Whitechapel Conspiracy

He had made a bad job of shaving, but it did not matter. He washed in the rest of the cold water and then dressed. He had no heart to face Isaac and Leah at breakfast, and perhaps no time. If it was cowardly, today it was a small sin in the balance.

He said good morning hastily, and without explanation left the house. He walked hurriedly down Brick Lane to the Whitechapel High Street and Aldgate Station. He must see Vespasia, regardless of the hour.

The newspapers this morning were full of Sissons’s murder. There was actually an ink drawing of the supposed killer, made up from the descriptions Harper had drawn from reluctant night staff at the factory and one vagrant ambling along Brick Lane who had seen someone pass. With a little imagination the face in the drawing could have been Saul’s, or Isaac’s, or that of any of a dozen others Pitt knew. What was even worse was the suggestion in print underneath the drawing that the murder had to do with money lending at extortionate rates and a refusal to repay.

Pitt was furious and miserable, but he knew argument was pointless. Fear of poverty was too high to listen to reason.

When he arrived at Vespasia’s house it was still before nine, and she had not yet risen. The maid who answered the door looked startled that anyone, let alone an unusually scruffy-looking Pitt, should call at such an hour.

“It is urgent I speak with Lady Vespasia as soon as she will see me,” he said with something less than his usual courtesy. The raw edges of his emotion were audible in his voice.

“Yes sir,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “If you would like to come in, I shall inform Her Ladyship that you are here.”

“Thank you,” he accepted, grateful that he had been here sufficiently often that she knew him, and Vespasia had always been eccentric enough in her affections that his presence was not questioned.

He stood in the golden breakfast room overlooking the garden, where the maid had left him to wait.

Vespasia appeared within fifteen minutes, not dressed for the day, but in a long, ivory silk peignoir, her hair hastily coiled up, a look of concern in her face.

“Has something happened, Thomas?” she asked without preamble. She had no need to add that he looked haggard and no normal occurrence could have brought him here at this time of day and in this state.

“A great deal has happened,” he replied, pulling out a chair for her and holding it while she sat down. “And it is uglier and more dangerous than anything I have ever imagined before.”

She waved to the chair at the opposite side of the elegant, octagonal table. It had originally been set for one, but a second place had been added by a maid who anticipated her mistress’s wishes.

“You had better tell me,” Vespasia instructed him. She looked at him critically. “I imagine you could do so over breakfast?” It was not really a question. “Although it might be prudent to suspend your remarks while the servants are in the room.”

“Thank you,” he accepted. Already he was beginning to feel a little ease from the sense of despair with which he had begun. He realized with surprise how deeply he loved this remarkable woman whose birth, heritage and entire life were so different from his own. He looked at her beautiful face with its perfect bones and fragile skin, the heavy-lidded eyes, the delicate lines of age, and knew the irretrievable sense of loss he would feel when she was no longer here. He could not bring himself to use the word dead even in the secrecy of his mind.

“Thomas …” she prompted.

“Did you read about the death of Sissons, the sugar manufacturer?” he asked.

“Yes. Apparently he was murdered,” she replied. “The newspapers imply it was by Jewish moneylenders. I should be very surprised if that is true. I assume it is not, and you are aware of what is.”

“Yes.” There was no time to be restrained or careful. “I found him. It was made to look like suicide. There was a note.” Briefly he told her what it had said. Then wordlessly he passed over the note of debt.

She looked at it, then walked over to her escritoire and took out a handwritten note. She looked at both pieces of paper, and smiled.

“It is a good likeness,” she said. “But not perfect. Do you wish for it back?”

“I think it is safer with yon,” he replied, surprisingly relieved that it was not, after all, one more piece of self-indulgence.

He told her of the letter from Adinett, and the deduction he had drawn from it. He watched her as he spoke, and saw sadness in her face, and anger, but not surprise. Her belief was a tiny thread of comfort.

And then it was even harder to tell her what he had done, but there was no way whatever to avoid it. To weigh personal feelings now would be inexcusable.

“I destroyed both letters and took the gun away when I left, and dropped them in one of the sugar vats,” he said jerkily. “I made it look like murder.”

She nodded very slightly. “I see.”