Whitechapel Conspiracy

“It isn’t only what they deserve.” Emily was perfectly serious. “It is what else will happen, who will take their place. Oh, they may be bad, and I wouldn’t argue over that, but before you destroy them you have to think whether what you get instead may not be even worse.”

Charlotte shook her head.

“What could be worse than a secret society in government that for its own reasons will connive at murdering like that? It means there is no law and no justice. What happens the next time someone gets in their way? Who will it be? Over what? Can they be butchered too, and whoever does it protected?”

“That’s extreme—”

“Of course it’s extreme!” Charlotte protested. “They are insane. They have lost all sense of reality. Ask anyone who knows anything about the Whitechapel murders—I mean, really knows.”

Emily was very pale. The memory of the tales of four years ago was in her eyes. “You’re right,” she whispered.

Charlotte leaned towards her. “If we cover it up too, then we are part of it. I’m not prepared to be.”

“What are you going to do?”

“See Juno Fetters and tell her what I know.”

Emily looked frightened. “Are you sure?”

Charlotte hesitated. “I think so. I’m sure she’d rather believe her husband was killed because he knew about this than because he was planning a republican revolution, and that’s what she thinks now.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “A republican revolution? Because of this?” She drew a deep, shivery breath. “It might have succeeded … just possibly …”

Charlotte remembered Martin Fetters’s face in the photograph Juno had shown her, the wide eyes frank, intelligent, daring. It was the face of a man who would follow his passions whatever the cost. She had liked him instinctively, as she had liked the way he had written about the places and people of the ’48 revolutions. Through his sight it had been a noble struggle, and she had seen it that way with him. It had seemed the cause any decent person would have espoused, a love of justice, a common humanity. That he had planned violence here in England was startlingly bitter, almost like the betrayal of a friend. She realized it with surprise.

Emily’s voice cut across her thoughts.

“And Adinett was against it? Then why not simply expose him?” she said reasonably. “He would have been stopped.”

“I know,” Charlotte agreed. “That’s why it makes far more sense that this was the reason he was killed … he knew about the Whitechapel murders, and he would have exposed that when he had the proof.”

“And now this man Remus is going to?”

Charlotte shuddered in spite of the warmth of the familiar room. “I suppose so. He surely wouldn’t be stupid enough to try blackmailing them?” It was half a question.

Emily spoke very softly. “I’m not sure he isn’t stupid even wanting to know.”

Charlotte stood up. “I want to know … I think we have to.” She took a deep breath. “Will you look after the children while I go to see Juno Fetters?”

“Of course. We’ll go to the park,” Emily agreed. Then, as Charlotte stood up and moved past her, she reached out and caught her arm. “Be careful!” she said with fear in her voice, her fingers gripping hard.

“I will,” Charlotte promised. She meant it. All this she had was frighteningly precious—the children, this familiar home, Emily, and Pitt somewhere in the gray alleys of Spitalfields. “I will. I promise.”

Juno was pleased to see Charlotte. Her days were still necessarily tedious. Very few people called and it was not appropriate that she enjoy any form of entertainment in public life. In truth, she did not wish to. But she had more than sufficient means to employ a full complement of servants, so there was nothing left for her to do. The hours dragged by; there was only so much reading or embroidery, so many letters to write, and she had no talent or interest in painting.

She did not immediately ask if Charlotte had news or further thoughts, and it was Charlotte who opened the subject as soon as they were in the garden room.

“I have discovered something that I need to tell you,” she said rather guardedly. She saw Juno’s face light with eagerness. “I am not at all sure if it is true, but if it is, then it will explain a great deal. It seems preposterous … and much more than that, we may never be able to prove it.”

“That matters less,” Juno assured her quickly. “I want to know for myself. I need to understand.”

Charlotte saw the dark shadows around her eyes and the fine lines of strain in her face. She was living with a nightmare. All the past which she treasured, which should have given her strength now, was shadowed with doubt. Had the man she loved ever existed, or was he a creature of her imagination, someone she had built out of fragments and illusions because she needed to love?