The clerk drew in his breath to make some remark, then apparently thought better of it. “And you think he may be ’ere, sir? I got records of the past, not who’s ’ere now.”

“No, not now,” Remus replied. “I think he may have died here, which closes the matter anyway.”

“So what’s ’is name, then?”

“Crook. William Crook,” Remus replied, his voice shaking a little. He seemed to be short of breath, and Tellman could see the back of his neck, where his stiff collar was so tight it pinched the flesh. “Did he die here, back end of last year?” Remus went on.

“And if ’e did?” the clerk questioned.

“Did he?” Remus leaned over the counter, his voice rising, his body rigid. “I… I need to know!”

“Yes, ’e did, poor soul,” the man answered respectfully. “So do scores o’ folk every year. You could find that out by lookin’ in public records.”

“I know!” Remus was not deterred. “What day did he die?”

The man remained motionless.

Remus put half a crown on the counter. “Look up the record for me, and tell me what religion he was.”

“Wot religion?”

“Yes-isn’t that plain enough? And what family: who came to see him, who outlived him.”

The man looked at the half crown-a considerable amount of money-and decided it was easily enough earned. He swiveled around to the shelves behind him and took down a large blue bound ledger and opened it. Remus’s eyes never left him. He was still oblivious of Tellman standing near the door, or of the thin man with sandy hair who came in the moment after.

Tellman racked his brain. Who was William Crook, and why did his death in an infirmary matter? Or his religion? Since he had died last year, what could he possibly have to do with Adinett or Martin Fetters? Was there any way in which he could have been murdered by Adinett, and Fetters had known of it? That would be motive to kill him.

The clerk looked up. “Died fourth o’ December. A Roman Catholic, ’e was, accordin’ ter ’is widder, Sarah, wot registered ’im.”

Remus leaned forward. His voice was carefully controlled, but a pitch higher. “A Roman Catholic. Are you certain? That’s what the record says?”

The clerk was irritated. “I jus’ told yer, didn’t I?”

“And his address before he came here?”

The clerk looked down at the page and hesitated.

Remus understood and produced another shilling, putting it on the counter with a sharp click.

“ Nine St. Pancras Street,” the clerk replied.

“ St. Pancras Street!” Remus was stunned, his voice empty with disbelief. “Are you certain? Not Cleveland Street?”

“ St. Pancras Street,” the clerk repeated.

“How long had he been there?” Remus demanded.

“ ’Ow would I know?” the clerk said reasonably.

“Number nine?”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you.” Remus turned and left, his head bent in thought, and he did not even notice Tellman go after him without having taken his turn at the counter.

Tellman followed at a slight distance as Remus retraced his steps to the street, still apparently consumed in disappointment and confusion, but he did not hesitate to plunge into the crowd and walk briskly towards the end of St. Pancras Street and find number 9. He knocked and stepped back to wait.

Tellman remained on the footpath on the opposite side. Had he crossed to be close enough to overhear, even Remus in his preoccupied state would have noticed him.

The door was opened by a large woman, very tall indeed-Tellman judged her to be over six feet-and with a fierce expression.

Remus was very deferential, as if he held her in the greatest respect, and she seemed to soften a little. They spoke for several minutes, then Remus half bowed, doffed his hat and turned and walked away very quickly, so excited he all but skipped a couple of steps, and Tellman had to run to keep up with him.

Remus went straight to the St. Pancras railway station and in at the main entrance.

Tellman fished in his pockets and felt three half crowns, a couple of shillings and a few pennies. Probably Remus was only going a stop or two. It would be easy enough to follow him-but was it worth the risk? Presumably the tall woman at the door of number 9 had been William Crook’s widow, Sarah. What had she told Remus that had banished his confusion and despondency? It must be that her late husband was the same William Crook who had once lived in Cleveland Street, or had some other close connection with it. They had spoken for several minutes. She must have told him more than he wished to know. Something about Adinett?

Remus went up to the ticket window.

At least Tellman should find out where he was going. There were other people in the hall. He could move closer without attracting attention. He kept half behind a young woman with a cloth bag and a wide, light blue skirt.

“Return to Northampton, please,” Remus asked, his voice quick and excited. “When is the next train?”

“Not for another hour yet, sir,” the ticket seller replied. “That’ll be four shillings and eight pence. Change at Bedford.”

Remus handed over the money and took the ticket.

Tellman turned away quickly and walked out of the station hall, down the steps and into the street. Northampton? That was miles away! What possible connection could be there? It would cost him both time and money, neither of which he could afford. He was a careful man, not impulsive. To follow Remus there would be a terrible risk.

Without making a deliberate decision he began walking back towards the infirmary. He had an hour before the train left; he could allow forty minutes at least and still give himself time to return, buy a ticket and catch the train-if he wanted to.

Who was William Crook? Why did his religion matter? What had Remus asked his widow, apart from whether they had any connection with Cleveland Street? Tellman was angry with himself for pursuing this at all, and angry with everyone else because Pitt was in trouble and no one was doing anything about it. There was injustice everywhere, while people went about their own affairs and looked the other way.

He thought how he would tell Gracie that it all made very little sense, and possibly had nothing to do with Adinett anyway. Every time he tried for the right words they sounded like excuses. He could see her face in his mind so clearly he was startled. He could picture her exactly, the color of her eyes, the light on her skin, the shadow of her lashes, the way she always pulled a strand or two of her hair a little too tightly at her right brow. The curve of her mouth was as familiar to him as his own in the shaving glass.

She would not accept defeat. She would despise him for it. He could see the expression in her eyes now, and it hurt him too much. He could not allow it to happen.

He changed direction and went westward towards number 9 St. Pancras Street. If he stopped to consider what he was doing his nerve would fail, so he did not think. He walked straight up to the door and knocked, his police identification already in his hand.

It was opened by the same giant of a woman.

“Yes?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, his breath catching in his throat. He showed her his identification.

She looked at it closely, her face immobile. “All right, Sergeant Tellman, what is it you want?”

Should he try charm or authority? It was difficult to be authoritative with a woman of her size and her frame of mind. He had never felt less like smiling. He must speak; she was losing patience and it was clear in her expression.

“I am investigating a very serious crime, ma’am,” he said with more certainty than he felt. “I followed a man here about half an hour ago, average height, light reddish hair, sharp face. I believe he asked you certain questions about the late Mr. William Crook.” He took a deep breath. “I need to know what they were, and what you told him.”