overcaution. Never once had Remus glanced behind him. His mind was apparently absorbed in his purpose, whatever it was.
Tellman was perfectly aware it might have nothing whatsoever to do with Pitt’s case. He could have concluded that story already and have found anything, or nothing. But Tellman had scanned the newspapers every morning for articles to do with Adinett, or Martin Fetters, or even a byline for Remus, and found nothing. The front pages were all filled with the horror of the Lambeth poisonings. Seemingly there were seven young prostitutes dead already. Either the Cleveland Street story had been eclipsed by this latest atrocity, or else Remus was still pursuing it… apparently towards St. Pancras.
Remus got off the bus and Tellman followed after him, taking care not to get too close, but still Remus did not look behind him. It was now mid-morning; the streets were busy and becoming choked with traffic.
Remus crossed the street, tipped the urchin sweeping the dung away, and increased his speed on the far side. A moment later he went up the steps of the St. Pancras Infirmary.
A second hospital! Tellman still had no idea why Remus had gone to Guy’s, on the other side of the river.
He ran up behind him, glad he had brought a dark-colored cloth cap which he could pull forward to shade his face. Again, Remus made a brief enquiry of the hall porter, then turned and went towards the administration offices, walking rapidly, shoulders forward, arms swinging. Was he after the same thing as he had been at Guy’s? Was it because he had failed to find whatever it was the first time? Or was there something to compare?
Remus’s footsteps echoed on the hard floor ahead of him, and Tellman’s own seemed like a mockery behind. He wondered that Remus did not turn to see who it was.
Two nurses passed, going in the opposite direction, middle-aged women with tired faces. One carried a pail with a lid on it, and from the angle of her body, it was heavy. The other carried a bundle of soiled sheets and kept stopping to pick up the trailing ends.
Remus turned right, went up a short flight of steps and knocked on a door. It was opened and he went in. A small notice said that it was the records office.
Tellman followed immediately behind. There was nothing to be learned standing outside.
It was a kind of waiting room, and a bald man leaned on a counter. There were shelves of files and paper folders behind him. Three other people were there seeking information of one sort or another. Two were men in dark, ill-fitting suits; from their resemblance to each other they were possibly brothers. The third was an elderly woman with a battered straw hat.
Remus took his place in the queue, shifting from one foot to the other with impatience.
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.
Tellman remained on the footpath on the opposite side. Had he crossed to be close enough to overhear, even Remus in his preoccupied state would have noticed him.
The door was opened by a large woman, very tall indeed-Tellman judged her to be over six feet-and with a fierce expression.
Remus was very deferential, as if he held her in the greatest respect, and she seemed to soften a little. They spoke for several minutes, then Remus half bowed, doffed his hat and turned and walked away very quickly, so excited he all but skipped a couple of steps, and Tellman had to run to keep up with him.
Remus went straight to the St. Pancras railway station and in at the main entrance.
