Whitechapel Conspiracy

He was not entirely sure he believed her. He was startled how deeply the fear bit into him that some harm might come to her. He drew breath to say something to stop her from doing it at all, then realized how absurd it would sound. He had no power to command her in anything, as she would be the first to point out. And also it would betray to her how he felt, and he was in no way ready to do that. He did not even know how to deal with it himself, let alone explain it to her. Friendship he could cope with, just. Even that much made demands he was unused to coping with and opened him up to hurt. It was a loss of the independence which had always been his greatest safety.

But he admired her for being willing to take up following Remus in his place. There was a deep warmth inside him when he thought of it. That was a kind of safety also, a knowledge of trust.

“Be careful!” was all he said aloud.

“ ’Course I will!” She attempted to be indignant, but her eyes did not leave his, and she stayed still for several minutes before she finally stood up and went to get them both something to eat.

Next morning she asked Charlotte for the day off, saying it was something rather urgent she had to do. She had prepared an explanation if it was asked for, but Charlotte seemed satisfied to busy herself with various domestic chores. It took her mind off her anxieties, and if she had further plans to pursue the case herself, she did not share them.

Gracie took the first opportunity to leave. The last thing she wished for was a discussion which might too easily betray her own intentions.

She had very little idea where to find Lyndon Remus at this hour of the day. It was already nearly ten o’clock. But she knew how to get to Cleveland Street on the omnibus, and that was a very good place to begin.

It was a long ride, and she was glad now of Tellman’s money, even though it made her feel uncomfortable to have accepted it. But it was definitely a case of necessity. Something had to be done to help Mr. Pitt, and personal feelings must be set aside. She and Tellman could sort out their relationship later, and if that proved to be difficult, well, they would just have to manage.

She reached the last stop for the omnibus in Mile End Road, and alighted. It was five past eleven. She walked along until she came to Cleveland Street, and turned left. It looked very unremarkable, a great deal wider and cleaner than the street where she had been born and grown up … really quite respectable. Not if you compared it with Keppel Street, of course—but then this was the East End.

Where should she start? The direct approach at the tobacconist’s, or indirect, asking someone else about them? Indirect was better. If she went there first, and failed, then she would have spoiled it for trying to be discreet.

She looked around at the worn pavements, the uneven cobbles, the grimy, brick-faced buildings, some whose upper windows were broken or boarded. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys. Yard or alley entrances gaped darkly.

What shops were there? A maker of clay pipes and an artist’s studio. She knew nothing about art, and not much about pipes, but pipes she could guess about. She walked over to the door and went in, the story ready on her tongue.

“Mornin’, miss. Can I ’elp yer?” There was a young man, a year or two older than she was, behind the counter.

“Mornin’,” she replied cheerfully. “I ’eard yer ’ave the best pipes any place east o’ St. Paul’s. Matter o’ taste, o’ course, but I want summink special fer me pa, so wot ’ave yer got?”

The lad grinned. His hair grew in a cowlick at the front, giving him a casual, cheeky expression. “Did yer? Well, ’oever told yer that were right!”

“Were a while back,” she responded. “ ’E’s dead now, poor soul. William Crook. ’Member ’im?”

“Can’t say as I do.” He shrugged. “But then we gets ’undreds through ’ere. Wot kind of a pipe did yer fancy, then?”

“Maybe it were ’is daughter as bought it for ’im?” she suggested. “She used ter work up at the tobacconist’s.” She gestured up towards the farthest end of the street. “Knew ’er, didn’t yer?”

His face stiffened. “Annie? ’Course I did. She were a decent girl. ’Ave yer seen ’er lately? This year, like?” He looked at her eagerly.

“In’t yer seen ’er yerself?” she countered.

“Nobody ’ere seen ’er in more’n five years,” he replied sadly. “There were an ’ell of a row one day. A bunch o’ strangers, real ruffians, suddenly started ter fight. Bangin’ seven bells outa each other, they was. Two carriages come up, one ter number fifteen, w’ere the artist used to be, an’ the other ter number six. I remember, ’cos I were out in the street meself. Two men went inter the artist’s place, an’ a few minutes later they come out again draggin’ a young feller wif ’em, fair strugglin’ and yellin’. ’E were terrible upset, but din’t do ’im no good. They bundled ’im inter the carriage an’ drove off like the devil was be’ind ’em.”

“And the others?” she said breathlessly.