“You were more fortunate than most women. I think sometimes you don’t fully appreciate that. You chose to marry outside your class, and your family’s choice for you, but they did not blame you for it or cut you off. Your social ostracism was a natural result of your marriage, not the act of your family. They remained close to you, never criticizing your choice or seeking to change your mind.” Her expression was sad and tired, her eyes far away. “Neassa had the courage to make her choice too, but her family did not understand. To them, to her brothers, it was a shame they would not live with.”
“But what about Alexander Chinnery?” Charlotte had forgotten him for a moment. “What did he do? How did you know it was not he who killed her, as they said?”
“Because by June eighth, Alexander Chinnery was already dead,” Vespasia said softly. “He was drowned in Liverpool Harbour trying to save a boy who had caught his leg in a rope and been pulled into the water.”
“Then why did both the Catholics and the Protestants believe it was he who killed Neassa Doyle?” Charlotte pressed. “And why did they think she was raped if she wasn’t?”
“Why do stories grow around anything?” Vespasia picked up her fork and began to eat again, slowly. “Because someone leaps to a conclusion … a conclusion that suits the emotions they feel and wish to arouse in the others. After a while everyone believes it, and then even if the truth is known, it is too late to tell it. Everyone has too much invested in the myth, and the truth would destroy what they have built and make liars of them.”
“They aren’t lying, they really believe it.” Charlotte picked up her wineglass, full of clean, cold water. “I suppose it was thirty years ago, and there’s no one about now who was involved, at least not in present-day politics. And they aren’t going to tell people they lied then.”
“Nobody would believe them if they did,” Vespasia argued. “The powers of the legends which tell us who we are, and justify what we want to do, is far too great to take notice of a few inconvenient facts and dates.”
“You are sure?” Charlotte urged, her fork held up in one hand. “Couldn’t Chinnery have died later? Maybe the same date, but the following year? To think her own brothers murdered her like that, cutting off her hair first, and then his people let Drystan think it was the Doyles, so he attacked them and was shot! Or did they know it was the Doyles?” She found her hand clenching on her fork, and her stomach knotted.
“Yes, they told Drystan it was,” Vespasia answered. “With the obvious result that he went mad with rage and grief and attacked them.” Her voice was hard. “That way the Catholics could blame the Protestants for seducing one of their women and for allying with an English traitor, which resulted in her rape and murder; and the Protestants could blame the Catholics for roughly the same thing; and they could all blame us. And there was no one left alive to say otherwise.”
“Did they know Chinnery was dead?”
“No, I doubt that.” Vespasia shook her head. “But they knew his denial would convince no one, and after that he would be withdrawn from Ireland, which was all that mattered.”
“But what about Chinnery’s family?” Charlotte asked. “Don’t they want his name cleared? That’s a monstrous crime he is accused of.”
“It is cleared, as far as they are concerned. He died a hero’s death in Liverpool Harbour.”
“But no one knows that!” Charlotte protested angrily.
“Yes, they do. It was in the Liverpool newspapers at the time, and his family lived in Liverpool.”
“In the newspapers?” Charlotte let her fork drop. “Then it can be proved.”
“To whom?” Vespasia asked dryly. “The people who tell stories about Drystan and Neassa? The poets and harpists who sing songs by hearths and by moonlight to keep the myths alive? My dear, Macbeth was actually the last High King of Scotland, when Scotland extended as far south as Yorkshire, and he ruled for seventeen peaceful and prosperous years.” Her silver eyes were full of irony. “And when he died his people buried him in the sacred isle of the kings. He was succeeded by Lady Macbeth’s son Lulach, as the rightful heir through his mother’s line. She was a remarkable woman who instituted many reforms for the care of the widowed and orphaned.” She shrugged, then speared her fork into the salmon on her plate. “But to accept that would spoil one of Shakespeare’s best plays, so no one wishes to know.”
“Well, I am going to find that newspaper and show people that that particular story is a monstrous fabrication,” Charlotte said with total conviction. “Macbeth is academic now, but this is still real!”
Vespasia looked at her steadily. “Are you sure that is wise? Or even that it will make any difference? People get very angry when their dreams are shown to be false. The emotion is what matters, the force which sustained the dream. We believe what we need to believe.”
“The illusion fed the hatred—” Charlotte started.
“No, my dear, the hatred fed the dream. Take that dream away and another will be created to take its place.” Vespasia sipped her water. “You cannot solve the Irish Problem, Charlotte. But I suppose perhaps you may make a difference to one or two people. Although I doubt very much that they will accept your word for what is in a newspaper, and how you may convince them I don’t know.”
Actually, neither did Charlotte. Her intention was rather more practical, but she did not wish to involve Vespasia in it, even by committing her to the knowledge. She merely smiled and continued with her meal.
When Charlotte left in the early afternoon, after having thanked Vespasia for her help and her counsel, and above all for her friendship, she took a hansom to the British Museum. She went to the reading room and asked the grim and very formal attendant if she might see the Liverpool newspapers of June of the year of 1860, and then the Irish newspapers for the same period. Fortunately, she had a very small pair of nail scissors in her reticule, something she frequently carried with her because they served in a number of emergencies, along with a file, a needle and thread, a thimble, and several gold safety pins.
“Yes, miss,” he said gravely. “If you will follow me, miss.” He led the way along narrow aisles between enormous banks of books and papers until he found her a reading desk, then promised to return with the requested newspapers.
At the table next to her was a young man with a fierce mustache and a deadly earnest expression. He seemed utterly absorbed in a political pamphlet; he barely seemed to breathe, so intent was he upon it.
On the other side of her was an elderly gentleman of military aspect who glared at her as if she had intruded in some gentleman’s club, and considering what she had it in mind to do, his suspicion was more than justified.
