Whitechapel Conspiracy

He stood staring silently at the throng, his face weary with the long battle against blindness of heart. She watched him, knowing what he thought all those years ago in Rome, and saw beyond doubt that he was thinking the same now. Then it had been the Pope and his cardinals, now it was the Prince and his courtiers, admirers, hangers-on. This was the Crown of Britain and its Empire, not the three-tiered crown of the Pope, but everything else was the same, the splendor and the indifference, the unconscious use of power, the human frailty.

Why was he in London? Did she want to know? Perhaps not. This moment was sweet. Here in this noisy, superficial glamour of the ballroom she could feel the heat of the Roman sun on her face, see the dust, sense the glare in her eyes—and imagine under her feet the stones that had rung to the steps of legions who had conquered every corner of the earth and shouted “Hail Caesar!” as they marched, eagles high, red crests bright. She was back where Christian martyrs had been thrown to the lions, gladiators had fought, St. Peter had been crucified upside down, Michelangelo had painted the Sistine Chapel.

She did not want the past overwhelmed by the present. It was too precious, too deeply woven into the fabric of her dreams.

No, she would not ask.

Then the moment slipped past, and they were no longer alone. A man named Richmond greeted them pleasantly, introducing his wife, and the moment after, Charles Voisey and Thorold Dismore joined them and conversation became general. It was trivial and mildly amusing until Mrs. Richmond made some comment about ancient Troy and the excitement of Heinrich Schliemann’s discoveries. Vespasia forced her attention to the present and its trivia.

“Remarkable,” Dismore agreed. “Extraordinary persistence of the man.”

“And the things they discovered,” Mrs. Richmond enthused. “The mask of Agamemnon, the necklace probably worn by Helen. It makes them all real in a way I had never imagined … actual flesh and blood, just like ordinary people. It is the oddest sensation to take them out of the realms of legend and make mortals of them, with lives that leave physical remains, artefacts behind.”

“Probably.” Voisey sounded cautious.

“Oh, I think there’s little doubt!” she protested. “Have you read any of those marvelous papers by Martin Fetters? He’s brilliant, you know. He makes it all so immediate.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Yes,” Dismore said abruptly. “He is a great loss.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Richmond colored deeply. “I had forgotten. How terrible. I am sorry. He … fell …” She stopped, clearly uncertain how to continue.

“Of course he fell!” Dismore said tartly. “God knows how any jury came to the conclusion they did. It’s patently absurd. But it will go to appeal, and it will be reversed.” He looked at Voisey.

Richmond turned to look at him as well.

Voisey stared back.

Mario Corena was puzzled.

“Sorry, Corena, can’t give an opinion,” Voisey said tersely. His face was pale, his lips pinched. “I shall almost certainly be one of the judges to sit when it comes to appeal. But this much I do know, that damned policeman Pitt is an ambitious and irresponsible man with a grudge against those of better birth and fortune than himself. He’s determined to exercise the power his position gives him, just to show he can. His father was deported for theft, and he’s never got over it. This is some kind of revenge against society. The arrogance of the ignorant when they are given a little responsibility is terrifying.”

Vespasia felt as if she had been slapped. For a moment she had been at a loss for words. She heard the anger in Voisey’s voice, saw the heat in his eyes. Her own anger was equal.

“I was not aware you were acquainted with him,” she said icily. “But then I am certain a member of the judiciary such as you are would not judge any man, regardless of his birth or status, other than on the most carefully tested evidence. You would not allow other men’s words or deeds to weigh with you, least of all your own feelings. Justice must be equal to all, or it is no justice at all.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Therefore I must presume you know him far better than I do.”

Voisey’s skin was so pale the freckles on it stood out. He drew in his breath but did not speak.

“He is a relative of mine, by marriage,” Vespasia finished. A very distant relative, but she had no need to add that. Her great-nephew, now dead, had been Pitt’s brother-in-law.

Mrs. Richmond was astounded. For a moment she found it almost amusing, then she realized how seriously everyone else was taking it; the emotion was charged in the air like a coming storm.

“Unfortunate,” Dismore said in the silence. “Probably the fellow was doing his duty as he saw it. Still, no doubt at all the appeal will reverse the verdict.”

“Ah … yes,” Richmond added. “No doubt at all.”

Voisey kept his discretion.

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