Whitechapel Conspiracy

At Oxford Street he caught an omnibus going east, changed at Holborn, and went on towards Spitalfields and Whitechapel, still turning the question over and over in his mind.

Cleveland Street was very ordinary: merely houses and shops, tired, grubby, but reasonably respectable. Who lived here that Adinett had come to see three times?

He went into the first shop, which sold general hardware.

“Yes sir?” A tired man with thinning hair looked up from a kettle he was mending. “What can I get yer?”

Tellman bought a spoon, more for goodwill than because he wanted it. “My sister’s thinking of getting a house around here,” he lied easily. “I said I’d look at the area for her first. What’s it like? Quiet, is it?”

The ironmonger thought about it for a moment, the metal patch in one hand, the kettle in the other.

Tellman waited.

The ironmonger sighed. “Used ter be,” he said sadly. “Got a bit odd five or six years ago. Got kids, ’as she, yer sister?”

“Yes,” Tellman said quickly.

“Better a couple o’ streets over.” He indicated where he meant with a nod of his head. “Try north a bit, or east. Keep away from the brewery an’ the Mile End Road. Too busy, that is.”

Tellman frowned. “She thought of Cleveland Street. The houses look about right for her. Right sort of price, I should think, and well enough kept. But it’s busy, is it?”

“Please yerself.” The ironmonger shrugged. “I wouldn’t live ’ere if I didn’t already.”

Tellman leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There are not houses of ill repute, are there?”

The ironmonger laughed. “Used ter be. Gorn now. Why?”

“Just wondered.” Tellman backed away. “What’s all the traffic, then? You said it was busy lately.”

“Dunno.” The ironmonger had obviously changed his mind about being so candid. “Just people visiting, I expect.”

“Carriages and the like?” Tellman tried to assume an air of innocence.

He must have failed, because the ironmonger was imparting nothing more. “Not more than most places.” He returned his attention to the kettle, avoiding Tellman’s eyes. “Quieter now. Just a bit busy a while back. Forget what I said. I in’t ’eard there was nothin’ for sale, but if the price is right, you go fer it.”

“Thank you,” Tellman said civilly. There was no point in making an enemy. Never knew when you might want to speak to him again. He left the shop and walked slowly down the street, looking from side to side, wondering what had taken Adinett’s attention, and why.

There were several houses, a few more shops, an artist’s studio, a small yard that sold barrels, a maker of clay pipes, and a cobbler. It could have been any of a thousand streets in the poorer parts of London. The smell of the brewery not far away was sweet and stale in the air.

He stopped and bought a sandwich from a peddler at the end of the road where it turned into Devonshire Street.

“Glad to find you,” he said conversationally. “Do much business here? I’ve hardly seen a soul.”

“Usually stop down the Mile End Road,” the peddler replied. “On me way ’ome now. Yer got the last one.” He smiled, showing chipped teeth.

“My luck’s changed,” Tellman said sourly. “Been here all evening on an errand for a friend of my boss’s who came here a few weeks back and dropped a watch fob. ‘Go and look for it,’ he tells me. ‘I must have left it behind.’ Wrote it down for me, and I lost the paper.”

“Name?” the peddler asked, staring at Tellman with wide blue eyes.

“Don’t know. Lost it before I read it.”

“Watch fob?”

“That’s right. Why? You know where it might be?”

The peddler shrugged, grinning again. “No idea. What’s your boss like, then?”

Tellman instantly described Adinett. “Tall, military-looking gentleman, very well dressed, small mustache. Walks with his head high, shoulders back.”

“I seen ’im.” The peddler looked pleased with himself. “Not in a few weeks, like,” he added.

“But he was here?” Tellman tried not to let his eagerness betray him, but he could not keep it out of his voice. “You saw him?”

“I jus’ said I did. Din’t yer say as ’e were yer guvner an’ ’e sent yer ter fetch ’is fob?”

“Yes. Yes, I know. But if you saw him, maybe you knew which house he went into.” Tellman lied to cover his mistake. “He’s a hard man. If I go back without a good explanation, he’ll say I took it!”

The peddler shook his head, sympathy in his face. “Times I’m glad I don’t work fer no one. Get good days an’ bad days, but nob’dy’s on me back, like.” He pointed down the road. “Were that one down there, on that side. Number six. Tobacconist and confectioner. Lots o’ folk comin’ an’ going there. That’s w’ere all the trouble were, four or five year back.”

“What trouble?” Tellman said casually, as if it were of no real interest.