“Come on, Gracie,” Tellman said gently. “We’ve lost him. Come and have something to eat. And sit down.” He gestured towards a public house on the farther side of the street.

The thought of sitting down was even better than that of food. And there was really nothing else to do.

“Or’ right,” she agreed, not moving reluctantly so much as utterly wearily.

The food was excellent, and the chance to relax blissful. She enjoyed it with relish, since usually when they ate together it had been in the kitchen in Keppel Street, and she had prepared the food. They talked about all manner of things, about Tellman’s early years in the police force. He told her stories of his experiences; some of them were even funny, and she found herself laughing aloud. She had never appreciated before that in his own fashion he had a sharp sense of the absurd.

“Wot’s yer name?” she said suddenly as he finished a tale of adventure, and a certain degree of self-revelation.

“What?” He was confused, not certain what she meant.

“Wot’s yer name?” she repeated, now self-conscious. She did not want to go on thinking of him as “Tellman.” She wanted a name, a name that his family used.

The color deepened in his face, and he looked down at his empty plate.

“Sorry,” she said unhappily. “I shouldn’t ’a asked.”

“Samuel,” he replied quickly, almost swallowing the word.

She liked it. In fact she liked it very much.

“Hmph. Too good fer yer. That’s a real name.”

He looked up quickly. “You like it? You don’t think it’s…”

“ ’Course it is,” she agreed. “I jus’ thought I’d like ter know, that’s all. It’s time I was goin’ ’ome.” But she made no move to stand up.

“Yes,” he said, also not moving.

“Yer know summink,” she said thoughtfully. “That Remus thinks ’e’s got the answer now. ’E knows the truth, I seen it in ’is face. ’E were tryin’ ter ’ide it so we didn’t see, but ’e’s got it all, an’ ’e’s gonna tell that story termorrer.”

Tellman did not argue. He sat looking at her across the table, his eyes steady, his face pinched and earnest.

“I know. But I don’t know how to stop him. Telling him all the damage it would do won’t help. It’s his chance to be famous, and he isn’t going to give it up for anyone.”

“They’ll know that too,” she said, feeling the fear well up inside her again, cold and sick. “Yer know, I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter Whitechapel again, one more time afore ’e tells ’em… mebbe afore ’e writes the last bit of ’is piece fer the papers. I’ll bet ’e’s gorn ter visit them places again-’Anbury Street, Bucks Row an’ all.”

She saw by the quick widening of his eyes that he believed it the moment she spoke. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

“I’m going there. You catch a hansom and go home. I’ll give you the money.” He began to fish in his pocket.

“Not on yer life!” She stood up also. “I in’t lettin’ yer go there by yerself. Don’t waste time talkin’ abaht it. We’ll get the rozzer on the beat ter come wif us from the ’Igh Street, and if there’s nothin’, we’ll look like fools. Yer can tell ’im it were my fault.” And without waiting for him she started for the door.

He followed after her, pushing his way past others coming in, calling apologies over his shoulder. Outside on the pavement he waved down the first hansom and directed the driver to the Whitechapel High Street.

He ordered the cab to stop when he saw a constable, a tall, helmeted figure in the gaslight and the mist.

Tellman leaped down and went up to him. Gracie scrambled after and arrived just as he was explaining to the constable that they feared an informant was in danger and needed his assistance immediately.

“That’s right.” Gracie nodded vigorously.

“Gracie Phipps,” Tellman said quickly. “She’s with me.”

“Where is this informant o’ yours?” the constable asked, looking around.

“Mitre Square,” Gracie said instantly.

“Hey!” the hansom driver called. “Yer finished wi’ me, or not?”

Tellman went back and paid him, then rejoined Gracie and the constable. They set out to walk back along the High Street and into Aldgate Street, then around the corner up Duke Street. They did not speak and their footsteps echoed in the mist. It was far quieter here and it was farther between lamps. The cobbles were slippery. The dampness clung in the throat.

Gracie felt her cheeks wet. She swallowed and could barely breathe. She remembered Remus’s face as she had seen it here before, shining with excitement, eyes glittering.

She thought of the huge black carriage that had rumbled down these streets with something unimaginably violent and evil inside, waiting.

She caught hold of Tellman’s arm and gripped him tightly as a rat scuttled by, and someone stirred by the wall. He did not pull away; in fact, he gripped her back.

They turned off Duke Street into the alley by St. Botolph’s Church, fumbled by the light of the constable’s bull’s-eye towards the far end, and Mitre Square.

They emerged into emptiness which was faintly lit by the one lamp high on the wall. There was no one there.

Gracie was giddy with relief. Never mind that the constable would think she was a fool-and no doubt be angry. Never mind that Tellman-Samuel-would be angry too.

Then she heard his indrawn breath in a sob, and she saw it, sprawled on the stones in the far corner, arms wide.

The constable moved forward, his breath rasping in his throat, his feet floundering.

“No!” Tellman said, holding Gracie back. But she saw it by the light of the bull’s-eye. Lyndon Remus was lying just as Catherine Eddowes had been, his throat cut, his entrails torn out of his body and placed over his shoulder as in some hideous ritual.

Gracie stared at Remus for one terrible moment more, a moment burned into her mind forever, then turned and buried her head in Tellman’s shoulder. She felt his arms tighten around her and hold her hard and close to him as if he would never let her go.

Remus had known the truth-and died for it. But what was it? The question beat in her mind. Had the man behind the Whitechapel murders killed him because he knew it was a conspiracy to hide Prince Eddy’s indiscretion? Or was it the Inner Circle, because he had discovered it was not true-and Jack the Ripper, Leather-apron, was a lone madman, just as everyone had always supposed?

He had taken his secret to his fearful death, and no one would tell the story he had found-whichever it was.

She loosened herself just enough to put her arms around Tellman’s neck, then moved closer again, and felt his cheek and his lips on her hair.

Isaac and Leah’s house was silent, almost dead-seeming without them. Pitt heard his own footfalls sounding in the passage. The click of pots and pans was loud as he made supper in the kitchen.

Even the noise of his spoon against his bowl seemed a disturbance. He kept the stove going so he could cook and have at least some hot water, but he realized it was Leah’s presence that had given the house true warmth.

He ate alone and went to bed early, not knowing what else to do. He was still lying awake in the dark when he heard the sharp, peremptory knocking on the door.

His first thought was that it meant further trouble in the Jewish community, and someone was looking for Isaac to help him. There was nothing Pitt could do, but he would at least answer.

He was half dressed and on the stairs when he realized there was a kind of authority in the knock, as if the person had a right to demand attention, and expected to receive it. And yet it was more discreet and less impatient than the police would have been, especially Harper.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and went the three steps across the hall. He undid the bolt and opened the door.