by Anne Perry
Juno held out a letter from the pile she had taken, her eyes filled with distress. It was from Adinett. Charlotte read:
My dear Martin,
What a marvelous piece you have written. I cannot praise you enough for the passion you display. It would be a man devoid of all that distinguishes the civilized from the barbaric who would not be fired by what you have said, and determined at all costs to spend all his strength and his substance in creating a better world.
I have shown it to various people, whom I will not name, for reasons you will know, and they are as profound in their admiration as I am.
I feel there is real hope. It is no longer a time merely of dreams.
I shall see you on Saturday.
John
Charlotte looked up.
Juno stared at her, her eyes wide and hurt. Then she passed over a sheaf of notes for further articles.
Charlotte read them with growing misgiving, then alarm. The mention of reform became more and more specific. The Roman revolution of ‘48 was referred to with passionate praise. The ancient Roman Republic was held as an ideal and kings as the pattern of tyranny. The invitation to a modern republic, after the overthrow of the monarchy, was unmistakable.
There were oblique references to a secret society whose members were dedicated to the continuation of the royal house in its power and wealth, by any means at all, and the implication was there that even the shedding of blood was not beyond them if the threat was serious enough.
Charlotte put down the final sheet and looked across at Juno, who sat white-faced, her shoulders slumped.
“Is that possible?” Juno asked hoarsely. “Do you think they really planned a republic here in England?”
“Yes ...” It seemed a brutal answer, but a denial would have been a lie neither of them could have believed.
Juno sat quite still, leaning a little on the desk, as if she needed its strength to support her. “After ... after the Queen dies?”
“Perhaps.”
Juno shook her head. “That’s too soon. It could be any day. She’s into her seventies. What about the Prince of Wales? What are they going to do about him?”
“There’s nothing said here,” Charlotte answered very quietly. “I think they would be too careful to commit that to writing, if there is a plan, not just dreaming. Especially if there is a secret society, as they say.”
“I understand reform.” Juno searched for words. “I want it too. There’s terrible poverty and injustice. Funny how they don’t mention women.” She tried to smile, but it was too difficult. “They don’t say anything about us having more rights or more voice in decisions, even for our own children.” She shook her head, her lips quivering. “But I don’t want this!” She gestured with one hand as if to push it away. “I know Martin admired republics, their ideals, their equality, but I never had the slightest idea he wanted one for us! I don’t ... I don’t want so much change.” She gulped. “Not so violently. I like too much of what we have. It is who we are ... who we have always been.” She looked at Charlotte pleadingly, willing her to understand.
“But we are the fortunate ones,” Charlotte pointed out. “And we are a very small minority.”
“Is that why he was killed?” Juno asked the question that hung between them. “Adinett was actually a member of this other society, the secret one, and he murdered Martin because of this ... plan for a republic?”
“It would explain why he said nothing, even in his own defense.” Charlotte’s mind was racing. Was the Inner Circle monarchist? Was that what it was about, and Adinett had discovered what his friend planned, that his idealism was not merely about the glories of the past or the tragedies of ‘48, but meant something urgent and immediate for the future?
Even if it were true, how could that help Thomas?
Juno was still sitting and staring across the room. Something inside her had crumbled. The man she had loved for so many years had suddenly moved, revealing another dimension which altered everything that was already perceived, making it radically different, dangerous ... perhaps irredeemably ugly.
Charlotte was sorry, desperately sorry, and she wanted to say so, but that would be condescending, as if she had uncovered this situation alone, relegating Juno to a spectator, a sufferer, not a protagonist.
“Do you have a safe?” she said aloud.
“Do you think there’s more in it?” Juno asked miserably.
“I don’t know, but I think you should keep these letters and papers there, since this drawer won’t lock anymore. You shouldn’t destroy them yet, because we are only guessing what they mean. We may be wrong.”
There was no light in Juno’s eyes. “You don’t believe that, and neither do I. Martin cared intensely about reform. Even now I can look back and remember things he said about republics as opposed to monarchies. I’ve heard him criticize the Prince of Wales and the Queen. He said that if the Queen had been answerable to the people of Britain, like any other holder of office, she would have been dismissed years ago. Who else can afford to abandon their job because they lost a husband or wife?”
“No one,” Charlotte agreed. “And there are plenty of other people who say the same. I think I do myself. That doesn’t mean I would rather have a republic ... or even if I would, that I would do anything to make that happen.”
Juno gathered the papers together, frowning slightly. “There’s no proof in these,” she said quietly, as if the words hurt her and she had to force them out.
Charlotte waited, uncertain, her mind fumbling towards the next conclusion. Before she reached it Juno spoke.
“There are other papers somewhere, ones that are more specific. I have to find them. I have to know what he meant to do ... as if it were only what he wished for.”
Charlotte felt the tightness inside her. “Are you sure?”
“Wouldn’t you have to know?” Juno asked.
“Yes ... I ... I think so. But I meant are you sure there is anything more to find?”
“Oh, yes.” There was no doubt in Juno’s voice. “These are only bits of something, notes. I may be entirely wrong about what Martin was working on, but I know the way he worked. He was meticulous. He never trusted solely to memory.”
“Where would it be?”
“I don’t—”
They were interrupted by the maid, who had come to say that Mr. Reginald Cleave had called, and begged her pardon for the inconvenience of the hour, but he would very much like to see her, and commitments he could not escape made the traditional time impossible for him.
Juno looked startled. She turned to Charlotte.
“I’ll wait wherever you wish,” Charlotte said quickly.
Juno swallowed. “I will receive him in the withdrawing room,” she told the maid. “Give me five minutes, then show him in.” As soon as the maid had gone she turned to Charlotte. “What on earth can he want? He defended Adinett!”
“You don’t have to see him.” Charlotte spoke out of compassion, but she knew it was the refusal of an opportunity to learn more. Juno was exhausted, frightened of what she might discover, and profoundly alone. “I’ll go and tell him you are unwell if you wish.”
“No ... no. But I should be grateful if you would remain with me. I think that would be quite seemly, don’t you?”
Charlotte smiled. “Of course.”
Cleave looked startled when he was shown in and saw two women present. It was immediately apparent that he had not met Juno before and was for a moment uncertain which she was.
“I am Juno Fetters,” Juno said coolly. “This is my friend, Mrs. Pitt.” There was a challenge in her voice, the lift of her chin. He must remember the name and not fail to associate it.
Charlotte saw the recognition in his eyes, and the flare of anger.
“How do you do, Mrs. Fetters. Mrs. Pitt. I had no idea you were acquainted.” He bowed very slightly.
Charlotte regarded him with interest. He was not particularly tall but he gave an impression of
great size because of his powerful shoulders and heavy neck. It was not a face she liked, but there was no mistaking the intelligence in it, or the immense strength of will. Was he no more than a passionate advocate who had lost a case, he believed unjustly? Or was he a member of a secret and violent society prepared to commit private murder or public riot and insurrection to achieve its ideals?
She looked at his face, his eyes, and had no idea.
“What may I do for you, Mr. Gleave?” Juno asked with a little shiver in her voice.
Gleave’s eyes moved from Charlotte’s back to hers.
“First, may I offer my condolences upon your loss, Mrs. Fetters? Your husband was a fine man in every respect. No one else’s grief can match yours, of course; nevertheless, we are all the poorer for his passing. He was a man of high morality and great intellectual gifts.”
“Thank you,” she said politely, her expression almost bordering on impatience. They both knew he had not come to tell her this. It would have been better said in correspondence, more memorable and less intrusive.
Gleave lowered his gaze, as if he felt awkward.
“Mrs. Fetters, I care very much that you should know that I defended John Adinett because I believed him innocent, not because were he guilty I would have imagined any excuse whatever for what he did.” He looked up quickly. “I still find it almost impossible to imagine that he could have done such a thing. There could have been ... no ... reason!”
Charlotte realized with a shiver that he was watching Juno intently, his eyes fixed upon her face so completely he must see even the faintest flicker of breath, the wavering of her gaze for an instant. He watched as an animal watches its prey. He had come to learn how much she knew, if she had found anything, guessed or suspected.
Charlotte willed Juno to tell him nothing, to be bland, innocent, even stupid if necessary. Should she intervene, take matters into her own hands? Or would that tell him she was afraid, which could only be because she knew something? She drew in her breath and let it out again.
“No,” Juno said slowly. “Of course he wouldn’t. I admit, I don’t understand it either.” She allowed herself to relax, deliberately, starting with her hands. She even smiled very slightly. “I always saw them as the best of friends.” She added nothing more, leaving him to pick up the thread.
It was not what he had expected. For a moment uncertainty flashed in his face, then it was gone. His expression eased.
“That is what you saw also?” He smiled back at her, avoiding Charlotte’s gaze. “I wondered if perhaps you had any perception as to what may have gone so tragically wrong ... not evidence, of course,” he added hastily, “or you would have spoken of it to the appropriate authorities. Just thoughts, intuition even, born of your understanding of your husband.”
Juno said nothing.
Gleave’s voice was unctuous, but Charlotte saw the flash of doubt again. He had not expected the conversation to go this way. He was not controlling it as he had intended. Juno was obliging him to speak more because she offered less. Now he had to explain his interest.
“I apologize for pursuing it, Mrs. Fetters. The case troubles me still because it seems so ... unresolved. I ...” He shook his head a little. “I feel as if I failed.”
“I think we all failed to understand, Mr. Gleave,” Juno replied. “I wish I could clarify it for you, but I am afraid I cannot.”
“It must be very troubling for you also.” His voice was full of sympathy. “It is part of grief to wish to understand.”
“You are very kind,” she said simply.
A flare of interest quickened in him, so faint as to be almost indiscernible, but Charlotte knew Juno had made a mistake. She had been careful rather than frank. Should she intervene? Or would that only make it worse? Again she hovered on the edge of speech. What was Gleave? Simply a defense lawyer who had lost a client he felt to be innocent, and perhaps for which his peers held him accountable? Or a member of a powerful and terrible secret society, here to judge how much the widow knew, if there were papers, evidence they needed to destroy?
“I confess,” Juno went on suddenly, “I should like to know why ... what ...” She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears. “Why Martin died. And I don’t! It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
Gleave responded the only way possible to him. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Fetters. I did not mean to distress you. It was clumsy of me to have raised the subject at all. Do forgive me.”
She shook her head. “I understand, Mr. Gleave. You had faith in your client. You must be distressed also. There is nothing to forgive. In truth, I would have liked to ask you if you know the reason, but of course even if you did, you would not be free to say so. Now at least you have made it plain you know no more than I do. I am grateful for that. Perhaps now I shall be able to let it go and think of other things.”
“Yes ... yes, that would be best,” he agreed, and for the first time he looked fully at Charlotte. His eyes were dark, clever, searching her mind, perhaps warning her also.
“Delighted to have met you, Mrs. Pitt.” He added nothing more, but meanings unsaid hung in the air.
“And you, Mr. Gleave,” she responded charmingly.
As soon as he was gone and the door closed behind him, Juno turned to her. Her face was pale and her body was trembling.
“He wanted to know what we have found,” she said huskily. “That’s why he came ... isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so,” Charlotte agreed. “Which means you are right in there is something more. And he doesn’t know where it is either ... but it matters!”
Juno shivered. “Then we must find it! Will you help me?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. I shall think where to look. Now, would you like a cup of tea? I would!”
•
Charlotte had not told Vespasia what had happened to Pitt. At first she was embarrassed to, although it was in no way due to his negligence, rather the opposite. Still, she felt it a blow she would rather not allow anyone else to know of, particularly someone whose opinion Pitt cared about as much as he did Vespasia’s.
However, now the whole matter had become one she was unable to carry alone, and there was no one else she could trust both as to loyalty and ability to understand the issues and be able to advise on what next to do.
Therefore she arrived on Vespasia’s doorstep the morning after having visited Juno Fetters. She was shown in by the maid. Vespasia was at breakfast, and invited Charlotte to join her in the yellow-and-gold breakfast room, at least for tea.
“You look a little harassed, my dear,” she observed gently, spreading her wafer-thin toast with a smear of butter and a large dollop of apricot preserves. “I presume you have come to tell me about it?”
Charlotte was glad not to pretend. “Yes. Actually it happened three weeks ago, but I only realized how serious it was yesterday. I really have no idea what to do.”
“Does Thomas not have an opinion?” Vespasia frowned and allowed her toast to go unregarded.
“Thomas has been removed from Bow Street and put into Special Branch to work in Spitalfields.” Charlotte let the words pour out with all the distress she felt, the wondering and the fear she had to hide from the children, even in part from Gracie.
“Worst of all, he has to live there. I haven’t seen him. I can’t even write to him because I don’t know where he is! He writes to me—but I can’t answer!”
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Vespasia said, sorrow filling her face. If she was angry also, it came second. She had seen too much injustice to be surprised anymore.
“It is partly in revenge for his testimony against John Adinett,” Charlotte explained. “And partly to protect him ... from the Inner Circle.”
“I see.” Vespasia bit into the toast delicately. The maid brought fresh tea and poured it for Charlotte.
When the maid had gone, Charlotte resumed her story. She told Vespasia how she had determined to find the motive for Martin Fet
ters’s death, and had gone to visit Juno for that purpose. She recounted as exactly as she could recall what she had read in the papers in Fetters’s desk, and then spoke of Gleave’s visit.
Vespasia remained silent for several minutes.
“This is extremely unpleasant,” she said at length. “You are quite right to be afraid. It is also highly dangerous. I am inclined to share your opinion as to the purpose of Reginald Gleave’s visit to Mrs. Fetters. We must assume that he has a profound vested interest in the matter and may be prepared to pursue it regardless of what means may be necessary.”
“Including violence?” Charlotte made it only half a question.
Vespasia made no pretense. “Assuredly, if there is no other opportunity open to him. You must be extremely discreet.”
Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. “Anyone else would have said I must leave it alone.”
The light shone in Vespasia’s silver eyes. “And would you have?”
“No ...”
“Good. If you had said yes it would either have been a lie, and I should not care to be lied to, or it would have been the truth, and I should have been very disappointed in you.” She leaned forward a little across the polished table. “But I mean the warning very seriously, Charlotte. I am not certain how much there is at stake, but I think it is a very great deal. The Prince of Wales is ill-advised, at best. At worst he is a spendthrift and careless of his reputation for financial honesty. Victoria has long since lost her sense of duty. Between them they have invited republican sentiment to flourish, and it has done so. I had not realized it was so close to violence, or involved men as much admired as Martin Fetters. But what you have discovered would explain his death as nothing else so far has done.”
Charlotte realized she had been half hoping Vespasia would say she was mistaken, that there was some other, more personal answer, and society as they were familiar with it was in no danger. Her agreement swept away the last pretense.
“Is it the Inner Circle who support the monarchy at any cost?” Charlotte asked, lowering her voice in spite of the fact there was no one to overhear them.
