The Whitechapel Conspiracy

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.

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. "O... 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 to be!"

"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.

It was fifty years since she had known him in Rome. He would not have murdered a man then. But a lifetime had come and gone since that summer, for both of them. People change. Disappointment and disillusion can wear away all but the strongest heart. Hope deferred too long can turn to bitterness.

She dressed in silver-gray, an exquisite watered silk, and selected one of her favorite hats. She had always looked well under a sweeping brim. Then she sent for the carriage to come to the door and gave the coachman the address where Mario Corena was staying.

***

He received her with surprise and pleasure. Their next engagement had not been until the following day.

"Vespasia!" His eyes took in her face, the soft sweep of her gown. The hat made him smile, but as always, he did not comment on her appearance; his appreciation was in his eyes. Then as he regarded her more closely the joy faded from his expression. "What is it?" he said quietly. "Don't tell me it is nothing; I can see differently."

The time for pretense was long past. Part of her wished to stand in this beautiful room with its view over the quiet square, the rustling summer trees, the glimpses of grass. She could be close to him, allow the sense of fulfillment to possess her that she always felt in his company. But however long or short the time, it would come to an end. The inevitable moment would have to be faced.

She turned and looked into his eyes. For a moment her resolve faltered. He had not changed. Their summer in Rome could have been yesterday. The years had wearied their bodies, marked their faces, but their hearts still carried the same passion, the hope, and the will to fight and to sacrifice, to love, and to endure pain.

She blinked. "Mario, the police are going to arrest Isaac Karansky, or some other Jew, for the murder of James Sissons. I am not going to allow it. Please don't tell me it is for the greater good of the people to sacrifice one that all may benefit. If we allow one innocent man to be hanged and his wife left bereaved and alone, then we have made a mockery of justice. And once we have done that, then what can we offer the new order we want to create? When we use our weapons for ill, we have damaged their power for good. We have joined the enemy. I thought you knew that..." He looked at her in silence, his eyes shadowed.

She waited for him to answer, the pain inside her building as if to explode.

He took a long, deep breath. "I do know that, my dear. Perhaps I forgot for a while exactly who the enemy was." He looked down. "Sissons was going to take his own life in the cause of a greater liberty. He knew when he lent the money to the Prince of Wales that it would not be returned. He wanted to expose him for the self-indulgent parasite that he is. He knew it would cost many men their jobs, but he was prepared to pay with his own life." He looked up at her again, brilliant, urgent. "Then at the last moment his nerve failed him. He was not the hero he wanted to be, wished to be. And yes... I did kill him. It was clean, swift, without pain or fear. Only for an instant did he know what I was going to do, then it was over. But I left the note in his own hand that said it was suicide, and the Prince's note of debt. The police must have concealed them. I cannot understand how that happened. We had our own man in place, on duty, who should have seen to it that suicide was recognized and no innocent person blamed." Confusion shadowed his face, and unhappiness for fear and wrong.

Vespasia could not look at him. "He tried," she acknowledged. "He came too late. Someone else found Sissons first, and knowing what riot it would cause, destroyed the note. Only, you see, it could not have been suicide because James Sissons did not have the use of the first fingers of his right hand, and the night watchman knew it." She met his eyes again now. "And I saw the note of debt. It was not the prince's signature. It was an excellent forgery, designed for just the purpose you tried to use it."

He started to speak, then stopped. Understanding slowly filled his face, and grief, and then anger. He did not need to protest that he had been deceived; she could not have doubted it from his eyes and his mouth, and the ache that filled him.

Her throat hurt with the effort of control. She loved him so fiercely it consumed all of her but a tiny, white core in the heart. If she were to yield now, to say it did not matter, that either of them could walk away from this, she would lose him-and even more, she would lose herself.

She blinked, her eyes smarting.

"I have something to undo," he whispered. "Good-bye, Vespasia... I say good-bye, but I shall take you with me in my heart, wherever I go." He lifted her hand to his lips. Then he turned and walked out of the room without looking back, leaving her to find her way when she was ready, when she could master herself and go back to the footman, the carriage and the world.

***

The whole story of Prince Eddy and Annie Crook remained in Gracie's mind. She imagined the ordinary girl, not so very much better off than many Gracie herself might have passed on the streets of her own childhood-a little cleaner, a little better-spoken perhaps, but at heart expecting only a pedestrian life of work and marriage, and more work.

And then one day a shy, handsome young man had been introduced to her. She must have realized quickly that he was a gentleman, even if not that he was a prince. But he was also different from the others, isolated by his deafness and all that it had done to him over the years. They had found something in each other, perhaps a companionship neither had known elsewhere. They had fallen in love.

And it was impossible. Nothing they could have imagined could ever have touched the horror of what would happen after that.

She still could not entirely rid herself of the memory of standing in Mitre Square, seeing Remus's face in the gaslight, and realizing who it was he was after. Her throat still tightened at the thought of it, even sitting in the warm kitchen in Keppel Street, drinking tea at four o'clock in the afternoon, and trying to think what vegetables to prepare for dinner tonight.

Daniel and Jemima were out with Emily again. She had spent a lot of time with them since Pitt left for Spitalfields. Emily had climbed greatly in Gracie's estimation. Gracie had actually been considering her a trifle spoiled lately. Since she was Charlotte's sister, it was nice to be mistaken.

She was still staring at the rows of blue-and-white plates on the dresser when a knock on the back door startled her into reality again.

It was Tellman. He came in and closed the door behind him. He looked anxious and tired. His shirt collar was as tight and neat as usual, but his hair had fallen forward as if he had not bothered with its customary, careful brushing, and he was about a week overdue for the barber.

She did not bother to ask him if he wanted a cup of tea. She went to the dresser, fetched a cup and poured it.

He sat down at the table opposite her and drank. There was no cake this time, so she did not mention it. She felt no need to break the silence.

"I've been thinking," he said at last, watching her over the top of his cup.

"Yeah?" She knew he was worried; it was in every line of him, the way he sat, the grip of his hands on the cup, the edge to his voice. He would tell her what was bothering him if she did not probe or interrupt.

"You know this factory owner who was killed in Spitalfields, Sissons?"

"I 'eard. They said mebbe all 'is factories would close, then the Prince o' Wales an' Lord Randolph Churchill an' some o' 'is friends put up enough money ter keep 'em goin' a few weeks anyway."

"Yes. They're saying it was a Jew who did it... killed him, because he'd borrowed money from a whole collection of them and couldn't pay it back."

She nodded. She knew nothing about that.

"Well, I reckon that was meant to happen about the same time as Remus was supposed to find the last pieces of the Whitechapel murderer story. Only they didn't tell him yet, because the sugar factory thing went wrong." He was still watching her, waiting to see what she thought.

She was confused. She was not sure it made sense.

"I went to see Mr. Pitt again," he went on. "But he wasn't there. They're trying to say it was Isaac Karansky, the man he lodges with, who killed Sissons."

"D'yer reckon it was?" she asked, imagining how Pitt would feel, and hating it for him. She had seen before how it tore at Pitt's emotions when someone he knew turned out to be guilty of something horrible.

"I don't know," he confessed. He looked confused. There was something else in his eyes, dark and troubled. She thought perhaps he was afraid-not with the passing ripple of momentary fear, but deep and abiding and of something he could not fight against.

Again she waited.

"It isn't that." He put the cup down at last, empty. He met her gaze unblinkingly. "It's Remus. I'm scared for him, Gracie. What if he's right, and it really is true? Those people didn't think twice about butchering five women in Whitechapel, not to mention whatever they did to Annie Crook and her child."

"An' poor Prince Eddy," she said quietly. "D'yer reckon 'e died natural?"

His eyes widened a fraction. His face went even paler.

"Don't say that, Gracie! Don't even think it to yourself. Do you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear. But yer scared too, an' don't tell me yer in't." It was not a charge against him. She would think him a fool were he not. She needed the closeness of sharing the fear for herself, and she wanted it for him. "Yer scared fer Remus?" she went on.

"They'd think nothing of killing him," he answered.

"That's if 'e's right," she argued. "What if 'e's wrong? Wot if it weren't nothin' ter do wi' Prince Eddy, an' the Inner Circle is makin' it all up?"

"I'm still scared for him," he replied. "They'd use him and throw him away, too."

"Wot are we gonna do?" she said simply.

"You're going to do nothing," he answered sharply. "You're going to stay here at home and keep the door locked." He swiveled around in his seat. "You should've had that back door locked."

"At 'alf past four in the afternoon?" she said incredulously. "There in't nob'dy arter me. If I kept the scullery locked they'd think I really 'ad got summink goin' on."

He blushed faintly and looked away.

She found herself smiling, trying to hide it, and failing. He was frightened for her and it was making him overprotective. Now he was embarrassed because he had given himself away.

He looked at her and saw the smile. For once he interpreted it correctly, and his color deepened. At first she thought it was anger; then she looked at his eyes and knew it was pleasure. She had equally given herself away too. Oh, well... she couldn't play games forever.

"So wot are we gonner do, then?" she repeated. "We gotta warn 'im. If 'e won't be told, then we can't 'elp it. But we gotta try, in't we?"

"He won't listen to me," he said wearily. "He thinks he's onto the newspaper story of the century. He won't give that up, no matter where it leads him. He's a fanatic. I've seen it in his face."

She remembered the wild look in Remus's eyes and the horror and terrible excitement she'd sensed in him as he had stood in Mitre Square, and she knew Tellman was right.

"We still gotta try." She leaned forward across the table. " 'E's scared as well. Let me come wiv yer. We'll both 'ave a go at 'im."

He looked doubtful. The lines of strain were deep in his face. No one was looking after him. He had no one else to share his fears with, or the sense of guilt he would feel if something happened to Remus and he had not tried to warn him.

She stood up, accidentally scraping her chair legs on the floor. "I'll get yer some tea. 'Ow about bubble an' squeak? We got lots o' cabbage an' taters left over, an' fresh onion. 'Ow'll that be?"

He relaxed. "Are you sure?"

"No!" she said crisply. "I am standin' 'ere 'cos I can't make me mind up. Wot yer think?"

"You'll cut yourself with that tongue," he replied.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. She meant it. She did not know why she had been so quick with him. Perhaps because she wanted to do far more to comfort him, look after him, than he would like or accept.

That realization made her blush suddenly, and she swung around and strode into the larder to get the cold vegetables and start cooking. She brought them back and kept her back to him while she chopped and fried the onions, then added the rest and moved it gently till it was steaming hot on the inside and crisp brown on the outside. She put it all onto a warm plate and set it in front of him. Then she boiled the kettle again and made fresh tea.

At last she sat down on the chair opposite him again.

"So are we goin' ter find Remus and tell 'im just 'ow big this is? In case 'e's so 'ell-bent on getting 'is story 'e in't realized 'oo 'e's up agin?"

"Yes," he replied with his mouth full, trying to smile at the same time. "I am. You aren't."

She drew in her breath.

"You aren't!" he said quickly. "Don't argue with me. That's the end of it."

She sighed heavily and said nothing.

He bent his attention to eating the bubble and squeak. It was hot, crisp and fragrant with onions. It did not seem to occur to him that she had given in rather easily.

When he had finished, he thanked her with a touch of real admiration. He remained another ten minutes or so, then left out of the scullery door.

Gracie had followed Remus successfully all the way to Whitechapel and back again. She thought she was really rather good at it. She now took her coat and hat from the peg at the back door and went after Tellman. She did not especially like Lyndon Remus, but she had learned something about him, his likes and dislikes, seen the excitement and the terror in him. She did not want to think of him hurt, not seriously. A little chastening would not harm, but there was nothing moderate about any part of this.

Of course, following Tellman would be much harder because he knew her. On the other hand, he was not expecting her to follow, and she knew where he was going: to Remus's rooms to await his return from whatever story he was working on apart from the Whitechapel murders.

She had only about one shilling and fivepence. There had been no time to look for any more. Unfortunately, there had also not been time to write more than a hasty note for Charlotte explaining where she had gone. Even that had been done in the larder on a brown paper bag, and written with a kitchen pencil. Her spelling was a little uncertain, but since it was Charlotte who had taught her to read and write, she would understand what Gracie meant.

Tellman strode down Keppel Street purposefully towards Tottenham Court Road. He was going for the omnibus. That would make things rather difficult. If she caught the same one, he would be bound to see her. If she waited for the next one, she would be too late by up to a quarter of an hour.

But she knew where Remus's rooms were. She had a good chance of arriving there at about the same time if she took the underground train. It was worth the risk.

She turned sharply away in the opposite direction, and then started to run. If she was lucky, it would work. And she would have enough money, easily.

She paced the platform, and when the train came, sat fidgeting from stop to stop. As soon as it arrived she charged through the door, across the platform and up the stairs.

The street was busy, and it took her a moment or two to realize exactly where she was. She had to ask directions of a muffin girl, then set out at a half run again.

She got there and swung around the last corner and cannoned straight into Tellman, almost overbalancing him.

He swore with feeling and more color than she had known him capable of.

"That's terrible!" she said in amazement.

He blushed scarlet. He was so embarrassed it robbed him temporarily of the ability to stand on his dignity and order her to go home again.

She straightened her hat and stared back at him. "So, 'e in't 'ere yet, then?"

"No..." He cleared his throat. "Not yet."

"Then we'd best wait," she pronounced, looking away from him and assuming a position of great patience.

He drew in his breath and started to argue, but after the first word he realized the futility of it and stopped again. She was here. He had no power or ability to send her away. He might as well make an ally of her.

They stood side by side on the corner of the street opposite the entrance of Remus's lodging house. After five minutes of silence and the curious stares of one or two passersby, Gracie decided to give her opinion.

"If yer don't want ter be noticed, we'd do better ter talk ter each other. Like this we look like we're 'ere fer no good. Sayin' nothin' we don't even look like we've quarreled. Nob'dy keeps up a sulk forever."

"I'm not sulking," he said quickly.

"Then talk ter me," she responded.

"I can't just... talk."

"Yes, yer can."

"What about?" he protested.

"Anythink. If yer could go anywhere in the world fer a visit, where'd yer go? If yer could talk ter anybody out of 'istory, oo'd it be? Wot'd yer say ter 'em?"

He stared at her, his eyes wide.

"Well?" she prompted. "An' don' look at me. Watch for Remus. That's wot we're 'ere fer. Oo'd yer meet, then?"

There were faint spots of color in his cheeks again. "Who'd you meet?"

"Florence Nightingale," she said immediately.

"I knew you'd say that," he replied. "But she isn't dead yet."

"Don't matter. She's still 'istory. Oo'd you meet?"

"Admiral Nelson."

"W'y?"

"Because he was a great leader as well as a great fighter. He made his men love him," he replied.

She smiled. She was glad he had said that. It sometimes showed a lot to know who people's heroes were, and why.

He grasped her arm suddenly. "There's Remus!" he said fiercely. "Come on!" He yanked her forward and plunged across the road, dodging in between traffic and reaching the footpath at the far side just as Remus went in through the door.

"Remus!" Tellman called out, stopping just short of actually bumping into him.

Remus turned, startled. As soon as he recognized Tellman his face darkened. "No time to talk to you," he said briskly. "Sorry." He took another step forward, his back to Tellman, and started to close the door.

Tellman put his foot in the doorway, still dragging Gracie with him by the hand, not that she was unwilling.

Remus stopped, his expression changing to one of anger.

"Didn't you hear me? I've nothing else to say, and no time. Now, get out of my way!"

Tellman tensed his body as if to resist a blow, and remained exactly where he was. "If you're still going after the Whitechapel murderer and the story of Annie Crook, you should leave it. It's too dangerous to do alone-"

"It's a damned sight too dangerous to tell anyone about until I've got the proof," Remus retorted. "And you, of all people, should know that!" He turned to Gracie. "And you, whoever you are."

"I know who you can trust," Tellman said urgently. "Let them know. It's the only safeguard you've got."

Remus's eyes were bright, and there was a decided sneer on his lips. "No doubt you'd like me to tell the police. Perhaps starting with you, eh?" He gave an abrupt little laugh, full of contempt. "Now, get your foot out of my door. I know how dangerous it is, and the police are the last people I'd trust."

Tellman struggled to find an argument, and failed.

Gracie could think of nothing either. In Remus's place she would have trusted no one.

"Well, be careful," she said. "Yer know wot they done ter them women."

Remus smiled at her. "Of course I know. I am careful."

"No, you in't!" she challenged, the words spitting out. "I followed yer all the way 'round Whitechapel, even spoke ter yer, an' yer never knowed. Followed yer ter Mitre Square, too, but yer was so full o' wot yer was thinkin' yer 'ad no idea!"

Remus paled. He stared at her. "Who are you? Why would you follow me-if you did?" But there was fear in his voice now. Perhaps the mention of Mitre Square had made him realize she spoke the truth.

"It don't matter 'oo I am," she argued. "If I can follow yer, so can they! Do like 'e says." She gestured to Tellman. "An' be careful."

"All right! I'll be careful. Now go away," Remus replied, stepping farther inside and beginning to push the door closed.

Tellman accepted that they had done all they could, and he retreated, Gracie with him.

Back across the street again he stopped, looking at her questioningly.

" 'E's onter summink," she said decisively. " 'E's scared, but 'e in't givin' up."

"I agree," Tellman said in a low voice. "I'm going to follow him, see if I can protect him at all. You go home..."

"I'm comin' wif yer."

"No, you're not!"

"I'm comin'-wif yer or be'ind yer!"

"Gracie..."

But at that moment Remus's door opened again and he came out, looked from left to right and back again, and apparently concluding that they had gone, he set out. There was no time to argue. They went after him.

They followed him successfully for nearly two hours, first to Belgravia, where he stayed for about twenty-five minutes, then east and south to the river and along the Embankment just short of the Tower. They finally lost him as he was going east again. It was just growing dusk.

Tellman swore in frustration, but this time watching his language far more carefully.

"He did that on purpose," he said furiously. "He knew we were here. We must have shown ourselves, got too close to him. Stupid!"

" 'E mebbe knew we would be," she pointed out. "Or p'rhaps it weren't us 'e were tryin' ter shake? Mebbe 'e were bein' careful, like we told 'im?"

Tellman stood on the footpath, staring along the street in the direction they had last thought they saw Remus, his eyes squinted, his mouth pulled tight.

"We've still lost him. And he's going towards Whitechapel again!"

It was growing dark. The lamplighter was working the farther side of the street and he was hurrying.

"We'll never find him in this." Tellman looked around at the traffic, the rattle and clatter of hooves and wheels over the cobbles, the occasional shouts of drivers. Everyone seemed to be pressing forward as fast as they could. They could barely see fifty yards ahead in any direction in the gloom and the shifting mass of horses and people.

Gracie felt a bitter disappointment. Her feet were tired and she was hungry, but she could not dismiss the fear that Remus had not truly understood the danger he was in; there must be something they could still do to make him realize it.

"Come on, Gracie," Tellman said gently. "We've lost him. Come and have something to eat. And sit down." He gestured towards a public house on the farther side of the street.

The thought of sitting down was even better than that of food. And there was really nothing else to do.

"Or' right," she agreed, not moving reluctantly so much as utterly wearily.

The food was excellent, and the chance to relax blissful. She enjoyed it with relish, since usually when they ate together it had been in the kitchen in Keppel Street, and she had prepared the food. They talked about all manner of things, about Tellman's early years in the police force. He told her stories of his experiences; some of them were even funny, and she found herself laughing aloud. She had never appreciated before that in his own fashion he had a sharp sense of the absurd.

"Wot's yer name?" she said suddenly as he finished a tale of adventure, and a certain degree of self-revelation.

"What?" He was confused, not certain what she meant.

"Wot's yer name?" she repeated, now self-conscious. She did not want to go on thinking of him as "Tellman." She wanted a name, a name that his family used.

The color deepened in his face, and he looked down at his empty plate.

"Sorry," she said unhappily. "I shouldn't 'a asked."

"Samuel," he replied quickly, almost swallowing the word.

She liked it. In fact she liked it very much.

"Hmph. Too good fer yer. That's a real name."

He looked up quickly. "You like it? You don't think it's..."

" 'Course it is," she agreed. "I jus' thought I'd like ter know, that's all. It's time I was goin' 'ome." But she made no move to stand up.

"Yes," he said, also not moving.

"Yer know summink," she said thoughtfully. "That Remus thinks 'e's got the answer now. 'E knows the truth, I seen it in 'is face. 'E were tryin' ter 'ide it so we didn't see, but 'e's got it all, an' 'e's gonna tell that story termorrer."

Tellman did not argue. He sat looking at her across the table, his eyes steady, his face pinched and earnest.

"I know. But I don't know how to stop him. Telling him all the damage it would do won't help. It's his chance to be famous, and he isn't going to give it up for anyone."

"They'll know that too," she said, feeling the fear well up inside her again, cold and sick. "Yer know, I'll bet 'e's gorn ter Whitechapel again, one more time afore 'e tells 'em... mebbe afore 'e writes the last bit of 'is piece fer the papers. I'll bet 'e's gorn ter visit them places again-'Anbury Street, Bucks Row an' all."

She saw by the quick widening of his eyes that he believed it the moment she spoke. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

"I'm going there. You catch a hansom and go home. I'll give you the money." He began to fish in his pocket.

"Not on yer life!" She stood up also. "I in't lettin' yer go there by yerself. Don't waste time talkin' abaht it. We'll get the rozzer on the beat ter come wif us from the 'Igh Street, and if there's nothin', we'll look like fools. Yer can tell 'im it were my fault." And without waiting for him she started for the door.

He followed after her, pushing his way past others coming in, calling apologies over his shoulder. Outside on the pavement he waved down the first hansom and directed the driver to the Whitechapel High Street.

He ordered the cab to stop when he saw a constable, a tall, helmeted figure in the gaslight and the mist.

Tellman leaped down and went up to him. Gracie scrambled after and arrived just as he was explaining to the constable that they feared an informant was in danger and needed his assistance immediately.

"That's right." Gracie nodded vigorously.

"Gracie Phipps," Tellman said quickly. "She's with me."

"Where is this informant o' yours?" the constable asked, looking around.

"Mitre Square," Gracie said instantly.

"Hey!" the hansom driver called. "Yer finished wi' me, or not?"

Tellman went back and paid him, then rejoined Gracie and the constable. They set out to walk back along the High Street and into Aldgate Street, then around the corner up Duke Street. They did not speak and their footsteps echoed in the mist. It was far quieter here and it was farther between lamps. The cobbles were slippery. The dampness clung in the throat.

Gracie felt her cheeks wet. She swallowed and could barely breathe. She remembered Remus's face as she had seen it here before, shining with excitement, eyes glittering.

She thought of the huge black carriage that had rumbled down these streets with something unimaginably violent and evil inside, waiting.

She caught hold of Tellman's arm and gripped him tightly as a rat scuttled by, and someone stirred by the wall. He did not pull away; in fact, he gripped her back.

They turned off Duke Street into the alley by St. Botolph's Church, fumbled by the light of the constable's bull's-eye towards the far end, and Mitre Square.

They emerged into emptiness which was faintly lit by the one lamp high on the wall. There was no one there.

Gracie was giddy with relief. Never mind that the constable would think she was a fool-and no doubt be angry. Never mind that Tellman-Samuel-would be angry too.

Then she heard his indrawn breath in a sob, and she saw it, sprawled on the stones in the far corner, arms wide.

The constable moved forward, his breath rasping in his throat, his feet floundering.

"No!" Tellman said, holding Gracie back. But she saw it by the light of the bull's-eye. Lyndon Remus was lying just as Catherine Eddowes had been, his throat cut, his entrails torn out of his body and placed over his shoulder as in some hideous ritual.

Gracie stared at Remus for one terrible moment more, a moment burned into her mind forever, then turned and buried her head in Tellman's shoulder. She felt his arms tighten around her and hold her hard and close to him as if he would never let her go.

Remus had known the truth-and died for it. But what was it? The question beat in her mind. Had the man behind the Whitechapel murders killed him because he knew it was a conspiracy to hide Prince Eddy's indiscretion? Or was it the Inner Circle, because he had discovered it was not true-and Jack the Ripper, Leather-apron, was a lone madman, just as everyone had always supposed?

He had taken his secret to his fearful death, and no one would tell the story he had found-whichever it was.

She loosened herself just enough to put her arms around Tellman's neck, then moved closer again, and felt his cheek and his lips on her hair.

***

Isaac and Leah's house was silent, almost dead-seeming without them. Pitt heard his own footfalls sounding in the passage. The click of pots and pans was loud as he made supper in the kitchen.

Even the noise of his spoon against his bowl seemed a disturbance. He kept the stove going so he could cook and have at least some hot water, but he realized it was Leah's presence that had given the house true warmth.

He ate alone and went to bed early, not knowing what else to do. He was still lying awake in the dark when he heard the sharp, peremptory knocking on the door.

His first thought was that it meant further trouble in the Jewish community, and someone was looking for Isaac to help him. There was nothing Pitt could do, but he would at least answer.

He was half dressed and on the stairs when he realized there was a kind of authority in the knock, as if the person had a right to demand attention, and expected to receive it. And yet it was more discreet and less impatient than the police would have been, especially Harper.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and went the three steps across the hall. He undid the bolt and opened the door.

Victor Narraway walked straight in and closed the door behind him. His face looked haggard in the hall gaslight, and his thick hair was wild and damp from the mist.

Pitt's stomach lurched. "What is it?" Imagination raced hideously through his mind.

"The police have just called me," Narraway answered hoarsely. "Voisey has shot Mario Corena."

Pitt was stunned. For a moment the news had little meaning to him. He could not place Corena, and Voisey was only a name. But the look in Narraway's eyes said that it was momentous.

"Mario Corena was one of the greatest heroes of the '48 revolutions across Europe," Narraway said quietly, a terrible weight of sadness in him. "He was one of the bravest and most generous of them all."

"What was he doing in London?" Pitt was still bemused. "And why would Voisey shoot him?" Memories of things Charlotte had said, and Vespasia, came back to him. "Isn't Voisey sympathetic to republican feelings? Anyway, Corena is Italian. Why should Voisey care?"

Narraway's face pinched. "Corena was bigger than any one nation, Pitt. Above all, he was a great man, willing to put all he possessed on the line to fight for a decent chance for all people, for a quality of justice and humanity anywhere."

"Then why would Voisey kill him?"

"He said it was self-defense. Put your clothes on and come with me. We're going to see what it's about. Be quick!"

Pitt obeyed without question, and half an hour later they were in a hansom pulling up outside Charles Voisey's elegant house in Cavendish Square. Narraway climbed out, paid, and strode ahead of Pitt to the front door, which was opened as he reached it by a uniformed constable.

Pitt went up the steps and inside immediately behind Narraway. There were two other men in the hallway. Pitt recognized one as a police surgeon; he did not know the other. It was the second who spoke to Narraway, then gestured towards one of the doors leading off.

Narraway glanced at Pitt, indicating that he should follow, then went over to the door and opened it.

The room was plainly a study, with a large desk and several bookcases and two carved, leather-padded chairs. The gas was turned up and the room flooded with light. On the floor, as if he had been walking from the door towards the desk, lay a slender man with a dark complexion and dark hair liberally threaded with white. On his fine-boned hand was a signet ring with a dark stone in it. His face was handsome, almost beautiful in the passion of its form and the peace of its expression. The lips were curled in the faintest smile. Death had come to him with no horror and no fear, even as a long-awaited friend.

Narraway stood motionless, fighting to control emotion.

Pitt knew the man. He knelt and touched him. He was still warm, but apart from the bullet hole in his chest and the scarlet blood on the floor, there was no mistaking death.

Pitt straightened up again and turned to Narraway.

Narraway swallowed, looking away. "Let's go and speak to Voisey. See how he can... explain this!" His voice was choked but the rage poured through it.

They went out, and Narraway closed the door softly, as though the room were now a kind of sanctuary. He walked across the hall to where the second man stood waiting. They exchanged only a glance of understanding, then the man opened the door and Narraway went in, Pitt on his heels.

This was the withdrawing room. Charles Voisey sat on the edge of the large sofa, his head in his hands. He looked up as Narraway stood in front of him. His face was drained of all color except for the livid marks where his fingers had pressed into the flesh of his cheeks.

"He came at me!" he said, his voice rising high and cracking. "He was like a madman. He had a gun. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't listen. He-he didn't seem to be hearing anything I said. He was... a fanatic!"

"Why would he want to kill you?" Narraway asked coldly.

Voisey gulped. "He-he was a friend of John Adinett, and he knew I had been also. He thought I somehow... betrayed him... by not being able to save him. He didn't understand." He glanced at Pitt, then back to Narraway. "There are loyalties higher than friendship, no matter how you... regard someone. And there was a great deal that was fine in Adinett... God knows..."

"He was a great republican," Narraway said with an edge to his voice, a mixture of passion and sarcasm that Pitt could not read.

"Yes..." Voisey hesitated. "Yes, he was. But..." Again he stopped, uncertainty in his eyes. He looked at Pitt, and for a moment the hatred in his face was naked. Then as quickly he masked it again, lowering his gaze. "He believed in many reforms, and fought for them with all his courage and intelligence. But I could not deny the law. Corena could not understand that. There was something of the... savage... in him. I had no choice. He came at me like a lunatic, swearing to kill me. I struggled with him, but I could not take the gun from him." The flicker of a smile touched his lips, more in amazement than any kind of humor. "He had extraordinary strength for an old man. The gun went off." He did not add any more; it would have been unnecessary.

Pitt looked at him and saw the blood on his own shirtfront, at the right height to have matched Corena's wound. It could have been true.

"I see," Narraway said grimly. "So you are saying it was self-defense?"

Voisey's eyebrows shot up. "Of course I am! Good God-do you think I would have shot the man on purpose?" The amazement and incredulity were so intense in his whole being that in spite of his own feelings, Pitt could not help but believe him.

Narraway turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

Pitt looked at Voisey once more, then followed after Narraway.

In the hall, Narraway stopped. As soon as Pitt caught up with him he spoke very quietly.

"You know Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, don't you?" It was barely a question. He did not even wait for an answer. "Perhaps you didn't know that Corena was the greatest love of her life. Don't ask me how I know; I do, that is enough. You should be the one to tell her this. Don't let her read it in the newspapers or hear it from someone who doesn't know what it means to her."

Pitt felt as if he had been hit so hard the breath had been forced out of him, and he could not fill his lungs again. Instead there was an ache inside him almost enough to make him cry out.

Vespasia!

"Please do it," Narraway said urgently. "It shouldn't be a stranger." He did not beg, but it was there in his eyes.

There was only one possible answer. Pitt nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and went back to the front door and out to the quiet street.

He took the first hansom and gave Vespasia's address. He rode through the darkness without thinking. There was no point in rehearsing how he would say such a thing. There was no way.

The cab pulled up and he alighted. He rang the doorbell and to his surprise it was answered within moments.

"Good evening, sir," the butler said quietly. "Her Ladyship is still up. Would you care to come in, and I shall tell her you are here."

"Thank you..." Pitt was confused, walking in a nightmare. He followed the butler into the yellow room and stood waiting.

He had no idea whether it was two or three minutes, or ten, before the door opened and Vespasia came in. She was wearing a long silk robe of almost white, her hair still coiled loosely on her head. She looked fragile, old, and almost ethereally beautiful. It was impossible not to think of her as a passionate woman who had loved unforgettably one Roman summer half a century ago.

Pitt found the tears choking his throat and stinging his eyes.

"It's all right, Thomas," she said so quietly he barely heard her. "I know he's dead. He wrote to me, telling me what he would do. It was he who killed James Sissons, believing it was what Sissons himself had intended, but at the last moment lost his nerve to be a hero after all." She stopped for a moment, struggling to keep her composure. "You are free to use this, to see that Isaac Karansky is not blamed for a crime he did not commit-and perhaps that Charles Voisey is, although I am not certain how you can accomplish that."

Pitt loathed telling her, but it was not a lie that could live.

"Voisey says he shot him in self-defense. I don't know that we can prove otherwise."

Vespasia almost smiled. "I'm sure he did," she agreed. "Charles Voisey is the leader of the Inner Circle. If they had succeeded in their conspiracy to cause revolution, he would have become the first president of Britain."

For an instant, the beat of a heart, Pitt was astonished. Then the beat passed, and it all made perfect sense: Martin Fetters's discovery of the plot, his facing Adinett-who was probably Voisey's friend and lieutenant-and being killed because he wanted reform but not revolution. And then for all his power and his loyalty, Voisey could not save Adinett. No wonder he hated Pitt and had used all his influence to destroy him.

And Mario Corena, a man driven by a simpler, purer fire, had been used and deceived to destroy Sissons. Now, realizing it at last, he had tried to turn it back on Voisey.

"You don't understand, do you?" Vespasia said softly. "Voisey meant to be the ultimate hero of all reform, to be the leader into a new age... perhaps originally his aims were good. He certainly had some good men with him. Only his arrogance led him to believe he had the right to decide for the rest of us what was in our best good and then force it upon us, with or without our consent."

"Yes... I know..." Pitt began.

She shook her head, the tears glistening in her eyes. "But he can never do that now. He has killed the greatest republican hero of the century... above any one country's individuality or nationalism."

He thought he began to see just a glimmer, like a distant star. "But it was self-defense," he said slowly.

She smiled, and the tears slid down her cheeks. "Because he discovered the conspiracy to overturn the throne, to invent this spurious debt of the Prince of Wales, and murder Sissons and create riot-and when Mario realized he knew, he attacked him, so of course Voisey had to shoot. He is a very brave man! Almost single-handedly he has uncovered a terrible conspiracy and named the men in it-who will certainly be at the least disgraced, maybe arrested. Perhaps the Queen will even knight him... don't you think? I must speak to Somerset Carlisle and see if it can be arranged." Then she turned away and walked out of the room without speaking again. She could no longer keep within her the grief and the longing that consumed her.

Pitt stood still until her footsteps died away, then he turned and walked back into the hall. It was empty except for the butler, who showed him out into the lamp-lit street.

***

Almost exactly a month later, Pitt, superintendent of Bow Street again, stood beside Charlotte in the throne room in Buckingham Palace. He was acutely uncomfortable in a new suit, an immaculate shirt, collar high and straight, boots perfect. Even his hair was well cut and tidy. Charlotte had a new gown, and he had never seen her look lovelier.

But it was Vespasia, a few feet away, who held his attention. She was gowned in dove gray with pearls at her throat and ears. Her hair gleamed silver, her chin was high, her face exquisite, delicate, very pale. She refused to lean on Somerset Carlisle's arm, even though he stood ready and watchful to help.

A little in front of them, Charles Voisey knelt on one knee as another old woman, short, dumpy, sharp-eyed, moved a trifle clumsily to touch the sword to his shoulder and command him to arise.

"We are sensible of the great service you have given us, for the throne and the continued safety and prosperity of your country, Sir Charles," she said distinctly. "It is our pleasure to acknowledge before the world the acts of selfless courage and loyalty which you have performed in private."

The Prince of Wales, standing a few yards away, beamed his approval and even more heartfelt gratitude. "The throne has no more loyal servant... or friend," he said appreciatively.

There was a rustle of enthusiastic applause from the audience of courtiers.

Voisey tried to speak, and choked, as he would be choked from now on, should he ever again raise his voice for a republic.

Victoria was accustomed to men being overcome in her presence. She ignored it, as good manners required.

Voisey bowed and turned to leave. As he did so he looked at Pitt with a hatred so violent, so intense, his body shook with it, and there were beads of sweat in his face.

Charlotte grasped Pitt's arm until her fingers dug into his flesh even through the fabric of his coat.

Voisey looked at Vespasia. She met his gaze unblinkingly, her head high, and she smiled with that same passionate calm with which Mario Corena had died.

Then she turned and walked away so he should not see her tears.