Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  Charlotte hesitated. “I think so. I’m sure she’d rather believe her husband was killed because he knew about this than because he was planning a republican revolution, and that’s what she thinks now.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “A republican revolution? Because of this?” She drew a deep, shivery breath. “It might have succeeded … just possibly …”

  Charlotte remembered Martin Fetters’s face in the photograph Juno had shown her, the wide eyes frank, intelligent, daring. It was the face of a man who would follow his passions whatever the cost. She had liked him instinctively, as she had liked the way he had written about the places and people of the ’48 revolutions. Through his sight it had been a noble struggle, and she had seen it that way with him. It had seemed the cause any decent person would have espoused, a love of justice, a common humanity. That he had planned violence here in England was startlingly bitter, almost like the betrayal of a friend. She realized it with surprise.

  Emily’s voice cut across her thoughts.

  “And Adinett was against it? Then why not simply expose him?” she said reasonably. “He would have been stopped.”

  “I know,” Charlotte agreed. “That’s why it makes far more sense that this was the reason he was killed … he knew about the Whitechapel murders, and he would have exposed that when he had the proof.”

  “And now this man Remus is going to?”

  Charlotte shuddered in spite of the warmth of the familiar room. “I suppose so. He surely wouldn’t be stupid enough to try blackmailing them?” It was half a question.

  Emily spoke very softly. “I’m not sure he isn’t stupid even wanting to know.”

  Charlotte stood up. “I want to know … I think we have to.” She took a deep breath. “Will you look after the children while I go to see Juno Fetters?”

  “Of course. We’ll go to the park,” Emily agreed. Then, as Charlotte stood up and moved past her, she reached out and caught her arm. “Be careful!” she said with fear in her voice, her fingers gripping hard.

  “I will,” Charlotte promised. She meant it. All this she had was frighteningly precious—the children, this familiar home, Emily, and Pitt somewhere in the gray alleys of Spitalfields. “I will. I promise.”

  Juno was pleased to see Charlotte. Her days were still necessarily tedious. Very few people called and it was not appropriate that she enjoy any form of entertainment in public life. In truth, she did not wish to. But she had more than sufficient means to employ a full complement of servants, so there was nothing left for her to do. The hours dragged by; there was only so much reading or embroidery, so many letters to write, and she had no talent or interest in painting.

  She did not immediately ask if Charlotte had news or further thoughts, and it was Charlotte who opened the subject as soon as they were in the garden room.

  “I have discovered something that I need to tell you,” she said rather guardedly. She saw Juno’s face light with eagerness. “I am not at all sure if it is true, but if it is, then it will explain a great deal. It seems preposterous … and much more than that, we may never be able to prove it.”

  “That matters less,” Juno assured her quickly. “I want to know for myself. I need to understand.”

  Charlotte saw the dark shadows around her eyes and the fine lines of strain in her face. She was living with a nightmare. All the past which she treasured, which should have given her strength now, was shadowed with doubt. Had the man she loved ever existed, or was he a creature of her imagination, someone she had built out of fragments and illusions because she needed to love?

  “I think Martin discovered the truth about the most terrible crimes ever committed in London—or anywhere else,” Charlotte said quietly. Even in this sunlit room looking onto the garden, the darkness still touched her at the thought, as if that fearful figure could haunt even these streets with his bloody knife.

  “What?” Juno said urgently. “What crimes?”

  “The Whitechapel murders,” Charlotte replied, her voice catching.

  Juno shook her head. “No … How—” She stopped. “I mean … if Martin had known, then he …”

  “He would have told,” Charlotte agreed. “That’s why Adinett had to kill him, to keep him from ever doing that.”

  “Why?” Juno stared at her in horror and bewilderment. “I don’t understand.”

  Quietly, in simple words raw with emotion, Charlotte told her all she knew. Juno listened without interruption until she fell silent at the end, waiting.

  Juno spoke at last, her face ashen. It was as if she felt the brush of terror herself, almost as if she had seen the black carriage that rumbled through those narrow streets and looked into the eyes, for an instant, of the man who could do such things.

  “How could Martin know that?” she said huskily. “Did he tell Adinett because he thought he could trust him? And he found out only in that last second of his life that Adinett was one of them?”

  Charlotte nodded. “I think so.”

  “Then who is behind Remus now?” Juno asked.

  “I don’t know. Other republicans, perhaps …”

  “So it was revolution …”

  “I don’t know. Maybe … maybe it was simply justice?” She did not believe it, but she would like to have. She should not stop Juno from clinging to that, if she could.

  “There are other papers.” Juno spoke again, her voice very steady, as if she were making an intense effort. “I have read through Martin’s diaries again, and I know he is referring to something else that is not there. I’ve looked everywhere I can think of, but I haven’t found anything.” She was watching Charlotte, entreaty in her face, the struggle to conquer the fear inside her. She needed to know the truth because her nightmares would create it anyway, and yet as long as she did not know she could hope.

  “Who else might he trust?” Charlotte racked her thoughts. “Who else would keep papers for him?”

  “His publisher!” Juno said with a flash of excitement. “Thorold Dismore. He’s an ardent republican. He makes so little secret of it most people discount him as being too open to be any danger. But he does mean it, and he’s not nearly as bland or eccentric as they think. Martin would trust him because he knew they had the same ideals and Dismore has the courage of his beliefs.”

  Charlotte was unsure. “Can you go and ask him for Martin’s papers, or would they belong to him, as publisher?”

  “I don’t know,” Juno confessed, rising to her feet. “But I’m prepared to try any approach to get them. I’ll beg or plead or threaten, or anything else I can think of. Will you come with me? You can call yourself a chaperone, if you like.”

  Charlotte seized the chance. “Of course.”

  It was not a simple matter to see Thorold Dismore, and they were obliged to wait for some three quarters of an hour in a smart, uncomfortable anteroom, but they made good use of the time to plan what Juno should say. When they were finally shown into his startlingly Spartan office, she was quite ready.

  She looked very handsome in black, far more dramatic than Charlotte, who had not foreseen such a visit and was in a fairly sober soft green.

  Dismore came forward with an easy courtesy. Whatever his political or social beliefs, he was by nature a gentleman, and by birth also, although he made little of it.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fetters. Please come in and sit down.” He indicated a chair for her, and then turned to Charlotte.

  “Mrs. Pitt,” Juno introduced her. “She came to accompany me.” It did not need further explanation.

  “How do you do,” Dismore said with a quickening of interest. Charlotte wondered if he remembered her name from the trial or if his interest was personal. She thought it would be the former, although she had certainly seen that sudden flare in men’s eyes before.

  “How do you do, Mr. Dismore,” she replied modestly, and accepted the seat he offered her, a little to the side of Juno’s.

  When refreshment had been offered, and declined, it was n
atural to turn to the purpose of their call.

  “Mr. Dismore, I have been reading some of my husband’s letters and notes again.” Juno smiled, her voice warm with memory.

  He nodded. It was a very natural thing to do.

  “I realize he had several articles planned for you to publish, on subjects very dear to his heart, matters of social reform he longed to see …”

  A flicker of pain touched Dismore’s eyes; it was more than sympathy, certainly more than mere good manners. Charlotte would have sworn it was real. But they were dealing with causes far more passionate and overwhelming than friendships, however long or sweet. As far as these men were concerned it was a form of war, and one sacrificed even comrades for the ultimate victory.

  She studied Dismore’s face as he listened to Juno describe the notes she had found. He nodded once or twice but he did not interrupt. He seemed intensely interested.

  “Have you all these notes, Mrs. Fetters?” he asked when she finished.

  “That is why I have come,” she answered innocently. “There seem to be certain essential pieces missing, references to other works, especially”—she took a breath, and her eyes wavered as if she would turn to Charlotte, then she resisted the impulse—“references to people and beliefs which I think are essential to the sense of it.”

  “Yes?” He sat very still, unnaturally so.

  “I wondered if he might have left any papers, documents, or earlier, more complete drafts with you?” She smiled uncertainly. “Together they might be sufficient for an article.”

  Dismore’s face was eager. When he spoke his voice was sharp with excitement. “I have very little, but of course you may see it. But if there is more, Mrs. Fetters, then we must search everywhere possible until we find every last page. I am willing to go to any trouble, or expense, to find them …”

  Charlotte felt a faint prickle of warning. Was that a discreet threat?

  “He was a great man,” Dismore continued. “He had a passion for justice which shone like a light through every piece he wrote. He could stir people to look again at old prejudices and rethink them.” Again his face pinched with sorrow. “He is a loss to mankind, to honor and decency, and the love of good. A man such as can be followed but not replaced.”

  “Thank you,” Juno said very slowly.

  Charlotte wondered if the same thoughts were racing through Juno’s mind as were in her own. Was this man a dupe, a naive enthusiast, or the most superb actor? The more closely she watched him the less certain she was. There was none of the deliberate menace in him that she had sensed in Gleave, the heaviness, the feeling of power which would be used ruthlessly if tempted. Rather it was an electric, almost manic energy of mind and a wholehearted passion and intelligence.

  Juno would not give up so easily.

  “Mr. Dismore, I should be so grateful if I might see what you have of Martin’s, and take it home with me. I wish above all things to be able to put what he left in order and then offer you a last work as a memorial to him. That is, of course, if you would wish to publish it? Perhaps I am being presumptuous in—”

  “Oh no!” he cut across her. “Not in the least. Of course, I will publish whatever there is, in the best form possible.” He reached out and rang the bell on his desk, and when it was answered by the clerk, he instructed him to bring all the letters and papers they possessed written by Martin Fetters.

  When the clerk had disappeared to obey, Dismore sat back in his chair and regarded Juno warmly.

  “I am so glad you came, Mrs. Fetters. And may I say, I hope without impertinence, how much I admire your spirit in wishing to compose a tribute to Martin. He spoke of you with such high regard it is a pleasure to see that it was not just the voice of a loving husband but of a fine judge of character as well.”

  The color crept up Juno’s cheeks and her eyes filled with tears.

  Charlotte ached to comfort her, but there was no comfort to give. Either Dismore was innocent or he spoke with the most exquisite cruelty, and the longer she watched him the less sure she became as to which it was. He was sitting a little forward now, enthusiasm lighting his eyes, his face full of animation as he recalled other articles Fetters had written, journeys he had made to the sites of great struggles against tyranny. His own almost fanatic dedication crackled through every word.

  Was it conceivable that his ardor for republican reform was the subtlest mask to conceal a royalist who would commit murder to hide the Whitechapel conspiracy? Did his passion for reform of the law actually cover an obsession so ruthless it would expose that same conspiracy in order to foment revolution with all its violence and pain?

  She watched him, listened to the cadences of his voice, and still she could not judge.

  The papers were brought in a heavy manila envelope, and without hesitation Dismore passed them to Juno. Was that honesty? Or the fact that he had already read through them all?

  Juno took them with a smile that was tight with the strain of maintaining her composure. She barely glanced down at them.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dismore,” she said quietly. “Of course, I shall return to you everything that might be worthy of printing.”

  “Please do,” he urged. “In fact, I should very much like to see whatever you have also, and if you discover more. There may be things of value that do not appear to be so.”

  “If you wish,” she agreed, inclining her head.

  He drew breath as if to add something further, an additional urgency to his request, then changed his mind. He smiled with sudden charming warmth. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Fetters. I am sure that together we shall be able to create an article that will stand for the best memorial to your husband, the one he would wish, which will be a forwarding of the great cause of social justice and equality, a real freedom for all men. And it will come. He was a great man, a man of vision and brilliance, and the courage to use them both. I was privileged to know him and be a part of what he accomplished. It is a tragedy that he had to be lost to us so young, and when he is so desperately needed. I grieve with you.”

  Juno stood motionless, her eyes wide. “Thank you,” she said slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Dismore.”

  When they were outside and safely back in the first passing hansom, she turned to Charlotte, clutching the papers in her hand.

  “He’s read them, and there’s nothing.”

  “I know,” Charlotte agreed. “Whatever it is that is missing from the papers, it’s not what he gave us today.”

  “Do you suppose they are incomplete?” Juno asked, fingering the manila envelope. “And he kept the rest? He’s a republican, I’d swear to that.”

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte admitted. The core of Dismore eluded her. She felt less certain of him now than she had before they met.

  They rode back to Juno’s home in silence, then together looked at all that Dismore had given them. It was vivid, beautifully written, full of passion and the hunger for justice. Once again Charlotte was torn by her instinctive liking for Martin Fetters, his enthusiasm, his courage, his zeal to include all mankind in the same privileges he enjoyed, and at the same time a revulsion for the destruction his beliefs would cause to so much that she loved. There was nothing whatever in any of the new material to suggest he knew of the Whitechapel murders, their reason, or any plan to involve Remus to reveal them now, and the rage and violence that could bring.

  She left Juno sitting and reading them yet again, emotionally exhausted, and yet unable to put them down.

  She walked to the omnibus stop, her own mind in turmoil. She could not speak to Pitt, which was what she wanted above all else. Tellman had very little knowledge of the world in which people like Dismore and Gleave lived, or the others who might be high in the Inner Circle. The only person she could trust was Aunt Vespasia.

  Charlotte was fortunate in finding Vespasia at home and without company. She greeted Charlotte warmly, then looked more intently at her face and settled to listen in silence while the story poured out: everyt
hing that first Tellman had learned, and then Gracie’s realization of the truth as she stood alone in Mitre Square.

  Vespasia sat motionless. The light from the windows caught the fine lines on her skin, emphasizing both the strength of her and the years. Time had refined her, tempered her courage, but it had also hurt her and shown her too much of people’s weaknesses and failures as well as their victories.

  “The Whitechapel murders,” she said softly, her voice hoarse with a horror she had not imagined. “And this man Remus is going to find the proof and then sell it to the newspapers?”

  “Yes—that is what Tellman says. It will be the biggest story of the century. The government will probably fall, and the throne almost certainly,” Charlotte replied.

  “Indeed.” Vespasia did not move, but stared with almost blind eyes into some distance which lay within her rather than beyond. “There will be violence and bloodshed such as we have not seen in England since the time of Cromwell. Dear God, what evil to match evil! They would sort out one corruption to replace it with another, and all the misery will be for nothing.”

  Charlotte leaned forward a little. “Isn’t there anything we cando?”

  “I don’t know,” Vespasia confessed. “We need to learn who it is that is guiding Remus, and what part Dismore and Gleave play in it. What was Adinett doing in Cleveland Street? Was he seeking to find the information for Remus, or to prevent him from finding it?”

  “Prevent him,” Charlotte replied. “I think …” Then she realized how little she knew. Almost all of it was conjecture, fear. It involved Fetters and Adinett, but she was still not certain beyond doubt how. And there was no room for even the smallest mistake. She told Vespasia about Gleave’s visit and his desire to find Martin Fetters’s papers. She described her own sense of threat from him, but said here in this clean, golden room it sounded more like imagination than reality.

  But Vespasia did not decry the impression. She continued to listen intently.

  Charlotte then went on to tell her about Juno’s conviction that there were new papers, and their visit to Thorold Dismore, and Juno’s belief that he was a true republican and fully intended to use all he could find or create to bring to pass his own purposes.