Whitechapel Conspiracy

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.