The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [78]
But surely that was not why Adinett had been to Cleveland Street, and also left in excitement and gone to Dismore? He was no chaser of other people’s misfortunes.
No, there was a reason here, if Tellman could only find it.
When they reached Northampton, Remus got off the train. Tellman followed him out of the station into the sunlight, where he immediately took a hansom cab. Tellman engaged the one behind it and gave the driver orders to follow him. Tellman sat forward, anxious and uncomfortable as he moved at a fast pace through the provincial streets until they finally drew up at a grim asylum for the insane.
Tellman waited outside, standing by the gate where he would not be noticed. When Remus emerged nearly an hour later, his face was flushed with excitement, his eyes were brilliant and he walked with such speed, arms swinging, shoulders set, that he could have bumped into Tellman and barely noticed.
Should he follow the reporter again and see where he went to now or go into the asylum himself and find out what he had learned? The latter, definitely. Apart from anything else, he had only a limited time to get to the station and catch the last train to London. It would be difficult enough as it was to explain his absence to Wetron.
He went into the office and presented his police identification. The lie was ready on his tongue.
“I’m investigating a murder. I followed a man from London, about my height, thirty years old or so, reddish colored hair, hazel eyes, eager sort of face. I need you to tell me what he asked you and what you answered him.”
The man blinked in surprise, his faded blue eyes fixed on Tellman’s face, his hand stopped in the air halfway to his quill pen.
“He wasn’t askin’ about no murder!” he protested. “Poor soul died as natural as yer like, if yer can call starvin’ yerself natural.”
“Starving yourself?” Tellman had not known what he was expecting, but not suicide. “Who?”
“Mr. Stephen, of course. That’s who he was askin’ about.”
“Mr. J. K. Stephen?”
“S’right.” He sniffed. “Poor soul. Mad as a hatter. But then ’e wouldn’t ’a bin in ’ere if ’e were all right, would ’e!”
“And he starved himself?” Tellman repeated.
“Stopped eatin’,” the man agreed, his face bleak. “Wouldn’t take a thing, not a bite.”
“Was he ill? Perhaps he couldn’t eat?” Tellman suggested.
“ ’E could eat, ’e just stopped sudden.” The man sniffed again. “Fourteenth o’ January. I remember that, ’cos it were the same day as we ’eard the poor Duke o’ Clarence were dead. Reckon that’s wot did it. Used ter know the Duke, real well. Talked about ’im. Taught ’im ter paint, so ’e said.”
“He did?” Tellman was totally confused. The more he learned the less sense it made. It seemed unlikely that the man who had starved himself to death here in this place knew the Prince of Wales’s eldest son. “Are you certain?”
“O’ course I’m certain! Why d’yer wanna know?” His look narrowed considerably, and there was a note of suspicion in his voice. He sniffed again, then searched his pockets for a handkerchief.
Tellman controlled himself with an effort. He must not spoil it now.
“Just have to make sure I’ve got the right man,” he lied, hoping it sounded believable.
The man found his handkerchief and blew his nose fiercely.
“Used ter be tutor to the Prince, didn’t ’e!” he explained. “Reckon w’en ’e ’eard the poor feller’d died, ’e jus’ took it too bad. ’E weren’t right in the ’ead any’ow, poor devil.”
“When did ’e die?”
“Third o’ February,” he said, putting his handkerchief away. “That’s an’ ’orrible way ter go.” There was pity in his face. “Seemed ter mean summink ter the feller yer followin’, but I’m blessed if I know wot. Some poor, sad lunatic decides ter die—o’ grief, for all I know—an’ ’e goes rushin