Whitechapel Conspiracy

Remus went straight to the St. Pancras railway station and in at the main entrance.

Tellman fished in his pockets and felt three half crowns, a couple of shillings and a few pennies. Probably Remus was only going a stop or two. It would be easy enough to follow him—but was it worth the risk? Presumably the tall woman at the door of number 9 had been William Crook’s widow, Sarah. What had she told Remus that had banished his confusion and despondency? It must be that her late husband was the same William Crook who had once lived in Cleveland Street, or had some other close connection with it. They had spoken for several minutes. She must have told him more than he wished to know. Something about Adinett?

Remus went up to the ticket window.

At least Tellman should find out where he was going. There were other people in the hall. He could move closer without attracting attention. He kept half behind a young woman with a cloth bag and a wide, light blue skirt.

“Return to Northampton, please,” Remus asked, his voice quick and excited. “When is the next train?”

“Not for another hour yet, sir,” the ticket seller replied. “That’ll be four shillings and eight pence. Change at Bedford.”

Remus handed over the money and took the ticket.

Tellman turned away quickly and walked out of the station hall, down the steps and into the street. Northampton? That was miles away! What possible connection could be there? It would cost him both time and money, neither of which he could afford. He was a careful man, not impulsive. To follow Remus there would be a terrible risk.

Without making a deliberate decision he began walking back towards the infirmary. He had an hour before the train left; he could allow forty minutes at least and still give himself time to return, buy a ticket and catch the train—if he wanted to.

Who was William Crook? Why did his religion matter? What had Remus asked his widow, apart from whether they had any connection with Cleveland Street? Tellman was angry with himself for pursuing this at all, and angry with everyone else because Pitt was in trouble and no one was doing anything about it. There was injustice everywhere, while people went about their own affairs and looked the other way.

He thought how he would tell Gracie that it all made very little sense, and possibly had nothing to do with Adinett anyway. Every time he tried for the right words they sounded like excuses. He could see her face in his mind so clearly he was startled. He could picture her exactly, the color of her eyes, the light on her skin, the shadow of her lashes, the way she always pulled a strand or two of her hair a little too tightly at her right brow. The curve of her mouth was as familiar to him as his own in the shaving glass.

She would not accept defeat. She would despise him for it. He could see the expression in her eyes now, and it hurt him too much. He could not allow it to happen.

He changed direction and went westward towards number 9 St. Pancras Street. If he stopped to consider what he was doing his nerve would fail, so he did not think. He walked straight up to the door and knocked, his police identification already in his hand.

It was opened by the same giant of a woman.

“Yes?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, his breath catching in his throat. He showed her his identification.

She looked at it closely, her face immobile. “All right, Sergeant Tellman, what is it you want?”

Should he try charm or authority? It was difficult to be authoritative with a woman of her size and her frame of mind. He had never felt less like smiling. He must speak; she was losing patience and it was clear in her expression.

“I am investigating a very serious crime, ma’am,” he said with more certainty than he felt. “I followed a man here about half an hour ago, average height, light reddish hair, sharp face. I believe he asked you certain questions about the late Mr. William Crook.” He took a deep breath. “I need to know what they were, and what you told him.”

“Do you? And why would that be, Sergeant?” She had a marked Scottish accent, soft, from the West Coast, surprisingly pleasing.

“I can’t tell you why, ma’am. It would be breaking confidence. I just need to know what you told him.”

“He asked if we used to live in Cleveland Street. Very urgent about it, he was. I’d a mind not to tell him.” She sighed. “But what’s the use? My daughter Annie used to work in the tobacconist’s shop there.” There was a sadness in her face which for a moment twisted at Tellman as if he had seen into a terrible grief. Then it was gone, and he heard himself press on.

“What else did he ask, Mrs. Crook?”

“He asked if I were related to J. K. Stephen,” she answered him. There was a weariness in her voice as if she had no more will to fight the inevitable. “I’m not, but my husband was. His mother was J. K. Stephen’s cousin.”

Tellman was puzzled. He had never heard of J. K. Stephen.