Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [119]
“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 “But they knew his denial would convince no one, and after that he would be withdrawn from Ireland, which was all that mattered.”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.
Her newspapers were brought, and she thanked the attendant with a charming smile—but she hoped not so charming