all the hours they were awake and still go to bed cold and hungry.
He passed a newspaper boy.
“Paper, sir?” the boy invited. “Read about Mr. Gladstone? Insulted the laborers o’ the country, so Lord Salisbury says. Some get an eight-hour day-mebbe!” He grinned. “Or they brought out a new edition o’
Tellman handed over his money and took the late edition, not for the election news but for the latest on the anarchists.
He quickened his pace and turned his mind back to the problem. It would give him more than one kind of satisfaction to find out why Adinett had committed murder, and prove it so all London would be obliged to know, whether they wished to or not.
He was well-used to tracing the comings and goings of people, but always with the authority of his police rank. To do it discreetly would be very different. He would have to call on a few favors done in the past, and perhaps a few yet to come.
He decided to begin at the most obvious place, with hansom cab drivers he knew. They usually frequented the same areas, and the chances were that if Adinett had used a cab-and since he did not own a coach, that was quite likely-then he would more than once have chanced on the same driver.
If he had used an omnibus, or even the underground railway, then there was almost no chance at all of learning his movements.
The first two cabdrivers he found were of no assistance at all. The third could only point him in the direction of others.
It was half past nine. He was tired, his feet hurt and he was angry with himself for giving in to a foolish impulse, when he spoke to the seventh cabdriver, a small, grizzled man with a hacking cough. He reminded Tellman of his own father, who had worked as a porter at the Billingsgate fish market all day and then driven a hansom half the night, whatever the weather, to feed his family and keep a roof over their heads. Perhaps it was memory which made him speak softly to the man.
“Got a little time?” he asked.
“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.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Pitt found it painfully difficult to endure living in Heneagle Street. It was not that either Isaac or Leah Karansky did not make him as comfortable as their means allowed, or were not friendly towards him on the occasions they were together, such as at the meals they provided. Leah was an excellent cook, but the food was different from the simple and abundant fare he was used to. He could eat only at set times. There were no cups of tea whenever he wished, no homemade bread with butter and jam, no cake. It was all unfamiliar, and he slept with exhaustion at the end of the day, but he did not relax.
He missed Charlotte, the children, even Gracie, more than he would have thought possible. It was some comfort to know that money was provided for Charlotte to collect every week from Bow Street. But watching Isaac and Leah together, the glances between them that spoke of years of shared understanding, the occasional laughter, the way she nagged at him about his health, the gentleness in his hands when he touched her, reminded Pitt the more forcefully of his own loneliness.
