Anne Perry - The Whitechapel Conspiracy

And then one day a shy, handsome young man had been introduced to her. She must have realized quickly that he was a gentleman, even if not that he was a prince. But he was also different from the others, isolated by his deafness and all that it had done to him over the years. They had found something in each other, perhaps a companionship neither had known elsewhere. They had fallen in love.

And it was impossible. Nothing they could have imagined could ever have touched the horror of what would happen after that.

She still could not entirely rid herself of the memory of standing in Mitre Square, seeing Remus’s face in the gaslight, and realizing who it was he was after. Her throat still tightened at the thought of it, even sitting in the warm kitchen in Keppel Street, drinking tea at four o’clock in the afternoon, and trying to think what vegetables to prepare for dinner tonight.

Daniel and Jemima were out with Emily again. She had spent a lot of time with them since Pitt left for Spitalfields. Emily had climbed greatly in Gracie’s estimation. Gracie had actually been considering her a trifle spoiled lately. Since she was Charlotte’s sister, it was nice to be mistaken.

She was still staring at the rows of blue-and-white plates on the dresser when a knock on the back door startled her into reality again.

It was Tellman. He came in and closed the door behind him. He looked anxious and tired. His shirt collar was as tight and neat as usual, but his hair had fallen forward as if he had not bothered with its customary, careful brushing, and he was about a week overdue for the barber.

She did not bother to ask him if he wanted a cup of tea. She went to the dresser, fetched a cup and poured it.

He sat down at the table opposite her and drank. There was no cake this time, so she did not mention it. She felt no need to break the silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, watching her over the top of his cup.

“Yeah?” She knew he was worried; it was in every line of him, the way he sat, the grip of his hands on the cup, the edge to his voice. He would tell her what was bothering him if she did not probe or interrupt.

“You know this factory owner who was killed in Spitalfields, Sissons?”

“I ’eard. They said mebbe all ’is factories would close, then the Prince o’ Wales an’ Lord Randolph Churchill an’ some o’ ’is friends put up enough money ter keep ’em goin’ a few weeks anyway.”

“Yes. They’re saying it was a Jew who did it… killed him, because he’d borrowed money from a whole collection of them and couldn’t pay it back.”

She nodded. She knew nothing about that.

“Well, I reckon that was meant to happen about the same time as Remus was supposed to find the last pieces of the Whitechapel murderer story. Only they didn’t tell him yet, because the sugar factory thing went wrong.” He was still watching her, waiting to see what she thought.

She was confused. She was not sure it made sense.

“I went to see Mr. Pitt again,” he went on. “But he wasn’t there. They’re trying to say it was Isaac Karansky, the man he lodges with, who killed Sissons.”

“D’yer reckon it was?” she asked, imagining how Pitt would feel, and hating it for him. She had seen before how it tore at Pitt’s emotions when someone he knew turned out to be guilty of something horrible.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. He looked confused. There was something else in his eyes, dark and troubled. She thought perhaps he was afraid-not with the passing ripple of momentary fear, but deep and abiding and of something he could not fight against.

Again she waited.

“It isn’t that.” He put the cup down at last, empty. He met her gaze unblinkingly. “It’s Remus. I’m scared for him, Gracie. What if he’s right, and it really is true? Those people didn’t think twice about butchering five women in Whitechapel, not to mention whatever they did to Annie Crook and her child.”

“An’ poor Prince Eddy,” she said quietly. “D’yer reckon ’e died natural?”

His eyes widened a fraction. His face went even paler.

“Don’t say that, Gracie! Don’t even think it to yourself. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear. But yer scared too, an’ don’t tell me yer in’t.” It was not a charge against him. She would think him a fool were he not. She needed the closeness of sharing the fear for herself, and she wanted it for him. “Yer scared fer Remus?” she went on.

“They’d think nothing of killing him,” he answered.

“That’s if ’e’s right,” she argued. “What if ’e’s wrong? Wot if it weren’t nothin’ ter do wi’ Prince Eddy, an’ the Inner Circle is makin’ it all up?”

“I’m still scared for him,” he replied. “They’d use him and throw him away, too.”

“Wot are we gonna do?” she said simply.

“You’re going to do nothing,” he answered sharply. “You’re going to stay here at home and keep the door locked.” He swiveled around in his seat. “You should’ve had that back door locked.”

“At ’alf past four in the afternoon?” she said incredulously. “There in’t nob’dy arter me. If I kept the scullery locked they’d think I really ’ad got summink goin’ on.”

He blushed faintly and looked away.

She found herself smiling, trying to hide it, and failing. He was frightened for her and it was making him overprotective. Now he was embarrassed because he had given himself away.

He looked at her and saw the smile. For once he interpreted it correctly, and his color deepened. At first she thought it was anger; then she looked at his eyes and knew it was pleasure. She had equally given herself away too. Oh, well… she couldn’t play games forever.

“So wot are we gonner do, then?” she repeated. “We gotta warn ’im. If ’e won’t be told, then we can’t ’elp it. But we gotta try, in’t we?”

“He won’t listen to me,” he said wearily. “He thinks he’s onto the newspaper story of the century. He won’t give that up, no matter where it leads him. He’s a fanatic. I’ve seen it in his face.”

She remembered the wild look in Remus’s eyes and the horror and terrible excitement she’d sensed in him as he had stood in Mitre Square, and she knew Tellman was right.

“We still gotta try.” She leaned forward across the table. “ ’E’s scared as well. Let me come wiv yer. We’ll both ’ave a go at ’im.”

He looked doubtful. The lines of strain were deep in his face. No one was looking after him. He had no one else to share his fears with, or the sense of guilt he would feel if something happened to Remus and he had not tried to warn him.

She stood up, accidentally scraping her chair legs on the floor. “I’ll get yer some tea. ’Ow about bubble an’ squeak? We got lots o’ cabbage an’ taters left over, an’ fresh onion. ’Ow’ll that be?”

He relaxed. “Are you sure?”

“No!” she said crisply. “I am standin’ ’ere ’cos I can’t make me mind up. Wot yer think?”

“You’ll cut yourself with that tongue,” he replied.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. She meant it. She did not know why she had been so quick with him. Perhaps because she wanted to do far more to comfort him, look after him, than he would like or accept.

That realization made her blush suddenly, and she swung around and strode into the larder to get the cold vegetables and start cooking. She brought them back and kept her back to him while she chopped and fried the onions, then added the rest and moved it gently till it was steaming hot on the inside and crisp brown on the outside. She put it all onto a warm plate and set it in front of him. Then she boiled the kettle again and made fresh tea.