Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [92]
Jones saw the trap widening, but not how to avoid it this time.
“Or put it this way,” Tellman suggested. “If I ask the landlord at the Triple Plea how much of a favor you did him, is he going to say ‘five pounds worth,’ or ‘twenty-seven pounds worth’?”
“Er…’ow do I know wot ’e’s gonna say? ’E don’t like ter talk about it!” Triumph gleamed momentarily in Jones’s eyes. “Landlord feels like a fool if ’e’s got ter admit as ’e borrered money from ’is customers.”
“You lent him money?”
“Yeah!”
“Where did you get twenty-seven pounds to spare?” Tellman grinned. “Or was it five you lent him, and the rest was usury? Never mind, he’ll tell me. And since you were so kind to him, he’ll remember exactly when. I suppose you gave him back his note?”
Jones was sweating, it beaded on his upper lip. “Note?”
“Oh, Mr. Jones,” Tellman said deprecatingly. “You’re far too clever a man to lend money without a note for it. How could you collect? I’ll ask him for it, and then the finny’ll be his problem.” He straightened up as if he were about to go.
“It weren’t…” Jones began, swallowing hard.
Tellman stopped, turning back. “Yes?” He managed to invest the word with a certain menace, and was pleased with himself. He thought of the destruction in Scarborough Street and the fury he felt must have shown in his face.
Jones gulped. “It weren’t for me…actual,” Jones said miserably. “I fetch an’ carry for someone as…lends…now an’ again.”
Tellman let the lie go for the moment. “I see. And who is this someone else?”
“I dunno as…” Jones stopped. He looked closely at Tellman and saw the rage and the steel inside him. “It were Mr. Grover o’ Cannon Street,” he said hoarsely. “As God’s me judge!”
“I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to call in judgment, if I were you,” Tellman answered, but he felt a lift of victory over the admission. “Supposing I believe you, how will I get an ordinary law court judge to believe you too, since he isn’t God, and doesn’t know for himself.”
“Law court judge!” Jones gulped again. “I din’t do nuffin’ wrong!” Now he was afraid, and for the first time he could not conceal it. “Yer mean a beak! Wot sits up there wi’ a wig on ’is ’ead?”
“And puts people into the Coldbath Fields, or worse. Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. There’s a lot of money going funny places, Mr. Jones.”
“Funny places? I dunno wot yer mean…”
“Do you do any other jobs for Mr. Grover? Nothing wrong if you do. He’s a policeman. Works for Mr. Simbister, no less. It’d not be your fault if you thought it was all fair and right.”
“No, it wouldn’t!” Jones said with feeling.
“Any of these other jobs involve paying money out to people? For goods and work and the like?”
Jones blinked, his face full of doubt. Was he going to escape, or was Tellman playing with him? He plunged between hope and terror.
Tellman eased his body into a slightly more comfortable position, flexing his shoulders a little. “You’re with me or against me, Mr. Jones. Somebody else may make things hard for you, or they may not. I come from near Scarborough Street.” That was a slight stretching of the truth, but the difference was unimportant. “You should have smelled the stench of burning. They haven’t got all the bodies out yet. Put you off a roast joint for the rest of your life, that would.”
Jones blasphemed under his breath, his face white. “Yer wouldn’t…”
“Yes I would.” Tellman meant it. The anger inside him was like a hard knot of pain. “That money went to buy dynamite. Who did you take it to?”
“You can’t n-never say I…” Jones stammered. “I din’t…”
“Know what it was for?” Tellman finished for him. “Possibly not. If you’re against bombing like that then you’ll tell me where you took the money, who you gave it to, and everything else you know. Then I’ll have proof that you aren’t part of it, you just ran an errand for a man you thought was good. Right?”
“R-Right! I…” He gulped convulsively. “I…”
Tellman waited.
Jones looked at the high, barred window, at the steel door, then back at Tellman.
Tellman straightened up again to leave.
“I took