Whitechapel Conspiracy

by Anne Perry

  “He’s a member of the Inner Circle,” Charlotte said with a shiver. “Isn’t the tea ready yet?”

  Gracie looked at her shrewdly, probably guessing how she felt, and poured it anyway. It was a little weak but the fragrance of it was easing, even while it was still too hot to drink.

  “Does that mean they can get away wi’ murder, an’ nuffink is supposed ter ’appen to ’em?” Gracie was clenched up with anger.

  “Yes, unless perhaps someone either brave or reckless gets in the way. Then they get rid of him too.” Charlotte tried to sip the tea, but knew she would burn herself, and more milk would spoil it.

  “So wot are we goin’ ter do?” Gracie stared at her with wide, unflinching eyes. “We gotter prove ’e were right. We dunno ’oo’s in this circle, but we know there’s more o’ us than there is o’ them.” It was not a possibility to her that Pitt could have been mistaken. It was not even worth denying it.

  Charlotte smiled in spite of the way she felt. Gracie’s loyalty was more of a restorative than the tea. She could not let her down by being less brave or less positive. She said the first thing that came into her mind, so as not to leave silence.

  “The thing that made this trial so different was that no one knew of any reason why Adinett should do it. The two men had been friends for years, and no one knew anything of a quarrel, that day or any other time. Some people couldn’t believe he had any reason, and all the evidence was about things, not feelings. They were a lot, when added together, but each one by itself didn’t seem much.” She sipped the tea. “And some of the witnesses retreated a bit when it came to swearing in court and sticking to their stories in spite of the defense lawyer’s cross-questioning them and trying to make them look foolish.”

  “So we gotta find out w’y ’e done it,” Gracie said simply. “ ’E must ’ave ’ad a reason. ’E wouldn’t ’a done it fer nuffink.”

  Charlotte was already beginning to think. Very little had come out in the newspapers about either man, except their general worthiness, their social standing and the incomprehensibility of the whole affair. If the evidence was right, and she did not question it, then there must be a great deal more to know, including something so monstrous and so ugly it had led to the murder of one of them and the sentence to death of the other. And yet it had remained totally hidden.

  “Why would a man who is going to be hanged not tell anyone, in his own defense, the reason he killed a friend?” she said aloud.

  “ ’Cos it don’t excuse ’im none,” Gracie answered. “If it did, ’e’d a’ said.”

  Charlotte followed her train of thought, sipping at the tea again. “Why do people kill friends, people they know but aren’t related to, can’t inherit money from, or aren’t in love with?”

  “Yer lash out ’cos yer ’ate someone or yer scared of ’em,” Gracie said reasonably. “Or they got suffink yer want an’ they won’t give it yer. Or yer crazy jealous.”

  “They didn’t hate each other,” Charlotte answered, reaching for the bread and the knife. “They had been friends for years, and no one knows of a quarrel.”

  “A woman?” Gracie suggested. “Mebbe Fetters caught ’im doin’ suffink wi’ Mrs. Fetters?”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Charlotte said thoughtfully, taking butter and marmalade. “He wouldn’t put that up as a defense because it isn’t. People would only think worse of him for it. Except he could say it wasn’t true, Fetters just imagined it, and accused him, wouldn’t listen to reason and attacked him.” She took a deep breath, and a bite of the bread, realizing she was hungry. “Except he’d hardly do it from on top of the library ladder, would he? I wouldn’t believe that if I were a juror.”

  “Yer wouldn’t be a juror,” Gracie pointed out. “Yer a woman. An’ yer’ve gotta ’ave yer own ’ouse an’ yer own money.”

  Charlotte did not bother to answer. “What about money?”

  Gracie shook her head. “I can’t fink o’ nuffink as I’d ’ave a quarrel about from the top o’ a set o’ steps, ’specially ones wot’s got w’eels on!”

  “Actually, neither can I,” Charlotte agreed. “Which means that whatever it was about, Adinett took a lot of trouble to conceal it and pretend he wasn’t involved. So it was something he was ashamed of.” They were back to the beginning.

  “We gotta find out more,” Gracie said. “An’ yer should ’ave a proper breakfast. D’yer want summink ’ot? I can make an egg on toast, if yer like?”

  “No, this is enough, thank you,” Charlotte declined. Maybe from now on they should not be so extravagant as to eat eggs except for the main meal. They were not working men, only women and children.

  Gracie was used to the practicalities of poverty and she accepted the answer without argument.

  “I think I’ll go and see Mrs. Fetters,” Charlotte said at last, when she had finished a third slice. “Thomas said she was very agreeable and believed absolutely that Adinett was guilty. She must want to know why her husband died almost as much as we do. I would!”

  “That’s a good idea.” Gracie started to clear away the dishes and put the butter and marmalade back in the pantry. “She’s gotta know suffink about Adinett, and lots about ’er ’usband, poor soul. I reckon as mournin’ must be awful. If I’d jus’ lost someone as I loved, I’d ’ate ter sit around by meself in an ’ouse all muffled up, winders dark, mirrers covered an’ clocks stopped, like I was dead meself! Wearin’ black’d be bad enough. I wore black fer me granddad’s burial, an’ ’ad ter slap meself silly ter get a bit o’ color in me face, or I’d a bin scared they’d a put me in the ’ole, not ’im.”

  Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. She stood up and poured a little milk into a saucer for Archie and Angus, then scraped the remainder of last night’s shepherd’s pie into their dish, and they descended on it, purring in anticipation and winding around her ankles.

  After she had made sure that Gracie had everything she needed for the day, she went upstairs again. Actually, Gracie had seemed unusually settled about her chores, almost as if she had already sorted them in her mind and was uninterested in them. But they were the last thing on Charlotte’s mind either, so it hardly mattered.

  She changed her clothes, having selected very carefully from her wardrobe a well-fitting dress of a soft, deep aqua shade. It was very flattering—the reason she had chosen it—but also discreet. She had selected it so it would last several seasons, but that meant it was also not unsuitable for visiting someone in mourning. Prints or yellow would have been insensitive.

  She dressed her hair with considerable flair. It had taken her a long time to learn to do this well for herself, but if one’s hair looked good, then the rest of one had an excellent chance. Good posture and a smile could achieve most of the rest.

  She took the omnibus and then walked. Money should be guarded, and it was a perfectly pleasant day. Of course she knew from Pitt where Martin Fetters had lived, and the newspapers had made the address famous anyway. It was on Great Coram Street, between Woburn Place and Brunswick Square, a handsome house no different from its neighbors except for the drawn curtains. If there had been straw in the street to muffle the passing carriages at the time of Fetters’s death, it was not there now.

  She went up the steps without hesitation and knocked on the door. She had no real idea whether Mrs. Fetters would welcome her, or be so deep in grief she would consider her call both impertinent and intrusive. But Charlotte did not care. It was a case of necessity.

  The door was opened by a somber butler who surveyed her with polite disinterest.

  “Yes, madam?”

  She had planned what she intended to say. “Good morning.” She held out her card. “Would you be kind enough to give this to Mrs. Fetters and ask her if she would spare me a few moments of her time. It concerns a matter of the utmost importance to me, and I believe it may be to her also. It is in regard to my husband, Superintendent Thomas Pitt, who investigated Mr. Fetters’s death. He is unable to come himself.�
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  The butler looked startled. “Oh dear.” He fumbled for words that were suitable. It was very apparent he had never met with such a circumstance and was still suffering from the distress and the grief of the past two months. “Yes madam, I remember Mr. Pitt. He was very civil to us. If you care to wait in the morning room I shall ask Mrs. Fetters if she will see you.” He did not indulge in the polite fiction of pretending he did not know if she were at home.

  Charlotte was conducted to a small, bright room facing the early sun and decorated with fashionable Chinese prints, porcelain, and gold chrysanthemums on a silk screen. Within five minutes the butler returned and conducted her to another, very feminine room in rose-pink and green which opened onto the garden. Juno Fetters was a handsome woman, full figured, carrying herself with great dignity. Her skin was very fair even though her hair was an unremarkable brown. Naturally at the moment she was dressed entirely in black, and it became her more than it did most women.

  “Mrs. Pitt?” she said curiously. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable. I have left the door open because I like the air.” She indicated the door to the garden. “But if you find it cold, I shall be happy to close it.”

  “No, thank you,” Charlotte declined, sitting in the chair opposite Juno. “It is delightful. The smell of the grass is as sweet as flowers. There are times when I prefer it.”

  Juno regarded her with concern. “Buckland said that Mr. Pitt is unable to come himself. I hope he is not unwell?”

  “Not at all,” Charlotte assured her. She looked at Juno’s intelligent, highly individual face with its direct gaze and lines that at any other time would have suggested humor. She decided to tell her the truth, except where Pitt was, and she knew very little of that anyway. “He has been removed from Bow Street and sent somewhere on a secret mission. It is a sort of punishment for having testified against Adinett.”

  Juno’s face filled with astonishment, and then anger.

  “That is monstrous!” Unconsciously she had chosen the very word in Charlotte’s mind. “To whom can we speak to have it changed?”

  “No one.” Charlotte shook her head. “By pursuing the case he has made powerful enemies. It is probably better if he is out of their sight for a while. I came to you because Thomas spoke very highly of you, and he was certain you believed that your husband was the victim of murder, not an accident.” She tried to read Juno’s expression and was startled to see a moment of unguarded grief in it. Instead of being perceptive, she felt she had intruded.

  “I do believe it,” Juno said quietly. “I didn’t at first. I was simply numb. I couldn’t grasp that it had happened. Martin is not … was not clumsy. And I know perfectly well that he would never have put his books on Troy and Greece on the top shelf. It made no sense at all. And it was other things as well when Mr. Pitt pointed them out: the chair that wasn’t where it usually was, and the pieces of fluff on his shoe.” She blinked several times, struggling to keep her emotion in control.

  Charlotte spoke, to give her a moment and perhaps take her mind from the acutely personal subject of the shoes. Surely mention of them must make her picture Fetters being dragged backwards across the floor. It would be all but unbearable.

  “If you had known why Adinett did it, you would surely have said so at the trial, or before.” She leaned forward a little. “But have you had time to reconsider since then?”

  “I have little else to do,” Juno said with an attempt at a smile. “But I can’t think of anything.”

  “I need to know.” Charlotte heard the raw edge of urgency in her own voice. She had intended not to betray herself so completely, but seeing Juno’s grief had unlocked her own. “It is the only way I can prove to them that it was a just verdict, and Thomas wasn’t being arrogant or irresponsible, and there was no prejudice in his actions. He was following the evidence in a case and he was right. I don’t want anyone who matters being allowed an inch of room to doubt that.”

  “How are you going to do it?”

  “Find out all I can about John Adinett and—if you will help me—about your husband, so that I know not only what happened but I can prove why it did.”

  Juno took a deep breath and steadied herself, looking at Charlotte gravely. “I want to know what happened myself. Nothing will stop me missing Martin or make me feel any better about it, but if I understood it I should be less angry.” She shook her head a little. “I wouldn’t be so confused, and maybe I would feel as if there was some sense to it. It is all so … unfinished. Is that an absurd thing to say? My sister keeps telling me I should go away for a while, try to forget about it … I mean, about the way it happened. But I don’t want to. I need to know why!”

  Outside in the garden the birds were singing and the breeze brought in the scent of grass.

  “Did you know Mr. Adinett well? Did he call here often?”

  “Quite often. At least once or twice a month, sometimes more.”

  “Did you like him?” She wanted to know because she needed to understand the emotions involved. Did Juno feel betrayed by a friend, or robbed by a man who was relatively a stranger? Would she be angered if Charlotte probed critically into their lives?

  Juno thought for a few moments before replying, weighing her words. The question seemed to cause her some difficulty.

  “I am not entirely certain. At first I did. He was very interesting. Apart from Martin, I had never heard anyone speak so vividly about travel.” Her face lit with memory. “He had a passion about it, and he could describe the great wildernesses of Canada in such a way that their terror and beauty came alive, even here in the middle of London. One had to admire that. I found I wanted to listen to him, even if I didn’t always want to meet his eye.”

  It was a curious choice of words, and Charlotte found it highly expressive. She had not been to the trial so she had only newspaper pictures to re-create a picture of Adinett in her mind, but even in photographs there was a stern quality to his face, an ability to exercise self-control, and perhaps to mask emotion, which she could well imagine might be uncomfortable.

  What sort of a man had he been? She could not recall having to find the truth of a murder when both the people most closely involved were unknown to her. Always in the past it had been a question of deducing which of several people were guilty. This time she knew who, but she would never meet him or be able to sense any part of his reality except through the observations of others.

  She had read that he was fifty-two, but from a newspaper photograph she had no idea whether he was tall or short, dark or medium of coloring.

  “If I were to look for him in a crowd, how would you describe him?” she asked.

  Juno thought for a moment. “Military,” she answered, certainty in her voice. “There was a kind of power in him, as if he had tested himself against the greatest danger he knew and found he was equal to it. I don’t believe he was afraid of anyone. He … he never showed off, if you know what I mean. That was one of the things Martin most admired about him.” Again her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them away with annoyance. “I respected it too,” she added quickly. “It was a kind of strength of character that is unusual, and both frightening and attractive at the same moment.”

  “I think I understand,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “It makes people seem invulnerable, a little different from ourselves. Well, from me, anyway. I catch myself talking too much now and again, and I know it is the need to impress.”

  Juno smiled, her face suddenly warm and alive. “It is, isn’t it! Because we know our own weaknesses, we think other people can see them also.”

  “Was he tall?” Charlotte realized suddenly that she was speaking in the past tense, as if he were already dead, and he was not. Somewhere he was alive, sitting in a cell, probably at Newgate, waiting the legal three Sundays before he could be hanged. The thought made her feel sick. What if they were all wrong, and he was innocent?

  Juno was unaware of what was in Charlotte’s mind, even of
the change inside her.

  “Yes, far taller than Martin,” she replied. “But then Martin wasn’t very tall, only an inch or two more than I.”

  There was no reason why she should be, but Charlotte was startled. She realized she had formed a picture of him quite differently. If there had been a photograph in the newspapers, she had not seen it.

  Perhaps Juno noticed her surprise. “Would you like to see him?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes … please.”

  Juno stood up and opened a small, rolltop desk. She took out a photograph in a silver frame. Her hand was shaking as she held it out.

  Charlotte took the picture. Had Juno kept it in the desk to avoid draping it in black, as if to her he were still alive? She would have done the same thing. And the unbearableness of Pitt’s being dead washed over her in a wave so immense for a moment she was dizzy with it.

  Then she looked at the face in the frame. It was broad-boned, with a wide nose and wide, dark eyes. It was full of intelligence and humor, almost certainly a quick temper. It was vulnerable, the face of a man with profound emotions. He and Adinett might have had many interests in common, but their natures, as far as one could read, were utterly different. The only link was a bold, direct stare at the camera, the sense of dedication to a purpose. Martin Fetters might also have made people uncomfortable, but it would be by his honesty, and she imagined he was a man who inspired deep friendship.

  She gave it back with a smile. He was unique. She could think of nothing to say that would help the pain of his loss.

  Juno replaced the picture where she had found it. “Do you want to see the library?” It was a question with many layers of meaning. It was where he had worked, where his books were, the key to his mind. It was also where he had been killed.

  “Yes, please.” She rose and followed Juno into the hall and up the stairs. Juno stiffened as she approached the door, her shoulders square and rigid, but she grasped the handle and pushed it open.

  It was a masculine room, full of leather, strong colors, walls lined with books on three sides. The fireplace had a brass fender padded in green leather. A tantalus stood on the table by the window, and there were three clean glasses.