Long Spoon Lane (35 page)

“Well I never,” Pricey said with interest. “Wot brings you ’ere at this hour, Mr. Tellman? It must be good.”

“It is,” Tellman replied, sitting gingerly on a wooden chair, which immediately rocked under his weight, little as that was. “I need a piece of evidence finding, and stealing. I expect it to be in someone’s house, probably in a safe or a locked desk drawer.”

“ ’Ow’ll I know when I see it, then?” Pricey asked, screwing up his face dubiously.

“That’s the awkward bit,” Tellman answered. “I’m going to find out more about that today, and I’ll tell you before you go. I’ll need to meet you somewhere convenient.”

Pricey weighed it up, watching Tellman with hard, bright eyes. “Wot sort of evidence is this, then? Why are yer sneakin’ it, then, instead o’ goin’ in an’ takin’ it, like reg’lar police? ’Oo’s got it, an’ wot d’yer want it fer? If yer asks me, it in’t square, or yer’d be doin’ it easier, an’ cheaper. I don’ work fer nuffin’. ’Oo’s payin’? You or the police, eh?”

Tellman knew he would not escape with a lie to Pricey, and if he tried he would offend him. His pride mattered intensely.

“Yes, it’s very dangerous,” Tellman admitted frankly. “I don’t want anyone else to know I have the evidence, especially the police.”

Pricey looked startled. “You bent, then, Mr. Tellman? Go on! I never thought it. I’m disappointed in yer, I am.”

“No, I’m not!” Tellman snapped. “It’s a bent policeman I want it stolen from. It’s proof of a crime, and he’s blackmailing someone to go on doing worse things, with the threat of using it. At least that’s what I think.”

“Do you?” Pricey was dubious. “That’s awful ’ard, Mr. Tellman, worse’n extortion, that is. Downright evil, I calls it.”

“So do I,” Tellman agreed. He thought of earning Pricey’s personal involvement as an added incentive. “It has to do with the bombings in Myrdle Street and Scarborough Street, if I’m right.”

Pricey let out a slow breath, and blasphemed carefully, emphasizing each syllable. “It’ll still cost yer!” he warned.

“Be at the Dog and Duck at seven o’clock this evening, and wait for me, however long it takes,” Tellman answered. “I’ll have the information for you then. I’ll keep the owner of the house busy somewhere else.”

“Why? I never bin caught, not so as yer could prove it, Mr. Tellman! You know that!” He grinned suddenly. “Not that yer ’aven’t tried real ’ard.”

“Dog and Duck, seven o’clock,” Tellman repeated, rising to his feet. It was later than he wished, and it was time he was at Bow Street.

Tellman had one of the worst days of his career, which by now spanned over twenty years. He spent the morning with his mind racing over every possibility he could imagine, however far-fetched, for him to draw Wetron away from his home that evening.

But before he did that, he must search Wetron’s office and see if the evidence was there, and Pricey’s intervention would be unnecessary.

Fortune favored him in that Wetron went out to luncheon, and Tellman overheard him say that he would be gone for the best part of two hours. He was meeting with a member of Parliament to give his advice on the new bill being proposed to arm the police. It occurred to Tellman that the member in question could well also be one of the Inner Circle, recruiting more votes to support Tanqueray.

As soon as Wetron had gone, Tellman prepared his story in case anyone should ask him, and went into Wetron’s scrupulously tidy office with its pictures of the Queen, and began his search. If questioned, he would use the forgery case involving Jones the Pocket, and his suspected connection with the Scarborough Street bombings. It was a subject the police should concern themselves with, since Special Branch was obviously not up to the job. As it turned out he was only questioned once, and received a broad grin of appreciation when he gave his answer.

“Somebody needs ter catch the bastards!” the other man replied. “Can I ’elp yer?”

“Could if I knew what I was looking for,” Tellman replied, his heart pounding. “I won’t know till I see it.”

“Got an idea, ’ave yer?” the constable stood in the doorway curiously.

“Don’t know,” Tellman said, more or less honestly. “But if I’m wrong, I’ll be in a hell of a hole. So let me get on with it before the superintendent gets back, eh?”

“Right! Yeh.” The constable backed out quickly, not wanting to take any risks.

Tellman went back to searching the papers.

It was only another ten frantic minutes before, with shaking fingers, he held a sheet of paper up and read it. He went through it again before he was absolutely certain. It was an oblique reference to a crime committed roughly three years earlier, and a note that all action was pending. No further notice was to be taken of the event without Wetron’s express direction. It was what he was looking for, and Wetron had left it where he could find it, not too easily, just with sufficient difficulty to be worth the effort, and allay suspicion. The proof would be in Wetron’s house, as Pitt had thought.

The event had happened three years ago, in a rooming house off Marylebone Road. The address was supplied. Now he had something specific to give Pricey.

The next thing was to find a way to lure Wetron away from home.

Tellman went out of the office and closed the door behind him. He was surprised to find that his hands were sweating and he could hear the beat of his pulse in his ears. He walked quickly down the corridor to the stairs and to his own small room. He sat down, shaking a little, and thought.

What would be irresistible to Wetron? Tellman had to keep him out all night, or at least until three or four in the morning, to give Pricey the chance to find proof. Wetron wanted the police bill passed, above all things. It was key to his entire plan. Was there any way in which Tellman could use that? Wild and incoherent thoughts raced around his head, scraps of ideas, nothing whole. What could he offer Wetron? What would tempt him? Or frighten him? What could threaten to go wrong so seriously that he would be compelled to deal with it himself? Who mattered?

Slowly it began to come together, the desire and fear intermeshed. But he would need help. Someone must be in danger, someone Wetron needed and could not replace. Tanqueray did not matter. If he were killed, the bill could be sponsored by someone else. He would have been a martyr. It might even help!

But Edward Denoon was different. He was powerful and unique, the strongest public supporter of the bill, with a newspaper read by most of the men of influence in the south of England.

Who could threaten Denoon? Enemies of the bill. Voisey was obvious. And what would please Wetron more than to catch Voisey in a criminal act?

Tellman got to his feet. He must find Pitt or Narraway, someone to help make it believable. Wetron had to accept the plan and feel compelled to help implement it himself.

It worked. At least it seemed to. The weather was mild, a light wind rustling the leaves of the trees, the smell of chimney smoke in the air. A little after midnight Tellman stood by a hansom cab. It was drawn up twenty yards from Denoon’s house, and to a casual glance he was a driver waiting for a fare. Wetron was on the footpath talking to one of his men, as if they were two gentlemen having a late-night stroll and conversation. They had been waiting for over an hour, and were growing restive.

Tellman kept glancing across at Denoon’s house, hoping for a sign that Pitt was keeping his word. He could not hope to coerce Wetron to remain much longer. And trying to explain this tomorrow morning could be uncomfortable, to say the very least.

A dog started barking. Wetron stiffened. By the horse’s head, Tellman hoped profoundly that something was about to happen.

Seconds went by. The horse stamped and let out its breath noisily.

Wetron spun around as a figure crept along the far side of the street, silent as a shadow, and disappeared down the areaway steps of Denoon’s house. Five seconds went by, ten, then Wetron gave the signal to move.

“Not yet!” Tellman said sharply, his voice high and tight in his throat. Had he overplayed his hand, telling Wetron that Voisey meant to have Denoon killed? Now he was terrified it was Pitt in the shadows and Wetron would arrest him.

“We can’t wait,” Wetron argued furiously. “He might break in and set a bomb. We’ve only got minutes, maybe less. Come on!” He set off across the street, his footsteps sharp on the stones, the constable close behind him.

Tellman abandoned the horse and chased the constable, catching up with him in four strides. “Go that way!” he hissed, pointing to the farther side of Denoon’s house. “If he went right around the back he’ll come out there.”

The constable hesitated, his face startled and undecided in the ghostly light from the streetlamps.

“We’ve got to get him,” Tellman insisted urgently. “If he’s put a bomb there, we have to know where it is.”

“He won’t tell us!”

“He bloody will if we take him back into the house!” Tellman swore. “Go now!” He gave the man a slight push.

The constable saw it with a sudden blaze of understanding, and sprinted across the street to the far end of Denoon’s house.

Tellman caught up with Wetron, who was at the entrance to the areaway and starting to go down the steps. Tellman went down after him.

“There’s no one here!” Wetron spat. “He must be inside already, and closed the door behind him. We’re too slow, Tellman.”

Pitt could never have picked a lock in those few moments, so he could not be inside. He must have gone on around the house. “Then we’ll catch him inside, sir,” he said aloud. “He can’t have set a bomb already. He’ll be red-handed. It’ll be the most powerful argument anyone could make for the sake of the bill in Parliament. It’s the worst outrage yet, far worse than Scarborough Street.”

Wetron stared at him, his face for a moment gleaming with anticipation. Then it darkened, caution reasserting itself. They stood less than a yard from each other, the reflected streetlamp on the scullery windows making them seem even closer. Tellman felt his body shake as if his heartbeat were violent enough to choke him. Had Wetron seen through his trick? Was he even now having someone arrest Pricey in the act?

Had he allowed Tellman to bring him here in a double bluff?

“Yes, sir,” Tellman said hoarsely. “Do you want to go in here, or the front door?”

“Front door,” Wetron answered. “We’ll take all night to rouse anyone here.” And he pushed past Tellman and went up the steps, almost stumbling in the shadows.

The constable was in the lee of the house at the far end, almost invisible. If this was where Pitt emerged from the back, he might get caught, but there was no way to warn him. Tellman’s whole body ached with tension, fear knotting his stomach, making him gulp for breath.

Wetron reached the front door and yanked the bell pull, waited a few moments, then yanked it again.

It was nearly five minutes before anyone came, by which time he was pale with rage.

“Yes, sir?” the footman said coldly.

“Superintendent Wetron,” Wetron told him. “You have an intruder in the house who may have come to set a bomb. Go and call all the staff immediately, lock the doors, tell the women to stay together in the housekeeper’s room. Immediately, man! Don’t stand there like a fool! You could all be blown to smithereens.”

The man went sheet-white, staring as if he barely comprehended the meaning of the words.

Wetron pushed past him, Tellman immediately behind him. The hall was large and the gas lamps were all out except for the one the footman had probably lit in order to find his way to answer the door. Tellman could barely see where he was going and cracked his shins against a low, oriental table as he went to turn up the main lamps.

Wetron turned around slowly, staring for any trace of disturbance. Everything was exactly as one would expect to find it: Chinese embroidered silk screen, pot of ornamental bamboo, long-case clock, chairs. Nothing moved. There was no sound anywhere. Tellman strained his ears, but heard not even the creak of wood settling. He prayed that Pitt was over the wall at the back, and far away by now.

“Wake everyone!” Wetron ordered in a low, tense voice, speaking to the footman. “But lock the front door first. If this man has set a bomb, I’m going to make sure he stays here with us!”

“Yes, s-sir,” the footman stammered, moving jerkily to obey.

Wetron turned to Tellman. “You start over there!” he pointed to one of the large mahogany doors with a carved lintel. “Put all the lights on. We’re going to flush this man out.”

“Gas, sir,” Tellman said, trying to sound afraid. “If there’s a blast…” He left the appalling thought unsaid.

“If there’s a blast, Sergeant, the gas already in the pipes will be enough to blow us all to Kingdom Come,” Wetron replied. “Get in and find that man, before he can light a fuse to anything.”

The next two hours were among the best and worst Tellman had ever spent. They woke all the servants, and of course Edward and Enid Denoon. Piers Denoon came blinking out of his bedroom, confused and obviously more than a little drunk. He seemed barely able to understand when Wetron told him that someone had broken into the house to plant dynamite.

Everyone was frightened. Several of the younger maids were in tears, the cook was outraged, even the male servants were visibly alarmed. The butler was so jittery, he knocked over a vase of flowers that fell with a crash of splintered china that sounded like a shot. That set off the thirteen-yearold between-stairs maid screaming until she was sick.

No intruder was found, nor any explosive device of any sort. By three o’clock in the morning, Wetron, white with fury and completely baffled, withdrew from the house, leaving Tellman and the constable on guard outside. He had some satisfaction climbing into the hansom as the rain started, and watching them begin to shiver with cold and exhaustion as he drew away, but it did not begin to compare with his embarrassment.

When Tellman at last returned to his lodgings, he was so cold he could not feel his hands and feet. Light rain had made the footpaths slick and the gutters gleamed wet and black. He found Pricey waiting for him. He looked warm, pleased with himself, and only his shoulders and the top of his hat were damp.