Long Spoon Lane (34 page)

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s lying?” she said. “Maybe there’s nothing at all, and what he wants is for Tellman to get caught. That would be a perfect revenge, and you couldn’t even really blame him. There’s…” She caught his sleeve as he stood in the doorway, already half-leaving.

He put his hand over hers. “I’m going to ask Voisey what it is before I speak to Tellman,” he answered.

“And if he doesn’t tell you?” She would not let go.

“Then I can’t ask Tellman to look for it.”

“You won’t ask him just even…”

“No.” He smiled. “No, I won’t.”

As it turned out, Voisey was quite specific. He simply was unwilling to commit it to paper, even sealed and in the hands of a messenger.

“I should have seen it before,” Voisey said angrily. He and Pitt were in the small sitting room in his house in Curzon Street. It was a room of extremely pleasing proportions, painted in dark reds with white sills and deep windows that looked out onto a terrace. Climbing vines half obscured the tops of two of them, softening light and adding a touch of cool green to the warmth of the walls. The furniture was simple, the wood so well polished it reflected the grain as if it had been made of silk. He was surprised to note quickly that the pictures were pen-and-wash sketches of trees, exquisite in winter starkness.

“Seen what?” he asked, accepting a seat on a deep-red-and-gold-velvet armchair.

Voisey remained standing. “Police deal in crime. It’s the obvious answer.”

“To what?” Pitt asked, masking his irritation with difficulty.

Voisey smiled, savoring the irony. “The police detect crime, of all sorts, low and high. Then we assume they prosecute it in the courts, and the accused, if found guilty, are sentenced.”

Pitt waited.

Voisey leaned forward a little. “What if they found a crime of which there is no proof, except to them? Or a crime where the victim is unlikely to speak? Then, instead of prosecuting, they quietly store this proof and blackmail the offender? I am surprised I have to explain this to you, Pitt.”

Pitt felt a sharp stab of realization, like a knife in the mind.

“You have very carefully saved the evidence against my sister, in order to make me do as you wish,” Voisey went on. “Why has it not occurred to you that Wetron may have done exactly the same thing? I would have, in his position. What’s more useful than a cat’s paw to do your bidding: buy dynamite, place it judiciously, ignite it at the right time, even murder Magnus Landsborough, if that’s what you need?”

It was so incredibly simple they should both have thought of it. Pitt could never have concealed a genuine crime. He knew as well as Voisey did that Mrs. Cavendish had had no idea she carried poison in the food she gave Reverend Rae. If Pitt could have had Voisey condemned for it he would have, even had it included her part in it. As it was, to use the evidence would have condemned her and allowed Voisey to walk away—saddened certainly, lonelier, possibly even plagued by guilt, but still free.

And would Pitt have had Mrs. Cavendish hanged for her brother’s crime, even if Voisey had hurt Charlotte? He did not know. The only thing that mattered was: Did Voisey believe that he would?

Of course Wetron was in the ideal position to find evidence of such a crime that he could use like that. “It could be anything, theft, arson, murder, anytime over the last…” he hesitated.

“Two or three years,” Voisey answered for him.

“Why so short a time?” Pitt questioned. “He’s been in the police all his adult life.”

“Consider it!” Voisey said impatiently, stepping back till the sunlight fell from the window across the carpet between them. “When he was junior he wasn’t in a position to keep secrets. It would have been far too dangerous. If he hid any, he’d have had to share them with others over whom he had no control. When he was promoted and could have done it successfully, wouldn’t he have used whatever he had for the Circle? It would be the perfect way to gain favor and power. No, Pitt, this crime is only a year or two old, perhaps three at the most. And the perpetrator of it is someone who is vulnerable to disgrace, has no friends to defend him or to fight in his corner, and dares not face the consequences of whatever it is he has done. Which means it is not a man who makes his living in crime; it is someone who has committed one grave offense for which he is afraid to pay. And he is someone whom Wetron can use. That narrows it down a great deal.”

Pitt was angry with himself for not seeing it before. It was galling to have Voisey, of all people, spell it out for him. But he was right.

“Wetron would have the proof of it somewhere safe,” Voisey said grimly. “But getting it would in turn prove his complicity. We can’t afford to be without it, Pitt, whatever it costs. Whoever we have to use.” He was watching Pitt closely.

Pitt felt caught in a current too powerful to struggle against. It was foolish even to resent it. This at least was not Voisey’s doing.

“Yes.” He rose to his feet. He did not want to stay here. “I’ll speak to Tellman. There’s no one else we can trust.”

Voisey stepped back. “Good,” he acknowledged. “We must move quickly. They’re going to push the bill through as fast as they can.”

Pitt forbore from making any comment about Voisey including himself, as if he were risking anything. His mind was already on finding Tellman, and what he would say to him.

The first part proved easier than he had expected, the second more difficult. Tellman was at his lodgings and the landlady showed Pitt up without demur.

Tellman had taken off his boots and his stiff collar, and he looked completely comfortable. Pitt felt a twinge of guilt because he was going to shatter that.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Tellman asked urgently, his voice already strained.

Pitt explained about the dynamite on the
Josephine,
and how he and Voisey had nearly been killed.

“Grover?” Tellman said miserably. It was not that he liked Grover, but that he was a policeman. The betrayal of what was good still hurt him.

“Yes,” Pitt answered.

Tellman looked at him grimly. “I can’t arrest him.”

“I know. That is not what I’m here for. I told you because it’s part of the story. I’ve just come from Voisey now.” Pitt did not want to keep meeting Tellman’s eyes as he said this, knowing what he was going to ask, but to look away seemed not only cowardly, but as if he were refusing to share it or to understand. “He says Wetron has proof of all kinds of crimes people have committed, which is obvious. It’s his job. But his opportunity for blackmail is perfect for using someone to plant bombs.”

For a moment Tellman’s face was blank. Like Pitt, he had not even thought of using police information for that purpose. Then with a wash of grief he grasped it. His face changed; a light in it died. He did not say anything for several moments.

Pitt broke the silence. “Someone who committed a crime of impulse or desperation,” he said, echoing the conversation he had had with Voisey. “Someone with a lot to lose. There’s no blackmail without fear.”

Tellman looked at him. “I’ll find the evidence,” he said grimly. “I’ll look until I do. There can’t be that many places to look. He’d keep it, so he could show the man, make sure he knew the power he had over him. Thing is, where? If it’s at his home, how do we get to it? I don’t fancy burgling! And if he thinks we’re after it, he’ll destroy it. If he’s got the poor devil to let off bombs, that’d be enough to blackmail him with from now on.”

Pitt felt a heaviness settle over him. Perhaps Wetron had destroyed it already? It was dangerous to keep. Surely he would have thought of that too? He must know Voisey was obsessed with revenge.

Tellman was staring at him.

Perhaps it was worse than that? He might have left the evidence in existence, with a trail that could be followed, precisely so Voisey and Pitt would send someone after it, and they would be caught. Pitt, at least, would do anything he could to extricate them, and be caught himself. He looked at Tellman quickly. “It’s too dangerous. He must have thought of it. He’ll be waiting for one of us to try. He’ll…”

“He’ll beat us if we don’t,” Tellman interrupted. “I’d rather be beaten trying than give up first.”

“If we give up first, we’d be alive to go on fighting,” Pitt pointed out angrily. It was not Tellman he was furious with; it was Wetron, the circumstances that brought them to this point, the corruption, the stupidity, the fact that he did not know who to trust.

“Not much purpose in fighting after you’ve lost,” Tellman said with a sour smile. “Do you really think he’s thought of us coming after it?”

“We can’t afford to assume he didn’t,” Pitt said. “But that means there will be a trail of some sort drawing us in.”

“What made Voisey think of it?”

“I don’t know. But it’s obvious, if you aren’t blinded by loyalty, assumptions of decency that we made—and he didn’t.”

“Is that all, just a deduction that happened to come now?”

“I don’t know.”

Tellman contemplated it for a few more moments. It was dark outside now, no light through the crack in the curtains. “If whatever proof there is is in his home, then it makes it obvious that he’s using it somehow. The other way, if it’s in his office in Bow Street, it could be something he has innocently kept. He could say he’d just come across it, and was about to investigate it. He could blame anyone.”

“And it could be far easier to find,” Pitt added. “But it could be in his desk, where no one else would see it. The last thing he actually wants is for anyone else to see it and prosecute his man. He can’t afford to have him questioned at all, let alone in court.”

Pitt felt more and more sure the document, or whatever it was, had been destroyed. They would be caught searching without there ever having been a danger they would find it. And yet to be too afraid even to try was to admit defeat.

“I could look in Wetron’s office,” Tellman said. “There’s only moderate danger in that. We’ve already proved the connection between the anarchists, the police and the bombings. It’s reasonable for me to go looking for other names, suspicions, charges possibly unproved but still interesting.”

“True. But if he wants to be sure he can keep on using it, it won’t be where anyone in his station could find it,” Pitt assumed.

Tellman considered that for a few moments. “No, but I’ll start there.”

“That’s all!” Pitt warned. “Search there, then leave it!”

“Right,” Tellman answered. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

But even as he said it, Tellman had no intention of stopping if he found nothing at Bow Street. Actually, he did not expect to find proof of any crime Wetron could use. What he did think possible was that Wetron would have left some clue as to where such proof might be, exactly as Pitt had said, so someone would get caught looking for it, preferably Tellman himself.

He lay in bed that night staring up at the wavering light on the ceiling. The scant traffic passed by, carriage lamps bright, and the boughs of the lime tree outside the window were blown back and forth across the streetlamp on the other side.

He would need help. There was no use asking any of his colleagues. Apart from the fact that they would not believe him, he dared not trust them, especially Stubbs. Even the honest ones could be hostages to fear and old loyalties. However, the first issue was that they would not have the skills that he was looking for. He needed a thief, a first-class housebreaker, someone who could go in and out without a soul being the wiser until it was too late. He needed a man who could break a window with the soundless “star-glazing” method, climb in and find the right room in moments, not wake a domestic dog or light-sleeping footman, then open the safe with the manipulation of skeleton keys, and the careful use of a stethoscope.

He knew several such men, that was not a problem. The difficulty was to find one willing and able, and whose loyalty he could ensure, either by payment or some other kind of obligation. He did not like using fear; it gathered a harvest of dislike, and sooner or later some kind of revenge.

He slept only fitfully. At six o’clock, the summer daylight awoke him and he got up. If he were to find anyone, it would have to be before tonight. In fact, it would have to be before he went in to Bow Street for the start of the day.

He had two possible thieves in mind. Either would be difficult to find, and even harder to persuade. He dressed in his oldest clothes, in order to pass unnoticed among the labyrinths he would follow as he made his way east.

He bought a ham sandwich from a stall on Hackney Road, then walked south to Shipton Street. He knew where to find Pricey, who had had that nickname for as long as Tellman had known him. He had no idea whether it was derivative of his given name, or a comment on his fees for the nefarious services he performed for his clients. Tellman had never arrested him—that was a satisfactory state of things between them—and they had a good relationship that he could now call upon.

Pricey, having been out all night, was still asleep when Tellman knocked on his door. His rooms were at the top of a narrow staircase up from a quiet, broken cobbled courtyard. Had Tellman been less urgent in his need of help he might have been nervous being here, even though it was now broad daylight out in the street.

After several minutes there was a disgruntled voice from inside demanding to know who was there.

“Sergeant Tellman!” he answered. “I need a favor, which I’m willing to pay for.” There was no point in being evasive, nor was there time for it.

A bolt slammed back, then another, and the door opened slowly in well-oiled silence. Pricey was standing in his blue-and-white striped nightshirt, his feet bare on the wooden floor, a nightcap covering most of his lank, black hair. His sulky face was aquiline and lugubrious. On seeing Tellman dressed not in his usual suit and white shirt but inconspicuous grays, his expression sharpened with curiosity.

Tellman pushed his way in and closed the door behind him. He had been here before and he knew his way to the kitchen, such as it was. It was the only place with chairs on which they could sit, and with luck Pricey might even offer him a cup of tea. The ham sandwich was making him thirsty.