Whitechapel Conspiracy

All of which was a silly argument, and she knew it. What mattered was the change, and a change born of hatred was frightening because so often it was done without thought or knowledge. So much could not be foreseen.

“That’s what Jack says.” Emily was watching her closely, her tea forgotten. “And what bothers him the most is that there are powerful interests who are royalist and will do anything to keep things as they are … and I mean anything!” She bit her lip. “When he said that, I pressed him what he meant, and he wouldn’t answer me. He went quiet and sort of … into himself, the way he does if he isn’t well. It seems an odd thing to say, but I think he was afraid.” She stopped abruptly, looking down at her hands again, as if she had said something of which she was ashamed. Perhaps she had not meant to reveal so much of what was vulnerable, and therefore private.

Charlotte felt chilled. There was too much to be afraid of already. She wished to know more, but there was no point in pressing Emily. If she had been able to tell her then she would have done so. It was an ugly and lonely thought. “You don’t realize how much you value what you have, with all its problems, until someone threatens to destroy it and put his own ideas in its place,” she said ruefully. “I don’t mind a little change, but I don’t want a lot. Can you have a little change, do you suppose? Or does it have to be all or nothing? Do they have to smash everything in order to make any of it different?”

“That depends on the people,” Emily replied with a tight, sad little smile. “If you’ll bend, then no. If you won’t, if you do a Marie Antoinette, then perhaps it’s either the crown or the guillotine.”

“Was she really so stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s just an example. No one’s going to behead our Queen. At least I don’t imagine so.”

“I don’t suppose the French imagined so either,” Charlotte said dryly. “I wish I hadn’t thought of that!”

“We aren’t French.” Emily’s voice was firm, even angry.

“Tell Charles I,” Charlotte retorted, picturing in her mind Van Dyke’s sad, brilliant portrait of that unfortunate man, stubborn to his beliefs right to the scaffold.

“That wasn’t a revolution.” Emily retreated to the literal.

“It was a civil war. Is that any better?” Charlotte argued.

“It’s only talk! Politicians having nightmares. If it wasn’t over that, it would be something else—Ireland, taxes, an eight-hour day, or drains.” She shrugged elegantly. “If there isn’t something awful to solve, why would we need them?”

“We probably don’t … at least, most of the time.”

“That’s what they’re afraid of.” Emily stood up. “Do you want to come with us to the National Gallery and see the exhibition?”

“No, thank you. I’m going to see Mrs. Fetters again. I think you may be right—it’s probably politics.”

*   *   *

Charlotte arrived at Great Coram Street a little after eleven o’clock. It was a most unsuitable time for calling on anyone, but this was not a social visit, and it had the one advantage that she would be excessively unlikely to run into anyone else and have to explain her presence.

Juno was delighted to see her and made no pretense to conceal it. Her face was full of relief that she should have company.

“Come in!” she said enthusiastically. “Do you have any news?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Charlotte felt guilty that she had achieved nothing more. After all, this woman’s loss was far greater than her own. “I have thought a great deal, but to no avail, except more ideas.”

“Can I help?”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte accepted the offered seat in the same lovely garden room as before. Today it was cooler and the door was closed. “It seems that ambition for political reform was the obvious thing that Mr. Fetters and John Adinett had in common and about which they both cared very deeply.”

“Oh, Martin cared intensely,” Juno agreed. “He argued for it and wrote many articles. He knew a lot of people would feel the same, and he believed it would come.”

“Do you have any of the articles?” Charlotte asked. She was not sure what use it would be to see them, but there was nothing better she could think of.

“They will be among his papers.” Juno stood up. “The police went through them, of course, but they are all still in his desk in the study. I … I haven’t had the heart to read them again myself.” She spoke softly, with her back to Charlotte, and she went straight out and across the hall to the study, leading the way in.

It was a smaller room than the library, and without the tall windows and sunlight, but it was still pleasant and very obviously well used. A single bookcase was full, and there were two more volumes on the leather inlaid desk. Shelves behind were stacked with papers and folios.