by Anne Perry
“Good morning. I apologize for calling at such an hour, but yesterday Juno Fetters and I discovered Martin’s papers, the ones he hid. He was planning a revolution in England, a violent one to overthrow not only the throne but the whole government as well … the Parliament, everything, and set a senate and a president in its place. He expected violence. There are figures quoted for the deaths they foresaw, and the outline of a new constitution, full of reforms.”
“Indeed,” Vespasia said softly. “It does not surprise me that such papers should exist. I had not realized Martin Fetters would be involved if he knew of the violence. I had believed him a reformer, not a revolutionary. The consent of the people is at the heart and soul of all honest government. I am sorry to hear it.” And she was. It was a bitter knowledge, the loss of one more man she had admired.
Charlotte was standing close to her, her eyes dark with hurt.
“So am I,” she said with a sad little smile. “I only know him by his writings, but I liked him so much. And it was devastating for Juno. The man she had loved did not really exist.” She searched Vespasia’s face, her eyes troubled, frightened.
“Sit down.” Vespasia indicated one of the chairs and took another herself. “I assume you wish to do something about this.”
“I have already done it.” Charlotte’s voice caught in her throat. “Juno could see straightaway that this information showed why John Adinett killed him and why he could not say so to anyone, even to save himself. After all, whom could he trust?”
Vespasia waited, the idea uneasy in her mind.
“So she decided she must, in honor, make it known,” Charlotte concluded.
“To whom?” Vespasia asked, fear opening sharp and bright like a knife inside her.
It was reflected in Charlotte’s face also.
“To Charles Voisey,” she answered. “We went yesterday evening. She told him most of what was in the papers, but not all.”
“I see …”
“No!” Charlotte was white now, her eyes wide. “No, you couldn’t … because just before we left he spoke of it, to persuade Juno to destroy the book rather than cause public alarm by making the conspiracy known, when we cannot name the people involved. And that makes sense,” she hurried on. “But in the heat of his argument, he mentioned things we did not tell him! Aunt Vespasia, he is Inner Circle—I think he may even be the head of it. As you know, they wouldn’t trust anyone lesser with so much of the information.” She shook her head a little. “They don’t. They are all in little groups so they cannot be betrayed, each one knowing only what he has to.”
“Yes …” Vespasia’s mind was racing. What Charlotte had said made a terrible sense. Charles Voisey was just the man to emerge as head of state for a new, revolutionary England. He had served as a judge of appeal for many years, been seen to uphold justice, reverse wrong decisions, stand apart from personal or party gains. He had a wide circle of friends and colleagues and yet had stood apart from political controversy so he was not associated in the public mind with any vested interest.
Thinking of all she knew of him, what Charlotte had said was totally believable. Many other things made sense, pieces of conversation she had overheard, things Pitt had told her, even her meeting with Randolph Churchill.
Other things came to mind also, and the tiny, bright sliver of doubt that she had been clinging to vanished at last.
“Aunt Vespasia …” Charlotte said quietly, leaning forward in her chair.
“Yes,” Vespasia repeated. “Most of what you say is true. But it seems to me that you have one fact mistakenly interpreted, and if you are able to tell Mrs. Fetters, it will comfort her greatly. But her safety is of the utmost importance, and if she has that book then I fear they will not let her be.”
“She hasn’t,” Charlotte said quickly. “She burnt it, right there in Voisey’s fire. But what have I got wrong? What have I misunderstood?”
Vespasia sighed, frowning a little. “If Adinett was suddenly made aware of the book, and of Martin Fetters’s part in a conspiracy to cause revolution, and this occurred that day in the library, why did he not take the book with him?” she asked.
“He didn’t know where it was, and he had no time to search,” Charlotte replied. “It was extremely well concealed. Martin bound it to look exactly like …” Her eyes widened. “Oh … yes, of course. If he saw it then he knew where it was. Why didn’t he take it?”
“Whose handwriting was it in the book?”
“I’ve no idea. Actually, two or three different hands. You mean the book wasn’t Martin’s?”
“I should imagine we would find at least one of the hands was Adinett’s own,” Vespasia answered. “And possibly one was Voisey’s, and maybe one even Reginald Gleave’s. I think the one you would not find there was Fetters’s own.”
“But he bound it!” Charlotte protested. “You mean as evidence … but he was a republican. He never pretended not tobe!”
“Many people are republicans,” Vespasia said quietly, trying to guard the pain inside her. “But most do not intend to bring about revolution by violence and deceit. They do no more than argue for it, try to persuade with passion or reason—or both. If Martin Fetters was one of those, and he discovered the intention of his fellows was far more radical than his own, then they would have had to silence him immediately …”
“Which was what Adinett did,” Charlotte concluded. There was fear in her eyes. “No wonder Voisey hated Thomas for persisting with the evidence against Adinett, and for more or less placing him in the position where he himself had to deny Adinett’s appeal. After all, if there were three other judges against it already, then his casting his word for it would only tip his hand, as it were, without saving Adinett.” A bitter humor flashed in her face for an instant. “The irony would have made it worse.” Her mouth softened. “But I’m glad Martin Fetters was not part of the violence. Reading his words I couldn’t help liking him. And Juno will be so relieved when I can tell her. Aunt Vespasia, is there anything we can do to keep her safe, or at least help?”
“I shall consider it,” Vespasia replied, but important as it was, other things were more pressing, and crowded her mind.
Charlotte was looking at her closely, anxiety clouding her eyes.
Vespasia was not ready to share her thoughts; perhaps she never would be. Some things are part of the fabric of one’s being and cannot be framed in words.
She rose to her feet. Charlotte immediately stood also, recognizing that it was time to leave.
“Thomas came to see me yesterday,” Vespasia said. “He was well….” She saw the relief flood Charlotte’s face. “I think they are looking after him in Spitalfields. His clothes were clean and mended.” She smiled very briefly. “Thank you for coming, my dear. I shall consider very carefully what you have told me. At last many things are growing clearer. If Charles Voisey is the leader of the Inner Circle, and John Adinett was his lieutenant, then at least we understand what happened to Martin Fetters, and why. And we know that Thomas was right. I shall see what I can think of to help Mrs. Fetters.”
Charlotte kissed her lightly on the cheek and took her leave.
Now Vespasia must act. Enough of the pieces were in place for her to have little doubt left as to what had happened. The Prince of Wales’s debt was not real; she knew that from the note of debt Pitt had brought. It was a forgery—an excellent one—but it would not have stood the test in court. Its purpose was to convince the frightened, the hungry and the dispossessed of Spitalfields that their jobs were gone because of royal profligacy. Once the riots had started neither truth nor lies would matter anymore.
On top of that, Lyndon Remus would release his story of the Duke of Clarence and the Whitechapel murders, true or false, and riot would become revolution. The Inner Circle would manipulate it all until it was time for them to step forward and take power.
She remembered Mario Corena at the opera. When she had said what a bore Sissons was, he had told her that she w
as mistaken in him. Had she known more she would have admired his courage, even self-sacrifice. As if he had known Sissons was going to die.
And she remembered Pitt’s description of the man he had seen leaving the sugar factory—older, silver hair in the black, dark complexion, fine bones, average height, a signet ring with a dark stone in it. The police had thought it was a Jew. They were mistaken: it had been a Roman, a passionate republican who had perhaps believed Sissons a willing participant.
It was fifty years since she had known him in Rome. He would not have murdered a man then. But a lifetime had come and gone since that summer, for both of them. People change. Disappointment and disillusion can wear away all but the strongest heart. Hope deferred too long can turn to bitterness.
She dressed in silver-gray, an exquisite watered silk, and selected one of her favorite hats. She had always looked well under a sweeping brim. Then she sent for the carriage to come to the door and gave the coachman the address where Mario Corena was staying.
He received her with surprise and pleasure. Their next engagement had not been until the following day.
“Vespasia!” His eyes took in her face, the soft sweep of her gown. The hat made him smile, but as always, he did not comment on her appearance; his appreciation was in his eyes. Then as he regarded her more closely the joy faded from his expression. “What is it?” he said quietly. “Don’t tell me it is nothing; I can see differently.”
The time for pretense was long past. Part of her wished to stand in this beautiful room with its view over the quiet square, the rustling summer trees, the glimpses of grass. She could be close to him, allow the sense of fulfillment to possess her that she always felt in his company. But however long or short the time, it would come to an end. The inevitable moment would have to be faced.
She turned and looked into his eyes. For a moment her resolve faltered. He had not changed. Their summer in Rome could have been yesterday. The years had wearied their bodies, marked their faces, but their hearts still carried the same passion, the hope, and the will to fight and to sacrifice, to love, and to endure pain.
She blinked. “Mario, the police are going to arrest Isaac Karansky, or some other Jew, for the murder of James Sissons. I am not going to allow it. Please don’t tell me it is for the greater good of the people to sacrifice one that all may benefit. If we allow one innocent man to be hanged and his wife left bereaved and alone, then we have made a mockery of justice. And once we have done that, then what can we offer the new order we want to create? When we use our weapons for ill, we have damaged their power for good. We have joined the enemy. I thought you knew that….”
He looked at her in silence, his eyes shadowed.
She waited for him to answer, the pain inside her building as if to explode.
He took a long, deep breath. “I do know that, my dear. Perhaps I forgot for a while exactly who the enemy was.” He looked down. “Sissons was going to take his own life in the cause of a greater liberty. He knew when he lent the money to the Prince of Wales that it would not be returned. He wanted to expose him for the self-indulgent parasite that he is. He knew it would cost many men their jobs, but he was prepared to pay with his own life.” He looked up at her again, brilliant, urgent. “Then at the last moment his nerve failed him. He was not the hero he wanted to be, wished to be. And yes … I did kill him. It was clean, swift, without pain or fear. Only for an instant did he know what I was going to do, then it was over. But I left the note in his own hand that said it was suicide, and the Prince’s note of debt. The police must have concealed them. I cannot understand how that happened. We had our own man in place, on duty, who should have seen to it that suicide was recognized and no innocent person blamed.” Confusion shadowed his face, and unhappiness for fear and wrong.
Vespasia could not look at him. “He tried,” she acknowledged. “He came too late. Someone else found Sissons first, and knowing what riot it would cause, destroyed the note. Only, you see, it could not have been suicide because James Sissons did not have the use of the first fingers of his right hand, and the night watchman knew it.” She met his eyes again now. “And I saw the note of debt. It was not the prince’s signature. It was an excellent forgery, designed for just the purpose you tried to use it.”
He started to speak, then stopped. Understanding slowly filled his face, and grief, and then anger. He did not need to protest that he had been deceived; she could not have doubted it from his eyes and his mouth, and the ache that filled him.
Her throat hurt with the effort of control. She loved him so fiercely it consumed all of her but a tiny, white core in the heart. If she were to yield now, to say it did not matter, that either of them could walk away from this, she would lose him—and even more, she would lose herself.
She blinked, her eyes smarting.
“I have something to undo,” he whispered. “Good-bye, Vespasia … I say good-bye, but I shall take you with me in my heart, wherever I go.” He lifted her hand to his lips. Then he turned and walked out of the room without looking back, leaving her to find her way when she was ready, when she could master herself and go back to the footman, the carriage and the world.
The whole story of Prince Eddy and Annie Crook remained in Gracie’s mind. She imagined the ordinary girl, not so very much better off than many Gracie herself might have passed on the streets of her own childhood—a little cleaner, a little better-spoken perhaps, but at heart expecting only a pedestrian life of work and marriage, and more work.
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 whol
e 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.