knew that! Remus knew! That’s w’y ’e were there.”
Suddenly he realized what she was saying. “You followed him there at night?” He was aghast. “By yourself … into Mitre Square?” He heard his voice ascend up the scale, trembling and out of control. “Haven’t you got the wits you were born with? Think what could have happened to you!” He shut his eyes so tightly it hurt, trying to force away the visions that were inside his head. He could remember the pictures of the bodies four years ago, hideous distortions of the human form, a mockery of the decencies of death.
And Gracie had gone there, at night, following a man who could be anything. “You stupid …” he shouted. “Stupid …” No word came to him that was adequate for his fear for her, his rage and relief, and the fury at his own vulnerability—because if anything had happened to her he would never have been happy again.
He was oblivious of people stopping to stare at him, even of an elderly gentleman who hesitated by Gracie, concerned for her safety. Then apparently he decided it was domestic, and hurried on.
Tellman did not want to care so much, about Gracie or anyone else, but particularly about her. She was prickly, wrong-headed about almost everything that mattered; she didn’t even like him, let alone love him; and she was determined to stay in service to the Pitts. The very thought of being in service to anyone set his teeth on edge, like the sound of a knife scraping on glass.
“You are stupid!” he shouted at her again, swinging his arm around as if he would smash something on the ground, only he had nothing to throw. “Don’t you ever think what you’re doing?”
Now she was angry too. She had been frightened before, but he had insulted her, and she was not going to stand for that.
“Well, I found out wot Remus were after, an’ that’s more’n you did!” she shouted back. “So if I’m stupid, wot does that make you, eh? An’ if yer in too much of a rage ter see wot I jus’ told yer, an’ use it ter ’elp Mr. Pitt, then I’ll jus’ ’ave ter do it meself! I dunno ’ow, but I’ll do it. I’ll go an’ find Remus again an’ tell ’im I know wot ’e’s doin’, an’ if’e don’t tell me—”
“Oh, no you won’t!” He caught hold of her wrist as she turned to leave, almost cannoning into a large woman in a striped dress.
“Get off o’ me!” Gracie tried to snatch herself away, but Tellman had her tightly, and he was too strong for her. She bent forward and bit him, hard.
He yelled with pain and let go of her. “You little beast!”
The large woman hurried away, muttering to herself.
“Then you keep yer ’ands ter yerself!” Gracie shouted back at Tellman. “An’ don’t yer try tellin’ me wot ter do and wot not ter do! I don’t belong ter nobody, an’ I’ll do wot I like. Yer can ’elp me an’ Mr. Pitt, or yer can stand there an’ call me names. It don’t make no difference. We’ll find out the truth, an’ we’ll get ’im back—you’ll see!” This time she flounced her skirts around and stormed off.
He started to go after her, then stopped. His hand was thoroughly sore. Unconsciously he put it to his lips. He had no idea what to say to Gracie anyway. He felt crushed. He wanted to help, for Pitt’s sake, and because it was right, and for Gracie’s sake too. She would have to trust him, and he would be more than worthy of it.
But he was terrified for her, and it was a new and dreadful feeling, a fear like no other, cold and knotting him up inside.
She stopped a dozen yards away and swung around to face him again.
“Are you really jus’ gonna stand there like a bleedin’ lamppost?” she demanded.
He strode over to her. “I’m going to find Remus,” he said gravely. “And you’re going home to Keppel Street before Mrs. Pitt throws you out for not doing your job. I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that she’s worried sick where you are—as if she didn’t have enough to be scared about.” He projected his own feelings onto Charlotte. “She’s probably been awake half the night imagining all sorts of terrible things happening to you. She’s lonely, doesn’t know what to say or do for the best, and you should be there helping.”
She looked at him, weighing her words. “Yer going ter find Remus, then?” she challenged.
“You deaf? I just told you I am!”
She sniffed. “Then I reckon as I’ve told you all I found out, I’ll go ’ome an’ get summink fer dinner … maybe make a cake.” She shrugged and started walking away again.
“Gracie!”
“Yeah?”
“You did very well … in fact, brilliantly. And if you ever do it again, I’ll tan your seat till you have to eat off the mantelpiece for a week. Do you hear me?”
She grinned at him, then kept on walking.
He did not want to smile, but he could not help it. Suddenly there was a joy beside the fear, a fierce, warm ache he never wanted to lose.
Tellman did not even consider remaining by the flower market pursuing the stolen goods. It was still early. If he went straightaway he might find Remus and be able to confront him and discover, either by threat or persuasion, exactly what he knew. For Pitt’s sake he must find out what connection it had with Adinett—for everyone’s, if Remus really knew the identity of the most fearful murderer ever to strike London, or possibly anywhere. All other names of terror paled beside his.
He walked rapidly away, head down, not looking right or left in case he caught the eye of anyone he knew. Where would Remus be at this hour? It was not yet five past nine. Perhaps he was still at his home? He had been out late enough last night.
He caught a hansom, to save time, giving the driver Remus’s address.
If he were not there, then where would he be? Where would he go this morning? What pieces of the puzzle were left to find?
What did he know already? It had something to do with a coach driver called Nickley, who apparently had driven his master’s carriage around Whitechapel searching for those five particular women, and then when he had
