by Anne Perry
They stood side by side reading a random page:
The evidence of the loan has, of course, been carefully laid. It will all be in his letter, which will be found on his death. As soon as it is known, the journalist will be given the final piece of proof on the Whitechapel story.
The two together will accomplish all that is necessary.
Juno looked at Charlotte, her eyes questioning.
Charlotte’s mind was racing. She understood only part of it, but the reference to Remus was so clear it leaped out from the book, shaking a little in Juno’s hand.
“He knew about someone’s death in advance,” Juno said quietly. “This is part of the plan for the overthrow of the government, isn’t it?” Her voice challenged Charlotte to offer some comforting lie.
“It seems so,” Charlotte agreed, scrambling in her mind to know whom it referred to. “I know what the journalist is about, and you are right. It is part of the conspiracy for revolution.”
Juno said nothing. Her hands shook as she held the book up for Charlotte to read with her, and turned the page.
It was lists of figures of injured and dead in the various revolutions throughout Europe in 1848. From them were projected a new set of figures for probable deaths in London and the other major cities of England when revolution occurred there. The meaning was unmistakable.
Juno was sheet white, her eyes dark in the hollows of their sockets.
They only glanced at the next pages. They were plans and possibilities for redistributing wealth and properties confiscated from those who enjoyed them as hereditary privilege. The document was at least a dozen pages thick.
The last one was a proposed constitution for a new state, led by a president responsible to a senate, not unlike that of republican Rome before the Caesars. It was not set out in a formal way, rather more a matter of suggestions, but there seemed no doubt as to who the first president would be. The writer made reference to several of the great idealists of the past, most especially Mazzini and Mario Corena, the idealist who had so magnificently failed in Rome. But the master himself intended to lead in England.
Charlotte did not need to ask if the handwriting was Martin Fetters’s; she knew it was not. There was no resemblance. Fetters’s writing was bold, flowing, a little untidy, as if his enthusiasm had run faster than the hand. This was precise, its capital letters only just larger than the rest, little slope to it, no space between one sentence and the next.
She looked up at Juno. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she had found this in Pitt’s room. It was passionate, idealistic, arbitrary, violent and utterly wrong. No reform should be brought about by the deception that was proposed here, fomenting riot built on rage and lies, no question of asking the people what they wanted, or telling everyone honestly what they would lose in order to gain it.
Charlotte turned to Juno and saw horror in her face, and bewilderment and grief that eclipsed all the pain of the past few days.
“I was wrong,” she whispered. “I didn’t know him at all. What he planned was monstrous. He—he lost all his true idealism. I know he thought it was for people’s good. He loathed any form of tyranny ... but he never asked if they wanted a republic, or if they were prepared to die for it. He decided for them. That’s not freedom; it’s just another form of tyranny.”
There was no argument that Charlotte could give, nor could she think of any comfort. What Juno had said was true: the plan was the ultimate arrogance, the final despotism, no matter how idealistically intended.
Juno stared into the distance, blinking away tears. “Thank you for not saying something trite,” she said at last.
Charlotte made the only decision she was certain of. “Let’s have the tea now. I feel as if I’ve been eating paper.”
Juno gave a half smile, and accepted. They went downstairs together and within five minutes Dora brought the tea tray. Neither of them spoke. There seemed nothing sensible to say until they had finished, and finally Juno put down her cup, rose and walked over towards the window. She stared out at the sun on the small patch of grass.
“I was uncomfortable with John Adinett. And I hated him for killing Martin,” she said slowly. “God forgive me, I was even glad when they hanged him.” Her body was rigid, her shoulders high, muscles locked. “But now I understand why he felt he had to. I ... hate this ... but I believe I should tell the truth.... It won’t bring Adinett back, but it will clear his name.”
Charlotte was not so certain what she felt. Overwhelming pity, and admiration definitely. But what about Pitt? Adinett was in some lights justified in killing Fetters, or at least understandable. If people had known at the trial why he had done it they would never have wanted him hanged. They might even blame Pitt for prosecuting him at all.
But then Adinett had refused to give even the slightest explanation. How could anyone know? Even Gleave had said nothing. Presumably he had not known. Then she remembered his face as he had pressed Juno for Martin’s papers. He had not threatened them in words, but it had been there in the air, and they had all felt it like a coldness in the bone.
He had known! Only he was on Fetters’s side! Poor Adinett ... there had been no one for him to turn to, no one to trust. Little wonder he had remained silent and gone to his death without attempting to save himself. He had known from the moment of his arrest that he had no chance of winning. He had acted to save his country from revolution, knowing it would cost him his life. He deserved the truth to vindicate him now, at the very least.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You are quite right. As Inspector Pitt’s wife, I should like to come with you, if I may?”
Juno turned around. “Yes, please. I was going to ask you anyway.”
“Who will you tell?”
“I have thought of that. Charles Voisey. He is a judge of appeal and was one of those who sat on the case. He is familiar with it all. I know him a little. I don’t know the others. I shall see if I can go this evening. I want to do it straightaway.... I—I’d find it very difficult to wait.”
“I understand,” Charlotte said quickly. “I shall be there.”
“I will call by in the carriage at half past seven, unless he is unable to see us. I shall let you know,” Juno promised.
Charlotte rose to her feet. “Then I shall be ready.”
•
They arrived at Charles Voisey’s house in Cavendish Square a little after eight, and were shown immediately into the splendid withdrawing room. It was decorated in mostly traditional style, of dark, warm colors, reds and soft golds, but with a startling addition of exquisite Arabic brasses, trays, jugs and vases, which caught the light on their engraved surfaces and simple lines.
Voisey received them with courtesy, his curiosity for their call concealed, but he made no pretense at superfluous conversation. When they were seated, and refreshment had been offered and declined, he turned to Juno enquiringly.
“How can I be of service to you, Mrs. Fetters?” Juno had already faced the worst in acknowledging to herself that Martin was not the man she had loved all the years of their marriage. Telling someone else was going to be difficult, but there were obvious ways in which, if she told the right person, it would be almost a relief.
“As I intimated to you on the telephone,” she began, sitting upright and facing him, “I have made a discovery in some of my husband’s papers which the police did not find because they were so cleverly concealed.”
Voisey stiffened very slightly. “Indeed? I assumed they had made a very thorough search.” His eyes flickered towards Charlotte, and then away again. She had the sensation that Pitt’s failure pleased him, and she had to make a deliberate effort not to defend him.
Juno did it for her. “They were bound into a book. He did his own binding, you know? He was very good at it. Unless you were to read every volume in the library there would be no way of being certain to find it.”
“And you did that?” There was a slight lift of surprise in his voice.
&nb
sp; She smiled bleakly. “I have nothing better to do.”
“Indeed ...” He allowed it to hang in the air, unfinished.
“I wished to know why John Adinett, whom I had always believed to be his friend, should kill him,” Juno went on levelly. “Now I do know, and I believe it is morally necessary that I should acknowledge it. It seemed to me you were the right person to tell.”
He sat quite still. He let out his breath slowly. “I see. And what did these papers say, Mrs. Fetters? I assume there is no doubt they are his?”
“They are not in his hand, but he bound them into a book and concealed them in his library,” she replied. “They were letters and memoranda in a cause in which he very obviously believed. I think when John Adinett found out, that was why he killed him.”
“That seems ... very extreme,” he said thoughtfully. Now he completely ignored Charlotte, concentrating his entire attention upon Juno. “If it was something of which Adinett disapproved so passionately, why did he not simply make it public? I assume it was illegal? Or at the least something which others could have prevented?”
“To make it public might have caused panic, even have provoked others of like mind,” she answered. “Certainly it would have caused England’s enemies great joy and perhaps suggested to them ways in which to damage us.”
Voisey was staring at her with increasing tension. When he spoke his voice was harder, anxiety edged in it. “And the reason you believe he did not report it to an appropriate authority, even discreetly?”
“Because he could not know who else was involved,” she replied. “You see, it is a wide conspiracy ...”
His eyebrows rose fractionally. His fingers tightened on each other. “A conspiracy? To do what, Mrs. Fetters?”
“To overthrow the government, Mr. Voisey,” she replied, her voice surprisingly flat for so extreme a statement. “By violent means—in short, to create a revolution which would bring down the monarchy and replace it with a republic.”
He sat silently for several moments before replying, as if he was completely stunned by what she had said and barely able to believe it.
“Are you ... quite sure, Mrs. Fetters? Could you not have misunderstood some writings on another country and assumed they were referring to England?” he said at last.
“I wish it were possible, believe me.” Her emotion was clear; he could not have doubted it. He turned to Charlotte.
She met his eyes and was aware of an intense intelligence—and a coldness of extraordinary, almost uncontrollable dislike. It startled her, and she found herself afraid. She could think of no reason for it. She had never met him before and certainly never done him harm.
He was speaking to her, his voice sharp.
“Have you seen these papers, Mrs. Pitt?”
“Yes.”
“And do you see in them the plans for revolution?”
“Yes, I am afraid I do.”
“How extraordinary that your husband did not find them, don’t you think?” Now the contempt in him was unmistakable, and she understood it was Pitt for whom he felt this emotion he could not conceal.
She was stung too. “I don’t imagine he was looking for plans to overthrow the monarchy and set up a new constitution,” she said coldly. “It would have been a more complete case if he could have found the motive, but it was not necessary. And then Adinett chose to go to the gallows rather than reveal it himself—which indicates how wide he believed the conspiracy to be. He knew of no one he dared trust, even to save his life.”
Voisey’s face was dark with blood under the skin, his eyes glittering.
Charlotte wondered how much he blamed himself, as a judge who had sat on the appeal, that he had condemned a man he now had to acknowledge as both a victim and a hero. She was sorry she had spoken so bluntly, but she could not bring herself to say so to him.
“And was he mistaken, Mrs. Pitt?” he said softly, his jaw tight. “If he had told the inspector his reason for killing Fetters, would he have met with belief and help?” He left the other half of the question unsaid.
“If you are asking if my husband is a revolutionary, or would have conspired with them—” She stopped, seeing his smile. She knew exactly what he was thinking: that Juno Fetters had believed in her husband’s innocence also—and been wrong. “I am certain he would have done what he could to expose the conspiracy,” she answered him. “But I take your point that he would not have known any better whom to trust. They would simply have destroyed the evidence, and him also. But he didn’t see it, so the question does not arise.”
He turned back to Juno, and his expression changed, the pity returned to it. “What have you done with this book, Mrs. Fetters?”
“I have it here,” she replied, offering it to him. “I believe that we should ... that I must ... see that Mr. Adinett’s name is vindicated and does not pass into history as that of a man who murdered his friend for no reason. I ... I wish I could avoid that, for my husband’s sake, but I cannot.”
“Are you certain?” he said gently. “Once you have put the proof into my hands I cannot give it back to you. I must act upon it. Are you sure you would not prefer to destroy it and keep your husband’s name as it is: that of a man who fought for the freedom of all men, in his own way?”
Juno hesitated.
“Will it really do good for the public to know that there are such men among them?” he went on. “Men you cannot name, and therefore the rest you cannot exclude, who would overthrow our Houses of Lords and of Commons, our monarchy, and set in their place a president and a senate, however reformed, whatever justice or equality it offered? Those are strange ideas to the man in the street, who does not understand them and who feels safe with what he is accustomed to, even with the ills and iniquities it sustains. John Adinett may well have kept silent because he knew what turmoil knowledge of such a conspiracy could cause, as well as not knowing whom he could trust. Have you considered that?”
“No,” Juno said in a whisper. “No, I had not thought of it. Perhaps you are right. Maybe ... if he were afraid to speak then, he would wish it kept silent now. He was a very fine man ... a great man. I see why it grieves you so much that he is dead. I am sorry, Mr. Voisey ... and ashamed.”
“You have no need to be,” he said with a brief smile, full of sadness. “It is not your fault. Yes, he was a great man, and maybe history will yet show him to be, but not yet, I think.”
Juno rose to her feet and walked over to the fireplace. Deliberately, she dropped the book into the flames. “I thank you profoundly for your advice, Mr. Voisey.” She looked across at Charlotte.
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.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Vespasia 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.
