“He said it was to correct a great injustice. I didn’t ask him what. It could be any one of a million.”
“Yes, it could. He was right in that … if that’s why he cared.” He inclined his head. “Good day, ma’am.”
“Good day.” She pushed the door closed.
The journey to Northampton was tedious, and Tellman spent the time turning over in his mind all the possibilities he could think of as to what Remus was chasing, getting more and more fanciful as the minutes passed. Perhaps it was all a wild-goose chase? The injustice might have been no more than his way of engaging Mrs. Crook’s sympathy. Perhaps it was only some scandal he was pursuing? That was all he had cared about in the Bedford Square case, because the newspapers would buy it fast enough if it increased their readership.
But surely that was not why Adinett had been to Cleveland Street, and also left in excitement and gone to Dismore? He was no chaser of other people’s misfortunes.
No, there was a reason here, if Tellman could only find it.
When they reached Northampton, Remus got off the train. Tellman followed him out of the station into the sunlight, where he immediately took a hansom cab. Tellman engaged the one behind it and gave the driver orders to follow him. Tellman sat forward, anxious and uncomfortable as he moved at a fast pace through the provincial streets until they finally drew up at a grim asylum for the insane.
Tellman waited outside, standing by the gate where he would not be noticed. When Remus emerged nearly an hour later, his face was flushed with excitement, his eyes were brilliant and he walked with such speed, arms swinging, shoulders set, that he could have bumped into Tellman and barely noticed.
Should he follow the reporter again and see where he went to now or go into the asylum himself and find out what he had learned? The latter, definitely. Apart from anything else, he had only a limited time to get to the station and catch the last train to London. It would be difficult enough as it was to explain his absence to Wetron.
He went into the office and presented his police identification. The lie was ready on his tongue.
“I’m investigating a murder. I followed a man from London, about my height, thirty years old or so, reddish colored hair, hazel eyes, eager sort of face. I need you to tell me what he asked you and what you answered him.”
The man blinked in surprise, his faded blue eyes fixed on Tellman’s face, his hand stopped in the air halfway to his quill pen.
“He wasn’t askin’ about no murder!” he protested. “Poor soul died as natural as yer like, if yer can call starvin’ yerself natural.”
“Starving yourself?” Tellman had not known what he was expecting, but not suicide. “Who?”
“Mr. Stephen, of course. That’s who he was askin’ about.”
“Mr. J. K. Stephen?”
“S’right.” He sniffed. “Poor soul. Mad as a hatter. But then ’e wouldn’t ’a bin in ’ere if ’e were all right, would ’e!”
“And he starved himself?” Tellman repeated.
“Stopped eatin’,” the man agreed, his face bleak. “Wouldn’t take a thing, not a bite.”
“Was he ill? Perhaps he couldn’t eat?” Tellman suggested.
“ ’E could eat, ’e just stopped sudden.” The man sniffed again. “Fourteenth o’ January. I remember that, ’cos it were the same day as we ’eard the poor Duke o’ Clarence were dead. Reckon that’s wot did it. Used ter know the Duke, real well. Talked about ’im. Taught ’im ter paint, so ’e said.”
“He did?” Tellman was totally confused. The more he learned the less sense it made. It seemed unlikely that the man who had starved himself to death here in this place knew the Prince of Wales’s eldest son. “Are you certain?”
“O’ course I’m certain! Why d’yer wanna know?” His look narrowed considerably, and there was a note of suspicion in his voice. He sniffed again, then searched his pockets for a handkerchief.
Tellman controlled himself with an effort. He must not spoil it now.
“Just have to make sure I’ve got the right man,” he lied, hoping it sounded believable.
The man found his handkerchief and blew his nose fiercely.
“Used ter be tutor to the Prince, didn’t ’e!” he explained. “Reckon w’en ’e ’eard the poor feller’d died, ’e jus’ took it too bad. ’E weren’t right in the ’ead any’ow, poor devil.”
“When did ’e die?”
“Third o’ February,” he said, putting his handkerchief away. “That’s an’ ’orrible way ter go.” There was pity in his face. “Seemed ter mean summink ter the feller yer followin’, but I’m blessed if I know wot. Some poor, sad lunatic decides ter die—o’ grief, for all I know—an’ ’e goes rushin’ out of ’ere. Went orff like a dog after a rabbit. Fair shakin’ wi’ excitement, an’ that’s the truth. I don’t know nuthink more.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Tellman was suddenly unpleasantly aware of the train timetable. “Thank you!” he repeated, and took his leave, sprinting down the corridor and outside, in search of a cab back to the railway station.
He just caught the train, and was glad to sit back in his seat. He spent the first hour writing down all he had learned, and the second trying to concoct in his mind a story for tomorrow that would somehow resemble the truth and still satisfy Wetron that he was on justifiable police business. He did not succeed.
Why had poor Stephen chosen to starve himself to death when he heard the news that the young Duke of Clarence had died? And what interest was that to Remus? It was tragic. But then the man had apparently been judged insane anyway, or he would not have been incarcerated in the Northampton asylum.
And what had it to do with William Crook, who had died last December in the St. Pancras Infirmary of perfectly
