The Whitechapel Conspiracy (36 page)

Pitt was stunned. “Fetters was …” He took a long, deep breath as the meaning became clear of all she had said. “I see.” He stood silently for long moments, staring at her. His eyes moved down her face as if he would recall every detail of it, touch her mind beyond.

Then he recalled himself to the present, the crowded street, the gray footpath and the urgency of the moment.

Charlotte found herself blushing, but it was a sweet warmth that ran through the core of her.

“If that is so, we have two conspiracies,” he said at last. “One of the Whitechapel murderer to protect the throne at any cost at all, and another of the republicans to destroy it, also at any cost, perhaps an even more dreadful one. And we are not sure who is on which side.”

“I told Aunt Vespasia. She asked to be remembered to you.” She thought as she said it how inadequate those words were to convey the power of the emotions she had felt from Vespasia. But as she looked at Pitt’s face she saw that he understood, and she relaxed again, smiling at him.

“What did she say?” he asked.

“To be careful,” she replied ruefully. “There’s nothing I can do anyway, except keep on looking to see if we can find the rest of Martin Fetters’s papers. Juno is certain there are more.”

“Don’t ask anyone else!” Pitt said sharply. He looked at Tellman, then realized the pointlessness of expecting him to prevent her. Tellman was helpless, frustrated, and it was plain in his expression, a mixture of hurt, fear and anger.

“I won’t!” she promised. It was said on the spur of feeling, to stop the anxiety she could see consuming him. “I won’t speak to anyone else. I’ll just visit with her and keep on looking inside the house.”

He breathed out slowly.

“I must go.”

She stood still, aching to touch him, but the street was full of people. Already they were being stared at. In spite of all sense she took a step forward.

Pitt put out his hand.

A workman on a bicycle whistled and shouted something unintelligible at Tellman, but it was obviously bawdy. He laughed and pedaled on.

Tellman took Charlotte by the arm and pulled her back. His fingers hurt.

Pitt let out a sigh. “Please be careful,” he repeated. “And tell Daniel and Jemima I love them.”

She nodded. “They know.”

He hesitated only a moment, then turned and crossed the street again, away from them, not looking back.

Charlotte watched him go, and again heard laughter from a couple of youths on the farther corner.

“Come on!” Tellman said furiously. This time he took her wrist and yanked her around, almost off balance. She was about to say something very curt indeed when she realized how conspicuous she was making them. She had to behave as people expected or it would look even worse.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and followed him dutifully back down towards the Whitechapel High Street. But her steps were lighter and there was a singing warmth inside her. Pitt had not touched her, nor she him, but the look in his eyes had been a caress in itself, a touch that would never fade.

Vespasia was not especially fond of Wagner, but the opera, any opera at all, was a grand occasion and held a certain glamour. Since the invitation was from Mario Corena, she would have accepted it even had it been to walk down the High Street in the rain. She would not have told him so, but she suspected he might already know. Not even the hideous news that Charlotte had brought could keep her from going with him.

He called for her at seven and they rode at a very leisurely pace in the carriage he had taken for the evening. The air was mild and the streets were crowded with people, seeing and being seen on their way to parties, dinners, balls, exhibitions, excursions up and down the river.

Mario was smiling, the last of the sunlight flickering on his face through the windows as they moved. She thought that time had been kind to him. His skin was still smooth, the lines were upward, without bitterness, in spite of all that had been lost. Perhaps he had never given up hope, only changed it as one cause had died and another had been created.

She remembered the long, golden evenings in Rome as the sun went down over the ancient ruins of the city, now lost in centuries of later and lesser dreams. The air there was warmer, with no cold edge to it, heavy with the smell of heat and dust. She remembered how they had walked on the pavements that had once been the center of the world, trodden by the feet of every nation on the earth come to pay tribute.

But that had been the Imperial age. Mario had stood on one of the older, simpler bridges across the Tiber, watching the light on the water, and told her with passion raw in his voice of the old republic that had thrown out the kings, long before the years of the Caesars. That was what he loved, the simplicity and the honor with which they had begun, before ambition overtook them and power corrupted them.

With the thought of power and corruption, a chill touched her that the warmth of the evening could not ease; even the echoes of memory were not strong enough to loose its grip.

She thought of the dark alleys of Whitechapel, of women waiting alone, hearing the rumble of carriage wheels behind them, perhaps even turning to see its denser blackness outlined against the gloom, then the door opening, the sight of a face for a moment, and the pain.

She thought of poor Eddy, a pawn moved one way and then the other, his emotions used and disregarded in a world he only half heard, perhaps half understood. And she thought of his mother, deaf also, pitied and often ignored, and how she must have grieved for him, and been helpless to move even to comfort him, let alone to save him.

They were approaching Covent Garden. There was a small girl standing on the corner and holding out a bunch of wilted flowers.

Mario stopped the coach, to the anger and inconvenience of the traffic around them in both directions. He climbed out and walked over to the girl. He bought the flowers and returned with them, smiling. They were dusty, their stalks bent and petals drooping.

“A little past their best,” he said wryly. “And I gave rather too much for them.” There was laughter in his eyes, and sadness.

She took them. “How very appropriate,” she answered, smiling back, a ridiculous lump in her throat.

The carriage moved on again, amid considerable abuse.

“I’m sorry it’s Wagner,” he remarked, resettling himself into his seat. “I can never take it all with the right degree of seriousness. The men who cannot laugh at themselves frighten me even more than those who laugh at everything.”

She looked at him and knew how profoundly he meant it. There was an edge to his voice like that she remembered in the hot, dreadful days of the siege before the end. They had realized, during those nights alone, when all the work they could do was past and there was nothing else but to wait, that in the end they would not win. The Pope would return and sooner or later all the old corruptions would come back too, bland-faced, pitiless, impersonal.

But they had had a passion inside and a loyalty that gave more than it ever cost, even at the very last. The men who beat them were stronger, richer and sadder.

“They mock because they don’t understand,” she said, thinking of those who had derided their aspirations so long ago.

He was looking at her as he always had, as if there were no one else.

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “It is far worse when they do it because they
do
understand but they hate what they cannot have.” He smiled. “I remember my grandfather telling me that if I desired wealth or fame there would always be those who would hate me for it because both are earned at someone else’s cost. But if I wished only to be good, no one would begrudge me that. I did not argue with him, partly because he was my grandfather, but mostly because I did not realize then
how wrong he was.” His mouth tightened and there was a terrible sadness in his eyes. “There is no hatred on earth like that for someone who possesses a virtue you do not have, or want. It is the mirror that shows you what you are, and obliges you to see it.”

Without thinking she reached out her hand and laid it on his. His fingers closed over hers immediately, warm and strong.

“Who are you thinking of?” she asked, knowing it was not simply memory speaking, dear as that was.

He turned to her, his eyes grave. They were nearly there and it would be time to alight in a moment, join the throng gathering on the opera house steps, women in laces and silk, jewels winking in the lights, men in shirts so white they gleamed.

“Not a man, my dear, so much as a time.” He looked around them. “This cannot last, the extravagance, the inequality and the waste of it. Look at the beauty and remember it, because it is worth a great deal, and too much of it will go.” His voice was very soft. “Only a little wiser, a little more moderate, and they could have kept it all. That is the trouble—when anger bursts at last it destroys the good as well as the bad.”

Before she could press him further the carriage stopped and he alighted, handing her down before the footman could do so. They went up the steps and in through the crowds, nodding to a friend or acquaintance.

They saw Charles Voisey standing deep in conversation with James Sissons. Sissons was looking flushed, and every time Voisey hesitated he cut in.

“Poor Voisey,” Vespasia said wryly. “Do you think we are morally obliged to rescue him?”

Mario was puzzled. “Rescue him?” he asked.

“From the sugar factory man,” she said with surprise at having to explain to him. “He is the most crashing bore.”

An aching pity filled Mario’s face, a regret that filled her with longing for things which could never be, not even all those years ago in Rome, except in dream.

“You know nothing of him, my dear, not of the man beneath the awkward surface. He deserves to be judged for his heart, not his grace … or lack of it.” He took her arm and with surprising strength led her past Voisey and Sissons and the group beyond them, and up the stairs towards the box.

She saw Voisey take his seat almost opposite them, but she did not see Sissons again.

She wanted to enjoy the music, to let her mind and her heart be fully with Mario in this little space of time, but she could not rid her thoughts of what Charlotte had told her. She turned over every possibility in her mind, and the longer she did so the less could she doubt that what Lyndon Remus had been led to was hideously close to the truth, but that he was being manipulated for purposes far beyond everything he understood.

She trusted Mario’s heart. Even after all those years she did not believe he had changed so much. His dreams were woven into the threads of his soul. But she did not trust his head. He was an idealist; he saw too much of the world in broad strokes, as he wished it to be. He had refused to allow experience to dull his hope or teach him reality.

She looked at his face, still so full of passion and hope, and followed his glance across at the royal box, which was empty tonight. The Prince of Wales was probably indulging in something a trifle less serious than the deliberation of the doomed gods of Valhalla.

“Did you choose
Twilight of the Gods
on purpose?” she asked.

Something in her voice caught his attention, a gravity, even a sense of time running out. There was no laughter in his eyes as he answered.

“No … but I could have,” he said softly. “It is twilight, Vespasia, for very flawed gods who wasted their opportunities, spent too much money that was not theirs to cast away, borrowed money that has not been paid back. Good men will starve because of it, and that makes more than the victims angry. It wakens a rage in the ordinary man, and that is what brings down kings.”

“I doubt it.” She did not enjoy contradicting him. “The Prince of Wales has owed so much money for so long it is only a slow anger left now, not hot enough for what you speak of.”

“That depends who he has borrowed from,” he said gravely. “From rich men, bankers, speculators or courtiers; to some extent they took their own risks and can be thought to deserve their fate. But not if the lender is ruined and takes others down with him.”

The houselights were dimming and a silence fell in the theater. Vespasia was hardly aware of it.

“And is that likely to happen, Mario?”

The orchestra sounded the first ominous notes.

She felt his hand touch hers gently in the darkness. There was still remarkable strength in him. In all the times he had touched her he had never hurt her, only broken her heart.

“Of course it will happen,” he replied. “The Prince is as bent on his own destruction as any of Wagner’s gods, and he will bring all Valhalla down with him, the good as well as the bad. But we have never known how to prevent that. That is their tragedy, that they will not listen until it is too late. But this time there are men with vision and practical sense. England is the last of the great powers to hear the voice of the common man in his cry for justice, but perhaps because of that it will learn from those of us who failed, and you will succeed.”

The curtain went up and showed the elaborate set on the stage. In its light Vespasia looked at Mario, and saw the hope naked in his face, the courage to try again, in spite of all the battles lost, and in him still no generosity to wish victory for others.

She almost wished it could succeed, for his sake. The old corruption was deep, but in so many cases it was part of life, ignorance, not deliberate wickedness, not cruelty, simply blindness. She could understand Charles Voisey’s arguments against hereditary privilege, but she knew human nature well enough to believe that the abuse of power is no respecter of persons: it affects king and commoner alike.

“Tyrants are not born, my dear,” she said softly. “They are made, by opportunity, whatever title they give themselves.”

He smiled at her. “You think too little of man. You must have faith.”

She swallowed the tears in her throat, and did not argue.

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