Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [70]
“Dunno,” Stace replied. “Wot’s it worf?”
“If you don’t know, it isn’t worth anything,” Tellman said frankly. “You said he had good clothes, and under the dirt he was clean.”
“In’t we all?” Stace grinned, showing broken teeth.
Tellman did not argue, but actually it was not true. It sounded as if Piers Denoon might return home to sleep, and possibly to eat, certainly to take a hot bath now and then. That might be the only place to find him. One could wander around the East End for months without running across him. They did not have months, quite apart from the obvious danger not only to Tellman himself, but to Piers also if the wrong people knew he was looking.
“Thank you,” he said appreciatively. “Another glass?”
“Since yer ask, I don’t mind if I do,” Stace said generously.
Tellman did not find Piers Denoon that night, and the following day he had no opportunity to continue the search. He was tired and discouraged by the time he went home to eat, and change his clothes. It had been raining on and off during the day and his feet were sore, his trouser legs were wet, and he had not had anything hot to eat in two days. He began to think of Piers Denoon enjoying a steaming bath back in his parents’ house in Queen Anne Street with a spirit of something close to bitterness.
He knew where the house was—he had taken the trouble to find out. The first night he had gone there and delivered a message. The footman had informed him that Mr. Piers was not at home.
He was not at home the second evening either, but Tellman had nowhere better to look, so he spent the latter part of the evening standing in the chill wind at the other side of the street arguing with himself as to how much longer he could endure it, and whether it was worth staying.
Twice he gave up and walked to the end of the road and was about to go down to Cavendish Square, and changed his mind, determined to give it another quarter of an hour.
It was half past ten when a hansom pulled up three doors along and a young man alighted and staggered uncertainly under the lamplight, almost bumping into it before he altered course. He was unshaven and looked very much the worse for wear. His clothes were dirty, but unmistakably well-cut and tailored to fit his slender, almost emaciated form. He passed into the shadow again, and Tellman did not move until the man started down the area steps of the Denoon house, as if to go in at the scullery door.
Tellman shot into action and sprinted across the street and down the steps. He caught up with the man as he fumbled to open the door to the back kitchen.
“Mr. Denoon!” Tellman said urgently.
Piers jolted as if for an instant he had almost cried out, then he swung around, his back pressed against the door. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Tellman already knew what he was going to do. “I came to give you a warning,” he said quietly. “Not a threat!” he added. In the light above the kitchen door Piers Denoon looked haggard, every bit as tense and nerve-ridden as Stace had said. “The police looking into the Myrdle Street bombing know that you got the money for the dynamite,” Tellman went on.
Piers stared at him, struggling not to believe him. Fear was so stark in his face that Tellman felt a twinge of guilt. But he could not afford mercy now.
“They’ve been questioning the men they caught, Welling and Carmody,” he said urgently. “Someone must have talked. You’ve got to be careful, warn the people you get the money from!”
“Warn them?” Piers said, catching his breath. His eyes looked like hollow pits.
“Well, I can’t!” Tellman said reasonably. “But don’t delay. They’re moving quickly.” Was that enough? Would it send Piers Denoon to whoever was behind the anarchists? Would it give him the proof Pitt needed?
“I hear you,” Piers said quietly. He looked ashen, sweaty, as if he were ill.
Tellman nodded. “Good. Do it.” He turned away and climbed back up the steps into the street and walked away. He stopped half a dozen doors along,