“Yes, please.” He sat down at the kitchen table while she busied herself with the kettle, the teapot, two cups, and several wedges of fresh currant cake, all the time keeping her back to him.

He watched her quick movements, her thin shoulders under the cotton dress, a waist he could have put his hands around. He ached to be of some comfort to her, but she was far too prickly proud to let him. Anyway, what could he say? She would never believe lies that everything would be all right. More than twenty-one years of life had taught her that tragedy was real. Justice sometimes prevailed, but not always.

He must say something. The kitchen clock was ticking the minutes by. The kettle was beginning to sing. It was the same warm, sweet-smelling room as always. He had been ridiculously happy here, so comfortable, more than anywhere else he could remember.

She banged the teapot down, risking chipping it.

“Well, are yer goin’ ter tell me or not?” she demanded.

“Yes… I am!” he snapped back, furious with himself for wanting to touch her, to be gentle, to put his arms around her and hold her close. He cleared his throat and nearly choked. “Adinett went to Cleveland Street in Mile End at least three times. And the last time he was really excited about something. He went straight from there to visit Thorold Dismore, who owns the newspaper that’s always going on against the Queen and saying that the Prince of Wales spends too much money.”

She stood still, her brows furrowed, confusion in her eyes.

“Wot does a gentleman like Mr. Adinett go ter Mile End fer? If ’e’s lookin’ for an ’ore, there’s plenty closer, an’ cleaner! ’E could get ’isself done in, down Mile End way.”

“I know that. And that isn’t all. The place he went to isn’t a brothel, it’s a tobacconist’s shop.”

“ ’E went ter Mile End ter buy tobacco?” she said in disbelief.

“No,” he corrected her. “He went to the tobacconist’s shop for some other reason, but I don’t know what it was yet. But when I went back there today, and went into the shop myself, who should come in but Lyndon Remus, the journalist who was trying to dig up all that dirt back when Mr. Pitt was working on the murder in Bedford Square.” He leaned forward urgently, putting his elbows on the scrubbed wood of the table. “He wouldn’t say anything while I was there, but he stayed another twenty minutes after I’d gone. I know because I waited for him. And when he left I spoke to him.”

She was transfixed, her eyes wide, the teapot forgotten. Only the screaming of the kettle brought her back to the moment. She pulled it off the hob and then ignored it.

“So?” she demanded. “Wot’d ’e want? Wot’s so special about Cleveland Street?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But he’s after scandal, and he thinks he’s really onto something. He tried to ask me what I was doing there. He was sort of excited to see me. He thought it proved he was right. It’s to do with Adinett, he as good as admitted that.”

She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Go on!” she urged.

“When he left I followed him. He tried to make sure I didn’t, but I stuck with him.”

“Were’d ’e go?” Her eyes never left his face.

“South of the river, to Guy’s Hospital… the offices. But I lost him there.”

“Guy’s ’Ospital,” she repeated slowly. Finally she stood up and made the tea and set it on the table to brew. “Now whyever did ’e not want yer ter know ’e went there?”

“Because it has something to do with Adinett,” he answered. “And Cleveland Street. But I’m damned if I know what.”

“Well, yer’ll just ’ave ter find out,” she said without hesitation. “ ’Cause we gotta prove Mr. Pitt is right an’ Adinett were as guilty as ’e said, an’ fer a wicked reason. D’yer want a piece o’ cake?”

“Yes, please.” He took the largest piece on the plate she offered. He had long ago stopped pretending to be polite. Gracie made the best cake he had ever eaten.

She was looking at him earnestly. “Yer goin’ ter find out wot it is, in’t yer… I mean, wot really ’appened, an’ why?”

Tellman wished she had even a shred of the admiration for him that she had for Pitt. And yet the belief in her face now, even if it was born of desperation, was both wonderful and frightening. Could he live up to it? He had very little idea what to do next. What would Pitt have done were their roles reversed?

He liked Pitt, he had to admit that, in spite of not wanting to, not agreeing with him over dozens of things. He had disapproved violently of Pitt’s appointment. He was not a gentleman and had no more right to expect the rest of them to obey him than any other ordinary policeman had. But on the other hand he had been reasonable-most of the time. He was eccentric, took a lot of getting used to.

But for better or worse, Tellman was part of Pitt’s life. He had sat at their table too often, shared too many cases, good and bad. And there was Gracie.

“Yes, of course I will,” he said with his mouth full of cake.

“Yer goin’ ter foiler this Remus?” she pressed. “ ’E’s onter it… whatever it is. Mrs. Pitt’s tryin’ ter find out more about Mr. Fetters, but she don’t ’ave nothin’ yet. I’ll tell yer if she does.” She looked tired and frightened. “Yer won’t stop, will yer?” she insisted. “No matter wot! There’s nob’dy ter do it but us.”

“I told you,” he said, meeting her eyes steadily. “I’ll find out! Now, eat some of your cake. You look like a fourpenny rabbit! And pour the tea!”

“It in’t brewed yet.” But she poured it anyway.

CHAPTER SIX

Charlotte opened the morning newspaper more out of loneliness than any real interest in the political events which filled it as the various parties prepared for the coming election. They were very hard on Mr. Gladstone, berating him for ignoring all issues except Irish Home Rule and apparently abandoning any effort towards achieving the eight-hour working day. But she did not expect the newspapers to be fair.

There was tragic news of a railway crash at Guisley, in the north. Two people had been killed and several injured. Doctors were on their way.

The New Oriental Bank Corporation had been compelled to withdraw funds and suspend certain payments. The price of silver was seriously down. They had sustained losses in Melbourne and Singapore. The liquidation of the Gatling Gun Company had affected them badly. A hurricane in Mauritius was the crowning blow.

She did not read the rest of it. Her eye moved down the page, and in spite of herself was caught by the dark type announcing that John Adinett was to be executed at eight o’clock that morning.

Instinctively she glanced at the kitchen clock. It was a quarter to eight. She wished she had not opened the paper until later, even half an hour would have been enough. Why had she not thought of that, counted the days and been careful not to look?

Adinett had killed Martin Fetters, and the more Charlotte learned about Fetters the more she believed she would have liked him. He had been an enthusiast, a man who grasped at life with courage and enjoyment, who loved its color and variety. He had a passion to learn about others, and it seemed from his writings that he was equally eager to share what he knew so that anyone else could see the same enchantment he did. His death was a loss not only to his wife-and to archaeology and to curators of ancient artefacts-but to anyone who knew him and to the world in general.

Still, ending the life of Adinett did not improve anything. She doubted it would even deter anyone else from future crime. It was the certainty of punishment which stopped people from killing, not the severity. Each one presumed he or she would get away with it, so the penalty was irrelevant.

Gracie came in from the back door, where she had been collecting herrings from the fishmonger’s boy.