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?
“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.”
