Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [93]
“Where?”
“Second ’ouse from the end! I swear, as—”
“God’s your judge,” Tellman finished for him. “Who did you give it to? If it was a lot, you must have had very clear intentions. You wouldn’t pass it to just anyone.”
“Skewer! Big feller wi’ one ear, called Skewer.”
“Thank you. You don’t need to swear anymore. Just remember the hangman’s name if you’ve lied to me. You’ll need to be nice to him, so he goes easy by you when the time comes.”
Jones choked.
Tellman remembered Scarborough Street and felt no pity for him.
He left the prison and spent the next four or five hours checking all that Jones had told him. He could not afford to be mistaken. He went to the Shadwell Docks and found New Gravel Lane. It was bleak even in the summer sun and the wind whipped up off the water with a knife-edge to it. The river was busy with barges going from the Pool of London, lightermen, ferries, tugs, and cargo ships moored and waiting to dock. It would be an easy place to store dynamite. Loads of one sort or another were coming and going all the time.
He did not know enough to make a report yet to Pitt. They could afford only one search of such a place. Every trace of the dynamite would be moved long before they could mount a second. He had no choice but to risk asking the River Police for all the information they could give him. He would be oblique, as if asking a professional courtesy.
By midafternoon he knew that one of the old boats moored by New Crane Stairs belonged to Simbister, and it was due to be moved that night. It had not been as difficult to find, or to prove, as he had expected. Was it a double cross? Even a triple cross? He had no way of knowing, but it was time to find Pitt and tell him. He could no longer afford discretion.
“The Josephine, at New Crane Stairs in Shadwell Dock,” Tellman said when he finally found Pitt in among the ruins of Scarborough Street. He had not known where to look for him, because he had no idea if Narraway even had an office, let alone where it might be. He was certain Pitt would not be at home, and he knew of no other investigation that would occupy him. He had tried Long Spoon Lane, but there was no one there, so he went to Scarborough Street next.
Pitt was tired and filthy, covered with ash from looking through the debris. Much of it had been removed. The houses still stood—their jagged, blackened walls showed skeletal beams the fire had missed. Splintered slate and glass lay scattered all over the cobbles. The smell of stale burning was still thick in the air. “Who does the Josephine belong to?” Pitt asked, pushing his hand through his hair and smearing more ash across his face.
“Simbister,” Tellman replied. “The River Police say it’s being moved tonight. We’ve no time to waste. What are you looking for here anyway?”
“Bodies that don’t belong,” Pitt replied. “We’ve found two so far that didn’t live here, and nobody knows who they were. We might tie them in to the explosions.” There was little hope in his voice.
“Anarchists?”
“Probably. On the other hand, they might just have been visiting someone who’s not alive to say so.” He straightened up. “If I find this boat and it has dynamite still in it, or traces left, will there be any proof of Simbister’s connection with it?”
“Yes.” Tellman told him briefly what he had learned from Jones the Pocket. “But I’m coming with you.”
Pitt gave him a quick smile, which was the more startling because of the dirt on his face.
They were walking together out of the wreckage of the center house when they saw the elegant figure of Charles Voisey coming towards them, escorted by a constable. When he saw Pitt he increased his pace, barely glancing at Tellman.
“We can’t wait!
“They’re reading the bill again tomorrow,” he said simply, a note of desperation in his voice. In the setting sun his face looked tired. There were bruised-looking circles around his eyes. He was struggling against defeat. “God, this is awful!” He did not turn his head