The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [147]
“Yes …” Vespasia’s mind was racing. What Charlotte had said made a terrible sense. Charles Voisey was just the man to emerge as head of state for a new, revolutionary England. He had served as a judge of appeal for many years, been seen to uphold justice, reverse wrong decisions, stand apart from personal or party gains. He had a wide circle of friends and colleagues and yet had stood apart from political controversy so he was not associated in the public mind with any vested interest.
Thinking of all she knew of him, what Charlotte had said was totally believable. Many other things made sense, pieces of conversation she had overheard, things Pitt had told her, even her meeting with Randolph Churchill.
Other things came to mind also, and the tiny, bright sliver of doubt that she had been clinging to vanished at last.
“Aunt Vespasia …” Charlotte said quietly, leaning forward in her chair.
“Yes,” Vespasia repeated. “Most of what you say is true. But it seems to me that you have one fact mistakenly interpreted, and if you are able to tell Mrs. Fetters, it will comfort her greatly. But her safety is of the utmost importance, and if she has that book then I fear they will not let her be.”
“She hasn’t,” Charlotte said quickly. “She burnt it, right there in Voisey’s fire. But what have I got wrong? What have I misunderstood?”
Vespasia sighed, frowning a little. “If Adinett was suddenly made aware of the book, and of Martin Fetters’s part in a conspiracy to cause revolution, and this occurred that day in the library, why did he not take the book with him?” she asked.
“He didn’t know where it was, and he had no time to search,” Charlotte replied. “It was extremely well concealed. Martin bound it to look exactly like …” Her eyes widened. “Oh … yes, of course. If he saw it then he knew where it was. Why didn’t he take it?”
“Whose handwriting was it in the book?”
“I’ve no idea. Actually, two or three different hands. You mean the book wasn’t Martin’s?”
“I should imagine we would find at least one of the hands was Adinett’s own,” Vespasia answered. “And possibly one was Voisey’s, and maybe one even Reginald Gleave’s. I think the one you would not find there was Fetters’s own.”
“But he bound it!” Charlotte protested. “You mean as evidence … but he was a republican. He never pretended not tobe!”
“Many people are republicans,” Vespasia said quietly, trying to guard the pain inside her. “But most do not intend to bring about revolution by violence and deceit. They do no more than argue for it, try to persuade with passion or reason—or both. If Martin Fetters was one of those, and he discovered the intention of his fellows was far more radical than his own, then they would have had to silence him immediately …”
“Which was what Adinett did,” Charlotte concluded. There was fear in her eyes. “No wonder Voisey hated Thomas for persisting with the evidence against Adinett, and for more or less placing him in the position where he himself had to deny Adinett’s appeal. After all, if there were three other judges against it already, then his casting his word for it would only tip his hand, as it were, without saving Adinett.” A bitter humor flashed in her face for an instant. “The irony would have made it worse.” Her mouth softened. “But I’m glad Martin Fetters was not part of the violence. Reading his words I couldn’t help liking him. And Juno will be so relieved when I can tell her. Aunt Vespasia, is there anything we can do to keep her safe, or at least help?”
“I shall consider it,” Vespasia replied, but important as it was, other things were more pressing, and crowded her mind.
Charlotte was looking at her closely, anxiety clouding her eyes.
Vespasia was not ready to share her thoughts; perhaps she never would be. Some things are part of the fabric of one’s being and cannot be framed in words.
She rose to her feet. Charlotte immediately stood also, recognizing that it was time to leave.
“Thomas came to