Together they almost ran up the stairs again, skirts in their hands not to trip, and strode along the corridor back to the library.
It took them nearly half an hour, but finally Juno had it: a small book on the Trojan economy, in discreet dark leather with gold lettering, hand-bound.
They stood side by side reading a random page:
The evidence of the loan has, of course, been carefully laid. It will all be in his letter, which will be found on his death. As soon as it is known, the journalist will be given the final piece of proof on the Whitechapel story.
The two together will accomplish all that is necessary.
Juno looked at Charlotte, her eyes questioning.
Charlotte’s mind was racing. She understood only part of it, but the reference to Remus was so clear it leaped out from the book, shaking a little in Juno’s hand.
“He knew about someone’s death in advance,” Juno said quietly. “This is part of the plan for the overthrow of the government, isn’t it?” Her voice challenged Charlotte to offer some comforting lie.
“It seems so,” Charlotte agreed, scrambling in her mind to know whom it referred to. “I know what the journalist is about, and you are right. It is part of the conspiracy for revolution.”
Juno said nothing. Her hands shook as she held the book up for Charlotte to read with her, and turned the page.
It was lists of figures of injured and dead in the various revolutions throughout Europe in 1848. From them were projected a new set of figures for probable deaths in London and the other major cities of England when revolution occurred there. The meaning was unmistakable.
Juno was sheet white, her eyes dark in the hollows of their sockets.
They only glanced at the next pages. There were plans and possibilities for redistributing wealth and properties confiscated from those who enjoyed them as hereditary privilege. The document was at least a dozen pages thick.
The last one was a proposed constitution for a new state, led by a president responsible to a senate, not unlike that of republican Rome before the Caesars. It was not set out in a formal way, rather more a matter of suggestions, but there seemed no doubt as to who the first president would be. The writer made reference to several of the great idealists of the past, most especially Mazzini and Mario Corena, the idealist who had so magnificently failed in Rome. But the master himself intended to lead in England.
Charlotte did not need to ask if the handwriting was Martin Fetters’s; she knew it was not. There was no resemblance. Fetters’s writing was bold, flowing, a little untidy, as if his enthusiasm had run faster than the hand. This was precise, its capital letters only just larger than the rest, little slope to it, no space between one sentence and the next.
She looked up at Juno. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she had found this in Pitt’s room. It was passionate, idealistic, arbitrary, violent and utterly wrong. No reform should be brought about by the deception that was proposed here, fomenting riot built on rage and lies, no thought of asking the people what they wanted, or telling everyone honestly what they would lose in order to gain it.
Charlotte turned to Juno and saw horror in her face, and bewilderment and grief that eclipsed all the pain of the past few days.
“I was wrong,” she whispered. “I didn’t know him at all. What he planned was monstrous. He—he lost all his true idealism. I know he thought it was for people’s good. He loathed any form of tyranny … but he never asked if they wanted a republic, or if they were prepared to die for it. He decided for them. That’s not freedom; it’s just another form of tyranny.”
There was no argument that Charlotte could give, nor could she think of any comfort. What Juno had said was true: the plan was the ultimate arrogance, the final despotism, no matter how idealistically intended.
Juno stared into the distance, blinking away tears. “Thank you for not saying something trite,” she said at last.
Charlotte made the only decision she was certain of. “Let’s have the tea now. I feel as if I’ve been eating paper.”
Juno gave a half smile, and accepted. They went downstairs together and within five minutes Dora brought the tea tray. Neither of them spoke. There seemed nothing sensible to say until they had finished, and finally Juno put down her cup, rose and walked over towards the window. She stared out at the sun on the small patch of grass.
“I was uncomfortable with John Adinett. And I hated him for killing Martin,” she said slowly. “God forgive me, I was even glad when they hanged him.” Her body was rigid, her shoulders high, muscles locked. “But now I understand why he felt he had to. I … hate this … but I believe I should tell the truth…. It won’t bring Adinett back, but it will clear his name.”
Charlotte was not so certain what she felt. Overwhelming pity, and admiration definitely. But what about Pitt? Adinett was in some lights justified in killing Fetters, or at least understandable. If people had known at the trial why he had done it they would never have wanted him hanged. They might even blame Pitt for prosecuting him at all.
But then Adinett had refused to give even the slightest explanation. How could anyone know? Even Gleave had said nothing. Presumably he had not known. Then she remembered his face as he had pressed Juno for Martin’s papers. He had not threatened them in words, but it had been there in the air, and they had all felt it like a coldness in the bone.
He had known! Only he was on Fetters’s side! Poor Adinett … there had been no one for him to turn to, no one to trust. Little wonder he had remained silent and gone to his death without attempting to save himself. He had known from the moment of his arrest that he had no chance of winning. He had acted to save his country from revolution, knowing it would cost him his life. He deserved the truth to vindicate him now, at the very least.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You are quite right. As Inspector Pitt’s wife, I should like to come with you, if I may?”
Juno turned around. “Yes, please. I was going to ask you anyway.”
