The Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  Cornwallis handed him a slip of paper with an address written on it—14 Lake Street, Mile End, New Town. It was on the edge of the Spitalfields area. “But go home first, collect what clothes you’ll need, and personal things. Be careful what you tell Charlotte ... Don’t ...” He stopped, changing his mind about what he meant to say. “There are anarchists,” he said instead. “Real ones, with dynamite.”

  “Maybe they’re planning something here.”

  “I suppose that’s possible. After Bloody Sunday in Trafalgar Square, not much would surprise me. Although that was four years ago.”

  Pitt walked to the door. “I know you did what you could.” It was difficult to speak. “The Inner Circle is a secret disease. I knew that ... I’d just forgotten.” And without waiting for Cornwallis to answer, he went out and down the stairs, oblivious of the men he passed, not even hearing those who spoke to him.

  •

  He dreaded telling Charlotte, therefore the only way to do it was immediately. “What is it?” she said as he came into the kitchen. She was standing at the big, black cooking stove. The room was full of sunlight and the smell of fresh bread, and clean linen on the airing rails hauled up to the ceiling. There was blue-and-white china on the Welsh dresser and a bowl full of fruit in the center of the scrubbed wooden table. Archie, the marmalade-and-white cat, was lying in the empty laundry basket washing himself, and his brother Angus was creeping hopefully along the window ledge towards the milk jug by Charlotte’s elbow.

  The children were at school, and Gracie must be upstairs or out on some errand. This was the home he loved, everything that made life good. After the horror and tragedy of crime, it was coming back here with its laughter and sanity, the knowledge that he was loved, that took the poison out of the wounds of the day.

  How would he manage without it? How would he manage without Charlotte?

  For a moment he was filled with a blinding rage against the secret men who had done this to him. It was monstrous that from the safety of anonymity they could rob him of the things he held dearest, that they could invade his life and scatter it like dry grass, without being accountable to anyone. He wanted to do the same to them, but face-to-face, so they would know why, and he could see it in their eyes as they understood.

  “Thomas, what is it?” Her voice was sharp with fear. She had swung around from the stove, the oven cloth in her hand, and was staring at him. He was dimly aware that Angus had reached the milk and was beginning to lap it.

  “They’ve put me into Special Branch,” he replied.

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “What does that mean? Who are Special Branch?”

  “They work against bombers and anarchists,” he replied. “Mostly Fenians to begin with, until last year. Now it’s anyone who wants to cause riot or political assassination.”

  “Why is that so terrible?” She was looking at his face, reaching his emotions rather than the words he had said. She was not doubting the pain of it, only the reason.

  “I shan’t be in Bow Street anymore. Not with Cornwallis. I’ll work for a man called Narraway ... in Spitalfields.”

  She frowned. “Spitalfields? The East End? You mean you’ll have to travel to the Spitalfields police station every day?”

  “No ... I’ll have to live in Spitalfields, as an ordinary person.

  Slowly understanding dawned in her eyes, then loneliness and anger.

  “But that’s ... monstrous!” she said incredulously. “They can’t do that! It’s totally unjust! What are they afraid of? Do they think a few anarchists are really going to put all London in danger?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with catching anarchists,” he explained. “It’s about punishing me because John Adinett is part of the Inner Circle, and I gave the evidence that will get him hanged.”

  Her face tightened, her lips pale. “Yes, I know. Are they listening to people like Cleave, in the newspaper? That’s ridiculous! Adinett was guilty—that’s not your fault!”

  He said nothing.

  “All right.” She turned away, her voice thick with tears. “I know that has nothing to do with it. Can’t anyone help? It’s so unjust.” She swung back. “Perhaps Aunt Vespasia ...”

  “No.” The ache inside him was almost intolerable. He stared at her face, flushed with anger and despair, her hair escaping its pins, her eyes full of tears. How was he going to bear living in Spitalfields, alone, not seeing her at the end of every day, not sharing a joke or an idea, or even arguing an opinion, above all not touching her, feeling the warmth of her in his arms?

  “It won’t be forever.” He said it as much to himself as to her. He had to look to a time beyond this, whenever it might be. He would not endure this a day longer than he had to. There would be some way of fighting it ... in time.

  She sniffed hard. Her eyes brimmed over and she hunted through her apron pockets for a handkerchief. She found one and blew her nose fiercely.

  He was suddenly undecided. He had thought since before he came into the kitchen that he would pack his things and leave straightaway, not dragging out good-byes. Now he wanted to stay as long as he could, hold her in his arms, and since the house was empty, even go upstairs and make love for what would be the last time for as long as he could foresee.

  Would that make it better ... or worse, harder when the time came, as it would—soon?

  In the end he did not think about it at all, he simply clung to her, kissed her, held her so tightly she cried out against it and he let her go, but only an inch or two, only enough not to hurt. Then he took her upstairs.

  •

  After he was gone, Charlotte sat in front of the bedroom mirror brushing her hair. She had to take out the few pins that remained and redo it anyway. She looked dreadful. Her eyes were red and still burning with tears, although now they were also of anger, as well as shock and loneliness.

  She heard the front door close, and Gracie’s footsteps along the hall.

  Quickly she wound up her hair and repinned it rather wildly, then went down and into the kitchen.

  Gracie was standing in the middle of the room.

  “Wotever’s ’appened?” she said in dismay. “Yer new bread’s ruined. Look at it.” Then she realized it was something far more serious. “S’it Mr. Pitt? S’e ’urt?” All the color drained from her face.

  “No!” Charlotte answered quickly. “He’s all right. I mean, he isn’t hurt.”

  “Wot then?” Gracie demanded. Her whole body was rigid, her shoulders hunched tight, her small hands clenched.

  Charlotte deliberately sat down on one of the chairs. This was not something to tell in a few words. “They’ve dismissed him from Bow Street and sent him into Special Branch, in the East End.” She never thought of not confiding in Gracie. Gracie had been with them for eight years, since she had been a thirteen-year-old waif, undernourished and illiterate, but with a sharp tongue and a will to improve herself. To her, Pitt was the finest man in the world, and the very best at his job. She considered herself better than any other maid in Bloomsbury because she worked for him. She pitied those who worked for mere useless lords. They had no excitement, no purpose in life.

  “Wot’s Special Branch?” she asked suspiciously. “W’y ’im?”

  “It used to be about the Irish bombers,” Charlotte said, explaining the little she knew. “Now it’s more about anarchists in general, and nihilists, I believe.”

  “Wot’s them?”

  “Anarchists are people who want to get rid of all governments and create chaos—”

  “Yer don’t ’ave ter get rid o’ governments ter do that,” Gracie said with scorn. “Wot’s them other ‘ists?”

  “Nihilists? People who want to destroy everything.”

  “That’s daft! What’s the point o’ that? Then yer got nuffink yerself!”

  “Yes, it is daft,” Charlotte agreed. “I don’t think they have much sense, just anger.”

  “So is Mr. Pitt goin’ ter stop ’em, then?”
Gracie looked a little more hopeful.

  “He’s going to try, but he has to find them first. That’s why he’s going to have to live in Spitalfields.”

  Gracie was aghast. “Live! They in’t never gonna make ’im live in Spitalfields? Don’ they know wot kind of a place that is? Blimey, it’s the dregs o’ the East End there. Filthy, it is, and stinkin’ o’ Gawd knows wot! Nobody’s safe from nuffink, not robbers nor murderers nor sickness nor bein’ set on in the dark.” Her voice rose higher and higher. “They got the fevers an’ the pox an’ everything else besides. Dynamite some o’ them places there an’ yer’d be doin’ the world a favor. Yer’ll ’ave ter tell ’em it in’t right. ’Oo der they think ’e is? Some kind o’ useless rozzer?”

  “They know what it’s like there,” Charlotte said, misery overwhelming her again. “That’s why they’re doing it. It’s a kind of punishment for finding the evidence against John Adinett and swearing to it in court. He’s not head of Bow Street anymore.”

  Gracie hunched into herself as if she had been beaten. She looked very small and thin. She had seen too much injustice to question its reality.

  “That’s wicked,” she said quietly. “It’s real wrong. But I s’pose if them toffs is after ’im, ’an ’e got one of ’em wot ’e ’ad comin’ ter ’im, then ’e’s safest out o’ their way, w’ere they can’t see ’im, like. I s’pose they’ll pay ’im, won’t they, in this Branch wotever?”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t know how much.” That was something Charlotte had not even thought of. Trust Gracie to be practical. She had been poor too often to forget it. She had known the kind of cold that makes you feel sick, the hunger where you eat scraps that other people throw away, when one slice of bread is wealth and nobody even imagines tomorrow, let alone next week.

  “It will be enough!” she said more forcefully. “No luxuries, maybe, but food. And the summer’s coming, so we won’t need anything like as much coal. Just no new dresses for a while, and no new toys or books.”

  “An’ no mutton,” Gracie added. “ ’Errings is good. An’ oysters is cheap. An’ I know w’ere yer can get good bones fer soup an’ the like. We’ll be o’right.” She drew in a deep breath. “But it still in’t fair!”

  •

  It was difficult to explain to the children too. Jemima at ten and a half was already growing tall and slim and had lost a little of her roundness of face. It was possible to see in her a shadow of the woman she would become.

  Daniel, at eight, was sturdier of build and very definitely a child. His features were developing strength, but his skin was soft and the hair curled at the back of his head exactly the way Pitt’s did.

  Charlotte had tried to tell them that their father would not be home again for a long time in such a way that they understood it was not of his choosing, that he would miss them terribly.

  “Why?” Jemima said immediately. “If he doesn’t want to go, why does he do it?” She was fighting against accepting, her whole face full of resentment.

  “We all have to do things we don’t wish to sometimes,” Charlotte answered. She tried to keep her voice level, knowing that both children would pick up her emotions as much as her words. She must do all she could to disguise from them her own distress. “It is a matter of what is right, what has to be done.”

  “But why does he have to do it?” Jemima persisted. “Why couldn’t someone else? I don’t want him to go away.”

  Charlotte touched her gently. “Neither do I. But if we make a fuss it will only be harder for him. I told him we would look after each other, and would miss him, but we’d be all right until he comes back.”

  Jemima thought a few moments about that, uncertain if she was going to accept it or not.

  “Is he after bad men?” Daniel spoke for the first time.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said quickly. “They must be stopped, and he is the best person to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s very clever. Other people have been trying for a while, and they haven’t managed to do it, so they’ve sent for Papa.”

  “I see. Then I suppose we’ll be all right.” He thought for a few minutes more. “Is it dangerous?”

  “He’s not going to fight them,” she said with more assurance than she felt. “He’s just going to find out who they are.”

  “Isn’t he going to stop them?” Daniel asked reasonably, his brow puckered up.

  “Not by himself,” she explained. “He’ll tell other policemen, and they’ll all do it together.”

  “Are you sure?” He knew she was worried, even though he was uncertain why.

  She made herself smile. “Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

  He nodded, satisfied. “But I’ll miss him.”

  She forced the smile to remain. “So will I.”

  •

  Pitt went by train straight to the address to the north of Spitalfields that Cornwallis had given him. It proved to be a small house behind a shop. Victor Narraway was waiting for him. Pitt saw that he was a lean man with a shock of dark hair, threaded with gray, and a face in which the intelligence was dangerously obvious. He could not be inconspicuous once one met his eyes.

  He surveyed Pitt with interest.

  “Sit down,” he ordered, indicating the plain wooden chair opposite him. The room was very sparsely furnished, with no more than a chest with drawers, all of which were locked, a small table, and two chairs. Probably it had originally been a scullery.

  Pitt obeyed. He was dressed in his oldest clothes, the ones he used when he wished to go into the poorer areas unnoticed. It was a long time since he had last found it necessary. These days he employed other people for such tasks. He felt uncomfortable, dirty, and at a complete disadvantage. It was as if his years of success had been swept away, nothing but a dream, or a wish.

  “Can’t see that you’ll be a great deal of use to me,” Narraway said grimly. “But I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, I suppose. You’ve been foisted on me, so I’d better make the best of it. I thought you were noted for your handling of scandal among the gentry. Spitalfields doesn’t seem like your patch.”

  “It isn’t,” Pitt said grudgingly. “Mine was Bow Street.”

  “And where the hell did you learn to speak like that?” Narraway’s eyebrows rose. His own voice was good—he had the diction of birth and education—but it was not better than Pitt’s.

  “I was taught in the schoolroom along with the son of the house,” Pitt replied, remembering it sharply even now, the sunlight through the windows, the tutor with his cane and his eyeglasses, the endless repetitions until he was satisfied. Pitt had resented it at first, then become fascinated. Now he was grateful.

  “Fortunate for you,” Narraway said with a tight smile. “Well, if you’re going to be any use here, you’ll have to unlearn it, and rapidly. You look like a peddler or a vagrant, and you sound like a refugee from the Athenaeum!”

  “I can sound like a peddler if I want to,” Pitt retorted. “Not a local one, but I’d be a fool to try that. They’ll know their own.”

  Narraway’s expression eased for the first time, and a glint of acceptance shone for an instant in his eyes. It was a first step, no more. He nodded.

  “Most of the rest of London has no idea how serious it is,” he said grimly. “They all know there is unrest. It’s more than that.” He was watching Pitt closely. “We are not talking of the odd lunatic with a stick of dynamite, although we’ve certainly got them too.” A brief flicker of irony crossed his face. “Only a month or two ago we had a man who tried to flush dynamite down the lavatory and blocked the drains up until his landlady complained. The workmen who took up the drains and found it had no idea what it was. Some poor fool thought it would be useful to mend cracks in something or other, and put it on the floor of his loft to dry out, and blew the whole place to smithereens. Took half the house away.”

  It was farce, but bitter and deadly. One laughed at the absurdity of it, but the tragedy was left
.

  “If it’s not the odd nihilist achieving his ambition,” Pitt asked, “then what is it we are really looking for?”

  Narraway smiled, relaxing a little. He settled in his chair, crossing his legs. “We’ve always had the Irish problem, and I don’t imagine it’ll go away, but for the moment it is not our main concern. There are still Fenians around, but we arrested quite a few last year, and they’re fairly quiet. There is strong anti-Catholic feeling in general.”

  “Dangerous?”

  He looked at Pitt’s expression of doubt. “Not in itself,” he said tartly. “You have a lot to learn. Start by being quiet and listening! Get something to do to explain your existence. Walk ’round the streets here. Keep your eyes open and your mouth closed. Listen to the idle talk, hear what is said and what isn’t. There’s an anger in the air that wasn’t here ten years ago, or perhaps fifteen. Remember Bloody Sunday in ‘88, and the murders in Whitechapel that autumn? It’s four years later now, and four years worse.”

  Of course Pitt remembered the summer and autumn of ‘88. Everyone did. But he had not realized the situation was still so close to violence. He had imagined it one of those sporadic eruptions which happens from time to time and then dies down again. Part of him wondered if Narraway were over dramatizing it, perhaps to make his own role more important. There was much rivalry within the different branches of those who enforced the law, each guarding his own realm and trying to increase it at the cost of others.

  Narraway read his face as if he had spoken.

  “Don’t rush to judgment, Pitt. Be skeptical, by all means, but do as you are told. I don’t know whether Donaldson was right about you or not on the witness stand, but you’ll obey me while you’re in Special Branch or I’ll have you out on your ear so fast you’ll fetch up living in Spitalfields or its like permanently, and your family with you! Am I clear enough for you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pitt answered, still hideously aware of what a dangerous path he trod. He had no friends, and far too many enemies. He could not afford to give Narraway any excuse to throw him out.