Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [60]
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