Long Spoon Lane (19 page)

T
ELLMAN INTENDED TO
find Jones the Pocket as soon as possible, but he knew that he must do it extremely carefully, and in his own time rather than from Bow Street. If anyone were to see him doing it, then he would have to account for his interest in a man whose crimes, if any, had not been committed in his area. Sooner or later it would reach Wetron’s ears, and it would only be a matter of time before he put the facts together—probably a very short time.

The first evening he put on old clothes, something he hated doing. It reminded him of his youth when that was all he had. But it was necessary. He needed to be anonymous, and he knew his keen, lantern-jawed face was recognizable in far too many places. This was the one advantage to coming to the Cannon Street area, and farther east, but he dared not ask the help of any of the men stationed there. It would be reported back to Simbister first, and then to Wetron within hours. If Pitt was right and the corruption was as deep into the force as he feared, then he was working against them, not with them.

Tellman had been born in the East End. He knew the streets, the alleys, the courts and byways, the public houses and the pawnshops. He did not know many people there any more, but he knew what their lives were like. It was a strange, unpleasant feeling to be in such familiar places again, as if the smell had never left the back of his throat, and his feet still knew where the uneven cobbles were as he walked.

He had passed every one of these shops and houses before, trudging with boots that leaked, always a little hungry, uncertain of food or warmth, afraid of the future. If Jones the Pocket came from here, he would understand too much about him to be happy pursuing him. Grover was even worse. He could pity him for his knowledge of the life he was escaping, and hate him because he had betrayed the very path Tellman had taken out of it.

Grover would also have seen his mother struggle to feed and clothe her children, almost certainly losing some to weakness and disease. Tellman would never forget the silence, the fear, the smell of grief in the house. Old people could die; it was expected. But the grief was frightening and inconsolable, even after all these years, when it was a child. If he closed his eyes he could still see his mother’s face the night it had happened, and taste his own helplessness again.

Part of him hated Grover for leeching on his own. A large part of him understood that when you were hungry, when the desperation of survival drove you, you took when you could. You had to be strong, clever, or lucky not to be broken, sooner or later.

None of which in the slightest affected his determination to find Jones the Pocket, and arrest him. He simply had no joy in it.

During the course of the evening he went to every public house within two miles of Dirty Dick’s and the Ten Bells. He watched the landlords, and familiarized himself with the easiest route from one to another.

The next day he dispatched the men who usually worked with him on errands that would keep them occupied for the rest of the afternoon. At midday he was back at the Ten Bells. According to what Pitt had told him, it was collection day, so he bought a beef sandwich and a mug of ale, and waited. He sat near the door and watched every man who came in.

He had come on the early side, to be sure. After he had waited over half an hour, a man with a long nose and flyaway hair came in, flirted with the barmaid, and then bought himself a hot pie and a pint of ale.

Tellman nearly missed the next man who came in. He had a sharp, pointed face, quick eyes, and he wore a loose coat that flapped around his legs as he moved. The blond landlady’s face became suddenly expressionless. Without waiting for him to speak, she poured him a measure of gin in a glass and handed it to him across the counter. He took it and tossed it down in a swift movement, then replaced the empty glass on the counter. No money changed hands.

Tellman drank the last of his ale and stood up.

The landlady held out her hand, palm up.

The man in the coat fished out a coin and gave it to her.

Tellman felt foolish. He would have to sit down again. This was not Jones after all.

The landlady was stiff, uncomfortable. There was no smile on her face as she had had for Tellman, who was a stranger here. She went to the drawer where she kept her money, as if to find change. Instead she made a quick movement and put her hand into a separate pigeonhole and pulled out a bundle of coins tied up in a rag. She slammed the drawer shut, then turned around and gave the bundle to the man. He took it with a few words Tellman could not hear, and then placed it carefully into one of his vast inside pockets. The payment had been made, but to anyone looking less carefully than Tellman had been, it was an ordinary purchase, with change.

Jones had done his business. He left, and went out into the street, Tellman on his heels.

Tellman followed him but at a very considerable distance. He even allowed him to get out of his sight, because he knew where he was going. His only concern was that he might not deliver the money today. He still did not know where to find Jones again, except on the same route next week, and Pitt could not wait another seven days.

But by nearly six o’clock Jones had not passed the money to anyone, nor had he returned to any building that could reasonably be his home.

Finally Jones went into a public house in Bethnal Green, and ordered a meal. Tellman watched as the barmaid brought it to him without asking for any money. At first he leapt to the same conclusion as previously, but then he saw the woman laughing, and he realized there was no apparent anger in her. She walked easily, with a slight sway of her hips. In fact, she was self-confident, flirting a little with other customers as she passed them, catching an eye here and there and winking. She made a joke. A large man responded, and she pretended to be shocked. There was another bellow of laughter. Jones joined in.

The woman returned to the bar and made a little note on a piece of paper and put it in the drawer.

Jones was a regular here. He was not extorting from her, she was putting it on his account. He must eat here regularly. He probably lived within a few minutes’ walking distance.

At last Tellman knew where to find Jones again. He left with life in his step. He realized he was hungry also, but he would eat somewhere else, not here, not in Jones the Pocket’s tavern.

Tellman arrived at his lodgings in a spirit of triumph, but as he lay in bed thinking over his success, he realized that while he understood exactly what he had seen, he had no proof of any crime for which he could legally arrest Jones. Ironically, and he was fully aware of the bitterness of it, he could have used the new laws of search that were currently being suggested in Parliament. But the last thing on earth he wanted was a gun, and still less that police corrupted by Wetron and his like should have them.

He needed an excuse to arrest Jones and keep him long enough for Pitt to take his place—and his money—and wait for his masters to come in search of it.

Of course, if they assumed that Pitt was equally corrupt, which he would have to be, then Tellman’s reasons for arresting Jones did not have to be honest.

But if they were not, and Wetron knew it, then Tellman would be hostage to that crime all the rest of his days.

He turned over and pulled the blankets with him. His pillow felt as if it were full of lumps. He was too hot one minute, and too cold the next.

Worse than hostage to Wetron, he would have dishonored himself. What would his mother have thought of him? He could taste her contempt as if it were already a fact, and, more bitter than contempt, her pain.

And Gracie. Gracie would be furious with him for not having been clever enough to have thought of something better. He would no longer be any kind of hero in her eyes.

What could he arrest Jones for, legally? He was guilty of extortion, but there was no way to prove it, because no one was going to say that they had paid him unwillingly; they did not dare to. Or the next thing they knew, they would receive a visit from the police, who would find stolen goods carefully planted in their houses, or forged money, or papers of some sort.

He sat up in the bed, cold air hitting his body through his nightshirt. That was it! He had not visited all the public houses in his area yet. There were more to collect from tomorrow. What if one of them paid Jones in forged money? That would be easy enough to arrange. There was nothing criminal in paying extortion with forged money. And Tellman could lay his hands on a few notes easily enough. There was at least one magsman in the Bow Street area who owed him a favor and would be glad enough to acquit it. What did a forged note cost? Little enough in these circumstances.

He would have to do it carefully, of course. He would go around after Jones, make sure he took it, then arrest him. The bogus notes, whose forger he could never give away because he did not know him, would be grounds to hold him in prison for several days, even a week, quite long enough for Pitt to have an excellent chance to meet his masters.

Now Tellman was too wide awake to sleep, but his mind was made up. All that was still left to decide was who would he take with him to make the arrest. He dared not do it alone in case Jones fought, which he well might. In an area like Mile End or Whitechapel, there were enough dark alleys or closed-in courts for him to pull a knife on Tellman, and escape. No one would come to Tellman’s aid, and he dared not look to the local police anyway. Any one of them could be as corrupt as Jones himself, could even be Jones’s master, or a middleman between the two.

He lay down, and did eventually sleep fitfully, but woke up with his mind turned again immediately to whom he could trust to take with him.

In the event he had very little choice. It was either Stubbs or Cobham. Cobham was new, and disinclined to take orders easily. He tended to question, to want reasons for everything, and there was no time for explanations. It had to be Stubbs. All he knew about him was that, like Tellman himself, he was the oldest of a large family. He spoke occasionally of his mother but never his father. Perhaps he was dead. Stubbs might have ambitions or loyalties of his own, but that was true of everyone. Fear of that could stop Tellman from ever taking a step at all. That was one of the worst things about corruption, it crippled action, it blurred any decision until in the end you doubted everyone, even your ability to be right about yourself. It was a cool morning with a slight mist over the river and he set out very early to collect the forged note. By eight o’clock he had seen the landlord of the public house most likely to pay it on to Jones without giving him the slightest hint that there was anything unusual in this installment. But just to be as sure as possible, Tellman reminded him of the unpleasantness he would face were the operation to fail, as well as the advantages to his future if it succeeded.

By nine o’clock he was at Bow Street as usual, about his duties and keeping well away from Wetron’s path. He decided not to risk telling Stubbs he would require him; instead, by lunchtime, he collected Stubbs from where he was writing up his paperwork in the ledger and said he had a job for him. Stubbs, who hated writing, was delighted to accept.

They went together and questioned a pawnbroker about a stolen silver urn and pair of candlesticks. It was something Tellman could perfectly well have done alone, and they went farther east as if to continue the search. They had an amiable lunch at the Smithfield Tavern, then walked quietly towards the public house where Tellman expected Jones to collect extortion money. He had considered picking him up earlier, closer to where he lived, and following him until he reached the one where the note was. However, if Stubbs were loyal to the Circle, or anyone in it, in debt to them, or afraid, or even simply careless, he might manage to get some warning to Jones.

So they were obliged to wait. The sky clouded over and occasional showers made them colder and left them shivering. Stubbs was growing steadily more puzzled, and less happy.

Tellman chose not to explain. It would involve too many details he was not willing to discuss.

Another shower drifted past. Momentarily, hailstones rattling against the windows of the shop behind them. Then Jones appeared, striding along the pavement, coat flapping, black hat jammed on his head. He went into the public house, and emerged ten minutes later, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, and set out across the cobbles to the far side of the street.

“Come on!” Tellman said sharply. “He’s the one we want.”

“What for?” Stubbs asked, obeying with alacrity. He stepped into a puddle and swore under his breath. “Who is he?”

“Passer of forged money,” Tellman replied.

“ ’Ow do yer know?” Stubbs caught up with him as, ahead of them, Jones ducked into an alley to take a shortcut towards his next stop.

“It’s my job,” Tellman replied, crossing after Jones and going straight into the alley. He was reluctant to follow into a place he did not know, and where he could easily be ambushed, but he dared not lose Jones. Out of his sight for more than a moment or two, he could pass the money on and the whole arrest would fall through. The police corruption ate at Tellman like an ulcer in his flesh, and to fail in the battle against it for what amounted to cowardice would be unbearable. And he would have let Pitt down. That was almost as bad.

The alley was dark, the rain clouds graying the sky and making the shadows heavy between the high walls. Jones was ahead of him, rapidly approaching another man, who was thickset with a massive chest and short, slightly bowed legs. He had a powerful, hatchet-shaped face with deep-set eyes. He stood in the center of the alley, right across Jones’s path, but Jones did not hesitate, and certainly made no move as if to turn or back away from him.

Tellman had no choice. Once the money passed hands he would have no excuse to hold Jones.