Whitechapel Conspiracy

Harper spent the rest of the morning questioning not only Wally and Pitt as to every detail of their watch, but also all the night staff and many of the clerks who came in to start the day.

Pitt did not tell him about the man he had seen leaving. At first he kept silent more from instinct than thought-out reason. It was not something he could have imagined doing twenty-four hours ago, but now he was in a new world, and he realized with incredulity that for weeks now he had been growing closer to people like Wally Edwards, Saul, Isaac Karansky, and the other ordinary men and women of Spitalfields who were distrustful of the law, which had seldom protected them and which had never caught the Whitechapel murderer. He believed what Tellman had told him about that investigation, about Abberline, even about Commissioner Warren. The tentacles of that conspiracy reached right up to the throne itself.

But it was not the same conspiracy as that which had murdered James Sissons and made it look like suicide, or was feeding Lyndon Remus with information which when complete would expose the greatest scandal in royal history and bring down the government and the crown with it.

And Harper was part of that second conspiracy; Pitt was certain of that. Therefore he could tell him nothing he did not have to.

Second to that, and coming to his realization a moment later, was that the description he could give could fit easily many people he knew: Saul, or Isaac, or a score of other older men. And perhaps Harper would like nothing better than to use that excuse to whip up anti-Semitic feeling. It would suit his purposes very well to blame the Jews for the ruin of the sugar factory. It was not as good as blaming the Prince of Wales, but it was better than nothing.

And so it turned out. By midday, when Pitt was allowed to leave, Harper had suggested, and then paraphrased, answers until he had a definite intruder observed by three different night workers: a thin, dark man of Jewish appearance, carrying something in his hand on which the light gleamed, like the barrel of a gun. He had crept up the stairs, soft-footed, and some little time later crept down again and disappeared into the night.

Pitt left feeling sick and miserable, and more helpless than ever in his life. His concept of the law and all his beliefs were shifted into a new and ugly pattern. He had seen corruption before, but it had been individual, born of greed or weakness exploited, never a cancer that spread silent and unseen throughout the entire body of those who created the law and admonished it, even those who judged it. There was no recourse, no one left to whom the hunted or injured could appeal.

As he walked along Brick Lane up towards Heneagle Street he found himself genuinely and deeply afraid. It was the first time he had felt this way since he was a child and his father had been taken away, and the realization had come that there was no justice to save him, no one who could help. They would never meet again, and he was helpless to make any difference to it.

He had forgotten how terrible that feeling was, the bitterness of disillusion, the loneliness of understanding that this was the end of this particular path. There was nothing beyond except what he himself could create.

But he was a man now, not a child. He could and would effect it! He changed direction and increased his pace towards Lake Street. If Narraway was not in, he would demand that the cobbler send for him. At least he would find out which side Narraway was on, force him to show himself. He had very little to lose, and if Remus succeeded, then nobody would have.

He crossed the street and passed a newsboy shouting the headlines. In the House of Commons, Mr. McCartney had asked whether the conflict between political parties in Ireland would be such as to prevent peaceable citizens from voting. Would protection be provided for them?

In Paris, the anarchist Ravachol had been found guilty and sentenced to death.

In America, Mr. Grover Cleveland had been nominated as the Democratic candidate for the presidency.

As he reached Lake Street he passed another newsboy, this one holding a placard saying that James Sissons had been murdered in a conspiracy to ruin Spitalfields, and the police already had witnesses who had seen a dark-haired man of foreign appearance on the premises, and were now looking to identify him. The word Jew had not been used, but it might as well have been.

Pitt reached the cobbler’s shop and left a message that he required to speak to Narraway immediately. He was told to return in thirty minutes.

When he did, Narraway was waiting for him. He was not sitting in his usual position, but standing in the tiny room as if he had expected Pitt to the minute and was too restless to make even the smallest concession to the idea that things were as usual.

“Well?” he demanded as soon as the door was closed.