Whitechapel Conspiracy

She felt his hand touch hers gently in the darkness. There was still remarkable strength in him. In all the times he had touched her he had never hurt her, only broken her heart.

“Of course it will happen,” he replied. “The Prince is as bent on his own destruction as any of Wagner’s gods, and he will bring all Valhalla down with him, the good as well as the bad. But we have never known how to prevent that. That is their tragedy, that they will not listen until it is too late. But this time there are men with vision and practical sense. England is the last of the great powers to hear the voice of the common man in his cry for justice, but perhaps because of that it will learn from those of us who failed, and you will succeed.”

The curtain went up and showed the elaborate set on the stage. In its light Vespasia looked at Mario, and saw the hope naked in his face, the courage to try again, in spite of all the battles lost, and in him still no generosity to wish victory for others.

She almost wished it could succeed, for his sake. The old corruption was deep, but in so many cases it was part of life, ignorance, not deliberate wickedness, not cruelty, simply blindness. She could understand Charles Voisey’s arguments against hereditary privilege, but she knew human nature well enough to believe that the abuse of power is no respecter of persons: it affects king and commoner alike.

“Tyrants are not born, my dear,” she said softly. “They are made, by opportunity, whatever title they give themselves.”

He smiled at her. “You think too little of man. You must have faith.”

She swallowed the tears in her throat, and did not argue.

11

AFTER LEAVING CHARLOTTE, Pitt walked on down the street towards the sugar factory. The heavy, sickly smell caught in his nose and throat, but not even the thought of standing the night watch there could dull the happiness that welled up inside him at having seen her, even for a short time. She was so exactly as his memory had re-created her in the long nights alone: the warmth of her, the line of her cheek, her lips, above all her eyes as she looked back at him.

He turned in at the factory gates, the huge building towering over him, the men jostling at his sides. All he wished to know was if they needed him that night. He called by to check most mornings.

“Yeah,” the senior watchman said cheerfully. He looked tired today, his blue eyes faded and all but hidden by the folds of his skin.

“Right,” Pitt replied regretfully. He would prefer a night’s sleep. “How is your wife?”

The night watchman shook his head. “Poorly,” he said with an attempt at a smile.

“I’m sorry.” Pitt meant it. He always asked, and the answer varied from day to day, but she was failing and they both knew it. He stayed and talked a few moments longer. Wally was lonely and he always wanted a listening ear to share his anxieties.

Afterwards, Pitt hurried back towards Saul’s workshop, now a trifle late. He was late from his first errand too, because a wagonload of barrels had spilled out onto the street, and he stopped and helped the carter put them back. The little bubble of peace inside him made him impervious to the gray streets, the anger and the fear that set nerves on edge.

He went back to Heneagle Street early. Isaac was not home yet and Leah was busy in the kitchen.

“That you, Thomas?” she called as she heard his footsteps at the bottom of the stairs.

He could smell cooking, sharp, sweet herbs. He was more accustomed to them now and had grown to like them.

“Yes,” he answered. “How are you?”

She never responded directly. “Are you hungry? You should eat more … and not keep all those late hours at that factory. It’s not good for you.”

He smiled. “Yes, I am hungry, and I’ve got to do the early watch tonight.”

“Then come and eat!”

He went upstairs first to wash his face and hands, and found the clean laundry she had laid on the chest for him. He picked up the shirt on top, and saw that she had turned the cuffs for him, placing the worn edges to the inside.

A wave of homesickness washed over him so overwhelmingly that for a moment he was almost unaware of the room around him. It was a simple domestic kindness, the sort of thing Charlotte did. He had seen her spend all evening mending, turning collars or cuffs, needle clicking against her thimble, light flashing silver on it as it wove in and out in tiny stitches.

Then he was furious for so many women like Leah Karansky, who were never asked whether they wanted revolution or what price they would pay for someone else’s idea of social justice or reform. Perhaps all they wanted was their family safe at home at night, and enough food to put something on the table fit to eat.

He looked at Leah’s stitches on his cuff and knew how long it had taken her to do. He must thank her, let her know he was mindful of the kindness, perhaps talk to her about something interesting as he did. Or better, listen to her with all his attention while she talked.