The cabbie looked at him with awakening interest. “So why yer doin’ it, then?”

“I told you, a friend of mine is in trouble,” Tellman repeated.

The cabbie looked at him sideways, his eyebrows raised. “So if I ’elp yer, yer’ll ’elp me… when yer are on duty, like?”

“I could do,” Tellman conceded. “Depends if you can help me or not.”

“I did pick ’im up, three or four times. Smart-lookin’ gent, like an old soldier or summit. Always walked stiff, ’ead in the air. But civil enough. Gave a good tip.”

“Where did you take him?”

“Lots o’ places. Up west mostly, gennelman’s clubs an’ the like.”

“What sort of clubs? Can you remember any of the addresses?” Tellman did not know why he bothered to pursue it. Even if he knew the names of all the clubs, what use would it be? He had no authority to go into them and ask whom Adinett had spoken to. And if he found out, it would still mean nothing. But at least he could tell Gracie he had tried.

“Not exact. One was a place I never bin ter before, summink ter do wi’ France. Paris, ter be exact. It were a year, as I ’member.”

Tellman did not understand. “A year? What do you mean?”

“Seventeen summat.” The cabbie scratched his head, tipping his hat crooked. “1789… that’s it.”

“Anywhere else?”

“I could eat another pie.”

Tellman obliged, more for the man’s sake than as a bribe. The information was useless.

“An’ ter a newspaper,” the cabbie continued after he had eaten half the second pie. “The one wot’s always goin’ on about reform an’ the like. ’E came out wi’ Mr. Dismore wot owns it. I know ’cos I seen ’im in the papers meself.”

This was unsurprising. Tellman already knew that Adinett was acquainted with Thorold Dismore.

The cabbie was frowning, screwing up his face. “That’s w’y I thought it real odd, a gennelman like that, askin’ ter go all the way past Spitalfields ter Cleveland Street, wot’s off the Mile End Road. Excited, ’e were, like ’e’d found summink wonderful. In’t nuffink wonderful in Spitalfields nor Whitechapel nor Mile End, an’ I can tell yer that fer nuffink.”

Tellman was startled. “You took him to Cleveland Street?”

“Yeah… like I said. Twice!”

“When?”

“Just afore ’e went ter see that Mr. Dismore wot owns the paper. All excited, ’e was. Then a day or two arter that ’e went an killed that poor feller. Strange, in’t it?”

“Thank you,” Tellman said with sudden feeling. “Thank you very much. Let me get you a glass of ale along the way here.”

“Don’t mind if I do. Ta.”

Pitt found it painfully difficult to endure living in Heneagle Street. It was not that either Isaac or Leah Karansky did not make him as comfortable as their means allowed, or were not friendly towards him on the occasions they were together, such as at the meals they provided. Leah was an excellent cook, but the food was different from the simple and abundant fare he was used to. He could eat only at set times. There were no cups of tea whenever he wished, no homemade bread with butter and jam, no cake. It was all unfamiliar, and he slept with exhaustion at the end of the day, but he did not relax.

He missed Charlotte, the children, even Gracie, more than he would have thought possible. It was some comfort to know that money was provided for Charlotte to collect every week from Bow Street. But watching Isaac and Leah together, the glances between them that spoke of years of shared understanding, the occasional laughter, the way she nagged at him about his health, the gentleness in his hands when he touched her, reminded Pitt the more forcefully of his own loneliness.

Towards the end of the first week he realized the other emotion that was consuming him, knotting his stomach and making his head ache.

He had accepted Isaac’s offer to help him find work with Saul, the silk-weaver. Of course, it was completely unskilled labor, a matter of bending his back to lift crates and bales, to sweep the floor, fetch or carry everything as needed, run errands. It was the most manual task in the establishment, and the pay corresponded, but it was better than nothing at all, and probably physically easier than labor in the sugar factory. It also offered him far more opportunity to be in the streets, to listen and observe without calling any attention to himself. Although he could see little purpose in it; the capture of anarchists Nicoll and Mowbray was evidence that the Special Branch’s detectives were well schooled in their craft and needed no help from a stranger in the area like Pitt.

As he was walking back to Heneagle Street -he could not think of it as home-he heard shouting ahead of him. The anger in it was unmistakable. Voices were high and rough, and a moment later there was a crash as if a bottle had been hurled to the pavement and splintered to pieces. There was a yell of pain, and then a torrent of abuse. A woman screamed.

Pitt broke into a run.

There was more shouting and the sound of a load of barrels cascading onto the ground, several bursting open as they landed on each other. A cry of rage rose above the general hubbub.

Pitt turned the corner and saw about twenty people in the street ahead of him, half of them partly obscured by a wagon whose tailboard was open. Barrels rolled into the street, blocking the traffic in both directions. Men were already beginning to fight, hard and viciously.

Other people came out of shops and workplaces, at least half of them joining in. Women stood on the sidelines shouting encouragement. One stooped and picked up a loose stone and hurled it, her arm swinging wide, her torn brown skirts swirling.

“Go home, yer papist pig!” she screamed. “Go back ter Ireland w’ere yer belong!”

“I in’t no more Irish than you are, yer soddin’ ’eathen!” the other woman shouted back at her, and whirled a broom handle around so hard that when it caught the first woman across her back it broke in half and sent her flying into the gutter, where she lay winded for a few moments before sitting up slowly and beginning to curse viciously and repetitively.

“Papist!” someone else shrieked. “Whore!”

Half a dozen more people, men and women, joined in the melee, everyone hurling abuse with all the power of their lungs. Several scruffy children were hopping up and down, squealing encouragement, backing whoever they fancied in the scrum.

A police whistle blew, thin and shrill. There was a moment’s lull through which came the pounding of feet.

Pitt swung around. It was not his job to stop this, even if he could have. He saw a constable running towards them, and he stepped back near the arch of the gate into a stonemason’s yard.

Narraway would expect him to observe. Although what he could tell him that would be of the slightest use, he had no idea. It was only one of countless numbers of ugly street scenes that must occur regularly and surprised no one.

More police came and started trying to pull the fighting men apart, and were rewarded for their trouble by becoming the victims themselves. Hatred for the police seemed about the only thing that the crowd had in common.

“Useless bloody rozzers!” one man yelled, flailing his fists in the air, willing to hit anyone and everyone within reach. “Couldn’t catch a cold, yer stupid bastards! Pigs!”

A policeman lashed out at him with a truncheon, and missed.

Pitt remained in the shadows. He looked around at the shabby, crumbling buildings grimed with the smoke of thousands of chimneys, the patched windows, the broken cobbles of the streets, the overrunning gutters. The smells of rot and effluent were everywhere. The fighting in the street was vicious. It was not a quick flare of temper but the slow, sullen rage of years of anger and hate shown naked for a few moments, before the police frightened or beat it into silence again… until next time.