Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [72]
“I don’t know how long they’ll hold Jones the Pocket.” He chewed his lip. “If it’s as bad as we fear, they could lose the evidence against him. You’d better move quickly.” He looked at Pitt with steady, miserable eyes.
“What’s the charge?” Pitt asked, curious to know how Tellman had accomplished it. “And the evidence?”
“Passing forged money,” Tellman replied, the very smallest lift of pride in his voice. “Which he did,” he added. “With a little help. I took a constable along, so someone knows apart from me, but of course I don’t know if I can trust him. He might develop a sudden blindness. Or worse, he might say I put the money there.”
“Could you have?” Pitt was worried for him.
“No. I was careful not to go anywhere near his pockets. I held him, and had Stubbs search.”
“How did the forged money get there?” Pitt asked.
“I gave it to one of the people he was going to collect from. He owed me a favor and was glad enough to earn a contribution to its repayment.”
“Good. So what is it?” It was on the edge of Pitt’s tongue to ask why Tellman was here at half past one in the morning, but he looked so wretched he forbore.
“Wetron called me into his office about it,” Tellman replied quietly, staring at his hands on the kitchen table. “He was bound to hear, but it was quick! I don’t know whether it was Stubbs who reported to him, or Grover from Cannon Street, who was with Jones when I arrested him.” He raised his eyes to Pitt’s. “Wetron crowed a bit, but he told me that the money from the anarchists is raised by Piers Denoon, Magnus Landsborough’s cousin. He said everyone knows that, and Special Branch is pretty poor not to have found out. He’s setting me up to see if I’ll tell you.”
“Yes…” Pitt agreed. He could hear the kettle begin to hiss. “Of course he is. You—”
“It’s true,” Tellman cut across him. “I found out for myself. I asked about him, and I got him at home and told him the police knew what he was doing. He went straight to report to his leader.” His face was now almost gray, and behind Pitt the kettle was beginning to whistle.
Pitt ignored it. “Who?”
“Simbister.”
Pitt felt the cold bite into him, and a faint sickness in his stomach. It should not have surprised him. It was what Welling and Carmody had implied. He tried once to evade it. “Of Cannon Street? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“At his home? Are you certain?”
“Yes. Are you going to see Jones?” Tellman asked.
“No. I can’t do it without running the risk that Wetron will hear of it. I doubt he’d tell me anything.”
Tellman nodded unhappily.
“Thank you.”
He stood up to take the kettle off the hob before it woke the rest of the house. “What do you know about Piers Denoon?” he asked, reaching for the tea caddy.
Quietly, Tellman told him.
First thing in the morning Pitt sent a message to Voisey, and at noon once again he walked down the steps to the crypt of St. Paul’s, and along the same arched aisle as before. This time he went past Nelson’s tomb to that of the great Duke of Wellington, successful against the Maratha Confederacy in India, commander of the campaign in the Peninsular War, and finally, of course, victor at Waterloo.
Voisey was standing at the far end of the tomb, moving his weight from one foot to the other. He turned as he heard the sound of Pitt’s steps. A flush of irritation crossed his face at his own predictability. “I assume you have a damned good reason for this!” he said in a low voice as soon as Pitt was beside him. “I was about to have a meeting with the home secretary.”
“Of course I have,” Pitt replied tersely, glancing at the magnificent tomb. It was solemn and imposing as befitted the greatest military leader in British history, and yet still less ornate or individual than Nelson’s. It spoke of glory and admiration, but not love. “Do you think I would send for you for anything less?”
Voisey ignored the “send for you” with difficulty and it showed on his face. “Well, what is it?” he demanded.
Pitt was certainly not going