Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [90]
“First the money,” Pitt said patiently. “Trace it to Wetron, then look for the purchase of the dynamite. If it tracks back to Simbister that’s good enough, as long as we can tie Simbister to Wetron. I’ve followed the money as far as Simbister’s right-hand man.”
“Have you?” Voisey’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t say so.”
“I’ve only just done it. I was in the process of doing it when the bomb went off in Scarborough Street. I was only a few hundred yards away.”
Voisey froze. “You were there? You saw it?” He looked at him more closely, noting the scratch marks on his face and where his hair was singed. “You were there,” he said with respect. He grudged giving it, but felt it in spite of himself. “I thought you had just been called afterwards.”
“I spent half the night trying to get the injured and homeless out of the way,” Pitt told him, trying not to let the memory swamp him. “I expect they’re still looking for the dead. Believe me, you are no angrier with Wetron than I am.”
Voisey breathed out very slowly. “No, I imagine I’m not. If there is anything that could snap that very elastic tolerance of yours, this would be it. Good. Connect Wetron to the dynamite, and let’s see him hang!” He said the last word with a sudden passionate viciousness that Pitt knew had more to do with the Inner Circle than the dead of Scarborough Street.
“I mean to,” he answered. “But carefully. What are you going to do?”
Voisey smiled; it was like sudden sunshine. “I am going to find more honorable members of the House who would not care to have their servants questioned in their absence, and remind them of the dangers of such a thing.” He raised his hand in a tiny half-salute, and walked away.
Tellman was not surprised to see Pitt waiting for him in the street outside his lodgings. It was the only place Pitt could be certain of finding him, except at the Bow Street station. There, not only would he be uncertain of what time Tellman would be in, he would also unquestionably be seen and recognized. It would be a matter of minutes before his presence was reported back to Wetron.
As it was, Pitt had to wait. Tellman came home at different hours every night, depending upon his case and its progress. Wetron would take it for granted that they were in touch; in fact, he had already proved that in his conversation with Tellman, when he told him of Piers Denoon. Even so, it was wiser not to be seen. Pitt remained in the shadow of the alley in the gathering dusk until Tellman reached his door.
They said nothing in the street. Pitt followed him inside and up the stairs to his room. Tellman drew the curtains before turning up the gaslight. The fire was already lit, taking the chill from the air. The landlady brought them both bread and hot soup and made no comment.
Tellman listened with growing horror as Pitt recounted what had happened in Scarborough Street. Although he had already heard about the bombing, it was different when told by someone who had been there. It changed from being a series of facts to an account of the blood, the violence, the noise and the pain, the smell of smoke and scorching flesh.
“Voisey believes Wetron actually caused it,” Pitt finished bleakly.
Tellman felt sick. It was a degree of deliberate and planned evil he found hard to imagine. He had seen a certain ambition in men before, but he could not conceive of a hunger for power that would drive anyone to such human slaughter. Even picturing Wetron’s bland face and cold, clever eyes, he found it was still too much to grasp.
But Pitt was prepared to believe it; it was there in his face, the sadness and the anger, and overriding it all was the desperate knowledge that there was no one else to battle it, apart from Voisey. Even Jack Radley did not know the full reach of the threat, and there was no purpose in telling him. He was already doing all he could.
“We must connect Wetron with the dynamite,” Pitt said quietly. “Without proof, we have nothing.”
“I’ll try Jones the Pocket,” Tellman said after a moment’s thought. “We ought to be able to trace the