Whitechapel Conspiracy

“I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “What does that mean? Who are Special Branch?”

“They work against bombers and anarchists,” he replied. “Mostly Fenians to begin with, until last year. Now it’s anyone who wants to cause riot or political assassination.”

“Why is that so terrible?” She was looking at his face, reaching his emotions rather than the words he had said. She was not doubting the pain of it, only the reason.

“I shan’t be in Bow Street anymore. Not with Cornwallis. I’ll work for a man called Narraway … in Spitalfields.”

She frowned. “Spitalfields? The East End? You mean you’ll have to travel to the Spitalfields police station every day?”

“No … I’ll have to live in Spitalfields, as an ordinary person.”

Slowly understanding dawned in her eyes, then loneliness and anger.

“But that’s … monstrous!” she said incredulously. “They can’t do that! It’s totally unjust! What are they afraid of? Do they think a few anarchists are really going to put all London in danger?”

“It’s got nothing to do with catching anarchists,” he explained. “It’s about punishing me because John Adinett is part of the Inner Circle, and I gave the evidence that will get him hanged.”

Her face tightened, her lips pale. “Yes, I know. Are they listening to people like Gleave, in the newspaper? That’s ridiculous! Adinett was guilty—that’s not your fault!”

He said nothing.

“All right.” She turned away, her voice thick with tears. “I know that has nothing to do with it. Can’t anyone help? It’s so unjust.” She swung back. “Perhaps Aunt Vespasia …”

“No.” The ache inside him was almost intolerable. He stared at her face, flushed with anger and despair, her hair escaping its pins, her eyes full of tears. How was he going to bear living in Spitalfields, alone, not seeing her at the end of every day, not sharing a joke or an idea, or even arguing an opinion, above all not touching her, feeling the warmth of her in his arms?

“It won’t be forever.” He said it as much to himself as to her. He had to look to a time beyond this, whenever it might be. He would not endure this a day longer than he had to. There would be some way of fighting it … in time.

She sniffed hard. Her eyes brimmed over and she hunted through her apron pockets for a handkerchief. She found one and blew her nose fiercely.

He was suddenly undecided. He had thought since before he came into the kitchen that he would pack his things and leave straightaway, not dragging out good-byes. Now he wanted to stay as long as he could, hold her in his arms, and since the house was empty, even go upstairs and make love for what would be the last time for as long as he could foresee.

Would that make it better … or worse, harder when the time came, as it would—soon?

In the end he did not think about it at all, he simply clung to her, kissed her, held her so tightly she cried out against it and he let her go, but only an inch or two, only enough not to hurt. Then he took her upstairs.

After he was gone, Charlotte sat in front of the bedroom mirror brushing her hair. She had to take out the few pins that remained and redo it anyway. She looked dreadful. Her eyes were red and still burning with tears, although now they were also of anger, as well as shock and loneliness.

She heard the front door close, and Gracie’s footsteps along the hall.

Quickly she wound up her hair and repinned it rather wildly, then went down and into the kitchen.

Gracie was standing in the middle of the room.

“Wotever’s ’appened?” she said in dismay. “Yer new bread’s ruined. Look at it.” Then she realized it was something far more serious. “S’it Mr. Pitt? S’e ’urt?” All the color drained from her face.

“No!” Charlotte answered quickly. “He’s all right. I mean, he isn’t hurt.”

“Wot then?” Gracie demanded. Her whole body was rigid, her shoulders hunched tight, her small hands clenched.

Charlotte deliberately sat down on one of the chairs. This was not something to tell in a few words. “They’ve dismissed him from Bow Street and sent him into Special Branch, in the East End.” She never thought of not confiding in Gracie. Gracie had been with them for eight years, since she had been a thirteen-year-old waif, undernourished and illiterate, but with a sharp tongue and a will to improve herself. To her, Pitt was the finest man in the world, and the very best at his job. She considered herself better than any other maid in Bloomsbury because she worked for him. She pitied those who worked for mere useless lords. They had no excitement, no purpose in life.

“Wot’s Special Branch?” she asked suspiciously. “W’y ’im?”

“It used to be about the Irish bombers,” Charlotte said, explaining the little she knew. “Now it’s more about anarchists in general, and nihilists, I believe.”

“Wot’s them?”

“Anarchists are people who want to get rid of all governments and create chaos—”

“Yer don’t ’ave ter get rid o’ governments ter do that,” Gracie said with scorn. “Wot’s them other ’ists?”

“Nihilists? People who want to destroy everything.”