belonging.
Tellman said nothing to anyone about his interest in John Adinett or his conversation with the cabdriver. It was three days before he was able to take the matter any further. Wetron had spoken to him again, questioning him about his present case more closely, wanting a detailed accounting of his time.
Tellman answered with exactness, obedient and unsmiling. The man had taken Pitt’s place, and he had no right to it. It might not have been of his choosing, but that excused nothing. He had forbidden Tellman to contact Pitt or take any further interest in the Adinett case. That was his fault all right. Tellman stared at his round, smooth- shaven face with bland, dumb insolence.
By late Tuesday afternoon he again had time to himself, and the first thing he did was to leave Bow Street, buy a ham sandwich from a peddler, and a drink of fresh peppermint, then walk slowly up towards Oxford Street, thinking hard.
He had taken another look at the notes he had made during the investigation and had seen that there were several spaces of time, often as much as four or five hours, in which they did not know where Adinett had been. It had not seemed to matter then, because they were concerned with the details of the physical facts. Where Adinett had spent his time seemed to be irrelevant, only a matter of catching all the details. Now it was all he had.
He walked more slowly. He had no idea where he was going, except that he must pursue something definite, both for Pitt’s sake and because he had no intention of going back to Gracie empty-handed.
Why would a man like John Adinett go three times to a place such as Cleveland Street? Who lived there? Was it possible he had odd tastes in personal vice which Fetters had somehow discovered?
Even as he said it to himself, he did not believe it. Why should Fetters care anyway? If it were not criminal, or even if it was, it was no one else’s concern.
But perhaps Fetters had discovered something about Adinett which he could not possibly afford to have known. That would have to be something criminal. What?
He increased his pace slightly. Perhaps the answer was in Cleveland Street. It was the only thing so far that was unexplained.
At Oxford Street he caught an omnibus going east, changed at Holborn, and went on towards Spitalfields and Whitechapel, still turning the question over and over in his mind.
Cleveland Street was very ordinary: merely houses and shops, tired, grubby, but reasonably respectable. Who lived here that Adinett had come to see three times?
He went into the first shop, which sold general hardware.
“Yes sir?” A tired man with thinning hair looked up from a kettle he was mending. “What can I get yer?”
Tellman bought a spoon, more for goodwill than because he wanted it. “My sister’s thinking of getting a house around here,” he lied easily. “I said I’d look at the area for her first. What’s it like? Quiet, is it?”
The ironmonger thought about it for a moment, the metal patch in one hand, the kettle in the other.
Tellman waited.
The ironmonger sighed. “Used ter be,” he said sadly. “Got a bit odd five or six years ago. Got kids, ’as she, yer sister?”
“Yes,” Tellman said quickly.
“Better a couple o’ streets over.” He indicated where he meant with a nod of his head. “Try north a bit, or east. Keep away from the brewery an’ the Mile End Road. Too busy, that is.”
Tellman frowned. “She thought of Cleveland Street. The houses look about right for her. Right sort of price, I should think, and well enough kept. But it’s busy, is it?”
“Please yerself.” The ironmonger shrugged. “I wouldn’t live ’ere if I didn’t already.”
Tellman leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There are not houses of ill repute, are there?”
The ironmonger laughed. “Used ter be. Gorn now. Why?”
“Just wondered.” Tellman backed away. “What’s all the traffic, then? You said it was busy lately.”
“Dunno.” The ironmonger had obviously changed his mind about being so candid. “Just people visiting, I expect.”
“Carriages and the like?” Tellman tried to assume an air of innocence.
He must have failed, because the ironmonger was imparting nothing more. “Not more than most places.” He returned his attention to the kettle, avoiding Tellman’s eyes. “Quieter now. Just a bit busy a while back. Forget what I said. I in’t ’eard there was nothin’ for sale, but if the price is right, you go fer it.”
“Thank you,” Tellman said civilly. There was no point in making an enemy. Never knew when you might want to speak to him again. He left the shop and walked slowly down the street, looking from side to side, wondering what had taken Adinett’s attention, and why.
There were several houses, a few more shops, an artist’s studio, a small yard that sold barrels, a maker of clay pipes, and a cobbler. It could have been any of a thousand streets in the poorer parts of London. The smell of the brewery not far away was sweet and stale in the air.
He stopped and bought a sandwich from a peddler at the end of the road where it turned into Devonshire Street.
“Glad to find you,” he said conversationally. “Do much business here? I’ve hardly seen a soul.”
“Usually stop down the Mile End Road,” the peddler replied. “On me way ’ome now. Yer got the last one.” He smiled, showing chipped teeth.
“My luck’s changed,” Tellman said sourly. “Been here all evening on an errand for a friend of my boss’s who came here a few weeks back and dropped a watch fob. ‘Go and look for it,’ he tells me. ‘I must have left it behind.’ Wrote it down for me, and I lost the paper.”
