Long Spoon Lane: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel Read online

  “But I’m still going to do all I can,” he said firmly. “And don’t ask me again, because I don’t want to have to tell you not to, and I’m definitely not saying what’s happening, not because I don’t trust you, but so’s you don’t have to keep secrets from Mrs. Pitt, nor tell lies to her.”

  “She knows!” Gracie said with a gulp. “She can work it out too! We know they blew up that ’ouse cos the policeman wot lived in it’s rotten!”

  “Then it won’t matter if I don’t say anything,” he responded. “Now there’s an end to it, Gracie. That’s how it’s going to be, and you’d best get used to it.” He sat very still and stared at her levelly, his face grave.

  She looked furious, her fists clenched in her lap, small, white-knuckled, almost like a child’s. She breathed in and out several times, as if her mind were racing for some answer to give him. He saw the fear in her eyes, wide, dark, and overwhelmingly real.

  He almost wavered. What if she felt so shut out, so excluded, that she would not forgive him? He drew in his breath to say something gentler.

  “Yes, Samuel,” she said softly.

  “What?” He was astounded. She was obeying him!

  “Yer ’eard me!” Her voice was high and angry again. “I in’t saying it twice fer yer! Jus’…jus’ take care o’ yerself, eh? Promise me…”

  “I promise you!” he answered with overwhelming relief. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, but she would be mortified if he were to do something like that in such a public place. People were beginning to take their seats again for the second half, skirts billowing and rustling, everyone standing on everyone else’s toes. There were squeaks of protest and hasty apologies.

  Gracie sat very stiff, her chin high. She was sniffing a little and fumbling for a handkerchief, but her face shone with pride and a kind of inner excitement. It had nothing to do with the contortionists who were the next act, or the comedian who would make her ache with laughter, or the singer who would top the bill, and have everyone in the house singing along with the rip-roaring songs.

  Tellman found he was smiling so widely that the man next to him thought he had missed one of the best jokes, but he didn’t like to ask.

  The next morning all such pleasures vanished as Tellman reported to the police station at Bow Street and found a message ordering him to go to Wetron’s office immediately.

  “Yes, sir?” he asked, standing in front of Wetron’s desk, his mouth dry.

  Wetron looked up. He was an ordinary-seeming man, hair receding at the front. He was of average height and build, with nondescript features, until one noticed the hard brilliance of his eyes and the unyielding line of his thin mouth.

  “Ah…Tellman.” He leaned back a little in his chair. His desk was impeccably neat. “I wasn’t aware that we had a forgery problem in our area, at least not more than the odd note here and there, usually badly made and wouldn’t fool most people.”

  Tellman felt stiff, his face hot. “I don’t think we have, sir. And I’d be happy to keep it like that.”

  “Cannon Street informs me that you made an arrest on their territory yesterday, but brought the man back here. Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir. I had reason to believe the note came from our patch, so the crime was ours.” That was in a way the truth. He must be extremely careful of what he said to Wetron. He had no idea what Stubbs might have told him already.

  “A five-pound note?” Wetron lifted his eyebrows very slightly. His tone suggested how little it mattered.

  Tellman was stung. He could not afford to let it show.

  A faint shadow of amusement crossed Wetron’s cold face. He said nothing.

  Suddenly Tellman knew Wetron was waiting for him to excuse himself, to get away as quickly as he could, as if he were afraid, or guilty of something. Anger flared up inside him, and the knowledge that he must be intensely careful. Every word, every nuance, even the way he stood or the expression on his face, would be remembered. He would not retreat.

  “I thought right at the moment, sir, that forgery might be particularly important,” he said, straightening up a little to stand squarely in front of Wetron’s desk. “Anarchists need money. It must have taken a fair bit of dynamite to blow up Sergeant Grover’s house, and those on either side of it.”

  He was profoundly satisfied to see a moment’s flicker of uncertainty in Wetron’s eyes, as if he had been caught on the wrong foot. It was gone almost before he recognized it.

  “Yes it must,” Wetron agreed. “I didn’t know you had such an interest in the matter. But then I suppose it’s natural enough for you. You must still have some loyalty to Pitt.” He let the ambiguity of his meaning hang in the air. “He is in charge of the bombing, isn’t he!”

  With a flood of relief, feeling like a runner recovering his balance, Tellman remembered that that fact had been in the newspapers. “Yes, sir, that’s what the papers say,” he acknowledged. “But my concern is that Sergeant Grover is one of us.”

  “I didn’t know you knew him!”

  “I don’t, sir. But if it was him this time, it could be me next.” He took a deep breath. “Unless, of course, there is something about Grover that I don’t know.”

  Wetron’s impassive face gave away nothing. Even his hands on the desk were motionless. “You think Sergeant Grover was the intended victim of those anarchists?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir. But I wouldn’t want to take any chances. It might be coincidence that a policeman’s house was dynamited, sir,” he said. “But Mr. Grover knows a lot of people in that area, and he must have offended a fair few of them because he’s put them in prison, cut the rate of their business. Maybe they printed up a bit of money for the anarchists, and told them it would be a favor if they placed their dynamite in a certain street?” He was pleased with that. It made sense.

  Wetron stared at him. “Is that what Mr. Pitt thinks, Sergeant?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. I imagine he’s more concerned with catching them than whether they bombed Mr. Grover’s house on purpose.”

  “He’s not very quick, your Mr. Pitt, is he!” Wetron said with only the faintest derision in his tone. “The anarchists raise their own funds. Even I know that, just as a matter of keeping my ear to the ground. Seems he can’t find it out, even by detection! Nor can you, for that matter.”

  Anger burned in Tellman’s cheeks; he could feel the heat of it and knew Wetron must be able to see it. His instinct was to defend Pitt rather than himself. Perhaps that was what Wetron was trying to provoke him into. But if he did not rise to it, then Wetron would know he was being deliberately guarded. What did he expect? Bluff? Double-bluff?

  Wetron was waiting, watching him. He must react now; any delay would betray his anxiety, and make him seem dishonest.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Maybe being out of the police force means he doesn’t get to hear things. And it seems we didn’t tell him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Wetron was still smiling. “I imagine he has his contacts, his informers, don’t you, Sergeant?”

  Tellman knew his voice was husky with tension, sounding unnatural. He resisted the impulse to clear his throat. “Well, sir, if you know that about the anarchists, and he doesn’t, it would look like his informers aren’t very good ones,” he responded.

  “It would, wouldn’t it?” Wetron agreed. “He must be asking the ones their superiors, and their fellows, don’t trust.”

  There it was, the precise warning. Tellman could report it to Pitt, and deliberately place himself in that category, or not tell him and be unworthy of his trust.

  Wetron was oozing satisfaction. Tellman could almost smell it in the still air of the room.

  “Very foolish, that,” Wetron continued. “A policeman out on the streets, who doesn’t have the confidence of the men he relies on, is in a very dangerous position. There are a lot of places in London where that could cost him his life.”

  Tellman thought of himself in the alley with Grover and Stubbs.
Did Wetron know about that—from either of them? Only Leggy’s accidental arrival had saved him from being at Stubbs’s mercy, one way or the other.

  “Yes, sir,” he said aloud. “Should we inform Special Branch about the anarchists’ way of getting money, as a favor? It might be useful to have them in our debt.”

  “You think they will repay us one day?” Wetron said with surprise.

  Tellman felt foolish. Pitt would, but Victor Narraway was another matter.

  Wetron appeared to consider it. “We might trade it,” he said thoughtfully. “If they are still floundering about, in three or four days, I’ll see what they say.”

  Tellman could think of no answer, and he did not dare argue.

  Wetron leaned back. “Are they investigating Magnus Landsborough’s family?” he asked as if it were only mildly interesting.

  Tellman was startled. “I have no idea, sir.”

  Wetron smiled again. “That’s where they should look. His cousin, Piers Denoon, is the obvious place. Perhaps Pitt will work that out, eventually.” He looked at Tellman, his eyes bright and hard, as if they could see right into his mind.

  Tellman knew exactly what he was doing, just as Wetron did, and Tellman’s dilemma amused him. Would Tellman repeat it to Pitt, and betray himself, or say nothing, and betray Pitt? It would place Pitt in an even greater shadow of failure than the Special Branch already was, with half London crying out that they had only two of the anarchists, and could not even name the rest, let alone capture them.

  “Yes, sir,” Tellman said quietly. He hardly dared trust his voice. Wetron had given one thing away irrevocably. If Tellman had ever imagined Wetron was a servant of the people, not of his own interests, that illusion was ripped apart. But then perhaps he knew that Tellman had not been deceived in that for years! He had lost nothing. “Is there anything else, sir?” he asked politely.

  “No,” Wetron replied, straightening up in his seat. “I just wanted to know why you were so interested in this forged five-pound note. It seems…trivial.”

  “I don’t think there will be just the one, sir.” Tellman smiled now, a very slight lifting of the corners of his mouth. “If someone’s got plates, they can print as many as they like.”

  “And did this…Jones, give you any useful information?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Tellman said smoothly. “But there’s time.”

  Wetron nodded slowly. He understood the battle lines between them, and he was sure that he would win. “Very well. You can go.”

  Tellman had only one possible course open to him. However dangerous it was, he could not allow Pitt to remain ignorant of what might be a vital piece of information.

  But first Tellman needed to discover for himself if what Wetron said of Piers Denoon was true or not. If it were not, and Pitt went seeking after him on Tellman’s word, which Wetron would of course deny, then Pitt would make enemies he could not afford. Tellman needed to know for himself, and give that proof to Pitt, not simply the unsupported rumor. And of course he must pursue it in his own time.

  It was two nights after his conversation with Wetron before he found the man he wanted. It had cost him both more time and more money than he wished. He ran him down in the Rat and Ha’penny, a public house on the corner of Han-bury Street, not far from where one of Jack the Ripper’s victims had been found, her face disfigured and her stomach torn open, five years earlier.

  The room was crowded, filled with raucous laughter and the smell of ale, sweat, and human bodies that had no means and no desire to wash. They sat opposite each other at a small table.

  “Lunatic!” Stace said, puckering his mouth into a grimace. He picked up his glass and stared at it appreciatively. “Miserable enough ter cut ’is froat one minute, mad enough ter cut anyone else’s the next. Talks more rubbish than anyone I know. In’t scared o’ nuffin’, like ’e don’t care if ’e’s ’live or dead. Daft, I say. Got the money though. ’Eaps of it.”

  “What does he look like?” Tellman asked, pretending to be only moderately interested, as if he were merely making conversation.

  Stace shrugged. “Toff,” he replied. “Wears dirt like it’s painted on top of ’im. In’t part of ’im, like them wot lives ’ere. Clothes fit ’im, an’ ’is ’air’s clean. Got dainty ’ands, like a man wot’s never done a day o’work.” He squinted sideways at Tellman. “But I wouldn’t cross ’im, if I was you. Mad as a monkey, ’e is, an’ clever as one too.”

  “Clever doing what?” Tellman took another swallow from his glass.

  “I dunno, but some funny folks give ’im a lot o’ time.”

  “What kind of funny?”

  “Crazy people, wot blows up things,” Stace replied, stuffing the last of his pie into his mouth and talking around it. “Always goin’ on about doin’ away wi’ the law, an’ I don’t jus’ mean the rozzers, I mean the ’ole Parli’ment an’ everythin’. Blow up the Queen, if they could.”

  “Foreigners?” Tellman inquired innocently.

  “Some of ’em, mostly as English as you or me,” Stace said disgustedly.

  “Or Irish, maybe?” Tellman suggested.

  “All sorts.” Stace gave an elaborate shrug. “Diff’rent ones. Move from one lot ter another. Like I said, ’e’s daft as they come. Must be on the opium, or summink. Always lookin’ over ’is shoulder like the devil was be’ind ’im. Don’t stay in one place long enough ter sit down. Think ’is own shadder’d bit ’im. Wot about another pint, eh? An’ I could manage another pie, if I was asked?”

  Tellman obliged. The information was worth it. He fetched the pie and ale and returned to the table where Stace took them immediately.

  “Daft, you say?” Tellman repeated.

  “As a brush,” Stace confirmed.

  “Smokes opium?”

  “Dunno. Not fer sure.”

  “Where does he get his money from?”

  “Dunno. I said as ’e were daft.” Stace took a large bite of his pie and swallowed it before he continued. “ ’E is, but ’e in’t stupid.”

  “Where could I find him?” Maybe it was too bold a question. The moment it was out of his mouth, he wished he had not asked.

  “Dunno,” Stace replied. “Wot’s it worf?”

  “If you don’t know, it isn’t worth anything,” Tellman said frankly. “You said he had good clothes, and under the dirt he was clean.”

  “In’t we all?” Stace grinned, showing broken teeth.

  Tellman did not argue, but actually it was not true. It sounded as if Piers Denoon might return home to sleep, and possibly to eat, certainly to take a hot bath now and then. That might be the only place to find him. One could wander around the East End for months without running across him. They did not have months, quite apart from the obvious danger not only to Tellman himself, but to Piers also if the wrong people knew he was looking.

  “Thank you,” he said appreciatively. “Another glass?”

  “Since yer ask, I don’t mind if I do,” Stace said generously.

  Tellman did not find Piers Denoon that night, and the following day he had no opportunity to continue the search. He was tired and discouraged by the time he went home to eat, and change his clothes. It had been raining on and off during the day and his feet were sore, his trouser legs were wet, and he had not had anything hot to eat in two days. He began to think of Piers Denoon enjoying a steaming bath back in his parents’ house in Queen Anne Street with a spirit of something close to bitterness.

  He knew where the house was—he had taken the trouble to find out. The first night he had gone there and delivered a message. The footman had informed him that Mr. Piers was not at home.

  He was not at home the second evening either, but Tellman had nowhere better to look, so he spent the latter part of the evening standing in the chill wind at the other side of the street arguing with himself as to how much longer he could endure it, and whether it was worth staying.

  Twice he gave up and walked to the end of the road and was about
to go down to Cavendish Square, and changed his mind, determined to give it another quarter of an hour.

  It was half past ten when a hansom pulled up three doors along and a young man alighted and staggered uncertainly under the lamplight, almost bumping into it before he altered course. He was unshaven and looked very much the worse for wear. His clothes were dirty, but unmistakably well-cut and tailored to fit his slender, almost emaciated form. He passed into the shadow again, and Tellman did not move until the man started down the area steps of the Denoon house, as if to go in at the scullery door.

  Tellman shot into action and sprinted across the street and down the steps. He caught up with the man as he fumbled to open the door to the back kitchen.

  “Mr. Denoon!” Tellman said urgently.

  Piers jolted as if for an instant he had almost cried out, then he swung around, his back pressed against the door. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Tellman already knew what he was going to do. “I came to give you a warning,” he said quietly. “Not a threat!” he added. In the light above the kitchen door Piers Denoon looked haggard, every bit as tense and nerve-ridden as Stace had said. “The police looking into the Myrdle Street bombing know that you got the money for the dynamite,” Tellman went on.

  Piers stared at him, struggling not to believe him. Fear was so stark in his face that Tellman felt a twinge of guilt. But he could not afford mercy now.

  “They’ve been questioning the men they caught, Welling and Carmody,” he said urgently. “Someone must have talked. You’ve got to be careful, warn the people you get the money from!”

  “Warn them?” Piers said, catching his breath. His eyes looked like hollow pits.

  “Well, I can’t!” Tellman said reasonably. “But don’t delay. They’re moving quickly.” Was that enough? Would it send Piers Denoon to whoever was behind the anarchists? Would it give him the proof Pitt needed?

  “I hear you,” Piers said quietly. He looked ashen, sweaty, as if he were ill.

  Tellman nodded. “Good. Do it.” He turned away and climbed back up the steps into the street and walked away. He stopped half a dozen doors along, until he was out of sight should Piers be watching him. Then he crossed the street and went halfway down the steps of a house where no lights were on, and waited.