Whitechapel Conspiracy

He was about to say “sit down,” but she had done so already. She had no intention of allowing anyone, even Randolph Churchill, to set her at a disadvantage.

“ … and tell me what I can do for you,” he finished, resuming his own seat again.

“There is no time to waste in pleasantries,” she said tersely. “You are probably aware that James Sissons, sugar manufacturer in Spitalfields, was murdered yesterday.” She did not wait for him to acknowledge that he was. “Actually, it was intended to look like suicide, complete with a note blaming his ruin upon having lent money to the Prince of Wales, who had refused to repay it. As a consequence, all three of his factories would be ruined and at least fifteen hundred families in Spitalfields sent into beggary.” She stopped.

Churchill’s face was ashen.

“I see you understand the difficulty,” she said dryly. “It could become extremely unpleasant if this closure comes about. Indeed, along with other misfortunes which we may not be able to prevent, it could even bring about the fall of the government and of the throne …”

“Oh …” he began to protest.

“I am old enough to have known those who witnessed the French Revolution, Randolph,” she said with ice in her voice. “They too did not believe it could happen … even with the rattle of the tumbrels in the streets, they disbelieved.”

He wilted a little, as if the energy in him to protest had been drained away by fear. His eyes were wide, his breathing shallow. His fine, soft hands were stiff on the polished desk surface. He watched her almost unblinkingly. It was the first time in her life she had ever seen him rattled.

“Fortunately,” she continued, “we have friends, one of whom happened to be the person who discovered Sissons’s body. He had the foresight to remove the gun and the note of debt, and destroy the letter, so the death appeared to be murder. But it is only a temporary solution. We need to see to it that the factories keep working and the men are paid.” She met his gaze unflinchingly, a tiny smile on her lips. “I imagine you have friends who would feel as you do, and be willing to contribute something towards that end. It would be a very enlightened thing to do, in our own self-interest, not to mention as a moral gesture. And if done in such a way that the public were to learn of it, I imagine it would meet with a considerable feeling of gratitude. The Prince of Wales, for example, might find himself the hero of the day—as opposed to the villain. That has a certain ironic appeal, don’t you think?”

He took a very deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. He was relieved; it glowed in his face in spite of any attempt to mask it. And he was also awed by her, very much against his will, and that was there also. For an instant he considered prevaricating, pretending to consider the idea, then he abandoned it as absurd. They both knew he would do it; he must.

“An excellent solution, Lady Vespasia,” he said as stiffly as he was able, but his voice was not quite steady. “I shall see to it that it is implemented immediately … before any real damage is done. It—it is fortunate indeed that we had a … friend … so well placed.”

“And with the initiative to act, at considerable risk to himself,” Vespasia added. “There are those who will make life exceedingly difficult for him should they learn of it.”

He smiled bleakly, pulling his lips into a thin line.

“We shall assume that that will not happen. Now, I must set about this sugar factory business.”

She rose to her feet. “Of course. There is no time to be lost.” She did not thank him for seeing her. They both knew it was even more in his interest than in hers, and she made no pretenses for him. She did not like him; she had profound suspicions, close to certainty, as to his deep involvement with the Whitechapel murders, although there was no proof. She was using him, and she would not affect to be doing anything else. She inclined her head very slightly as he passed her to open the door and hold it while she walked through.

“Good day,” she said with a thin smile. “I wish you success.”

“Good day, Lady Vespasia,” he replied. He was grateful, but to circumstance, common interest, not to her.

There was one other matter, a darker, far more painful one, but she was not yet ready to face that.