agreeing to it will bring. It is no guarantee the blackmailer will keep silent-Guy Stanley is witness of that-and you will add the real dishonor of whatever he would have you do. He may damage your reputation, but only you can damage your honor. Don’t let it happen.” She leaned forward a little, looking intently at the younger woman. “Assure him you can withstand anything that is said of you wrongly, and all that may come because of it, but not that he should allow this man to turn him into the kind of creature he is, or to become a tool in his evil.”
“I will,” Theodosia promised. In a quick gesture she reached forward and took Vespasia’s hands in her own, gripping them warmly. “Thank you for coming. I should not have had the courage to come to you, but I feel stronger, and quite certain of what I must do now. I shall be able to help Leo.”
Vespasia nodded. “We shall stand together,” she promised. “There are several of us, and we shall not stop fighting.”
Tellman was meanwhile busy tracking the last few days in the life of Josiah Slingsby. Someone had murdered him, either with deliberate intent or accidentally in a fight which had gone too far. That was one of the few things in this whole affair of which he was certain. Whether it had any connection with the blackmail attempt or not, it must be solved. It was the original case, and must not be lost sight of in whatever else was occupying most of Pitt’s time. Tellman fully expected the trail he was following to cross General Balantyne’s path, and it might be easier to come at it from this angle than from pursuing Balantyne directly, although that, too, would have to be done.
He began by discovering where Slingsby had lived. It was tedious and time-consuming, but not difficult for someone who was used to the mixture of threat, trickery and small bribes necessary to deal with fencers of stolen goods, prostitutes and keepers of “netherskens,” as cheap rooming houses were called, where those who wished to keep well out of the way of the police could rent a space to sleep in for a few pence a night. The owners asked nothing about their patrons and simply took the money. None were friends of the law, and whatever business they were involved in was best not discussed.
Lapsing into the attitude of the beggars and pickpockets lounging around the area, Tellman fell into conversation with a bull-chested man whose “terrier-crop” haircut indicated he had not long been out of prison. In spite of his impressive physique he had a hacking cough and dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes.
From him Tellman learned that Slingsby frequently worked in partnership with a man named Ernest Wallace, infamous for his ability to climb up drainpipes and balance along roof ledges and windowsills, and for his filthy temper.
He spent the rest of the day in Shoreditch, learning all he could about Wallace. Little of it was to his credit. He seemed to inspire both dislike and considerable fear. He was very good at his chosen skill of thieving, and his profits were both high and regular. So far he had escaped the attention of the law, who might well have been aware of him but had not yet proved any charge against him. However, he had quarreled with almost everyone with whom he had had dealings, and two or three of them that Tellman found carried the scars.
In this area it was understood that no one cooperated with the police to the extent of betraying one of their own, even at the cost of life. Tellman was the enemy, and he knew it. But revenge might be sought in more than one direction. He needed to find someone whom Wallace had hurt badly enough that he would be willing to savor Wallace’s downfall and pay the price. A little fear and a little profit might sway the argument.
It took him another day of slipping in and out of gin mills, crowded markets, being bumped and jostled, carrying nothing in his pockets, and even then the linings were ripped by cutpurses so skilled he did not feel their hands or their knives. He ate from a sandwich stall, walked dripping alleys, stepping over refuse, hearing rats’ feet scurrying away, and mixed threats and wheedling, but finally he found the person he sought, not a man but a woman. Wallace had beaten her, and as a result she had miscarried her child. She hated him enough not to care how she took her revenge.
Tellman had to be very careful how he questioned her. He must not prompt her into saying anything intentionally to ruin Wallace, and thereby end up being useless in any trial.
“It’s Slingsby I want,” he insisted.
She stood leaning against the dark brick wall of the street, her face half shaded in the gloom. The sky was hazed over with chimney smoke, and the smell of effluent was heavy in the air.
“Well, find Ernie Wallace an’ yer’ll find Joe,” she answered. “Joe Slingsby’s the only one as’ll work wif’im. Least ’e were. Dunno if ’e still does.” She sniffed. “ ’Ad a fight summink terrible ’baht a week ago-it were, ’cos o’ the big row down at the Goat an’ Compasses. Were the same night. Ernie damn near killed Joe, the bleedin’ swine. In’t seen Joe around ’ere since then. I ’spec ’e went orff.” She sniffed again and passed the back of her hand across her mouth. “I’d a’ come back an’ stuck a shiv in ’is ribs, if I’d a’ bin ’im. Bleedin’ bastard. Would now, if I could get near enough the swine. But ’e’d see me comin’, an’ ’e’s too fly by ’alf ter ’ang around any dark alleys by ’isself.”
“But you’re sure Joe Slingsby was with him that night a week ago?” Tellman tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. He could hear his words falling over each other with eagerness. She could hear it too.
“Din’ I just tell yer?” She stared at him. “Yer deaf, or summink? I dunno w’ere Joe is. I in’t seen ’ide ner ’air of ’im since then, but I know w’ere Ernie Wallace is. ’E’s bin throwin’ money around summink wild, like ’e ’ad it all.”
Tellman swallowed. “You reckon he and Joe Slingsby did a burglary that day and fought over the takings, and Wallace won?”
“ ’Course I do!” she said with contempt. “Wot else? Yer in’t very bright, are yer?”
“May be true.” He must be very careful. He affected doubt, turning away from her. “An’ maybe not.”
She spat on the narrow pavement. “ ’Oo cares!” She took a step back, her voice hard.
“I do!” He reached out and snatched her arm. “I gotter find Ernie Wallace. It’s worth something to me to know for sure what happened.”
“Well, Joe won’t tell yer!” she said derisively. “ ’e got the worse of it, I know fer sure.”
“How do you know?” he insisted.
“ ’Cos I saw it, o’ course! ’ow d’yer think?”
“Did Slingsby say he’d get back at Wallace? Where’d he go after?”
“I dunno. ’e never went anyw’ere.” She pulled her arm away roughly. “ ’e could a’ bin dead, fer all I know.” Suddenly her face changed. “Jeez! Mebbe ’e were dead! Nobody in’t seen ’im since then.”
“In that case,” Tellman said very slowly, looking straight at her, “if it can be proved, then Ernie Wallace murdered him, and he’ll swing for it.”
“Oh, it can be proved ….” She stared back at him, wide-eyed. “I’ll see ter it. I swear ter that, I do. I’ll get it fer yer!”
She was as good as her word. The evidence was all he needed. He took two constables and together they found and arrested Ernest Wallace and charged him with the murder of Josiah Slingsby. But regardless of the subtlety or persistence of questioning, or the threats or promises made to him, Wallace was adamant that he had left the body of Slingsby in the alley where he had fallen, and himself left the scene with all the speed he could muster.
“W’y the bleedin’ ’ell should I a’ took ’im ter bleedin’ Bedford Square?” he demanded with amazement. “Wo’ for? D’yer fink I’m gonna carry a corpse wot I done in ’alfway ’roun’ Lunnon in the middle o’ the night, jus’ so as I can leave ’im on someone else’s bleedin’ doorstep? Wo’ fer?”
The notion of placing Albert Cole’s bill for socks in the pocket of the corpse had him seriously questioning Tellman’s sanity.
“Yer bleedin’ mad, you are!” He snorted, his eyes wide. “Wot the ’ell are yer on abaht-socks?” He guffawed with laughter.
Tellman left the Shoreditch police station deep in thought. Unconsciously, he pushed his hands farther into his pockets, not realizing how he was mimicking Pitt. He believed Wallace, simply because what he said made sense. He had killed Slingsby in a fight which was violent, stupid, born of an un-governed temper and a quarrel over money. There was no forethought in it, no planning either before or after.
So who put the socks receipt in Slingsby’s pocket and where had he got it from? Where was Albert Cole now … alive or dead? And above all, why?
There was only one answer that came to his mind: in order to blackmail General Brandon Balantyne.
The street was shimmering with heat. It rose in waves from the stones, and the sheer brick walls on either side seemed to hem him in. The horses trotting briskly between the shafts of hansoms and drays alike were dark with sweat. The smell of manure was sharp in the air. He preferred it to the stale, clinging odor of drains.
A running patterer stood on the corner with a small group of listeners gathered around him. He was spinning
