Whitechapel Conspiracy

Pitt intended to stand up, but found his legs weak. He started to ask how long he was to be banished to chasing shadows in the East End, robbed of dignity, of command, of the whole way of life he was used to … and had earned! He was not sure if he could bear the answer. Then, looking at Cornwallis’s face, he realized the man had no answer to give.

“I have to live … in the East End?” he asked. He heard his own voice, dry and a little cracked, as if he had not spoken for days. He realized it was the sound of shock. He had heard the same tone in others when he had had to tell them unbearable news.

He shook himself. This was not unbearable. No one he loved was injured or dead. He had lost his home for himself, but it was there for Charlotte, and Daniel and Jemima. Only he would be missing.

But it was so unjust! He had done nothing wrong, nothing even mistaken. Adinett was guilty. Pitt had presented the evidence to a jury fairly, and they had weighed it and delivered a verdict.

Why had John Adinett killed Fetters? Even Juster had been unable to think of any reason. In everyone’s belief they had been the best of friends, two men who not only shared a passion for travel and for objects treasured for their links with history and legend, but also shared many ideals and dreams for changing the future. They wanted a gentler, more tolerant society that offered a chance of improvement to all.

Juster had wondered if the motive could concern money or a woman. Both had been investigated, and no suggestion could be found of either’s being the case. No one knew of even the slightest difference between the two men until that day. No raised voices had been heard. When the butler had brought the port half an hour earlier, the two men had seemed the best of friends.

But Pitt was certain he was not mistaken in the facts.

“Pitt …” Cornwallis was still leaning across the desk, staring at him, his eyes earnest.

Pitt refocused his attention. “Yes?”

“I’ll do all I can.” Cornwallis seemed embarrassed, as if he knew that was not enough. “Just … just wait it out. Be careful And … and for God’s sake, trust no one.” His hands clenched on the polished oak surface. “I wish to God I had the power to do something. But I don’t even know who I’m fighting….”

Pitt rose to his feet. “There’s nothing to do,” he said flatly. “Where do I find this Victor Narraway?”

Cornwallis handed him a slip of paper with an address written on it—14 Lake Street, Mile End New Town. It was on the edge of the Spitalfields area. “But go home first, collect what clothes you’ll need, and personal things. Be careful what you tell Charlotte…. Don’t …” He stopped, changing his mind about what he meant to say. “There are anarchists,” he said instead. “Real ones, with dynamite.”

“Maybe they’re planning something here.”

“I suppose that’s possible. After Bloody Sunday in Trafalgar Square, not much would surprise me. Although that was four years ago.”

Pitt walked to the door. “I know you did what you could.” It was difficult to speak. “The Inner Circle is a secret disease. I knew that … I’d just forgotten.” And without waiting for Cornwallis to answer, he went out and down the stairs, oblivious of the men he passed, not even hearing those who spoke to him.

He dreaded telling Charlotte, therefore the only way to do it was immediately. “What is it?” she said as he came into the kitchen. She was standing at the big, black cooking stove. The room was full of sunlight and the smell of fresh bread, and clean linen on the airing rails hauled up to the ceiling. There was blue-and-white china on the Welsh dresser and a bowl full of fruit in the center of the scrubbed wooden table. Archie, the marmalade-and-white cat, was lying in the empty laundry basket washing himself, and his brother Angus was creeping hopefully along the window ledge towards the milk jug by Charlotte’s elbow.

The children were at school, and Gracie must be upstairs or out on some errand. This was the home he loved, everything that made life good. After the horror and tragedy of crime, it was coming back here with its laughter and sanity, the knowledge that he was loved, that took the poison out of the wounds of the day.

How would he manage without it? How would he manage without Charlotte?

For a moment he was filled with a blinding rage against the secret men who had done this to him. It was monstrous that from the safety of anonymity they could rob him of the things he held dearest, that they could invade his life and scatter it like dry grass, without being accountable to anyone. He wanted to do the same to them, but face-to-face, so they would know why, and he could see it in their eyes as they understood.

“Thomas, what is it?” Her voice was sharp with fear. She had swung around from the stove, the oven cloth in her hand, and was staring at him. He was dimly aware that Angus had reached the milk and was beginning to lap it.

“They’ve put me into Special Branch,” he replied.