Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [130]
He knocked on Wetron’s door. The answer was quick and impatient.
Tellman went in. “Good morning, sir,” he said without hesitation, closing the door behind him. His voice was tight and a little high.
Wetron was standing at the window. He turned around, and saw Tellman with irritation. There was anxiety in his face, but an oblique kind of triumph also. “Morning, Sergeant. I’m sorry to hear about Pitt. Never liked the man, but I know you had a kind of loyalty.”
Tellman’s mind raced. Wetron must have been told that Pitt was dead. He had three choices—deny it, accept it as if he knew also, or pretend complete ignorance—and almost three seconds to decide which served his interests best. “Sir?” He played for time. He could not afford even the slightest mistake.
“Pulled out of the river this morning,” Wetron said, watching him with malicious pleasure. “Seems the anarchists got him.”
“Oh, that.” Suddenly Tellman could see what he wanted to do. He had the chance to seize this as a weapon. “Looks a bit like Mr. Simbister trying to defend himself, doesn’t it? Last throw, as you might say.”
Wetron’s skin flooded with color. For an instant he was uncertain. He wanted to lose his temper and shout at Tellman, hurt him by playing on his grief. Then better judgment prevailed; he weighed his own needs and spoke calmly.
“You are aware of Simbister’s corruption?”
“Just what I saw in the newspapers this morning, sir,” Tellman replied. “I know rather more about Sir Charles Voisey.”
“Indeed?” Wetron raised his eyebrows. “How is that, Sergeant? I am not aware of any of your investigations taking you to ask questions about a member of Parliament.”
Tellman shivered. It would be so easy to be overconfident, to say too much, or the wrong things. Now was the time for truth. “No, sir,” he said meekly. “I’m courting the Pitts’ housekeeper, sir. I happened to be there this morning.”
“And yet you appear entirely indifferent to Pitt’s death!” Wetron said in amazement. “Is there an entire dimension to your character of which I am unaware?”
“Not so far as I know, sir. Mr. Pitt was in good health. I don’t know if some poor soul who looks like him was pulled out of the river. I should think, sir, frankly, that it is more likely Sir Charles told you a deliberate lie.” He relaxed a little. “From what I know, sir, from Mrs. Pitt, and my own observation, it seems Sir Charles has some personal hatred towards you. He is the one behind Mr. Simbister’s fall, if you want to put it that way.”
Wetron was motionless. “What makes you think that, Sergeant?”
Now was the time to tell him what Narraway needed him to know. “He was the one who told Special Branch about Mr. Simbister using thieves and the like to collect money from the publicans, and he was the one who found out that the dynamite the anarchists used was kept in a boat down by Shadwell.”
Wetron’s eyes were glittering hard, his skin all but bloodless. “And how do you know this, Tellman? It sounds as if you have spent more time working for Special Branch than doing your job from the police who pay you. Just where does your loyalty lie? As if I didn’t know!”
“Like I said, sir, I’m courting Mr. Pitt’s maid. I happened to be there this morning, and I heard this from Mr. Pitt himself. Sir Charles tried to kill him last night, but he didn’t succeed.”
“Were you there?” Wetron demanded.
Tellman looked slightly aggrieved. “No, sir! I was on duty here!”
“What did you come for, Tellman?” Wetron said harshly. His lips were as thin as a knife cut.
“Loyalty to the police, sir.” That was believable. He had spent all his working life in the police force, and Wetron knew that. “I think it’s right that Mr. Simbister has to go. Seems he was rotten. But Mr. Pitt let some words slip out, and I can piece the rest together. Sir Charles plans to get rid of you too, sir, then get a man of his own in here, and spread the same kind of thing to Bow Street, but take the money himself. This