The Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  He stood at the back door for several minutes before he summoned enough courage to knock. He wished there were some way he could see Gracie without having to encounter Charlotte. He was embarrassed by the fact that he had done nothing to help Pitt. He was sure she was going to be distressed, and he had no idea what to say or do.

  It was only the very vivid imagination of Gracie’s total scorn for him that stopped him from turning around and hurrying away. He would have to face her sometime. Putting it off would only make it even more difficult. He took a deep breath, then let it out again, still without knocking. Perhaps he should find out more before he spoke to her. After all, he didn’t have very much. He had no idea why Remus had gone to Guy’s Hospital, not even a guess.

  The door opened and Gracie let out a shriek as she almost ran into him. The saucepan she was holding slipped out of her hands and fell onto the step with a crash.

  “Yer stupid great article!” she said furiously. “Wot d’yer think yer doin’ standin’ there, wi’ a face like a pot lion? Wot’s the matter with yer?”

  He bent down and picked up the saucepan and handed it back to her. “I came to tell you what I’ve found out,” he said tartly. “You shouldn’t drop the good saucepans like that. You’ll chip them and then they’ll be no good.”

  “I wouldn’t ’a dropped it if yer ’adn’t give me the fright o’ me life,” she accused. “Why din’t yer knock, like any ordinary person?”

  “I was about to!” That was not really a lie. Of course he would have knocked any moment.

  She looked him up and down. “Well, yer’d better come in. I s’pose yer’ve got more ter say than can be done on the step?” She whisked around, her skirts swirling, and went back inside, and he followed her through the scullery into the kitchen, closing both doors behind him. If Charlotte were at home, she was nowhere to be seen.

  “An’ keep yer voice down!” Gracie warned, as if reading his thoughts. “Mrs. Pitt’s upstairs reading ter Daniel and Jemima.”

  “Jemima can read herself,” he said, puzzled.

  “O’ course she can!” she said with an effort at patience. “But ’er papa’s not ’ome anymore, an’ we ’aven’t ’eard a thing from ’im. Nobody knows wot’s goin’ ter ’appen, if ’e’s bein’ looked after, or what! It does yer good ter be read to.” She sniffed and turned away from him, determined he should not see the tears spill down her face. “So wot ’ave yer found out, then? I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea? An’ cake?”

  “Yes, please.” He sat down at the kitchen table while she busied herself with the kettle, the teapot, two cups, and several wedges of fresh currant cake, all the time keeping her back to him.

  He watched her quick movements, her thin shoulders under the cotton dress, a waist he could have put his hands around. He ached to be of some comfort to her, but she was far too prickly proud to let him. Anyway, what could he say? She would never believe lies that everything would be all right. More than twenty-one years of life had taught her that tragedy was real. Justice sometimes prevailed, but not always.

  He must say something. The kitchen clock was ticking the minutes by. The kettle was beginning to sing. It was the same warm, sweet-smelling room as always. He had been ridiculously happy here, so comfortable, more than anywhere else he could remember.

  She banged the teapot down, risking chipping it.

  “Well, are yer goin’ ter tell me or not?” she demanded.

  “Yes ... I am!” he snapped back, furious with himself for wanting to touch her, to be gentle, to put his arms around her and hold her close. He cleared his throat and nearly choked. “Adinett went to Cleveland Street in Mile End at least three times. And the last time he was really excited about something. He went straight from there to visit Thorold Dismore, who owns the newspaper that’s always going on against the Queen and saying that the Prince of Wales spends too much money.”

  She stood still, her brows furrowed, confusion in her eyes.

  “Wot does a gentleman like Mr. Adinett go ter Mile End fer? If ’e’s lookin’ for an ’ore, there’s plenty closer, an’ cleaner! ’E could get ’isself done in, down Mile End way.”

  “I know that. And that isn’t all. The place he went to isn’t a brothel, it’s a tobacconist’s shop.”

  “ ’E went ter Mile End ter buy tobacco?” she said in disbelief.

  “No,” he corrected her. “He went to the tobacconist’s shop for some other reason, but I don’t know what it was yet. But when I went back there today, and went into the shop myself, who should come in but Lyndon Remus, the journalist who was trying to dig up all that dirt back when Mr. Pitt was working on the murder in Bedford Square.” He leaned forward urgently, putting his elbows on the scrubbed wood of the table. “He wouldn’t say anything while I was there, but he stayed another twenty minutes after I’d gone. I know because I waited for him. And when he left I spoke to him.”

  She was transfixed, her eyes wide, the teapot forgotten. Only the screaming of the kettle brought her back to the moment. She pulled it off the hob and then ignored it.

  “So?” she demanded. “Wot’d ’e want? Wot’s so special about Cleveland Street?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But he’s after scandal, and he thinks he’s really onto something. He tried to ask me what I was doing there. He was sort of excited to see me. He thought it proved he was right. It’s to do with Adinett, he as good as admitted that.”

  She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Go on!” she urged.

  “When he left I followed him. He tried to make sure I didn’t, but I stuck with him.”

  “Were’d ’e go?” Her eyes never left his face.

  “South of the river, to Guy’s Hospital ... the offices. But I lost him there.”

  “Guy’s ’Ospital,” she repeated slowly. Finally she stood up and made the tea and set it on the table to brew. “Now whyever did ’e not want yer ter know ’e went there?”

  “Because it has something to do with Adinett,” he answered. “And Cleveland Street. But I’m damned if I know what.”

  “Well, yer’ll just ’ave ter find out,” she said without hesitation. “ ’Cause we gotta prove Mr. Pitt is right an’ Adinett were as guilty as ’e said, an’ fer a wicked reason. D’yer want a piece o’ cake?”

  “Yes, please.” He took the largest piece on the plate she offered. He had long ago stopped pretending to be polite. Gracie made the best cake he had ever eaten.

  She was looking at him earnestly. “Yer goin’ ter find out wot it is, in’t yer ... I mean, wot really ’appened, an’ why?”

  Tellman wished she had even a shred of the admiration for him that she had for Pitt. And yet the belief in her face now, even if it was born of desperation, was both wonderful and frightening. Could he live up to it? He had very little idea what to do next. What would Pitt have done were their roles reversed?

  He liked Pitt, he had to admit that, in spite of not wanting to, not agreeing with him over dozens of things. He had disapproved violently of Pitt’s appointment. He was not a gentleman and had no more right to expect the rest of them to obey him than any other ordinary policeman had. But on the other hand he had been reasonable—most of the time. He was eccentric, took a lot of getting used to.

  But for better or worse, Tellman was part of Pitt’s life. He had sat at their table too often, shared too many cases, good and bad. And there was Gracie.

  “Yes, of course I will,” he said with his mouth full of cake.

  “Yer goin’ ter foiler this Remus?” she pressed. “ ’E’s onter it ... whatever it is. Mrs. Pitt’s tryin’ ter find out more about Mr. Fetters, but she don’t ’ave nothin’ yet. I’ll tell yer if she does.” She looked tired and frightened. “Yer won’t stop, will yer?” she insisted. “No matter wot! There’s nob’dy ter do it but us.”

  “I told you,” he said, meeting her eyes steadily. “I’ll find out! Now, eat some of your cake. You look like a fourpenny rabbit! And pour the tea!”


  “It in’t brewed yet.” But she poured it anyway.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Charlotte opened the morning newspaper more out of loneliness than any real interest in the political events which filled it as the various parties prepared for the coming election. They were very hard on Mr. Gladstone, berating him for ignoring all issues except Irish Home Rule and apparently abandoning any effort towards achieving the eight-hour working day. But she did not expect the newspapers to be fair.

  There was tragic news of a railway crash at Guisley, in the north. Two people had been killed and several injured. Doctors were on their way.

  The New Oriental Bank Corporation had been compelled to withdraw funds and suspend certain payments. The price of silver was seriously down. They had sustained losses in Melbourne and Singapore. The liquidation of the Gatling Gun Company had affected them badly. A hurricane in Mauritius was the crowning blow.

  She did not read the rest of it. Her eye moved down the page, and in spite of herself was caught by the dark type announcing that John Adinett was to be executed at eight o’clock that morning.

  Instinctively she glanced at the kitchen clock. It was a quarter to eight. She wished she had not opened the paper until later, even half an hour would have been enough. Why had she not thought of that, counted the days and been careful not to look?

  Adinett had killed Martin Fetters, and the more Charlotte learned about Fetters the more she believed she would have liked him. He had been an enthusiast, a man who grasped at life with courage and enjoyment, who loved its color and variety. He had a passion to learn about others, and it seemed from his writings that he was equally eager to share what he knew so that anyone else could see the same enchantment he did. His death was a loss not only to his wife—and to archaeology and to curators of ancient artefacts—but to anyone who knew him and to the world in general.

  Still, ending the life of Adinett did not improve anything. She doubted it would even deter anyone else from future crime. It was the certainty of punishment which stopped people from killing, not the severity. Each one presumed he or she would get away with it, so the penalty was irrelevant.

  Gracie came in from the back door, where she had been collecting herrings from the fishmonger’s boy.

  “These’ll do dinner for us,” she said briskly, swirling through the kitchen and putting the dish into the larder. She continued talking to herself absentmindedly about what would do for which meal, how much flour or potatoes they had left, and if the onions would last. They had used a lot of onions lately to flavor very plain food.

  She had been preoccupied recently. Charlotte thought it had to do with Sergeant Tellman. She knew he had been at the house the other evening, even though she had not seen him herself. She had heard his voice and deliberately not intruded. Having Tellman sitting in the kitchen, exactly as if Pitt were still at home, made her sense of loneliness even more overwhelming.

  She was happy for Gracie, and she was very well aware, rather more than Gracie was herself, that Tellman was fighting a losing battle against his feelings for her. Just at the moment she found it difficult to make herself seem cheerful about anything. Missing Pitt was hard enough. The evenings seemed endless when she was not listening for his step. There was no one to tell about her day, even if it had been entirely uneventful. The high point might have been something as trivial as a new flower in the garden, or a piece of gossip, perhaps a joke. And if things somehow went wrong, perhaps she would not mention it, but the knowledge that she could made all the irritation seem temporary, something that could be ignored. It was odd how happiness unshared was only half as great, and yet any kind of misfortune alone was doubled.

  But far worse than loneliness was her anxiety for Pitt, the ordinary day-to-day worry as to whether he was eating properly, was warm enough, had anyone to wash his clothes. Had he found somewhere even remotely comfortable and kind to live? The real misery in her mind was for his safety, not only from anarchists, dynamiters or whoever he was looking for, but from his secret and far more powerful enemies in the Inner Circle.

  The clock chimed and she was dimly aware of it. Gracie riddled the stove and put more coal on the fire.

  Charlotte tried not to think, not to imagine, and during the day she was quite good at it. But at night, the moment her mind was blank, the fears came rushing in. She was emotionally exhausted and physically not tired enough. She had never been to Spitalfields, but she pictured it all too easily, narrow dark streets with figures lurking in doorways, everything damp and flickering with movement, as if it were only waiting to catch the unwary.

  She woke too many times in the night, aware of every creak in the house, of the empty space beside her in the bed, wondering where he was, if he were awake also, feeling his loneliness.

  Sometimes the fact that she had to pretend she was all right for the children’s sake seemed an impossible task, at other times it was a discipline for which she was grateful. How many women down the centuries had pretended while their men were away at war, exploring unknown lands, at sea carrying goods over the oceans, or simply had run away because they were feckless and disloyal? At least she knew Pitt was none of these things and he would return when he could—or when she could find some answer to why Adinett had murdered Martin Fetters that was strong enough so even the members of the Inner Circle would have to believe it and the world in general would have no doubt left.

  She closed the newspaper and pushed her chair away from the table just as Daniel and Jemima came into the room, eager for breakfast before going to school. There would be plenty to do today, and if not, then she would find it, or create it.

  The kitchen clock rang a single chime. It was a quarter past eight. It had rung eight o’clock and she had not heard it. John Adinett would be dead now, his body, broken-necked—like Martin Fetters—being removed, ready for an unhallowed grave, and his soul to answer for his acts before the judge who knows all things.

  She smiled at the children and began to prepare breakfast.

  It was just after ten o’clock and she was sorting out the linen cupboard for the second time that week when Gracie came upstairs to tell her that Mrs. Radley had called—except that that was unnecessary, because Emily Radley, Charlotte’s sister, was only a step behind Gracie. Emily looked devastatingly elegant in a dark green riding habit with a small, dark, hard-brimmed hat with a high crown, and a jacket cut so superbly it flattered every line of her slender figure. She was a trifle flushed from exertion, and her fair hair had come loose and had gone into curls in the damp air.

  “Whatever are you doing?” she asked, surveying the piles of sheets and pillowcases strewn around.

  “Sorting the linen for mending,” Charlotte answered, suddenly aware of how shabby and untidy she looked compared with her sister. “Have you forgotten how to do that?”

  “I’m not sure that I ever knew,” Emily said airily. As Charlotte had married socially and financially beneath her, so Emily had married correspondingly above. Her first husband had possessed both title and fortune. He had been killed some time ago, and after a period of mourning, and loneliness, Emily had married again, this time to a handsome and charming man who owned almost nothing. It was Emily’s ambition which had driven him to stand for a seat in Parliament and eventually to win it.

  Gracie disappeared downstairs again.

  Charlotte turned her back and resumed folding pillowcases and piling them neatly where they had originally been.

  “Is Thomas still away?” Emily asked, lowering her voice a little.

  “Of course he is,” Charlotte replied, a trifle sharply. “I told you, it’s going to be a long time, I don’t know how long.”

  “Actually you told me very little,” Emily pointed out, taking one of the pillowcases herself and folding it neatly. “You were rather mysterious and sounded upset. I came to see if you were all right.”

  “What are you going to do about it if I’m not?” Charlotte started on one of the sheets.
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  Emily picked up the other end. “Give you the opportunity to pick a quarrel and be thoroughly beastly to someone. It looks as if that is what you need this moment.”

  Charlotte stared at her, ignoring the sheet. Emily was being bright, but beneath the glamorous surface there was anxiety in her eyes—and no humor underlying the smart retort.

  “I’m all right,” Charlotte said more gently. “It’s Thomas I’m worried about.” She and Emily had shared in many of his past cases, and Emily knew the passion and the loss that could be involved. She was no stranger to fear, and she already knew of the Inner Circle. Charlotte could not tell her where Pitt was, but she could tell her why.

  “What is it?” Emily sensed that there was more than she had been led to believe before, and now her voice was sharp with anxiety.

  “The Inner Circle,” Charlotte said very quietly. “I think Adinett was one of them—in fact, I’m sure he was. They won’t forgive Thomas for convicting him.” She took a shivering breath. “They hanged him this morning.”

  Emily was very somber. “I know. There was more in some of the newspapers about whether or not he was really guilty. No one seems to have any idea why he would do such a thing. Doesn’t Thomas have any clues?”

  “No.”

  “Well, isn’t he trying to find out?”

  “He can’t,” Charlotte said quietly, looking down at the linen on the floor. “He’s been removed from Bow Street and sent ... into the East End ... to look for anarchists.”

  “What?” Emily was aghast. “That’s monstrous! Who have you appealed to?”

  “No one can do anything about it. Cornwallis already tried everything he could. If Thomas is somewhere in the East End, where nobody knows, anonymous, at least he is as safe from them as he can be.”

  “Anonymous in the East End?” Emily’s face showed only too clearly her horror and all the dangers her imagination foresaw.