The Whitechapel Conspiracy (27 page)

Pitt smiled at him, following him into the small room where the table was set ready. The polished wood and the unique aromas were already familiar to him, Leah’s embroidery on the linen, the picture of Isaac as a young man, the matchstick model of a Polish synagogue just a trifle crooked with age.

They had barely sat down to it when Isaac began talking.

“I’m glad you went to work for Saul,” he remarked cutting a slice of bread for Pitt and one for himself. “But you shouldn’t be at that sugar factory at nights. It’s not a good place.”

Pitt knew him well enough now to be aware that this was only an opening gambit. There was far more to follow.

“Saul is a good man.” Pitt took the bread. “Thank you. And
I like going around the neighborhood. But I see a different side of things at the factory.”

Isaac ate in silence for a while.

“There is going to be trouble,” he said presently, looking not at Pitt but down at his plate. “A lot of trouble.”

“At the sugar factory?” Pitt remembered what he had heard said in the taverns.

Isaac nodded, then looked up suddenly, his eyes wide and direct. “It’s ugly, Pitt. I don’t know what, but I’m frightened. Could be we’ll get blamed for it.”

Pitt did not need to ask whom he meant by “we.” He was speaking of the immigrant Jewish population, easily recognizable, natural scapegoats. Pitt already knew from Narraway of the suspicions held of them by Special Branch, but it was his observation that they were, if anything, a stabilizing influence in the East End. They cared for their own, they set up shops and businesses and gave people something to work for. He had told Narraway that. He had not told him about their collection of money for those in trouble. He kept that a private thing, a matter of honor.

“It’s only a whisper,” Isaac went on. “It’s not gossip. That’s what makes me think it’s real.” He was watching Pitt closely, his face puckered with anxiety. “Something is planned, I don’t know what, but it isn’t the usual crazy anarchists. We know who they are, and so do the sugar makers.”

“Catholics?” Pitt asked doubtfully.

Isaac shook his head. “No. They’re angry, but they’re ordinary people, like us. They want houses, work, a chance to get on, something better for their children. What good would it do them to blow up the sugar factories?”

“Is that what it is, dynamite?” Pitt said with a sudden chill, imagining the sheet of flame engulfing half Spitalfields. If all three factories were set alight, whole streets would be ablaze.

“I don’t know,” Isaac admitted. “I don’t know what it is, or when, just that something definite is planned, and at the same time there is going to be a big event somewhere else, but concerning Spitalfields. The two are to happen together, one built upon the other.”

“Any idea who?” Pitt pressed. “Any names at all?”

Isaac shook his head. “Only one, and I’m not sure in what connection …”

“What was the name?”

“Remus.”

“Remus?” Pitt was startled. The only Remus he knew was a journalist who tended to specialize in scandal and speculation. There were no scandals among the inhabitants of Spitalfields that would interest him. Perhaps he had misjudged Remus, and he was concerned with politics after all. “Thank you,” he acknowledged. “Thank you for that.”

“It’s not much.” Isaac dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “England has been good to me. I am at home here now.” He smiled. “I even speak good English, yes?”

“Definitely,” Pitt agreed warmly.

Isaac leaned back in his chair. “Now you tell me about this place you grew up in, the country with woods and fields and wide-open sky.”

Pitt looked at the remnants of their meal on the table.

“What about this?”

“Leave it. Leah will do it. She likes to fuss. She will be angry if she catches me in her kitchen.”

“You ever been in it?” Pitt said skeptically.

Isaac laughed. “No …” He gave a lopsided grin. “But I’m sure she would!” He pointed to a pile of linen on the side table. “There are your clean shirts. She makes a good job, yes?”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed, thinking of the buttons he had found sewn on as well, and her shy, pleased smile when he had thanked her. “Very good indeed. You are a fortunate man.”

Isaac nodded. “I know, my friend. I know. Now sit, and tell me about this place in the country. Describe it for me. How does it taste first thing in the morning? How does it smell? The birds, the air, everything! So I can dream it all and think I am there.”

It was early the following morning as Pitt was walking to the silk-weaving factory that he heard the steps behind him
and swung around to see Tellman less than two yards away. His stomach lurched with fear that something was wrong with Charlotte or the children. Then he saw Tellman’s face, tired but unafraid, and he knew that at least the news was not devastating.

“What is it?” he said almost under his breath. “What are you doing here?”

Tellman fell into step beside him, pulling him around to continue the way he had been going.

“I’ve been following Lyndon Remus,” he said very quietly. Pitt started at the name, but Tellman did not notice. “He is into something to do with Adinett,” he went on. “I don’t know what it is yet, but he’s alight with it. Adinett was in this area, bit farther east, actually: Cleveland Street.”

“Adinett was?” Pitt stopped abruptly. “What for?”

“Looks like he was following a story five or six years old,” Tellman answered, facing him. “About a girl kidnapped from a tobacconist’s shop there and taken to Guy’s Hospital, then found insane. Seems as if he went straight to Thorold Dismore with it.”

“The newspaper man?” Pitt asked, starting forward again and skirting around a pile of refuse and only just jumping back onto the footpath in time to avoid being struck by a cart loaded precariously with barrels.

“Yes,” Tellman repeated, catching up with him. “But he’s taking orders from someone he meets by appointment in Regent’s Park. Someone who dresses very well indeed. A lot of money.”

“Any idea who?”

“No.”

Pitt walked in silence for another twenty yards, his mind whirling. He had determined not to think any more about the Adinett case, but of course it had plagued his mind, teasing every fact to try to make sense of a crime which seemed contrary to all reason or character. He wanted to understand, but more than that, he wanted to prove that he had been right.

“Have you been to Keppel Street?” he asked aloud.

“Of course,” Tellman answered, keeping up with him.
“They’re all fine. Missing you.” He looked away. “Gracie found out something about this girl from Cleveland Street. She was Catholic and she had a lover who looked like a gentleman. He disappeared too.”

Pitt caught the mixture of emotions in Tellman’s voice, the pride and the self-consciousness. At another time he would have smiled.

“I’ll tell you if I find out anything else,” Tellman went on, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him. “I’ve got to get back. We’ve got a new superintendent … Wetron’s his name.” His voice was laden with disgust. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I don’t trust anyone, and you’d be best not to either. Do you come this way every morning?”

“Usually.”

“I’ll tell you everything I find out.” He stopped abruptly and swung around to face Pitt, his lantern jaw hollow in the gray light, his eyes dark. “You be careful.” Then, as if he had said too much and embarrassed himself by showing his concern, he swiveled on his heel and strode off back the way he had come.

Gracie was still determined to follow Lyndon Remus, but she had no intention of allowing either Charlotte or Tellman to know it. That meant it was necessary that she give Charlotte some other reason for wanting to leave the house so early—and for remaining absent, possibly all day. It required considerable imagination to come up with a series of excuses, and she hated lying. If it were not absolutely necessary in order to rescue Pitt from injustice and get him home again, she would not even have contemplated it.

She got up just after dawn to have the range lit and the water boiling and the kitchen scrubbed and spotless before anyone else came down. Even the cats were startled to see her at half past five, and not at all sure it was a good idea, especially since she disturbed their sleep in the laundry basket without offering them breakfast.

When Charlotte came down at half past seven Gracie was ready with her story.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” she said cheerfully. “Cup o’ tea?”

“Good morning,” Charlotte replied, looking around the kitchen with surprise. “Were you up half the night?”

“Got up a bit early.” Gracie kept her voice quite casual, moving the kettle back onto the hob to bring it to the boil again. “ ’Cos I wanted a favor, if that’s all right.” She knew Charlotte was aware of Tellman’s regard for her, because they had conspired in the past to take advantage of it—only as a matter of necessity in the cause of detection, of course. She took a deep breath. This was the lie. She kept her back to Charlotte; she did not think she could do it looking at her.

“Mr. Tellman asked me ter go ter a fair wif ’im, if I could get the day off. An’ I got an errand as well, bit o’ shoppin’, not much. But if I could go w’en the laundry’s finished, I’d be ever so grateful….” It did not sound as good as she had hoped. She knew Charlotte was finding it increasingly hard to endure the loneliness and the worry, especially since there was so little she could do to help.

Charlotte had been back to see Martin Fetters’s widow at least twice, and they were at a loss where to search for his missing papers. However, by now she probably knew as much of Fetters’s career as anyone. She had told Gracie of John Adinett’s travels, military skill and exploring adventures in Canada. But neither of them could see in any of it a reason why one man had murdered the other, only terrible, dangerous ideas. They had spoken of them together, often late into the evening, after the children were in bed. But without proof none of it helped.

Now it was up to Gracie to find the next link between John Adinett and the forces of anarchy … or oppression, or whatever it was that he had been doing in Cleveland Street and Remus was so excited about. She really had very little idea what it could be, only that Tellman was certain it was ugly and dangerous, and very big.

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte replied to Gracie. There was reluctance in her voice, perhaps even envy, but she did not argue.

“Thank you,” Gracie accepted, wishing she could tell the
truth as to what she was doing; it was on the edge of her tongue. But if she did, Charlotte would stop her, and she must not allow that. It would be self-indulgent and stupid to say anything. She must pull herself together and get on with it.

She still had quite a bit of Tellman’s money, and all she could collect of her own. She was ready to follow Remus wherever he went, and she was outside his rooms waiting for him by eight o’clock.

It was a very pleasant morning, warm already. Flower sellers were out with fresh blossoms come in during the early hours. She was glad she did not have to stand all day on corners, hoping to sell.

Delivery boys with fish, meat, vegetables passed by, knocking on scullery doors. There was a milk cart at the next crossroads. A thin woman was carrying a full can back to her kitchen. She walked leaning a little sideways from the weight of it.

A newspaper boy took up his position on the farther corner, every now and then shouting the latest headlines about the coming election. There had been a tornado in Minnesota in America. Thirty-three people had been killed. Already Adinett was forgotten.

Lyndon Remus came out of his front door and started to walk smartly along towards the main thoroughfare and—Gracie hoped profoundly—the omnibus stop. Hansoms were very expensive, and she guarded Tellman’s money carefully.

Remus looked purposeful, his head forward, stride long and swinging. He was dressed very ordinarily, in old jacket and with no collar to his shirt. Whomever he intended calling on, it was not gentry. Perhaps he was going back to Cleveland Street?

She followed after him quickly, running a little to catch up. She must not lose him. She could stay quite close; after all, he did not know her.

She was right; he went to the omnibus stop. Thank heaven for that! There was no one else there, so she was obliged to stand more or less beside him to wait. But she need not have been concerned he would remember her if he saw her again.
He seemed oblivious to anyone else, straining his eyes to watch the traffic for the omnibus and shifting from one foot to the other in his impatience.

She went with him as far as Holborn, then, as he changed for another omnibus eastwards, she did the same. She was taken unaware and nearly left behind when he got off at the farther end of Whitechapel High Street opposite the railway station. Surely he was not going somewhere else by train?

But he walked up Court Street towards Buck’s Row and then stopped, staring around him, facing right. Gracie followed his gaze. She saw nothing even remotely interesting. The railway line north was ahead of them, the board school to the right, and the Smith & Co. distillery to the left. Beyond that was a burial ground. Please heaven he wasn’t come to look at graves.

Perhaps he was! He had already enquired into the deaths of William Crook and J. K. Stephen. Was he after a trail of dead men? They couldn’t all have been murdered … could they?

There was plenty of traffic in the street, carts and wagons, people going about their business.

She was shivering in spite of the close, airless warmth of the day. What was Remus looking for? How did a detective know, or find out? Perhaps Tellman was cleverer than she had given him credit for. This was not so easy.

Remus was moving forward, looking around him as if now he had something definite in mind, yet he did not seem to be reading numbers, so perhaps it was not an address.

She moved very slowly after him. In case he turned around, she glanced at doors, pretending to be searching also.

Remus stopped a man in a leather apron and spoke to him. The man shook his head and walked on, increasing his pace. He turned up Thomas Street, at the end of which Gracie could just see a notice proclaiming the Spitalfields Workhouse. Its huge, gray buildings were just visible, shelter and imprisonment at once. She had grown up dreading this place more than jail. It was the ultimate misery that awaited the destitute. She had known those who would rather die in the street than be caught in its soulless regimentation.