Whitechapel Conspiracy

“I’ll tell you everything I find out.” He stopped abruptly and swung around to face Pitt, his lantern jaw hollow in the gray light, his eyes dark. “You be careful.” Then, as if he had said too much and embarrassed himself by showing his concern, he swiveled on his heel and strode off back the way he had come.

Gracie was still determined to follow Lyndon Remus, but she had no intention of allowing either Charlotte or Tellman to know it. That meant it was necessary that she give Charlotte some other reason for wanting to leave the house so early—and for remaining absent, possibly all day. It required considerable imagination to come up with a series of excuses, and she hated lying. If it were not absolutely necessary in order to rescue Pitt from injustice and get him home again, she would not even have contemplated it.

She got up just after dawn to have the range lit and the water boiling and the kitchen scrubbed and spotless before anyone else came down. Even the cats were startled to see her at half past five, and not at all sure it was a good idea, especially since she disturbed their sleep in the laundry basket without offering them breakfast.

When Charlotte came down at half past seven Gracie was ready with her story.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” she said cheerfully. “Cup o’ tea?”

“Good morning,” Charlotte replied, looking around the kitchen with surprise. “Were you up half the night?”

“Got up a bit early.” Gracie kept her voice quite casual, moving the kettle back onto the hob to bring it to the boil again. “ ’Cos I wanted a favor, if that’s all right.” She knew Charlotte was aware of Tellman’s regard for her, because they had conspired in the past to take advantage of it—only as a matter of necessity in the cause of detection, of course. She took a deep breath. This was the lie. She kept her back to Charlotte; she did not think she could do it looking at her.

“Mr. Tellman asked me ter go ter a fair wif ’im, if I could get the day off. An’ I got an errand as well, bit o’ shoppin’, not much. But if I could go w’en the laundry’s finished, I’d be ever so grateful….” It did not sound as good as she had hoped. She knew Charlotte was finding it increasingly hard to endure the loneliness and the worry, especially since there was so little she could do to help.

Charlotte had been back to see Martin Fetters’s widow at least twice, and they were at a loss where to search for his missing papers. However, by now she probably knew as much of Fetters’s career as anyone. She had told Gracie of John Adinett’s travels, military skill and exploring adventures in Canada. But neither of them could see in any of it a reason why one man had murdered the other, only terrible, dangerous ideas. They had spoken of them together, often late into the evening, after the children were in bed. But without proof none of it helped.

Now it was up to Gracie to find the next link between John Adinett and the forces of anarchy … or oppression, or whatever it was that he had been doing in Cleveland Street and Remus was so excited about. She really had very little idea what it could be, only that Tellman was certain it was ugly and dangerous, and very big.

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte replied to Gracie. There was reluctance in her voice, perhaps even envy, but she did not argue.

“Thank you,” Gracie accepted, wishing she could tell the truth as to what she was doing; it was on the edge of her tongue. But if she did, Charlotte would stop her, and she must not allow that. It would be self-indulgent and stupid to say anything. She must pull herself together and get on with it.

She still had quite a bit of Tellman’s money, and all she could collect of her own. She was ready to follow Remus wherever he went, and she was outside his rooms waiting for him by eight o’clock.

It was a very pleasant morning, warm already. Flower sellers were out with fresh blossoms come in during the early hours. She was glad she did not have to stand all day on corners, hoping to sell.

Delivery boys with fish, meat, vegetables passed by, knocking on scullery doors. There was a milk cart at the next crossroads. A thin woman was carrying a full can back to her kitchen. She walked leaning a little sideways from the weight of it.

A newspaper boy took up his position on the farther corner, every now and then shouting the latest headlines about the coming election. There had been a tornado in Minnesota in America. Thirty-three people had been killed. Already Adinett was forgotten.

Lyndon Remus came out of his front door and started to walk smartly along towards the main thoroughfare and—Gracie hoped profoundly—the omnibus stop. Hansoms were very expensive, and she guarded Tellman’s money carefully.

Remus looked purposeful, his head forward, stride long and swinging. He was dressed very ordinarily, in old jacket and with no collar to his shirt. Whomever he intended calling on, it was not gentry. Perhaps he was going back to Cleveland Street?