The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [113]
“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?
She watched him, listened to the cadences of his voice, and still she could not judge.
The papers were brought in a heavy manila envelope, and without hesitation Dismore passed them to Juno. Was that honesty? Or the fact that he had already read through them all?
Juno took them with a smile that was tight with the strain of maintaining her composure. She barely glanced down at them.
“Thank you, Mr. Dismore,” she said quietly. “Of course, I shall return to you everything that might be worthy of printing.”
“Please do,” he urged. “In fact, I should very much like to see whatever you have also, and if you discover more. There may be things of value that do not appear to be so.”
“If you wish,” she agreed, inclining her head.
He drew breath as if to add something further, an additional urgency to his request, then changed his mind. He smiled with sudden charming warmth. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Fetters. I am sure that together we shall be able to create an article that will stand for the best memorial to your husband, the one he would wish, which will be a forwarding of the great cause of social justice and equality, a real freedom for all men. And it will come. He was a great man, a man of vision and brilliance, and the courage to use them both. I was privileged to know him and