Long Spoon Lane (28 page)

“I mean to,” he answered. “But carefully. What are you going to do?”

Voisey smiled; it was like sudden sunshine. “I am going to find more honorable members of the House who would not care to have their servants questioned in their absence, and remind them of the dangers of such a thing.” He raised his hand in a tiny half-salute, and walked away.

Tellman was not surprised to see Pitt waiting for him in the street outside his lodgings. It was the only place Pitt could be certain of finding him, except at the Bow Street station. There, not only would he be uncertain of what time Tellman would be in, he would also unquestionably be seen and recognized. It would be a matter of minutes before his presence was reported back to Wetron.

As it was, Pitt had to wait. Tellman came home at different hours every night, depending upon his case and its progress. Wetron would take it for granted that they were in touch; in fact, he had already proved that in his conversation with Tellman, when he told him of Piers Denoon. Even so, it was wiser not to be seen. Pitt remained in the shadow of the alley in the gathering dusk until Tellman reached his door.

They said nothing in the street. Pitt followed him inside and up the stairs to his room. Tellman drew the curtains before turning up the gaslight. The fire was already lit, taking the chill from the air. The landlady brought them both bread and hot soup and made no comment.

Tellman listened with growing horror as Pitt recounted what had happened in Scarborough Street. Although he had already heard about the bombing, it was different when told by someone who had been there. It changed from being a series of facts to an account of the blood, the violence, the noise and the pain, the smell of smoke and scorching flesh.

“Voisey believes Wetron actually caused it,” Pitt finished bleakly.

Tellman felt sick. It was a degree of deliberate and planned evil he found hard to imagine. He had seen a certain ambition in men before, but he could not conceive of a hunger for power that would drive anyone to such human slaughter. Even picturing Wetron’s bland face and cold, clever eyes, he found it was still too much to grasp.

But Pitt was prepared to believe it; it was there in his face, the sadness and the anger, and overriding it all was the desperate knowledge that there was no one else to battle it, apart from Voisey. Even Jack Radley did not know the full reach of the threat, and there was no purpose in telling him. He was already doing all he could.

“We must connect Wetron with the dynamite,” Pitt said quietly. “Without proof, we have nothing.”

“I’ll try Jones the Pocket,” Tellman said after a moment’s thought. “We ought to be able to trace the dynamite to someone through the money, as you say. I can’t think of anything else.”

In the morning Tellman went straight to the prison where Jones was being held and asked to see him. The charge of passing forged money was very serious, if it could be proved, but it was not always easy to do. People made poor imitation of notes, never claiming they were real. It was known as flash money and was used in theaters, games, and tricks. That was distinct from counterfeit, which was intended to be taken as real.

Tellman had been careful to plant counterfeit money with the landlord who had passed it to Jones. Since Jones had taken it in extortion, he could not pass the blame to the landlord and therefore exonerate himself. Even so, he might well think up some other excuse and get his freedom within a reasonably short time.

He faced Tellman with a confusion of anger and the desire not to antagonize the police until he was sure exactly where his best chances lay.

“What d’yer want?” he said sullenly, when the cell door was closed.

Tellman looked him up and down. Without the large coat on, Jones was a far less massive figure, lean and slightly potbellied, his toes turned in, pigeonlike. But his dark face was not without strength, and a good deal of cunning, as he stared back at Tellman. He might be a tool of Grover’s, but he was not a foolish or unwilling one.

Tellman considered trying to copy Pitt’s easy manner, but he was too angry. It would be better to stay with his own sparse, slightly dour nature. “Something that would do you good, and me too,” he answered.

“Yeah? Well I don’ think as yer’d come ’ere jus’ ter do me good,” Jones said sarcastically. He might be of Welsh ancestry, but he had none of the music of Wales in his voice.

“You’re in a spot of bother,” Tellman observed. “Caught with a counterfeit five-pound note. Bad business, that.”

“It ain’t counterfeit,” Jones contradicted him. “It’s flash—nuffin’ wrong in that. You made a mistake. You police is always makin’ mistakes.”

“No, it isn’t flash,” Tellman argued. “It looks real unless you know the difference. Paper’s wrong, that’s all.”

Jones looked aggrieved. “Then ’ow was I ter know it weren’t real. I got took! It’s me as you should be sorry for. I’m the one wot was robbed ’ere!”

Tellman affected innocence. “Of what, Mr. Jones?”

Jones was indignant.

“A finny, o’ course. You saw it! Took it off me. ’Ere was I thinkin’ it was the real thing. I bin ’ad!”

“Yes, it looks as if you have,” Tellman agreed. “Who by, I wonder. Do you know where you got it? Maybe he’s the one I should be talking to.”

“Yeah! Yer should, an’ all!” Jones agreed. “It were that thievin’ landlord of the Triple Plea! I got it just afore yer nicked me. I din’t ’ad time ter look at it proper, or I’d a known!”

“And brought it to us,” Tellman added, playing the game. “So we could go and speak to the landlord, and see where he got it, and if he knew it was forged.”

Jones winced. “Don’ use that word, Mr. Tellman, it ain’t nice. I knowed o’ forgers wot got crapped.”

“Don’t worry,” Tellman soothed him. “We’re not that free with the rope anymore. Keep it mostly for things like murder. Anyone killed, to do with this, was there? Then of course the rope’s the thing.”

“No o’ course there weren’t!” Jones said heatedly. “I only ’ad the bleedin’ thing for less than an hour!”

“You got it from the landlord at the Triple Plea?”

“Yeah!”

“Can you prove that?”

“Well…” Jones suddenly saw a pitfall.

“What was he paying you for?” Tellman asked innocently.

Jones’s mind raced; the reflection of it was in his eyes. Now the trap gaped in front of him.

Tellman waited.

“ ’E owed me money,” Jones said at last, a note of desperation in his voice. “ ’E’ll tell yer that!” he added, seeking to add a touch of defiance, brazening it out.

“For what?” Tellman asked.

“That in’t none o’ yer business.” Jones was beginning to feel safer. He had very neatly avoided a nasty trap. “I done ’im a favor.”

“Big favor, was it? You had twenty-seven pounds on you. Or had you done favors for other people as well, and just by chance they all repaid you that day?”

Jones saw the trap widening, but not how to avoid it this time.

“Or put it this way,” Tellman suggested. “If I ask the landlord at the Triple Plea how much of a favor you did him, is he going to say ‘five pounds worth,’ or ‘twenty-seven pounds worth’?”

“Er…’ow do I know wot ’e’s gonna say? ’E don’t like ter talk about it!” Triumph gleamed momentarily in Jones’s eyes. “Landlord feels like a fool if ’e’s got ter admit as ’e borrered money from ’is customers.”

“You lent him money?”

“Yeah!”

“Where did you get twenty-seven pounds to spare?” Tellman grinned. “Or was it five you lent him, and the rest was usury? Never mind, he’ll tell me. And since you were so kind to him, he’ll remember exactly when. I suppose you gave him back his note?”

Jones was sweating, it beaded on his upper lip. “Note?”

“Oh, Mr. Jones,” Tellman said deprecatingly. “You’re far too clever a man to lend money without a note for it. How could you collect? I’ll ask him for it, and then the finny’ll be his problem.” He straightened up as if he were about to go.

“It weren’t…” Jones began, swallowing hard.

Tellman stopped, turning back. “Yes?” He managed to invest the word with a certain menace, and was pleased with himself. He thought of the destruction in Scarborough Street and the fury he felt must have shown in his face.

Jones gulped. “It weren’t for me…actual,” Jones said miserably. “I fetch an’ carry for someone as…lends…now an’ again.”

Tellman let the lie go for the moment. “I see. And who is this someone else?”

“I dunno as…” Jones stopped. He looked closely at Tellman and saw the rage and the steel inside him. “It were Mr. Grover o’ Cannon Street,” he said hoarsely. “As God’s me judge!”

“I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to call in judgment, if I were you,” Tellman answered, but he felt a lift of victory over the admission. “Supposing I believe you, how will I get an ordinary law court judge to believe you too, since he isn’t God, and doesn’t know for himself.”

“Law court judge!” Jones gulped again. “I din’t do nuffin’ wrong!” Now he was afraid, and for the first time he could not conceal it. “Yer mean a beak! Wot sits up there wi’ a wig on ’is ’ead?”

“And puts people into the Coldbath Fields, or worse. Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. There’s a lot of money going funny places, Mr. Jones.”

“Funny places? I dunno wot yer mean…”

“Do you do any other jobs for Mr. Grover? Nothing wrong if you do. He’s a policeman. Works for Mr. Simbister, no less. It’d not be your fault if you thought it was all fair and right.”

“No, it wouldn’t!” Jones said with feeling.

“Any of these other jobs involve paying money out to people? For goods and work and the like?”

Jones blinked, his face full of doubt. Was he going to escape, or was Tellman playing with him? He plunged between hope and terror.

Tellman eased his body into a slightly more comfortable position, flexing his shoulders a little. “You’re with me or against me, Mr. Jones. Somebody else may make things hard for you, or they may not. I come from near Scarborough Street.” That was a slight stretching of the truth, but the difference was unimportant. “You should have smelled the stench of burning. They haven’t got all the bodies out yet. Put you off a roast joint for the rest of your life, that would.”

Jones blasphemed under his breath, his face white. “Yer wouldn’t…”

“Yes I would.” Tellman meant it. The anger inside him was like a hard knot of pain. “That money went to buy dynamite. Who did you take it to?”

“You can’t n-never say I…” Jones stammered. “I din’t…”

“Know what it was for?” Tellman finished for him. “Possibly not. If you’re against bombing like that then you’ll tell me where you took the money, who you gave it to, and everything else you know. Then I’ll have proof that you aren’t part of it, you just ran an errand for a man you thought was good. Right?”

“R-Right! I…” He gulped convulsively. “I…”

Tellman waited.

Jones looked at the high, barred window, at the steel door, then back at Tellman.

Tellman straightened up again to leave.

“I took a lot o’ money down ter Shadwell,” Jones said, his voice shaking with fear. “Ter New Gravel Lane.”

“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.