Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [30]
The fear ironed out of Tellman’s face. “Come in. I’ve got a better room now, bigger.” He did not wait for agreement but opened the door with his key and led the way inside. The hall was narrow and linoleum-floored. Framed samplers adorned the wall. A pleasant aroma came from the back of the house, strongly pungent of onions. It reminded Pitt that he was hungry.
Tellman went up the stairs to the first floor and opened the door of the room overlooking the street. It was spacious, with a brass bed in one corner, a table and chair by the window, and two upholstered armchairs near the fireplace where the coals were already burning nicely. He invited Pitt to sit, then after loosening his bootlaces and taking off his jacket he sat in the other.
Pitt did not waste time. “The bombing in Myrdle Street,” he said without preamble. “Anarchists. One dead, we have two of the others. Another one, maybe two escaped.”
Tellman waited. He knew Pitt would not be asking police help in finding them.
“I’ve been questioning the ones we have,” Pitt went on. “They’re young, naive; they feel violently about social wrongs. In particular police corruption.” He watched Tellman’s face to see if there would be any anger in it, any leap to deny it. It was not there. He simply looked guarded, waiting for Pitt to explain.
“My first thought was ‘Why Myrdle Street?’” Pitt went on. “There didn’t appear to be any answer other than random violence. Then I learned that the central house that was destroyed belonged to a policeman from Cannon Street named Grover.”
Tellman nodded very slowly. “I know him.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Big man, about forty-five, heavy-built.” Tellman was visualizing him as he spoke. “Been in the force since he was twenty or so. Worked his way up to sergeant but never seemed to want to go any higher. He knows the streets like the back of his hand, and most of the people in them. There isn’t a screever or a fence he couldn’t name, and tell you his business.”
“How do you know?”
Tellman’s lips thinned. “Reputation. If you want to know anything going on in the Cannon Street patch, ask Grover.”
“I see. According to at least two sources, some policemen are collecting protection money from pubs around the Spitalfields area,” Pitt went on. “I checked it myself, at Dirty Dick’s and the Ten Bells. A man they know as Jones the Pocket comes for the money every Wednesday, midafternoon.”
“You sure he’s in the police?” Tellman asked unhappily.
“No, I’m only sure the pub owners think he is. I have to know. I want him arrested, and I’ll take his place.”
“What for? He may connect with Grover eventually, but you’ll have to prove it. You don’t know who he reports to, first,” Tellman pointed out. “And he’s not going to tell you.”
“No,” Pitt agreed. “But if I have the money, someone will make it their business to find me.”
Tellman winced, his face grim. “Probably with a knife!”
“Not till they have the money from me, and know if I’m working alone.” But Pitt was perfectly aware of the danger, and he would much rather have found another way to the same end, but he could not think of one.
Tellman drew in his breath to argue, just as there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said, then stood up as his landlady entered. She was a handsome woman, between fifty and sixty, carrying a warm, savory smell of the kitchen with her. A stiff, white apron covered most of her cotton dress.
“You want me ter keep yer dinner, Mr. Tellman?” she asked. She stared at Pitt. “There’s enough fer yer caller, if ’e’d like it. Just bangers and mash, an’ a spot o’ cabbage, but yer welcome.”
Tellman looked at Pitt.
Pitt accepted warmly, and Tellman asked her to bring it as soon as she could. They waited until it was carried up on a tray, and the landlady duly thanked, before continuing with the conversation between mouthfuls. It was plain food, but it was well-cooked and generously portioned.
“Spitalfields is in the Cannon Street area,” Tellman said unhappily.