The Whitechapel Conspiracy (44 page)

Charlotte stood up too, her head swimming, her thoughts in chaos, but at the brilliant, blazing core of her lay one piece of certainty—Charles Voisey was at the heart of the conspiracy! He knew those papers more intimately than they did. Juno had
mentioned a presidency, but she had said nothing of a senate. Nothing of doing away with the Lords and Commons.

“Mrs. Pitt …” His voice cut across her thoughts.

“Mr. Voisey,” she replied, knowing she sounded awkward, preoccupied in a way for which there was no reason. He was staring at her, his clever eyes studying every expression of her face. Did he guess she knew?

“Perhaps you are right.” She forced the words out. Let him think she was disappointed because it would have vindicated Pitt. He hated Pitt. He would believe that. They must get out of here, away from him. Get home safely.

Safely! Martin Fetters had been murdered in his own library. She would have to tell Juno, get her to leave London and go to the country somewhere, completely anonymous. Never be found until they could protect her, or it no longer mattered.

“I believe so,” he said with a twisted smile. “It would do more harm than the good of restoring Adinett’s good name … which he was prepared to forfeit for his country’s sake.”

“Yes, I see that.” She moved towards the door, but she must go slowly, in spite of the almost overwhelming desire to hurry, even to run. He must not guess she knew. He must not sense fear. She actually stopped and allowed him to come closer to her, before going forward to follow Juno into the hall.

It seemed as if they would never reach the front door and the night air.

Juno stopped again to bid him good-bye and thank him for his advice.

Then at last they were outside in the coach and moving away.

“Thank God!” Charlotte breathed.

“Thank God?” Juno asked, her voice tired, disappointed.

“He knew about the senate,” Charlotte replied. “You didn’t mention it.”

Juno reached out and gripped her in the dark, her fingers digging into Charlotte’s flesh, locked tight in terror.

“You must leave London,” Charlotte said grimly. “Tonight. He knows you have read the book. Don’t tell anyone where you go. Send a message to Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould—not to me!”

“Yes … yes, I will. God, what have we fallen into?” She did not let go of Charlotte’s arm as they drove through the night.

13

V
ESPASIA STOOD
in the morning room staring out of the window at the yellow roses in full bloom at the far side of the lawn. The moment had come when she could no longer avoid facing the question which hurt her the most profoundly. She was afraid of what the answer would be, but she had always believed courage to be the cornerstone of all virtues. Without it integrity perished; even love could not survive, because love was risk, and somewhere, at some time or place, it would always hurt.

She had loved Mario for half a century. It had brought her the deepest, most complete joy and the greatest pain she had known—but never disillusion. She tried to tell herself it would not do so now.

She was still there when the maid came to say that Mrs. Pitt had called to see her.

For once Vespasia would have preferred to not be interrupted. It was an excuse to put the issue from her mind, but she did not wish for one. It changed nothing. But she would not refuse Charlotte.

“Invite her to come in,” she replied, turning away from the roses. It must be something urgent to bring Charlotte at such an early hour. It was barely past breakfast.

As soon as she saw Charlotte’s face she knew her assumption was correct. The younger woman was pale except for two bright splashes of color on her cheeks, as if she were feverish, and she came into the room in a hurry and closed the door
behind her. She rushed straight into speech with barely a gesture to her usual courtesy.

“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 was 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.