“Yer wanna go somewhere?” the cabbie responded.
“Nowhere special,” Tellman answered. “I need some information to help a friend in trouble. And I’m hungry.” He was not, but it was a tactful excuse. “Can you spare ten minutes to come and have a hot pie and a glass of ale?”
“Bad day. Can’t afford no pies,” the cabbie answered.
“I want help, not money,” Tellman told him. He had little hope of learning anything useful, but he could still see his father’s weary face in his mind’s eye, and this was like a debt to the past. He did not want to know anything about the man; he simply wanted to feed him.
The cabbie shrugged. “If you like.” But he moved quickly to leave his horse at the stand and walk beside Tellman to the nearest peddler, and accepted a pie without argument. “Wot yer wanna know, then?”
“You pick up along Marchmont Street way quite often?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Tellman had brought a picture of Adinett which he had not thrown away after the investigation. He took it from his pocket and showed it to the driver.
“Do you recall ever picking up this man?”
The cabbie squinted at it. “That’s the feller wot killed the one wot digs up ancient pots an’ the like, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You police?”
“Yes—but I’m not on duty. This is to help a friend. I can’t make you tell me anything, and no one else is going to ask you. It’s not an investigation, and I’ll probably get thrown out if I’m caught following it up.”
The cabbie looked at him with awakening interest. “So why yer doin’ it, then?”
“I told you, a friend of mine is in trouble,” Tellman repeated.
The cabbie looked at him sideways, his eyebrows raised. “So if I ’elp yer, yer’ll ’elp me … when yer are on duty, like?”
“I could do,” Tellman conceded. “Depends if you can help me or not.”
“I did pick ’im up, three or four times. Smart-lookin’ gent, like an old soldier or summit. Always walked stiff, ’ead in the air. But civil enough. Gave a good tip.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Lots o’ places. Up west mostly, gennelman’s clubs an’ the like.”
“What sort of clubs? Can you remember any of the addresses?” Tellman did not know why he bothered to pursue it. Even if he knew the names of all the clubs, what use would it be? He had no authority to go into them and ask whom Adinett had spoken to. And if he found out, it would still mean nothing. But at least he could tell Gracie he had tried.
“Not exact. One was a place I never bin ter before, summink ter do wi’ France. Paris, ter be exact. It were a year, as I ’member.”
Tellman did not understand. “A year? What do you mean?”
“Seventeen summat.” The cabbie scratched his head, tipping his hat crooked. “1789 … that’s it.”
“Anywhere else?”
“I could eat another pie.”
Tellman obliged more for the man’s sake than as a bribe. The information was useless.
“An’ ter a newspaper,” the cabbie continued after he had eaten half the second pie. “The one wot’s always goin’ on about reform an’ the like. ’E came out wi’ Mr. Dismore wot owns it. I know ’cos I seen ’im in the papers meself.”
This was unsurprising. Tellman already knew that Adinett was acquainted with Thorold Dismore.
The cabbie was frowning, screwing up his face. “That’s w’y I thought it real odd, a gennelman like that, askin’ ter go all the way past Spitalfields ter Cleveland Street, wot’s off the Mile End Road. Excited, ’e were, like ’e’d found summink wonderful. In’t nuffink wonderful in Spitalfields nor Whitechapel nor Mile End, an’ I can tell yer that fer nuffink.”
Tellman was startled. “You took him to Cleveland Street?”
“Yeah … like I said. Twice!”
“When?”
“Just afore ’e went ter see that Mr. Dismore wot owns the paper. All excited, ’e was. Then a day or two arter that ’e went an killed that poor feller. Strange, in’t it?”
“Thank you,” Tellman said with sudden feeling. “Thank you very much. Let me get you a glass of ale along the way here.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Ta.”
5
