Tellman stood closer to the door, trying to be inconspicuous. He stared at the floor, keeping his head down so his cap fell forward naturally, obscuring his face.
He could still watch Remus’s back, see his shoulders high and tight, his hands clenching and unclenching behind him. What was he seeking that was so important to him he was unaware of being followed? Tellman could almost smell the excitement in him, and he had not even the shred of an idea what it was about, except that it had to do with John Adinett.
The two brothers had learned what they wished and went out together. The woman moved up.
It was several more minutes before she was satisfied and at last it was Remus’s turn.
“Good morning, sir,” he said cheerfully. “I am informed that you are the right person to ask if I have any enquiries about the patients in the infirmary. They say you know more about the place than any other man.”
“Do they?” The man was not thawed so easily. “And what was it yer would be wanting to know, then?” He pushed out his lower lip. “I’m guessin’ it in’t about your own family, or yer’d ’a said so simple enough. Nor about the price of bein’ cared for, which you could find out without the least trouble. You look like far too smart a gentleman to need my help for anything easy.”
Remus was taken aback but he made the best of it very quickly.
“Of course,” he agreed. “I’m trying to trace a man who may be a bigamist, at least that is what a certain lady has told me. I’m not so sure.”
The clerk drew in his breath to make some remark, then apparently thought better of it. “And you think he may be ’ere, sir? I got records of the past, not who’s ’ere now.”
“No, not now,” Remus replied. “I think he may have died here, which closes the matter anyway.”
“So what’s ’is name, then?”
“Crook. William Crook,” Remus replied, his voice shaking a little. He seemed to be short of breath, and Tellman could see the back of his neck, where his stiff collar was so tight it pinched the flesh. “Did he die here, back end of last year?” Remus went on.
“And if’e did?” the clerk questioned.
“Did he?” Remus leaned over the counter, his voice rising, his body rigid. “I … I need to know!”
“Yes, ’e did, poor soul,” the man answered respectfully. “So do scores o’ folk every year. You could find that out by lookin’ in public records.”
“I know!” Remus was not deterred. “What day did he die?”
The man remained motionless.
Remus put half a crown on the counter. “Look up the record for me, and tell me what religion he was.”
“Wot religion?”
“Yes—isn’t that plain enough? And what family: who came to see him, who outlived him.”
The man looked at the half crown—a considerable amount of money—and decided it was easily enough earned. He swiveled around to the shelves behind him and took down a large blue bound ledger and opened it. Remus’s eyes never left him. He was still oblivious of Tellman standing near the door, or of the thin man with sandy hair who came in the moment after.
Tellman racked his brain. Who was William Crook, and why did his death in an infirmary matter? Or his religion? Since he had died last year, what could he possibly have to do with Adinett or Martin Fetters? Was there any way in which he could have been murdered by Adinett, and Fetters had known of it? That would be motive to kill him.
The clerk looked up. “Died fourth o’ December. A Roman Catholic, ’e was, accordin’ ter ’is widder, Sarah, wot registered ’im.”
Remus leaned forward. His voice was carefully controlled, but a pitch higher. “A Roman Catholic. Are you certain? That’s what the record says?”
The clerk was irritated. “I jus’ told yer, didn’t I?”
“And his address before he came here?”
The clerk looked down at the page and hesitated.
Remus understood and produced another shilling, putting it on the counter with a sharp click.
“Nine St. Pancras Street,” the clerk replied.
“St. Pancras Street!” Remus was stunned, his voice empty with disbelief. “Are you certain? Not Cleveland Street?”
“St. Pancras Street,” the clerk repeated.
“How long had he been there?” Remus demanded.
“ ’Ow would I know?” the clerk said reasonably.
“Number nine?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you.” Remus turned and left, his head bent in thought, and he did not even notice Tellman go after him without having taken his turn at the counter.
Tellman followed at a slight distance as Remus retraced his steps to the street, still apparently consumed in disappointment and confusion, but he did not hesitate to plunge into the crowd and walk briskly towards the end of St. Pancras Street and find number 9. He knocked and stepped back to wait.
