Whitechapel Conspiracy

Gracie felt a bitter disappointment. Her feet were tired and she was hungry, but she could not dismiss the fear that Remus had not truly understood the danger he was in; there must be something they could still do to make him realize it.

“Come on, Gracie,” Tellman said gently. “We’ve lost him. Come and have something to eat. And sit down.” He gestured towards a public house on the farther side of the street.

The thought of sitting down was even better than that of food. And there was really nothing else to do.

“Or’ right,” she agreed, not moving reluctantly so much as utterly wearily.

The food was excellent, and the chance to relax blissful. She enjoyed it with relish, since usually when they ate together it had been in the kitchen in Keppel Street, and she had prepared the food. They talked about all manner of things, about Tellman’s early years in the police force. He told her stories of his experiences; some of them were even funny, and she found herself laughing aloud. She had never appreciated before that in his own fashion he had a sharp sense of the absurd.

“Wot’s yer name?” she said suddenly as he finished a tale of adventure, and a certain degree of self-revelation.

“What?” He was confused, not certain what she meant.

“Wot’s yer name?” she repeated, now self-conscious. She did not want to go on thinking of him as “Tellman.” She wanted a name, a name that his family used.

The color deepened in his face, and he looked down at his empty plate.

“Sorry,” she said unhappily. “I shouldn’t ’a asked.”

“Samuel,” he replied quickly, almost swallowing the word.

She liked it. In fact she liked it very much.

“Hmph. Too good fer yer. That’s a real name.”

He looked up quickly. “You like it? You don’t think it’s …”

“ ’Course it is,” she agreed. “I jus’ thought I’d like ter know, that’s all. It’s time I was goin’ ’ome.” But she made no move to stand up.

“Yes,” he said, also not moving.

“Yer know summink,” she said thoughtfully. “That Remus thinks ’e’s got the answer now. ’E knows the truth, I seen it in ’is face. ’E were tryin’ ter ’ide it so we didn’t see, but ’e’s got it all, an’ ’e’s gonna tell that story termorrer.”

Tellman did not argue. He sat looking at her across the table, his eyes steady, his face pinched and earnest.

“I know. But I don’t know how to stop him. Telling him all the damage it would do won’t help. It’s his chance to be famous, and he isn’t going to give it up for anyone.”

“They’ll know that too,” she said, feeling the fear well up inside her again, cold and sick. “Yer know, I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter Whitechapel again, one more time afore ’e tells ’em … mebbe afore ’e writes the last bit of ’is piece fer the papers. I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter visit them places again—’Anbury Street, Bucks Row an’ all.”

She saw by the quick widening of his eyes that he believed it the moment she spoke. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

“I’m going there. You catch a hansom and go home. I’ll give you the money.” He began to fish in his pocket.

“Not on yer life!” She stood up also. “I in’t lettin’ yer go there by yerself. Don’t waste time talkin’ abaht it. We’ll get the rozzer on the beat ter come wif us from the ’Igh Street, and if there’s nothin’, we’ll look like fools. Yer can tell ’im it were my fault.” And without waiting for him she started for the door.

He followed after her, pushing his way past others coming in, calling apologies over his shoulder. Outside on the pavement he waved down the first hansom and directed the driver to the Whitechapel High Street.

He ordered the cab to stop when he saw a constable, a tall, helmeted figure in the gaslight and the mist.

Tellman leaped down and went up to him. Gracie scrambled after and arrived just as he was explaining to the constable that they feared an informant was in danger and needed his assistance immediately.

“That’s right.” Gracie nodded vigorously.

“Gracie Phipps,” Tellman said quickly. “She’s with me.”

“Where is this informant o’ yours?” the constable asked, looking around.

“Mitre Square,” Gracie said instantly.

“Hey!” the hansom driver called. “Yer finished wi’ me, or not?”

Tellman went back and paid him, then rejoined Gracie and the constable. They set out to walk back along the High Street and into Aldgate Street, then around the corner up Duke Street. They did not speak and their footsteps echoed in the mist. It was far quieter here and it was farther between lamps. The cobbles were slippery. The dampness clung in the throat.

Gracie felt her cheeks wet. She swallowed and could barely breathe. She remembered Remus’s face as she had seen it here before, shining with excitement, eyes glittering.

She thought of the huge black carriage that had rumbled down these streets with something unimaginably violent and evil inside, waiting.

She caught hold of Tellman’s arm and gripped him tightly as a rat scuttled by, and someone stirred by the wall. He did not pull away; in fact, he gripped her back.