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.
She studied Dismore’s face as he listened to Juno describe the notes she had found. He nodded once or twice but he did not interrupt. He seemed intensely interested.
“Have you all these notes, Mrs. Fetters?” he asked when she finished.
“That is why I have come,” she answered innocently. “There seem to be certain essential pieces missing, references to other works, especially”—she took a breath, and her eyes wavered as if she would turn to Charlotte, then she resisted the impulse—“references to people and beliefs which I think are essential to the sense of it.”
“Yes?” He sat very still, unnaturally so.
“I wondered if he might have left any papers, documents, or earlier, more complete drafts with you?” She smiled uncertainly. “Together they might be sufficient for an article.”
Dismore’s face was eager. When he spoke his voice was sharp with excitement. “I have very little, but of course you may see it. But if there is more, Mrs. Fetters, then we must search everywhere possible until we find every last page. I am willing to go to any trouble, or expense, to find them …”
Charlotte felt a faint prickle of warning. Was that a discreet threat?
“He was a great man,” Dismore continued. “He had a passion for justice which shone like a light through every piece he wrote. He could stir people to look again at old prejudices and rethink them.” Again his face pinched with sorrow. “He is a loss to mankind, to honor and decency, and the love of good. A man such as can be followed but not replaced.”
“Thank you,” Juno said very slowly.
Charlotte wondered if the same thoughts were racing through Juno’s mind as were in her own. Was this man a dupe, a naive enthusiast, or the most superb actor? The more closely she watched him the less certain she was. There was none of the deliberate menace in him that she had sensed in Gleave, the heaviness, the feeling of power which would be used ruthlessly if tempted. Rather it was an electric, almost manic energy of mind and a wholehearted passion and intelligence.
Juno would not give up so easily.
“Mr. Dismore, I should be so grateful if I might see what you have of Martin’s, and take it home with me. I wish above all things to be able to put what he left in order and then offer you a last work as a memorial to him. That is, of course, if you would wish to publish it? Perhaps I am being presumptuous in—”
“Oh no!” he cut across her. “Not in the least. Of course, I will publish whatever there is, in the best form possible.” He reached out and rang the bell on his desk, and when it was answered by the clerk, he instructed him to bring all the letters and papers they possessed written by Martin Fetters.
When the clerk had disappeared to obey, Dismore sat back in his chair and regarded Juno warmly.
“I am so glad you came, Mrs. Fetters. And may I say, I hope without impertinence, how much I admire your spirit in wishing to compose a tribute to Martin. He spoke of you with such high regard it is a pleasure to see that it was not just the voice of a loving husband but of a fine judge of character as well.”
The color crept up Juno’s cheeks and her eyes filled with tears.
Charlotte ached to comfort her, but there was no comfort to give. Either Dismore was innocent or he spoke with the most exquisite cruelty, and the longer she watched him the less sure she became as to which it was. He was sitting a little forward now, enthusiasm lighting his eyes, his face full of animation as he recalled other articles Fetters had written, journeys he had made to the sites of great struggles against tyranny. His own almost fanatic dedication crackled through every word.
Was it conceivable that his ardor for republican reform was the subtlest mask to conceal a royalist who would commit murder to hide the Whitechapel conspiracy? Did his passion for reform of the law actually cover an obsession so ruthless it would expose that same conspiracy in order to foment revolution with all its violence and pain?
