The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [56]
“Of course I can!” he said far more tartly than he meant. “But I wouldn’t want to marry a woman who couldn’t believe the same things I do. More important than religion, about rights and wrongs on how people behave, what’s just and what isn’t.”
The tobacconist smiled and shook his head patiently.
“If yer fall in love, yer won’t think about w’ere she came from or what she believes, yer’ll just wanna be with ’er.” His voice was soft. “If yer sittin’ arguin’ over rights an’ wrongs o’ things, yer in’t in love. ’Ave ’er fer a friend, but don’t marry ’er.” He shook his head, his voice making plain his opinion of such a choice. “ ’Less she’s got money or summink, an’ that’s wot yer want, like?”
Tellman was offended. “I wouldn’t marry anyone for money!” he said angrily. “I just think that a person’s sense of fairness matters. If you’re going to spend your whole life with someone, have children, you should agree on what’s decent and what isn’t.”
The tobacconist sighed heavily, his smile vanishing. “Could be yer right. Gawd knows, fallin’ in love can bring yer enough grief, if yer beliefs an’ yer station in life is different.”
Tellman put one of the humbugs in his mouth as the shop door opened behind him. He turned instinctively to see who it was, and he recognized the man who came in but could not place him.
“Afternoon, sir.” The tobacconist dismissed Tellman from his mind and looked to the new customer. “What can I get yer, sir?”
The man hesitated, glanced at Tellman, then back at the tobacconist. “That gentleman was before me,” he said politely.
“ ’E’s bin served,” the tobacconist answered. “Wot will it be fer you?”
The man looked at Tellman again before replying. “Well, if you’re sure. Half a pound of tobacco …”
The tobacconist’s eyebrows shot up. “Half a pound? Right you are, sir. What kind’ll it be? I got all sorts … Virginia, Turkish—”
“Virginia,” the man cut him off, fishing in his pocket for his money.
It was the voice that Tellman recognized. It took him a moment or two, then he knew where he had heard it before. The man was a journalist named Lyndon Remus. He had followed Pitt around asking questions, probing, during the Bedford Square murder. It was he who had written the piece which had done so much damage, implying scandal.
What was he doing here in Mile End? Certainly not buying tobacco, half a pound at a time! He didn’t know Virginia from Turkish, or care. He had come in for something else, then changed his mind when he saw Tellman.
“Thank you,” Tellman said to the tobacconist. “Good day.” And he went out into the street and along about forty yards to a wide doorway where he could stand almost unseen and watch for Remus to come out.
After about ten minutes he began to wonder if there were a way out of the shop and into a back street. What could Remus be doing in there so long? There was only one answer which made any kind of sense—Remus was there for the same reason he had come himself, scenting a story, a scandal, perhaps an explanation for murder. It must be to do with John Adinett. There could hardly be two murderers tied to that small tobacconist’s shop.
The minutes went by. Traffic passed along the street, some towards the Mile End Road, some the other way. After another ten minutes Remus came out at last. He looked to left and right, crossed the road and walked south, passing within a yard of Tellman, then realizing who he was, stopped abruptly.
Tellman smiled. “Onto a good story, Mr. Remus?” he asked.
Remus’s sharp, freckled face was a total blank for a matter of seconds, then he recovered his composure. “Not sure,” he said easily. “Lot of ideas, all disconnected at the moment. Since you’re here, maybe it does mean something.”
“Humbug,” Tellman said with a smile.
“Oh no … I don’t …” Remus began.
“Mint humbugs,” Tellman clarified. “That’s what I bought there.”
Remus’s expression smoothed out.
“Oh! Yes, of course.”
“Better than tobacco,” Tellman went on. “I don’t know one tobacco from another. Neither do you.”
“Not your beat, is it?” Remus said, shifting