Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [67]
Gracie sat very stiff, her chin high. She was sniffing a little and fumbling for a handkerchief, but her face shone with pride and a kind of inner excitement. It had nothing to do with the contortionists who were the next act, or the comedian who would make her ache with laughter, or the singer who would top the bill, and have everyone in the house singing along with the rip-roaring songs.
Tellman found he was smiling so widely that the man next to him thought he had missed one of the best jokes, but he didn’t like to ask.
The next morning all such pleasures vanished as Tellman reported to the police station at Bow Street and found a message ordering him to go to Wetron’s office immediately.
“Yes, sir?” he asked, standing in front of Wetron’s desk, his mouth dry.
Wetron looked up. He was an ordinary-seeming man, hair receding at the front. He was of average height and build, with nondescript features, until one noticed the hard brilliance of his eyes and the unyielding line of his thin mouth.
“Ah…Tellman.” He leaned back a little in his chair. His desk was impeccably neat. “I wasn’t aware that we had a forgery problem in our area, at least not more than the odd note here and there, usually badly made and wouldn’t fool most people.”
Tellman felt stiff, his face hot. “I don’t think we have, sir. And I’d be happy to keep it like that.”
“Cannon Street informs me that you made an arrest on their territory yesterday, but brought the man back here. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. I had reason to believe the note came from our patch, so the crime was ours.” That was in a way the truth. He must be extremely careful of what he said to Wetron. He had no idea what Stubbs might have told him already.
“A five-pound note?” Wetron lifted his eyebrows very slightly. His tone suggested how little it mattered.
Tellman was stung. He could not afford to let it show.
A faint shadow of amusement crossed Wetron’s cold face. He said nothing.
Suddenly Tellman knew Wetron was waiting for him to excuse himself, to get away as quickly as he could, as if he were afraid, or guilty of something. Anger flared up inside him, and the knowledge that he must be intensely careful. Every word, every nuance, even the way he stood or the expression on his face, would be remembered. He would not retreat.
“I thought right at the moment, sir, that forgery might be particularly important,” he said, straightening up a little to stand squarely in front of Wetron’s desk. “Anarchists need money. It must have taken a fair bit of dynamite to blow up Sergeant Grover’s house, and those on either side of it.”
He was profoundly satisfied to see a moment’s flicker of uncertainty in Wetron’s eyes, as if he had been caught on the wrong foot. It was gone almost before he recognized it.
“Yes it must,” Wetron agreed. “I didn’t know you had such an interest in the matter. But then I suppose it’s natural enough for you. You must still have some loyalty to Pitt.” He let the ambiguity of his meaning hang in the air. “He is in charge of the bombing, isn’t he!”
With a flood of relief, feeling like a runner recovering his balance, Tellman remembered that that fact had been in the newspapers. “Yes, sir, that’s what the papers say,” he acknowledged. “But my concern is that Sergeant Grover is one of us.”
“I didn’t know you knew him!”
“I don’t, sir. But if it was him this time, it could be me next.” He took a deep breath. “Unless, of course, there is something about Grover that I don’t know.”
Wetron’s impassive face gave away nothing. Even his hands on the desk were motionless. “You think Sergeant Grover was the intended victim of those anarchists?”
“I’ve no idea, sir. But I wouldn’t want to take any chances. It might be coincidence that a policeman’s house was dynamited, sir,” he said. “But Mr. Grover knows a lot of people in that area, and he must have offended a fair few of them because