She wanted a name, a name that his family used.
The color deepened in his face, and he looked down at his empty plate.
“Sorry,” she said unhappily. “I shouldn’t ’a asked.”
“Samuel,” he replied quickly, almost swallowing the word.
She liked it. In fact she liked it very much.
“Hmph. Too good fer yer. That’s a real name.”
He looked up quickly. “You like it? You don’t think it’s …”
“ ’Course it is,” she agreed. “I jus’ thought I’d like ter know, that’s all. It’s time I was goin’ ’ome.” But she made no move to stand up.
“Yes,” he said, also not moving.
“Yer know summink,” she said thoughtfully. “That Remus thinks ’e’s got the answer now. ’E knows the truth, I seen it in ’is face. ’E were tryin’ ter ’ide it so we didn’t see, but ’e’s got it all, an’ ’e’s gonna tell that story termorrer.”
Tellman did not argue. He sat looking at her across the table, his eyes steady, his face pinched and earnest.
“I know. But I don’t know how to stop him. Telling him all the damage it would do won’t help. It’s his chance to be famous, and he isn’t going to give it up for anyone.”
“They’ll know that too,” she said, feeling the fear well up inside her again, cold and sick. “Yer know, I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter Whitechapel again, one more time afore ’e tells ’em … mebbe afore ’e writes the last bit of ’is piece fer the papers. I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter visit them places again—’Anbury Street, Bucks Row an’ all.”
She saw by the quick widening of his eyes that he believed it the moment she spoke. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
“I’m going there. You catch a hansom and go home. I’ll give you the money.” He began to fish in his pocket.
“Not on yer life!” She stood up also. “I in’t lettin’ yer go there by yerself. Don’t waste time talkin’ abaht it. We’ll get the rozzer on the beat ter come wif us from the ’Igh Street, and if there’s nothin’, we’ll look like fools. Yer can tell ’im it were my fault.” And without waiting for him she started for the door.
He followed after her, pushing his way past others coming in, calling apologies over his shoulder. Outside on the pavement he waved down the first hansom and directed the driver to the Whitechapel High Street.
He ordered the cab to stop when he saw a constable, a tall, helmeted figure in the gaslight and the mist.
Tellman leaped down and went up to him. Gracie scrambled after and arrived just as he was explaining to the constable that they feared an informant was in danger and needed his assistance immediately.
“That’s right.” Gracie nodded vigorously.
“Gracie Phipps,” Tellman said quickly. “She’s with me.”
“Where is this informant o’ yours?” the constable asked, looking around.
“Mitre Square,” Gracie said instantly.
“Hey!” the hansom driver called. “Yer finished wi’ me, or not?”
Tellman went back and paid him, then rejoined Gracie and the constable. They set out to walk back along the High Street and into Aldgate Street, then around the corner up Duke Street. They did not speak and their footsteps echoed in the mist. It was far quieter here and it was farther between lamps. The cobbles were slippery. The dampness clung in the throat.
Gracie felt her cheeks wet. She swallowed and could barely breathe. She remembered Remus’s face as she had seen it here before, shining with excitement, eyes glittering.
She thought of the huge black carriage that had rumbled down these streets with something unimaginably violent and evil inside, waiting.
She caught hold of Tellman’s arm and gripped him tightly as a rat scuttled by, and someone stirred by the wall. He did not pull away; in fact, he gripped her back.
They turned off Duke Street into the alley by St. Botolph’s Church, fumbled by the light of the constable’s bull’s-eye towards the far end, and Mitre Square.
They emerged into emptiness which was faintly lit by the one lamp high on the wall. There was no one there.
Gracie was giddy with relief. Never mind that the constable would think she was a fool—and no doubt be angry. Never mind that Tellman—Samuel—would be angry too.
Then she heard his indrawn breath in a sob, and she saw it, sprawled on the stones in the far corner, arms wide.
The constable moved forward, his breath rasping in his throat, his feet floundering.
“No!” Tellman said, holding Gracie back. But she saw it by the light of the bull’s-eye. Lyndon Remus was lying just as Catherine Eddowes had been, his throat cut, his entrails torn out of his body and placed over his shoulder as in some hideous ritual.
Gracie stared at Remus for one terrible moment more, a moment burned into her mind forever, then turned and buried her head in Tellman’s shoulder. She felt his arms tighten around her and hold her hard and close to him as if he would never let her go.
Remus had known the truth—and died for it. But what was it? The question beat in her mind. Had the man behind the Whitechapel murders killed him because he knew it was a conspiracy to hide Prince Eddy’s indiscretion?
