Whitechapel Conspiracy

He continued to walk along the Outer Circle to the turnoff back to Albany Street, then went as far as the next omnibus stop to take him home. His mind was whirling. None of it fitted into a pattern, but now he was certain that there was one. He simply had to find it.

The next morning he slept later than he had meant to and arrived at Bow Street only just in time. There was a message waiting for him to report to Wetron’s office. He went up with a sinking heart.

This was Pitt’s office, even though his personal books and belongings had been removed and replaced already with Wetron’s leather-bound volumes. A cricket bat, presumably of some personal significance, hung on the wall, and there was a silver-framed photograph of a fair-haired woman on the desk. Her face was soft and pretty and she wore a pale lace dress.

“Yes sir?” Tellman said without hope.

Wetron leaned back in his chair, his colorless eyebrows raised.

“Would you care to tell me where you were yesterday, Sergeant? Apparently you found it outside your ability to inform Inspector Cullen …”

Tellman had already decided what to say, but it was still difficult. He swallowed hard. “I didn’t have the opportunity to tell Inspector Cullen yet, sir. I was following a suspect. If I’d stopped, I’d have lost him.”

“And the name of this suspect, Sergeant?” Wetron was staring at him fixedly. He had very clear blue eyes.

Tellman pulled a name out of memory. “Vaughan, sir. He’s a known handler of stolen goods.”

“I know who Vaughan is,” Wetron said tartly. “Did he have the Bratbys’ jewels?” There was deep skepticism in his voice.

“No, sir.” Tellman had considered embroidering the account, and decided it offered too much scope for being caught out. It was unfortunate that Wetron knew of Vaughan. He had not expected that. Please heaven no one could prove Vaughan had been in custody in some other station!

Wetron’s mouth closed in a thin line. “You surprise me. When did you last see Superintendent Pitt, Sergeant Tellman? And your answer had better be the exact truth.”

“The last day he was here at Bow Street, sir,” Tellman said swiftly, allowing offense to bristle in his tone. “Nor have I written to him or had any other communication, before you ask.”

“I hope that is the truth, Sergeant.” Wetron’s voice was icy.

“Your instructions were very clear.”

“Very,” Tellman agreed stiffly.

Wetron did not blink. “Perhaps you would like to tell me why you were seen by the beat constable calling at Superintendent Pitt’s house late in the afternoon two days ago?”

Tellman felt the cold shudder through him. “Certainly, sir,” he replied steadily, hoping his color had not changed. “I’m courting the Pitts’ maid, Gracie Phipps. I called on her. No doubt the constable reported that I went to the kitchen door. I had a cup of tea there, and then I left. I did not see Mrs. Pitt. I believe she was upstairs with the children.”

“You’re not being watched, Tellman!” Wetron said, the faintest color mounting his cheeks. “It was chance that you were observed.”

“Yes sir,” Tellman responded expressionlessly.

Wetron glanced at him, then down at the papers spread out on the desk in front of him. “Well, you’d better go and report to Cullen. Burglary is important. People expect us to keep their property safe. It’s what we are paid for.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Are you being sarcastic, Tellman?”

Tellman opened his eyes very wide. “Me, sir? Not at all. I’m sure that is what the gentlemen of Parliament pay us for.”

“You are damned insolent!” Wetron snapped. “Be careful, Tellman. You are not indispensable.”

Wisely, Tellman did not answer this time, but excused himself to go to find Cullen and try to satisfy him as to where he had been and why he had nothing to report.

It was a long, hot and extremely difficult day, mostly spent trudging from one unproductive interview to another. It was not until nearly seven in the evening that Tellman, his feet burning, was able to extricate himself from duty and finally take an omnibus to Keppel Street. He had been waiting since yesterday night to tell Gracie what he had learned.

Fortunately again Charlotte was upstairs with the children. It seemed she had made a habit of reading to them at about this hour.

Gracie was folding linen and it smelled wonderful. Freshly laundered cotton was one of his favorite things. This was rough dry, ready for the iron, warm from the airing rail.

“Well?” she asked as soon as he was inside, before he had even sat down at the table.

“I followed Remus.” He made himself comfortable, easing the laces of his boots and hoping she would put the kettle on soon. And he was hungry too. Cullen had not allowed him time to eat since midday.

“W’ere’d ’e go?” She looked at him with rapt attention, the last few pieces of linen forgotten.

“St. Pancras Infirmary, to check on the death of a man called William Crook,” he answered, leaning back in the chair.

She looked blank. “ ’Oo was ’e?”