Whitechapel Conspiracy

“I think Martin discovered the truth about the most terrible crimes ever committed in London—or anywhere else,” Charlotte said quietly. Even in this sunlit room looking onto the garden, the darkness still touched her at the thought, as if that fearful figure could haunt even these streets with his bloody knife.

“What?” Juno said urgently. “What crimes?”

“The Whitechapel murders,” Charlotte replied, her voice catching.

Juno shook her head. “No … How—” She stopped. “I mean … if Martin had known, then he …”

“He would have told,” Charlotte agreed. “That’s why Adinett had to kill him, to keep him from ever doing that.”

“Why?” Juno stared at her in horror and bewilderment. “I don’t understand.”

Quietly, in simple words raw with emotion, Charlotte told her all she knew. Juno listened without interruption until she fell silent at the end, waiting.

Juno spoke at last, her face ashen. It was as if she felt the brush of terror herself, almost as if she had seen the black carriage that rumbled through those narrow streets and looked into the eyes, for an instant, of the man who could do such things.

“How could Martin know that?” she said huskily. “Did he tell Adinett because he thought he could trust him? And he found out only in that last second of his life that Adinett was one of them?”

Charlotte nodded. “I think so.”

“Then who is behind Remus now?” Juno asked.

“I don’t know. Other republicans, perhaps …”

“So it was revolution …”

“I don’t know. Maybe … maybe it was simply justice?” She did not believe it, but she would like to have. She should not stop Juno from clinging to that, if she could.

“There are other papers.” Juno spoke again, her voice very steady, as if she were making an intense effort. “I have read through Martin’s diaries again, and I know he is referring to something else that is not there. I’ve looked everywhere I can think of, but I haven’t found anything.” She was watching Charlotte, entreaty in her face, the struggle to conquer the fear inside her. She needed to know the truth because her nightmares would create it anyway, and yet as long as she did not know she could hope.

“Who else might he trust?” Charlotte racked her thoughts. “Who else would keep papers for him?”

“His publisher!” Juno said with a flash of excitement. “Thorold Dismore. He’s an ardent republican. He makes so little secret of it most people discount him as being too open to be any danger. But he does mean it, and he’s not nearly as bland or eccentric as they think. Martin would trust him because he knew they had the same ideals and Dismore has the courage of his beliefs.”

Charlotte was unsure. “Can you go and ask him for Martin’s papers, or would they belong to him, as publisher?”

“I don’t know,” Juno confessed, rising to her feet. “But I’m prepared to try any approach to get them. I’ll beg or plead or threaten, or anything else I can think of. Will you come with me? You can call yourself a chaperone, if you like.”

Charlotte seized the chance. “Of course.”

It was not a simple matter to see Thorold Dismore, and they were obliged to wait for some three quarters of an hour in a smart, uncomfortable anteroom, but they made good use of the time to plan what Juno should say. When they were finally shown into his startlingly Spartan office, she was quite ready.

She looked very handsome in black, far more dramatic than Charlotte, who had not foreseen such a visit and was in a fairly sober soft green.

Dismore came forward with an easy courtesy. Whatever his political or social beliefs, he was by nature a gentleman, and by birth also, although he made little of it.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fetters. Please come in and sit down.” He indicated a chair for her, and then turned to Charlotte.

“Mrs. Pitt,” Juno introduced her. “She came to accompany me.” It did not need further explanation.

“How do you do,” Dismore said with a quickening of interest. Charlotte wondered if he remembered her name from the trial or if his interest was personal. She thought it would be the former, although she had certainly seen that sudden flare in men’s eyes before.

“How do you do, Mr. Dismore,” she replied modestly, and accepted the seat he offered her, a little to the side of Juno’s.

When refreshment had been offered, and declined, it was natural to turn to the purpose of their call.

“Mr. Dismore, I have been reading some of my husband’s letters and notes again.” Juno smiled, her voice warm with memory.

He nodded. It was a very natural thing to do.

“I realize he had several articles planned for you to publish, on subjects very dear to his heart, matters of social reform he longed to see …”

A flicker of pain touched Dismore’s eyes; it was more than sympathy, certainly more than mere good manners. Charlotte would have sworn it was real. But they were dealing with causes far more passionate and overwhelming than friendships, however long or sweet. As far as these men were concerned it was a form of war, and one sacrificed even comrades for the ultimate victory.