The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [81]
“Yes sir,” Tellman responded expressionlessly.
Wetron glanced at him, then down at the papers spread out on the desk in front of him. “Well, you’d better go and report to Cullen. Burglary is important. People expect us to keep their property safe. It’s what we are paid for.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Are you being sarcastic, Tellman?”
Tellman opened his eyes very wide. “Me, sir? Not at all. I’m sure that is what the gentlemen of Parliament pay us for.”
“You are damned insolent!” Wetron snapped. “Be careful, Tellman. You are not indispensable.”
Wisely, Tellman did not answer this time, but excused himself to go to find Cullen and try to satisfy him as to where he had been and why he had nothing to report.
It was a long, hot and extremely difficult day, mostly spent trudging from one unproductive interview to another. It was not until nearly seven in the evening that Tellman, his feet burning, was able to extricate himself from duty and finally take an omnibus to Keppel Street. He had been waiting since yesterday night to tell Gracie what he had learned.
Fortunately again Charlotte was upstairs with the children. It seemed she had made a habit of reading to them at about this hour.
Gracie was folding linen and it smelled wonderful. Freshly laundered cotton was one of his favorite things. This was rough dry, ready for the iron, warm from the airing rail.
“Well?” she asked as soon as he was inside, before he had even sat down at the table.
“I followed Remus.” He made himself comfortable, easing the laces of his boots and hoping she would put the kettle on soon. And he was hungry too. Cullen had not allowed him time to eat since midday.
“W’ere’d ’e go?” She looked at him with rapt attention, the last few pieces of linen forgotten.
“St. Pancras Infirmary, to check on the death of a man called William Crook,” he answered, leaning back in the chair.
She looked blank. “ ’Oo was ’e?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But he died there naturally, the end of last year. Remus seemed to care that he was Roman Catholic. The only thing I can see that mattered about him was that he had a daughter who worked at the tobacconist’s in Cleveland Street—and his mother was cousin to the Mr. Stephen who starved himself to death in the madhouse in Northampton.”
“Wot?” She was aghast.
“Wot are yer talkin’ about?”
He told her briefly about his train journey and what he had learned at the asylum. She sat in complete silence, her eyes fixed on him.
“An’ ’e were the teacher o’ poor Prince Eddy ’oo just died?”
“That’s what they said,” he agreed.
She frowned. “Wot’s that got ter do wi’ Cleveland Street? Wot were Adinett doin’ there?”
“I don’t know,” he had to admit again. “But Remus is sure it all ties together. If you’d seen his face you’d know that. He was like a bloodhound on the scent. He practically quivered with excitement, his face was alight, like a child at Christmas.”
“Summink ’appened at Cleveland Street, wot started all this goin’,” she said thoughtfully, screwing up her face. “Or else it ’appened arter that, because o’ wot ’appened at Cleveland Street. An’ Fetters an’ Adinett knew about it.”
“It looks that way,” he agreed. “And I intend to find out what it was.”
“You be careful!” she warned him, her face pale, eyes frightened. Unconsciously she reached across the table towards him.
“Don’t worry,” he answered her. “Remus has no idea I’m following him.” He put his hand over hers. He was amazed how small it was, like a child’s. She did not pull away from him, and for a moment that was all he could think of.
“Not Remus, yer daft article,” she whispered huskily. “Yer new boss wot took Mr. Pitt’s place. ’E’ll have yer if ’e catches yer out o’ line, an’ then w’ere will yer be? Out on the street wi’ nuffink!”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised, but he was cold inside. He could not afford to have Cullen complain of him again, or to be seen by anyone where he should not be. He had worked since he was fourteen to reach the position he was in now, and if he were thrown out of the police force he would lose his income,