Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [120]
Pitt was at home at four o’clock, waiting, pacing the floor, starting at every sound. Charlotte was watching him. Gracie was banging around with a mop, muttering to herself, because she knew there was danger, and no one had told her what it was. She had not seen Tellman alone for two days. Pitt said Tellman had acted with extraordinary courage and intelligence, but would not elaborate, even to Charlotte.
At five o’clock they had tea, drinking it quickly, and too hot, wanting cake and then not wanting it.
It was quarter to six when the telephone finally rang. Pitt charged to the hall and picked the receiver off its hook.
“Yes?”
“Got it,” Voisey said jubilantly. “But Denoon has been warned. He’s at the docks already. Come as fast as you can. King’s Arms Stairs on the Isle of Dogs, at Rotherhithe on the south. It’s Limehouse Reach…”
“I know where it is!” Pitt snapped.
“Come now!” Voisey urged. “Fast as you can. I’ll go ahead. If we lose him, we’ve lost it all.”
“Coming.” Pitt replaced the phone, swung around to look at Charlotte and Gracie staring at him. “I’m going to the King’s Arms Stairs on the Isle of Dogs, to get Piers Denoon, before he escapes. Wetron must have warned him.” And he started for the door.
“You can’t arrest him!” Charlotte called after him. “You aren’t police anymore. Let me call…”
“No!” he shouted. “No one! You don’t know who to trust. Tell Narraway, if you can find him. No one else!”
She nodded. It was clear in her face she knew not even to try to reach Tellman. He kissed her so swiftly it was barely a touch, then went out of the house and sprinted to the end of the street. He hailed the first hansom that passed him. “Mill-wall Dock!” he called to the driver. “Then the King’s Arms Stairs. Know it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Fast as you can! I’ll pay extra!”
“ ’Ang on!”
The hansom lurched forward and increased speed as the light faded in the streets. Pitt hung on as they slewed around corners going south towards Oxford Street. They forced their way through the traffic eastwards, the driver yelling alternately praise and abuse. Oxford Street changed to High Holborn, Holborn Viaduct, Newgate Street then Cheapside. At the junction at Mansion House there was chaos. Two carriages were locked wheel to wheel.
The driver pulled up. Pitt was in a fever of impatience. All around people were shouting, horses backing and squealing.
Then they seemed to turn almost back on themselves, and down King William Street towards the river.
“You can’t get through there!” Pitt shouted furiously. “You’ll come up against the Tower!”
The driver shouted something he did not hear. It was darkening rapidly with a misty rain. They were picking up speed again, but it would do them no good. They could not get around the great bulwark of the massive eight-centuries-old Tower of London, built by William the Conqueror.
Then they turned again and were going north. Of course. Gracechurch Street, up Leadenhall Street, through Aldgate and Whitechapel, and on east. Pitt sat back, gulping, and trying to steady himself. He had miles to go yet. The gray air was full of rain, the road surface gleaming wet in the lights from carriage and streetlamps. The splash and hiss of wheels was almost drowned by the sound of hooves.
Finally they pulled up at the King’s Arms Stairs in near darkness. Almost immediately Voisey’s tall figure came out of the gloom, solid black against the shifting glitter of the