Whitechapel Conspiracy

Tellman decided on the spur of the moment to follow him. It proved more difficult than he had expected, partly because of the amount of traffic which was trade carts and wagons rather than hansoms, but mostly because Remus very apparently did not wish to be followed and was aware of Tellman behind him.

It took him a succession of very rapid sprints, a good deal of bribery, and a little luck not to lose him, but half an hour later Tellman was in a hansom crossing London Bridge. Just beyond the railway terminus, Remus stopped ahead of him and got out. He paid his fare, then ran up the steps of Guy’s Hospital and disappeared through the doors.

Tellman alighted also, paid off his driver and went up into the hospital as well.

But Remus was nowhere to be seen.

Tellman walked over to the porter and described Remus to him, asking which way he had gone.

“Asked after the offices,” the porter replied. “That’s that way, sir.” He pointed helpfully.

Tellman thanked him and went the same way, but search as he might, he found no further trace of Remus, and finally after nearly half an hour of wandering corridors, he left the hospital and took the train north over the river again. He found himself at Keppel Street just before six o’ clock in the evening.

He stood at the back door for several minutes before he summoned enough courage to knock. He wished there were some way he could see Gracie without having to encounter Charlotte. He was embarrassed by the fact that he had done nothing to help Pitt. He was sure she was going to be distressed, and he had no idea what to say or do.

It was only the very vivid imagination of Gracie’s total scorn for him that stopped him from turning around and hurrying away. He would have to face her sometime. Putting it off would only make it even more difficult. He took a deep breath, then let it out again, still without knocking. Perhaps he should find out more before he spoke to her. After all, he didn’t have very much. He had no idea why Remus had gone to Guy’s Hospital, not even a guess.

The door opened and Gracie let out a shriek as she almost ran into him. The saucepan she was holding slipped out of her hands and fell onto the step with a crash.

“Yer stupid great article!” she said furiously. “Wot d’yer think yer doin’ standin’ there, wi’ a face like a pot lion? Wot’s the matter with yer?”

He bent down and picked up the saucepan and handed it back to her. “I came to tell you what I’ve found out,” he said tartly. “You shouldn’t drop the good saucepans like that. You’ll chip them and then they’ll be no good.”

“I wouldn’t ’a dropped it if yer ’adn’t give me the fright o’ me life,” she accused. “Why din’t yer knock, like any ordinary person?”

“I was about to!” That was not really a lie. Of course he would have knocked any moment.

She looked him up and down. “Well, yer’d better come in. I s’pose yer’ve got more ter say than can be done on the step?” She whisked around, her skirts swirling, and went back inside, and he followed her through the scullery into the kitchen, closing both doors behind him. If Charlotte were at home, she was nowhere to be seen.

“An’ keep yer voice down!” Gracie warned, as if reading his thoughts. “Mrs. Pitt’s upstairs reading ter Daniel and Jemima.”

“Jemima can read herself,” he said, puzzled.

“O’ course she can!” she said with an effort at patience. “But ’er papa’s not ’ome anymore, an’ we ’aven’t ’eard a thing from ’im. Nobody knows wot’s goin’ ter ’appen, if ’e’s bein’ looked after, or what! It does yer good ter be read to.” She sniffed and turned away from him, determined he should not see the tears spill down her face. “So wot ’ave yer found out, then? I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea? An’ cake?”

“Yes, please.” He sat down at the kitchen table while she busied herself with the kettle, the teapot, two cups, and several wedges of fresh currant cake, all the time keeping her back to him.

He watched her quick movements, her thin shoulders under the cotton dress, a waist he could have put his hands around. He ached to be of some comfort to her, but she was far too prickly proud to let him. Anyway, what could he say? She would never believe lies that everything would be all right. More than twenty-one years of life had taught her that tragedy was real. Justice sometimes prevailed, but not always.

He must say something. The kitchen clock was ticking the minutes by. The kettle was beginning to sing. It was the same warm, sweet-smelling room as always. He had been ridiculously happy here, so comfortable, more than anywhere else he could remember.

She banged the teapot down, risking chipping it.

“Well, are yer goin’ ter tell me or not?” she demanded.