Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [69]
“No,” Wetron replied, straightening up in his seat. “I just wanted to know why you were so interested in this forged five-pound note. It seems…trivial.”
“I don’t think there will be just the one, sir.” Tellman smiled now, a very slight lifting of the corners of his mouth. “If someone’s got plates, they can print as many as they like.”
“And did this…Jones, give you any useful information?”
“Not yet, sir,” Tellman said smoothly. “But there’s time.”
Wetron nodded slowly. He understood the battle lines between them, and he was sure that he would win. “Very well. You can go.”
Tellman had only one possible course open to him. However dangerous it was, he could not allow Pitt to remain ignorant of what might be a vital piece of information.
But first Tellman needed to discover for himself if what Wetron said of Piers Denoon was true or not. If it were not, and Pitt went seeking after him on Tellman’s word, which Wetron would of course deny, then Pitt would make enemies he could not afford. Tellman needed to know for himself, and give that proof to Pitt, not simply the unsupported rumor. And of course he must pursue it in his own time.
It was two nights after his conversation with Wetron before he found the man he wanted. It had cost him both more time and more money than he wished. He ran him down in the Rat and Ha’penny, a public house on the corner of Han-bury Street, not far from where one of Jack the Ripper’s victims had been found, her face disfigured and her stomach torn open, five years earlier.
The room was crowded, filled with raucous laughter and the smell of ale, sweat, and human bodies that had no means and no desire to wash. They sat opposite each other at a small table.
“Lunatic!” Stace said, puckering his mouth into a grimace. He picked up his glass and stared at it appreciatively. “Miserable enough ter cut ’is froat one minute, mad enough ter cut anyone else’s the next. Talks more rubbish than anyone I know. In’t scared o’ nuffin’, like ’e don’t care if ’e’s ’live or dead. Daft, I say. Got the money though. ’Eaps of it.”
“What does he look like?” Tellman asked, pretending to be only moderately interested, as if he were merely making conversation.
Stace shrugged. “Toff,” he replied. “Wears dirt like it’s painted on top of ’im. In’t part of ’im, like them wot lives ’ere. Clothes fit ’im, an’ ’is ’air’s clean. Got dainty ’ands, like a man wot’s never done a day o’work.” He squinted sideways at Tellman. “But I wouldn’t cross ’im, if I was you. Mad as a monkey, ’e is, an’ clever as one too.”
“Clever doing what?” Tellman took another swallow from his glass.
“I dunno, but some funny folks give ’im a lot o’ time.”
“What kind of funny?”
“Crazy people, wot blows up things,” Stace replied, stuffing the last of his pie into his mouth and talking around it. “Always goin’ on about doin’ away wi’ the law, an’ I don’t jus’ mean the rozzers, I mean the ’ole Parli’ment an’ everythin’. Blow up the Queen, if they could.”
“Foreigners?” Tellman inquired innocently.
“Some of ’em, mostly as English as you or me,” Stace said disgustedly.
“Or Irish, maybe?” Tellman suggested.
“All sorts.” Stace gave an elaborate shrug. “Diff’rent ones. Move from one lot ter another. Like I said, ’e’s daft as they come. Must be on the opium, or summink. Always lookin’ over ’is shoulder like the devil was be’ind ’im. Don’t stay in one place long enough ter sit down. Think ’is own shadder’d bit ’im. Wot about another pint, eh? An’ I could manage another pie, if I was asked?”
Tellman obliged. The information was worth it. He fetched the pie and ale and returned to the table where Stace took them immediately.
“Daft, you say?” Tellman repeated.
“As a brush,” Stace confirmed.
“Smokes opium?”
“Dunno. Not fer sure.”
“Where does he get his money from?”
“Dunno. I said as ’e were daft.” Stace took a large bite of his pie and swallowed it before he continued. “ ’E is, but ’e in’t stupid.”
“Where could I find