Whitechapel Conspiracy

“Carriages comin’ and goin’ at all hours, and that bit o’ a fight wot there were,” the peddler replied. “Not that much, I s’pose. Bin a lot worse since then, in Spitalfields and ’round there. But it seemed kind o’ nasty at the time. Lot o’ yellin’ an’ cursin’ an’ so on.” He screwed up his face. “Odd thing, though, they was all strangers! Not a one o’ them local, like.” He looked at Tellman narrowly. “Now w’y would a lot o’ strangers wanner come ’ere just ter fight each other? Then quick as yer like, they was all gorn again.”

Tellman could feel his heart beating in his chest.

“At the tobacconist’s?” His voice caught. It was ridiculous. It probably meant nothing.

“Reckon so.” The peddler nodded, still watching him. “That’s w’ere yer guv’ner went, any’ow. Asked me the same thing, ’e did, an’ then went orff like a dog wi’ two tails w’en I told ’im.”

“I see. Thank you very much. Here.” Tellman fished in his pocket and brought out a sixpence. His fingers were shaking. It was a bit extravagant, but he felt suddenly optimistic and grateful. “Have a pint on me. You’ve probably saved me a packet.”

“Ta.” The peddler took the sixpence and it disappeared instantly. “ ’Ere’s ter yer ’ealth.”

Tellman nodded and then walked quickly down to where the peddler had indicated. It looked much like any other shop on the outside, a small area for selling sweets and tobacco, with living quarters above. What on earth could be here that John Adinett had found exciting? He would have to come back when the shop was open. He would find a way of doing that tomorrow, when Wetron would not find out.

He walked back towards the Mile End Road with a spring in his step.

But when he managed to return to Cleveland Street in the middle of the next afternoon, after some considerable difficulty, and having stretched the truth to his inspector so far it bore little resemblance to the facts, the shop seemed exactly like a thousand others.

He bought threepence worth of mint humbugs and tried to start a conversation with the owner, but there was little to talk about except the weather. He was becoming desperate when he made a remark about heat and fevers, and poor Prince Albert’s having died of typhoid.

“I suppose no one’s safe,” he said, feeling foolish.

“Why should they be?” the tobacconist said ruefully, chewing his lip. “Royals ain’t no better off than you nor me when it comes to some things. Eat better, I s’pose, an’ certainly wear better.” He fingered the thin cloth of his own jacket. “But get sick like we do, an’ die, poor sods.” There was a sharp note of pity in his voice which struck Tellman as extraordinary from a man in such an area, who obviously owned little and worked hard. This was the last place he would have expected compassion for those who seemed to have everything.

“You reckon they’ve got troubles like ours?” Tellman said, trying to keep all expression out of his voice.

“Yer free to come an’ go as yer please, aren’t yer?” the tobacconist asked, gazing at Tellman with surprisingly clear gray eyes. “Believe what yer want, Catholic, Protestant, Jew, or nothin’? God wi’ six arms, if that’s what takes yer fancy? An’ marry a woman wot believes anything, if she’s willing?”

Gracie’s sharp little face came instantly to Tellman’s mind with its bright eyes and determined chin. Then he was furious with himself for his weakness. It was ridiculous. They disagreed about everything. She would have felt with this tobacconist and his sympathies. She saw nothing wrong in being in service, whereas Tellman was outraged that anyone, man or woman, should be fetching and carrying and calling other people “sir” and “ma’am” and cleaning up after them.

“Of course I can!” he said far more tartly than he meant. “But I wouldn’t want to marry a woman who couldn’t believe the same things I do. More important than religion, about rights and wrongs on how people behave, what’s just and what isn’t.”

The tobacconist smiled and shook his head patiently.

“If yer fall in love, yer won’t think about w’ere she came from or what she believes, yer’ll just wanna be with ’er.” His voice was soft. “If yer sittin’ arguin’ over rights an’ wrongs o’ things, yer in’t in love. ’Ave ’er fer a friend, but don’t marry ’er.” He shook his head, his voice making plain his opinion of such a choice. “ ’Less she’s got money or summink, an’ that’s wot yer want, like?”

Tellman was offended. “I wouldn’t marry anyone for money!” he said angrily. “I just think that a person’s sense of fairness matters. If you’re going to spend your whole life with someone, have children, you should agree on what’s decent and what isn’t.”

The tobacconist sighed heavily, his smile vanishing. “Could be yer right. Gawd knows, fallin’ in love can bring yer enough grief, if yer beliefs an’ yer station in life is different.”

Tellman put one of the humbugs in his mouth as the shop door opened behind him. He turned instinctively to see who it was, and he recognized the man who came in but could not place him.