and acknowledged them all—Vespasia with surprise and pleasure—but he did not apologize for being late. It was as if he were unaware that he had been expected. His face was pale, shadowed with grief, and there was no vitality in his eyes.
Enid looked at him with profound gentleness, as if she were aching with almost physical pain to reach out to him, but there was no comfort to give. His loss was untouchable, and she understood that.
There was no similar warmth in Cordelia. As happened so often, bereavement seemed to have driven them apart rather than brought them closer. Each nursed their pain in different ways: she was angry; he withdrew, holding himself even farther apart than before.
Denoon behaved as if he were not emotionally involved. “We are discussing our best action to promote this bill of Tanqueray’s,” he said to Landsborough. “Lady Vespasia seems to think Charles Voisey is going to prove an adversary worthy of being taken seriously.”
Landsborough regarded him with little interest. “Really?”
“For goodness sake, Sheridan!” Cordelia said fiercely. “We must give all the assistance we can now, while the atrocity is at the forefront of everyone’s minds. It will not wait upon our bereavement.”
“Quite,” Denoon agreed, still looking at Landsborough. “You must know Voisey. What are his weaknesses? Where is he vulnerable? Lady Vespasia seems to think he is likely to be a nuisance. Can’t see why, myself.”
“He is likely to argue against the bill,” Landsborough answered mildly. He remained standing, almost as if he wished to be able to leave at any moment. “From what I have heard, he believes reform will come about more effectively if done in a moderate manner, but that it is necessary in time, if we are to maintain a peaceful society.”
“He’s an opportunist,” Denoon replied coldly. “You think too well of people, Sheridan. You are unrealistic.”
Vespasia was furious. “You see that as an idealized view of Sir Charles’s behavior?” she asked with chill.
“I think his protestations of drafting peaceful reform are self-serving,” Denoon replied, his tone of voice suggesting that it should have been obvious, even to her.
“Of course it is self-serving,” she retorted. “That is not the question. All that matters to us is what he will argue, not what he believes.”
Denoon flushed a dull red.
“I had forgotten how frank you are, Vespasia,” Cordelia observed with something close to pleasure.
“Or how wise,” Landsborough added, provoking a smile from Vespasia.
“By all means, let me have the benefit of your opinion,” Denoon said grudgingly.
Cordelia glared at him. “I am hoping that Vespasia will give us more than her opinion. Since she agrees with us about the urgency and the seriousness of addressing the violence in our midst, and doing something to make it possible for the police to curtail it, before we are all overtaken by a tide of destruction, she may be of practical help.”
For an instant the effort to control his arrogance was visible in Denoon’s face, then he masked it. He looked at Vespasia blandly. “That would be excellent. I am aware that you have a great deal of social influence, perhaps among people whose support we shall require, needless to say, your exercise of it would be invaluable.”
The maid came in with tea and the discussion became practical, naming other members of Parliament, editors of newspapers and political pamphlets, and how their assistance might be recruited, or if negative, how best countered.
Vespasia left as soon as it was courteous to do so. It was easy to plead other engagements. She excused herself and bade Cordelia and Denoon good-bye. Enid had left the room a few minutes earlier, without giving her reason. Vespasia asked to be remembered to her, and went out into the hall, accompanied by Landsborough.
The butler sent for her carriage, and while she was waiting she glanced towards the passage that led to a side door into the garden, and saw Enid talking closely with a footman. He did not wear the Landsborough livery, so presumably he was her own, and had come with her. He was a fine-looking young man, as was often required in his calling. However it was the expression on his face that caught Vespasia’s attention and held her momentarily transfixed. His eyes were direct, intensely earnest, and he was looking at Enid as if she were giving him instructions for some complicated and profoundly important task. He stood to attention, and she, with her back to Vespasia, was speaking softly, closer to him than was customary, and she seemed, at least for the moment, oblivious of anyone else.
Then Landsborough returned and his footsteps on the hall floor shattered the moment. Enid broke off what she was saying. The footman took a step back and his deferential manner was resumed. He accepted his instructions and turned away to fulfill them. Enid walked slowly back into the hall, moving naturally towards Landsborough.
Vespasia repeated her farewell. Enid acknowledged it and went back to the withdrawing room. Landsborough walked with Vespasia to her carriage.
“Do you really believe it will be a good thing if the police are given more arms?” he asked when they reached the pavement, his face puckered with concern.
She hesitated. He was looking at her with a puzzled honesty, expected candor in return. In the past they had said to each other many things that were perhaps kind more than they were true, but not in order to deceive. There was an understanding that it was a pleasant evasion, a blunting of the edges that would otherwise have cut. This was different; that part of their relationship was in the past, and events had long overtaken it. Grief and wisdom had replaced the old urgency, and loneliness was of a different nature, needing different healing.
What kind of truth could he bear now, amid such terrible pain?
A carriage clattered by on the street, the horse picking its feet up high, its harness gleaming in the sun.
“We need to deal with anarchists,” she replied. “I am not yet certain how.”
“An increase of police powers is not the right way,” he said gravely. “Magnus told me quite a lot about the misuse of it already. The law must protect the innocent as well as catch and punish the guilty, or it is a license to oppress.”
“I know.” She searched his face,
waiting to understand the emotions behind his words. How much did he know of what Magnus had done? What could he bear to believe?
“Don’t trust Voisey!” he said with sudden profound emotion thickening his voice. “Please! Whatever course you follow, Vespasia, take the greatest care in whom you confide. There is far more here than you know.” Then as if he were aware of being watched from the curtained windows behind him, he bade her good-bye, and handed her up into the carriage, inclining his head politely as it pulled away.
6
TELLMAN INTENDED TO find Jones the Pocket as soon as possible, but he knew that he must do it extremely carefully, and in his own time rather than from Bow Street. If anyone were to see him doing it, then he would have to account for his interest in a man whose crimes, if any, had not been committed in his area. Sooner or later it would reach Wetron’s ears, and it would only be a matter of time before he put the facts together—probably a very short time.
The first evening he put on old clothes, something he hated doing. It reminded him of his youth when that was all he had. But it was necessary. He needed to be anonymous, and he knew his keen, lantern-jawed face was recognizable in far too many places. This was the one advantage to coming to the Cannon Street area, and farther east, but he dared not ask the help of any of the men stationed there. It would be reported back to Simbister first, and then to Wetron within hours. If Pitt was right and the corruption was as deep into the force as he feared, then he was working against them, not with them.
Tellman had been born in the East End. He knew the streets, the alleys, the courts and byways, the public houses and the pawnshops. He did not know many people there any more, but he knew what their lives were like. It was a strange, unpleasant feeling to be in such familiar places again, as if the smell had never left the back of his throat, and his feet still knew where the uneven cobbles were as he walked.
He had passed every one of these shops and houses before, trudging with boots that leaked, always a little hungry, uncertain of food or warmth, afraid of the future. If Jones the Pocket came from here, he would understand too much about him to be happy pursuing him. Grover was even worse. He could pity him for his knowledge of the life he was escaping, and hate him because he had betrayed the very path Tellman had taken out of it.
Grover would also have seen his mother struggle to feed and clothe her children, almost certainly losing some to weakness and disease. Tellman would never forget the silence, the fear, the smell of grief in the house. Old people could die; it was expected. But the grief was frightening and inconsolable, even after all these years, when it was a child. If he closed his eyes he could still see his mother’s face the night it had happened, and taste his own helplessness again.
Part of him hated Grover for leeching on his own. A large part of him understood that when you were hungry, when the desperation of survival drove you, you took when you could. You had to be strong, clever, or lucky not to be broken, sooner or later.
None of which in the slightest affected his determination to find Jones the Pocket, and arrest him. He simply had no joy in it.
During the course of the evening he went to every public house within two miles of Dirty Dick’s and the Ten Bells. He watched the landlords, and familiarized himself with the easiest route from one to another.
The next day he dispatched the men who usually worked with him on errands that would keep them occupied for the rest of the afternoon. At midday he was back at the Ten Bells. According to what Pitt had told him, it was collection day, so he bought a beef sandwich and a mug of ale, and waited. He sat near the door and watched every man who came in.
He had come on the early side, to be sure. After he had waited over half an hour, a man with a long nose and flyaway hair came in, flirted with the barmaid, and then bought himself a hot pie and a pint of ale.
Tellman nearly missed the next man who came in. He had a sharp, pointed face, quick eyes, and he wore a loose coat that flapped around his legs as he moved. The blond landlady’s face became suddenly expressionless. Without waiting for him to speak, she poured him a measure of gin in a glass and handed it to him across the counter. He took it and tossed it down in a swift movement, then replaced the empty glass on the counter. No money changed hands.
Tellman drank the last of his ale and stood up.
The landlady held out her hand, palm up.
The man in the coat fished out a coin and gave it to her.
Tellman felt foolish. He would have to sit down again. This was not Jones after all.
The landlady was stiff, uncomfortable. There was no smile on her face as she had had for Tellman, who was a stranger here. She went to the drawer where she kept her money, as if to find change. Instead she made a quick movement and put her hand into a separate pigeonhole and pulled out a bundle of coins tied up in a rag. She slammed the drawer shut, then turned around and gave the bundle to the man. He took it with a few words Tellman could not hear, and then placed it carefully into one of his vast inside pockets. The payment had been made, but to anyone looking less carefully than Tellman had been, it was an ordinary purchase, with change.
Jones had done his business. He left, and went out into the street, Tellman on his heels.
Tellman followed him but at a very considerable distance. He even allowed him to get out of his sight, because he knew where he was going. His only concern was that he might not deliver the money today. He still did not know where to find Jones again, except on the same route next week, and Pitt could not wait another seven days.
But by nearly six o’clock Jones had not passed the money to anyone, nor had he returned to any building that could reasonably be his home.
Finally Jones went into a public house in Bethnal Green, and ordered a meal. Tellman watched as the barmaid brought it to him without asking for any money. At first he leapt to the same conclusion as previously, but then he saw the woman laughing, and he realized there was no apparent anger in her. She walked easily, with a slight sway of her hips. In fact, she was self-confident, flirting a little with other customers as she passed them, catching an eye here and there and winking. She made a joke. A large man responded, and she pretended to be shocked. There was another bellow of laughter. Jones joined in.
The woman returned to the bar and made a little note on a piece of paper and put it in the drawer.
Jones was a regular here. He was not extorting from her, she was putting it on his account. He must eat here regularly. He probably lived within a few minutes’ walking distance.
At last Tellman knew where to find Jones again. He left with life in his step. He realized he was hungry also, but he would eat somewhere else, not here, not in Jones the Pocket’s tavern.
Tellman arrived at his lodgings in a spirit of triumph, but as he lay in bed thinking over his success, he realized that while he understood exactly what he had seen, he had no proof of any crime for which he could legally arrest Jones. Ironically, and he was fully aware of the bitterness of it, he could have used the new laws of search that were currently being suggested in Parliament. But the last thing on earth he wanted was a gun, and still less that police corrupted by Wetron and his like should have them.
He needed an excuse to arrest Jones and keep him long enough for Pitt to take his place—and his money—and wait for his masters to come in search of it.
Of course, if they assumed that Pitt was equally corrupt, which he would have to be, then Tellman’s reasons for arresting Jones did not have to be honest.
But if they were not, and Wetron knew it, then Tellman would be hostage to that crime all the rest of his days.
He turned over and pulled the blankets with him. His pillow felt as if it were full of lumps. He was too hot one minute, and too cold the next.
Worse than hostage to Wetron, he would have dishonored himself. What would his mother have thought of him? He could taste her contempt as if it were already a fact, and, more bitter than contempt, her pain.
And Gracie. Gracie would
be furious with him for not having been clever enough to have thought of something better. He would no longer be any kind of hero in her eyes.
What could he arrest Jones for, legally? He was guilty of extortion, but there was no way to prove it, because no one was going to say that they had paid him unwillingly; they did not dare to. Or the next thing they knew, they would receive a visit from the police, who would find stolen goods carefully planted in their houses, or forged money, or papers of some sort.
He sat up in the bed, cold air hitting his body through his nightshirt. That was it! He had not visited all the public houses in his area yet. There were more to collect from tomorrow. What if one of them paid Jones in forged money? That would be easy enough to arrange. There was nothing criminal in paying extortion with forged money. And Tellman could lay his hands on a few notes easily enough. There was at least one magsman in the Bow Street area who owed him a favor and would be glad enough to acquit it. What did a forged note cost? Little enough in these circumstances.
He would have to do it carefully, of course. He would go around after Jones, make sure he took it, then arrest him. The bogus notes, whose forger he could never give away because he did not know him, would be grounds to hold him in prison for several days, even a week, quite long enough for Pitt to have an excellent chance to meet his masters.
Now Tellman was too wide awake to sleep, but his mind was made up. All that was still left to decide was who would he take with him to make the arrest. He dared not do it alone in case Jones fought, which he well might. In an area like Mile End or Whitechapel, there were enough dark alleys or closed-in courts for him to pull a knife on Tellman, and escape. No one would come to Tellman’s aid, and he dared not look to the local police anyway. Any one of them could be as corrupt as Jones himself, could even be Jones’s master, or a middleman between the two.
He lay down, and did eventually sleep fitfully, but woke up with his mind turned again immediately to whom he could trust to take with him.
