Tellman fished in his pockets and felt three half crowns, a couple of shillings and a few pennies. Probably Remus was only going a stop or two. It would be easy enough to follow him-but was it worth the risk? Presumably the tall woman at the door of number 9 had been William Crook’s widow, Sarah. What had she told Remus that had banished his confusion and despondency? It must be that her late husband was the same William Crook who had once lived in Cleveland Street, or had some other close connection with it. They had spoken for several minutes. She must have told him more than he wished to know. Something about Adinett?
Remus went up to the ticket window.
At least Tellman should find out where he was going. There were other people in the hall. He could move closer without attracting attention. He kept half behind a young woman with a cloth bag and a wide, light blue skirt.
“Return to Northampton, please,” Remus asked, his voice quick and excited. “When is the next train?”
“Not for another hour yet, sir,” the ticket seller replied. “That’ll be four shillings and eight pence. Change at Bedford.”
Remus handed over the money and took the ticket.
Tellman turned away quickly and walked out of the station hall, down the steps and into the street. Northampton? That was miles away! What possible connection could be there? It would cost him both time and money, neither of which he could afford. He was a careful man, not impulsive. To follow Remus there would be a terrible risk.
Without making a deliberate decision he began walking back towards the infirmary. He had an hour before the train left; he could allow forty minutes at least and still give himself time to return, buy a ticket and catch the train- if he wanted to.
Who was William Crook? Why did his religion matter? What had Remus asked his widow, apart from whether they had any connection with Cleveland Street? Tellman was angry with himself for pursuing this at all, and angry with everyone else because Pitt was in trouble and no one was doing anything about it. There was injustice everywhere, while people went about their own affairs and looked the other way.
He thought how he would tell Gracie that it all made very little sense, and possibly had nothing to do with Adinett anyway. Every time he tried for the right words they sounded like excuses. He could see her face in his mind so clearly he was startled. He could picture her exactly, the color of her eyes, the light on her skin, the shadow of her lashes, the way she always pulled a strand or two of her hair a little too tightly at her right brow. The curve of her mouth was as familiar to him as his own in the shaving glass.
She would not accept defeat. She would despise him for it. He could see the expression in her eyes now, and it hurt him too much. He could not allow it to happen.
He changed direction and went westward towards number 9 St. Pancras Street. If he stopped to consider what he was doing his nerve would fail, so he did not think. He walked straight up to the door and knocked, his police identification already in his hand.
It was opened by the same giant of a woman.
“Yes?”
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, his breath catching in his throat. He showed her his identification.
She looked at it closely, her face immobile. “All right, Sergeant Tellman, what is it you want?”
Should he try charm or authority? It was difficult to be authoritative with a woman of her size and her frame of mind. He had never felt less like smiling. He must speak; she was losing patience and it was clear in her expression.
“I am investigating a very serious crime, ma’am,” he said with more certainty than he felt. “I followed a man here about half an hour ago, average height, light reddish hair, sharp face. I believe he asked you certain questions about the late Mr. William Crook.” He took a deep breath. “I need to know what they were, and what you told him.”
“Do you? And why would that be, Sergeant?” She had a marked Scottish accent, soft, from the West Coast, surprisingly pleasing.
“I can’t tell you why, ma’am. It would be breaking confidence. I just need to know what you told him.”
“He asked if we used to live in Cleveland Street. Very urgent about it, he was. I’d a mind not to tell him.” She sighed. “But what’s the use? My daughter Annie used to work in the tobacconist’s shop there.” There was a sadness in her face which for a moment twisted at Tellman as if he had seen into a terrible grief. Then it was gone, and he heard himself press on.
“What else did he ask, Mrs. Crook?”
“He asked if I were related to J. K. Stephen,” she answered him. There was a weariness in her voice as if she had no more will to fight the inevitable. “I’m not, but my husband was. His mother was J. K. Stephen’s cousin.”
Tellman was puzzled. He had never heard of J. K. Stephen.
“I see.” All he knew was that it had mattered to Remus so intently he had gone straight to the station and booked a ticket to Northampton. “Thank you, Mrs. Crook. Was that all he asked?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you a reason why he wanted to know?”
“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.
