the Whitechapel murderer and the story of Annie Crook, you should leave it. It’s too dangerous to do alone—”
“It’s a damned sight too dangerous to tell anyone about until I’ve got the proof,” Remus retorted “And you, of all people, should know that!” He turned to Gracie. “And you, whoever you are.”
“I know who you can trust,” Tellman said urgently. “Let them know. It’s the only safeguard you’ve got.”
Remus’s eyes were bright, and there was a decided sneer on his lips. “No doubt you’d like me to tell the police. Perhaps starting with you, eh?” He gave an abrupt little laugh, full of contempt. “Now, get your foot out of my door. I know how dangerous it is, and the police are the last people I’d trust.”
Tellman struggled to find an argument, and failed.
Gracie could think of nothing either. In Remus’s place she would have trusted no one.
“Well, be careful,” she said. “Yer know wot they done ter them women.”
Remus smiled at her. “Of course I know. I am careful.”
“No, you in’t!” she challenged, the words spitting out. “I followed yer all the way ’round Whitechapel, even spoke ter yer, an’ yer never knowed. Followed yer ter Mitre Square, too, but yer was so full o’ wot yer was thinkin’ yer ’ad no idea!”
Remus paled. He stared at her. “Who are you? Why would you follow me—if you did?” But there was fear in his voice now. Perhaps the mention of Mitre Square had made him realize she spoke the truth.
“It don’t matter ’oo I am,” she argued. “If I can follow yer, so can they! Do like ’e says.” She gestured to Tellman. “An’ be careful.”
“All right! I’ll be careful. Now go away,” Remus replied, stepping farther inside and beginning to push the door closed.
Tellman accepted that they had done all they could, and he retreated, Gracie with him.
Back across the street again he stopped, looking at her questioningly.
“ ’E’s onter summink,” she said decisively. “ ’E’s scared, but ’e in’t givin’ up.”
“I agree,” Tellman said in a low voice. “I’m going to follow him, see if I can protect him at all. You go home …”
“I’m comin’ wif yer.”
“No, you’re not!”
“I’m comin’—wif yer or be’ind yer!”
“Gracie …”
But at that moment Remus’s door opened again and he came out, looked from left to right and back again, and apparently concluding that they had gone, he set out. There was no time to argue. They went after him.
They followed him successfully for nearly two hours, first to Belgravia, where he stayed for about twenty-five minutes, then east and south to the river and along the Embankment just short of the Tower. They finally lost him as he was going east again. It was just growing dark.
Tellman swore in frustration, but this time watching his language far more carefully.
“He did that on purpose,” he said furiously. “He knew we were here. We must have shown ourselves, got too close to him. Stupid!”
“ ’E mebbe knew we would be,” she pointed out. “Or p’rhaps it weren’t us ’e were tryin’ ter shake? Mebbe ’e were bein’ careful, like we told ’im?”
Tellman stood on the footpath, staring along the street in the direction they had last thought they saw Remus, his eyes squinted, his mouth pulled tight.
“We’ve still lost him. And he’s going towards Whitechapel again!”
It was growing dark. The lamplighter was working the farther side of the street and he was hurrying.
“We’ll never find him in this.” Tellman looked around at the traffic, the rattle and clatter of hooves and wheels over the cobbles, the occasional shouts of drivers. Everyone seemed to be pressing forward as fast as they could. They could barely see fifty yards ahead in any direction in the gloom and the shifting mass of horses and people.
Gracie felt a bitter disappointment. Her feet were tired and she was hungry, but she could not dismiss the fear that Remus had not truly understood the danger he was in; there must be something they could still do to make him realize it.
“Come on, Gracie,” Tellman said gently. “We’ve lost him. Come and have something to eat. And sit down.” He gestured towards a public house on the farther side of the street.
The thought of sitting down was even better than that of food. And there was really nothing else to do.
“Or’ right,” she agreed, not moving reluctantly so much as utterly wearily.
The food was excellent, and the chance to relax blissful. She enjoyed it with relish, since usually when they ate together it had been in the kitchen in Keppel Street, and she had prepared the food. They talked about all manner of things, about Tellman’s early years in the police force. He told her stories of his experiences; some of them were even funny, and she found herself laughing aloud. She had never appreciated before that in his own fashion he had a sharp sense of the absurd.
“Wot’s yer name?” she said suddenly as he finished a tale of adventure, and a certain degree of self- revelation.
“What?” He was confused, not certain what she meant.
“Wot’s yer name?” she repeated, now self-conscious. She did not want to go on thinking of him as “Tellman.”
