“Mornin’, ma’am,” she said cheerfully. “Cup o’ tea?”

“Good morning,” Charlotte replied, looking around the kitchen with surprise. “Were you up half the night?”

“Got up a bit early.” Gracie kept her voice quite casual, moving the kettle back onto the hob to bring it to the boil again. “ ’Cos I wanted a favor, if that’s all right.” She knew Charlotte was aware of Tellman’s regard for her, because they had conspired in the past to take advantage of it-only as a matter of necessity in the cause of detection, of course. She took a deep breath. This was the lie. She kept her back to Charlotte; she did not think she could do it looking at her.

“Mr. Tellman asked me ter go ter a fair wif ’im, if I could get the day off. An’ I got an errand as well, bit o’ shoppin’, not much. But if I could go w’en the laundry’s finished, I’d be ever so grateful…” It did not sound as good as she had hoped. She knew Charlotte was finding it increasingly hard to endure the loneliness and the worry, especially since there was so little she could do to help.

Charlotte had been back to see Martin Fetters’s widow at least twice, and they were at a loss where to search for his missing papers. However, by now she probably knew as much of Fetters’s career as anyone. She had told Gracie of John Adinett’s travels, military skill and exploring adventures in Canada. But neither of them could see in any of it a reason why one man had murdered the other, only terrible, dangerous ideas. They had spoken of them together, often late into the evening, after the children were in bed. But without proof none of it helped.

Now it was up to Gracie to find the next link between John Adinett and the forces of anarchy… or oppression, or whatever it was that he had been doing in Cleveland Street and Remus was so excited about. She really had very little idea what it could be, only that Tellman was certain it was ugly and dangerous, and very big.

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte replied to Gracie. There was reluctance in her voice, perhaps even envy, but she did not argue.

“Thank you,” Gracie accepted, wishing she could tell the truth as to what she was doing; it was on the edge of her tongue. But if she did, Charlotte would stop her, and she must not allow that. It would be self-indulgent and stupid to say anything. She must pull herself together and get on with it.

She still had quite a bit of Tellman’s money, and all she could collect of her own. She was ready to follow Remus wherever he went, and she was outside his rooms waiting for him by eight o’clock.

It was a very pleasant morning, warm already. Flower sellers were out with fresh blossoms come in during the early hours. She was glad she did not have to stand all day on corners, hoping to sell.

Delivery boys with fish, meat, vegetables passed by, knocking on scullery doors. There was a milk cart at the next crossroads. A thin woman was carrying a full can back to her kitchen. She walked leaning a little sideways from the weight of it.

A newspaper boy took up his position on the farther corner, every now and then shouting the latest headlines about the coming election. There had been a tornado in Minnesota in America. Thirty-three people had been killed. Already Adinett was forgotten.

Lyndon Remus came out of his front door and started to walk smartly along towards the main thoroughfare and-Gracie hoped profoundly-the omnibus stop. Hansoms were very expensive, and she guarded Tellman’s money carefully.

Remus looked purposeful, his head forward, stride long and swinging. He was dressed very ordinarily, in old jacket and with no collar to his shirt. Whoever he intended calling on, it was not gentry. Perhaps he was going back to Cleveland Street?

She followed after him quickly, running a little to catch up. She must not lose him. She could stay quite close; after all, he did not know her.

She was right; he went to the omnibus stop. Thank heaven for that! There was no one else there, so she was obliged to stand more or less beside him to wait. But she need not have been concerned he would remember her if he saw her again. He seemed oblivious to anyone else, straining his eyes to watch the traffic for the omnibus and shifting from one foot to the other in his impatience.

She went with him as far as Holborn, then, as he changed for another omnibus eastwards, she did the same. She was taken unaware and nearly left behind when he got off at the farther end of Whitechapel High Street opposite the railway station. Surely he was not going somewhere else by train?

But he walked up Court Street towards Buck’s Row and then stopped, staring around him, facing right. Gracie followed his gaze. She saw nothing even remotely interesting. The railway line north was ahead of them, the board school to the right, and the Smith & Co. distillery to the left. Beyond that was a burial ground. Please heaven he wasn’t come to look at graves.

Perhaps he was! He had already enquired into the deaths of William Crook and J. K. Stephen. Was he after a trail of dead men? They couldn’t all have been murdered… could they?

There was plenty of traffic in the street, carts and wagons, people going about their business.

She was shivering in spite of the close, airless warmth of the day. What was Remus looking for? How did a detective know, or find out? Perhaps Tellman was cleverer than she had given him credit for. This was not so easy.

Remus was moving forward, looking around him as if now he had something definite in mind, yet he did not seem to be reading numbers, so perhaps it was not an address.

She moved very slowly after him. In case he turned around, she glanced at doors, pretending to be searching also.

Remus stopped a man in a leather apron and spoke to him. The man shook his head and walked on, increasing his pace. He turned up Thomas Street, at the end of which Gracie could just see a notice proclaiming the Spitalfields Workhouse. Its huge, gray buildings were just visible, shelter and imprisonment at once. She had grown up dreading this place more than jail. It was the ultimate misery that awaited the destitute. She had known those who would rather die in the street than be caught in its soulless regimentation.

Remus spoke to an old woman carrying a bundle of laundry.

Gracie moved close enough to overhear. He seemed so absorbed in what he was asking she hoped he would not be aware of her. She stood sideways, staring across the street as if waiting for someone.

“Excuse me…” Remus began.

“Yeah?” The woman was civil but no more.

“Do you live around here?” he asked.

“White’s Row,” she answered, pointing a few yards to the east, where apparently the street changed its name. It was only a short distance before it finished in the cross street, facing the Pavilion Theater.

“Then perhaps you can help me,” Remus said urgently. “Were you here four or five years ago?”

“O’ course. Why?” She frowned, narrowing her gaze. Her body stiffened very slightly, balancing the laundry awkwardly.

“Do you see many coaches around here, big ones, carriages, not hansoms?” Remus asked.

Her expression was full of scorn. “Does it look ter yer like we keep carriages ’round ’ere?” she demanded. “Yer’ll be lucky if yer can find an ’ansom cab. Yer’d be best orff ter use yer legs, like the rest of us.”

“I don’t want one now!” He caught hold of her arm. “I want someone who saw one four years ago, around these streets.”

Her eyes widened. “I dunno, an’ I don’t wanner know. You get the ’ell out of ’ere an’ leave us alone! Gorn! Get out!” She yanked her arm away from him and hurried away.

Remus looked disappointed, his sharp face surprisingly young in the morning light. Gracie wondered what he was like at home relaxed-what he read, what he cared about, if he had friends. Why did he pursue this with such fervor? Was it love or hate, greed, the hunger for fame? Or just curiosity?