Long Spoon Lane (22 page)

“Thank you,” he said appreciatively. “Another glass?”

“Since yer ask, I don’t mind if I do,” Stace said generously.

Tellman did not find Piers Denoon that night, and the following day he had no opportunity to continue the search. He was tired and discouraged by the time he went home to eat, and change his clothes. It had been raining on and off during the day and his feet were sore, his trouser legs were wet, and he had not had anything hot to eat in two days. He began to think of Piers Denoon enjoying a steaming bath back in his parents’ house in Queen Anne Street with a spirit of something close to bitterness.

He knew where the house was—he had taken the trouble to find out. The first night he had gone there and delivered a message. The footman had informed him that Mr. Piers was not at home.

He was not at home the second evening either, but Tellman had nowhere better to look, so he spent the latter part of the evening standing in the chill wind at the other side of the street arguing with himself as to how much longer he could endure it, and whether it was worth staying.

Twice he gave up and walked to the end of the road and was about to go down to Cavendish Square, and changed his mind, determined to give it another quarter of an hour.

It was half past ten when a hansom pulled up three doors along and a young man alighted and staggered uncertainly under the lamplight, almost bumping into it before he altered course. He was unshaven and looked very much the worse for wear. His clothes were dirty, but unmistakably well-cut and tailored to fit his slender, almost emaciated form. He passed into the shadow again, and Tellman did not move until the man started down the area steps of the Denoon house, as if to go in at the scullery door.

Tellman shot into action and sprinted across the street and down the steps. He caught up with the man as he fumbled to open the door to the back kitchen.

“Mr. Denoon!” Tellman said urgently.

Piers jolted as if for an instant he had almost cried out, then he swung around, his back pressed against the door. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Tellman already knew what he was going to do. “I came to give you a warning,” he said quietly. “Not a threat!” he added. In the light above the kitchen door Piers Denoon looked haggard, every bit as tense and nerve-ridden as Stace had said. “The police looking into the Myrdle Street bombing know that you got the money for the dynamite,” Tellman went on.

Piers stared at him, struggling not to believe him. Fear was so stark in his face that Tellman felt a twinge of guilt. But he could not afford mercy now.

“They’ve been questioning the men they caught, Welling and Carmody,” he said urgently. “Someone must have talked. You’ve got to be careful, warn the people you get the money from!”

“Warn them?” Piers said, catching his breath. His eyes looked like hollow pits.

“Well, I can’t!” Tellman said reasonably. “But don’t delay. They’re moving quickly.” Was that enough? Would it send Piers Denoon to whoever was behind the anarchists? Would it give him the proof Pitt needed?

“I hear you,” Piers said quietly. He looked ashen, sweaty, as if he were ill.

Tellman nodded. “Good. Do it.” He turned away and climbed back up the steps into the street and walked away. He stopped half a dozen doors along, until he was out of sight should Piers be watching him. Then he crossed the street and went halfway down the steps of a house where no lights were on, and waited.

Forty minutes later he was rewarded by seeing Piers Denoon come up the steps again, this time looking clean, shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes. He walked briskly westward towards Cavendish Square. Tellman had to break into a run to catch up with him just as he stepped off the footpath into a hansom cab.

Tellman swore, and looked around for another. It was late and cold and the square was almost deserted. He sprinted along the footpath towards Regent Street, and was intensely relieved to see another hansom twenty yards away, ambling in the opposite direction. He ran after it. He did not dare call out until he was level with it, in case he drew attention to himself. He scrambled up, telling the driver to turn quickly and follow the first.

It was a hectic journey. Twice he lost Piers Denoon, but caught up with him eventually. He arrived twenty yards behind him when he alighted halfway along Great Sutton Street in Clerkenwell. Denoon paid the driver and after looking both ways along the footpath, rang the doorbell at number twenty-seven.

Tellman shouted to his driver to take him to Keppel Street, and found his voice was hoarse and his mouth dry. The sweat was running down his body and chilling, as if the air froze.

It was just after one o’clock in the morning.

7

P
ITT WOKE TO
hear Charlotte speaking urgently to him, her voice low and sharp with alarm.

“Thomas, there’s someone outside the front door.”

He struggled to escape the clouds of sleep. The room was dark, he could barely even make out her shadow, it was more a sense of the warmth of her near him. But he could hear the low, insistent knocking on the door below.

“I’ll go,” he said, reaching out to touch her shoulder and feeling the soft skin for a moment. Then he climbed out of bed and fumbled for the candle and struck a match. The flame burned up at least sufficiently to find his jacket and trousers. He would have to come back up and dress properly if he had to go out. He looked at his pocket watch sitting on the dresser. It was just after quarter past one.

The knocking had stopped. Whoever it was must have seen the glow through the chink in the curtains and realized they would soon be answered.

Pitt turned up the gas on the landing lamp then ran downstairs in bare feet and went to the front door. He unlocked it, and pulled it open to find Tellman on the step. In what light there was from the hall, he looked pale and exhausted.

“Come in,” Pitt said quietly. “What’s happened?”

Tellman did as he was told and Pitt closed the door. Inside, Tellman looked even worse. His skin was pasty, his lean cheeks covered with faint stubble, and his eyes were hollow.

“What is it?” Pitt repeated. “Do I have to get dressed, or have we time for a cup of tea?”

Tellman was shivering slightly. “There’s nowhere to go,” he answered. “At least not now.”

Without comment, Pitt turned and led the way along the passage to the kitchen. His feet were cold, but at least the wooden floor there would be warmer, and since it was relatively early in the night, he might be able to get the stove back to life without having to rake it all out and start again.

He lit the gas in the kitchen. “Sit down,” he ordered Tellman. “I’ll go up and tell Charlotte it’s just you, then I’ll make a cup of tea.”

Tellman obeyed.

Pitt was back in a few minutes with a shirt and socks on as well. He riddled out the dead ash from the stove, put kindling on top of the warm embers, and watched till they caught. Then he added coal and closed up the front so it would draw. He filled the kettle and put it on the hob. In the basket by the stove the cats Archie and Angus stirred and stretched, rearranged themselves and went back to sleep.

“What is it?” Pitt asked, sitting down opposite Tellman. It would be several minutes before the water boiled.

Tellman seemed to relax a little. Perhaps this kitchen where Gracie worked, and where he and Pitt had sat so often, was as much home to him as anywhere since his childhood. However a deep misery haunted his face.

“I don’t know how long they’ll hold Jones the Pocket.” He chewed his lip. “If it’s as bad as we fear, they could lose the evidence against him. You’d better move quickly.” He looked at Pitt with steady, miserable eyes.

“What’s the charge?” Pitt asked, curious to know how Tellman had accomplished it. “And the evidence?”

“Passing forged money,” Tellman replied, the very smallest lift of pride in his voice. “Which he did,” he added. “With a little help. I took a constable along, so someone knows apart from me, but of course I don’t know if I can trust him. He might develop a sudden blindness. Or worse, he might say I put the money there.”

“Could you have?” Pitt was worried for him.

“No. I was careful not to go anywhere near his pockets. I held him, and had Stubbs search.”

“How did the forged money get there?” Pitt asked.

“I gave it to one of the people he was going to collect from. He owed me a favor and was glad enough to earn a contribution to its repayment.”

“Good. So what is it?” It was on the edge of Pitt’s tongue to ask why Tellman was here at half past one in the morning, but he looked so wretched he forbore.

“Wetron called me into his office about it,” Tellman replied quietly, staring at his hands on the kitchen table. “He was bound to hear, but it was quick! I don’t know whether it was Stubbs who reported to him, or Grover from Cannon Street, who was with Jones when I arrested him.” He raised his eyes to Pitt’s. “Wetron crowed a bit, but he told me that the money from the anarchists is raised by Piers Denoon, Magnus Landsborough’s cousin. He said everyone knows that, and Special Branch is pretty poor not to have found out. He’s setting me up to see if I’ll tell you.”

“Yes…” Pitt agreed. He could hear the kettle begin to hiss. “Of course he is. You—”

“It’s true,” Tellman cut across him. “I found out for myself. I asked about him, and I got him at home and told him the police knew what he was doing. He went straight to report to his leader.” His face was now almost gray, and behind Pitt the kettle was beginning to whistle.

Pitt ignored it. “Who?”

“Simbister.”

Pitt felt the cold bite into him, and a faint sickness in his stomach. It should not have surprised him. It was what Welling and Carmody had implied. He tried once to evade it. “Of Cannon Street? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“At his home? Are you certain?”

“Yes. Are you going to see Jones?” Tellman asked.

“No. I can’t do it without running the risk that Wetron will hear of it. I doubt he’d tell me anything.”

Tellman nodded unhappily.

“Thank you.”

He stood up to take the kettle off the hob before it woke the rest of the house. “What do you know about Piers Denoon?” he asked, reaching for the tea caddy.

Quietly, Tellman told him.

First thing in the morning Pitt sent a message to Voisey, and at noon once again he walked down the steps to the crypt of St. Paul’s, and along the same arched aisle as before. This time he went past Nelson’s tomb to that of the great Duke of Wellington, successful against the Maratha Confederacy in India, commander of the campaign in the Peninsular War, and finally, of course, victor at Waterloo.

Voisey was standing at the far end of the tomb, moving his weight from one foot to the other. He turned as he heard the sound of Pitt’s steps. A flush of irritation crossed his face at his own predictability. “I assume you have a damned good reason for this!” he said in a low voice as soon as Pitt was beside him. “I was about to have a meeting with the home secretary.”

“Of course I have,” Pitt replied tersely, glancing at the magnificent tomb. It was solemn and imposing as befitted the greatest military leader in British history, and yet still less ornate or individual than Nelson’s. It spoke of glory and admiration, but not love. “Do you think I would send for you for anything less?”

Voisey ignored the “send for you” with difficulty and it showed on his face. “Well, what is it?” he demanded.

Pitt was certainly not going to tell him about the arrest of Jones the Pocket, or his plans to take his place. It was dangerous enough as it was, with little he could do to protect himself. Nor was he going to mention Tellman, for the same reasons.

“The anarchists are getting their funds through Piers Denoon, only son of Edward Denoon,” he told Voisey. “He is an erratic, nervy young man, but apparently brilliant at raising money.” He saw Voisey’s face light with an interest too vivid for him to conceal. “When frightened into believing the police were aware of it,” Pitt continued, “he reported immediately, at one in the morning, to Simbister, head of Cannon Street police.”