The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [112]
“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.”
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