Juno said nothing. Her hands shook as she held the book up for Charlotte to read with her, and turned the page.
It was lists of figures of injured and dead in the various revolutions throughout Europe in 1848. From them were projected a new set of figures for probable deaths in London and the other major cities of England when revolution occurred there. The meaning was unmistakable.
Juno was sheet white, her eyes dark in the hollows of their sockets.
They only glanced at the next pages. There were plans and possibilities for redistributing wealth and properties confiscated from those who enjoyed them as hereditary privilege. The document was at least a dozen pages thick.
The last one was a proposed constitution for a new state, led by a president responsible to a senate, not unlike that of republican Rome before the Caesars. It was not set out in a formal way, rather more a matter of suggestions, but there seemed no doubt as to who the first president would be. The writer made reference to several of the great idealists of the past, most especially Mazzini and Mario Corena, the idealist who had so magnificently failed in Rome. But the master himself intended to lead in England.
Charlotte did not need to ask if the handwriting was Martin Fetters’s; she knew it was not. There was no resemblance. Fetters’s writing was bold, flowing, a little untidy, as if his enthusiasm had run faster than the hand. This was precise, its capital letters only just larger than the rest, little slope to it, no space between one sentence and the next.
She looked up at Juno. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she had found this in Pitt’s room. It was passionate, idealistic, arbitrary, violent and utterly wrong. No reform should be brought about by the deception that was proposed here, fomenting riot built on rage and lies, no thought of asking the people what they wanted, or telling everyone honestly what they would lose in order to gain it.
Charlotte turned to Juno and saw horror in her face, and bewilderment and grief that eclipsed all the pain of the past few days.
“I was wrong,” she whispered. “I didn’t know him at all. What he planned was monstrous. He—he lost all his true idealism. I know he thought it was for people’s good. He loathed any form of tyranny … but he never asked if they wanted a republic, or if they were prepared to die for it. He decided for them. That’s not freedom; it’s just another form of tyranny.”
There was no argument that Charlotte could give, nor could she think of any comfort. What Juno had said was true: the plan was the ultimate arrogance, the final despotism, no matter how idealistically intended.
Juno stared into the distance, blinking away tears. “Thank you for not saying something trite,” she said at last.
Charlotte made the only decision she was certain of. “Let’s have the tea now. I feel as if I’ve been eating paper.”
Juno gave a half smile, and accepted. They went downstairs together and within five minutes Dora brought the tea tray. Neither of them spoke. There seemed nothing sensible to say until they had finished, and finally Juno put down her cup, rose and walked over towards the window. She stared out at the sun on the small patch of grass.
“I was uncomfortable with John Adinett. And I hated him for killing Martin,” she said slowly. “God forgive me, I was even glad when they hanged him.” Her body was rigid, her shoulders high, muscles locked. “But now I understand why he felt he had to. I … hate this … but I believe I should tell the truth…. It won’t bring Adinett back, but it will clear his name.”
Charlotte was not so certain what she felt. Overwhelming pity, and admiration definitely. But what about Pitt? Adinett was in some lights justified in killing Fetters, or at least understandable. If people had known at the trial why he had done it they would never have wanted him hanged. They might even blame Pitt for prosecuting him at all.
But then Adinett had refused to give even the slightest explanation. How could anyone know? Even Gleave had said nothing. Presumably he had not known. Then she remembered his face as he had pressed Juno for Martin’s papers. He had not threatened them in words, but it had been there in the air, and they had all felt it like a coldness in the bone.
He had known! Only he was on Fetters’s side! Poor Adinett … there had been no one for him to turn to, no one to trust. Little wonder he had remained silent and gone to his death without attempting to save himself. He had known from the moment of his arrest that he had no chance of winning. He had acted to save his country from revolution, knowing it would cost him his life. He deserved the truth to vindicate him now, at the very least.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You are quite right. As Inspector Pitt’s wife, I should like to come with you, if I may?”
Juno turned around. “Yes, please. I was going to ask you anyway.”
“Who will you tell?”
“I have thought of that. Charles Voisey. He is a judge of appeal and was one of those who sat on the case. He is familiar with it all. I know him a little. I don’t know the others. I shall see if I can go this evening. I want to do it straightaway…. I—I’d find it very difficult to wait.”
“I understand,” Charlotte said quickly. “I shall be there.”
“I will call by in the carriage at half past seven, unless he is unable to see us. I shall let you know,” Juno promised.
Charlotte rose to her feet. “Then I shall be ready.”
They arrived at Charles Voisey’s house in Cavendish Square a little after eight, and were shown immediately into the splendid withdrawing room. It was decorated in mostly traditional style, of dark, warm colors, reds and soft golds, but with a startling addition of exquisite Arabic brasses, trays, jugs and vases, which caught the light on their engraved surfaces and simple lines.
Voisey received them with courtesy, his curiosity for their call concealed, but he made no pretense at superfluous conversation. When they were seated, and refreshment had been offered and declined, he turned to Juno enquiringly.
“How can I be of service to you, Mrs. Fetters?”
Juno had already faced the worst in acknowledging to herself that Martin was not the man she had loved all the years of their marriage. Telling someone else was going to be difficult, but there were obvious ways in which, if she told the right person, it would be almost a relief.
“As I intimated to you on the telephone,” she began, sitting upright and facing him, “I have made a discovery in some of my husband’s papers which the police did not find because they were so cleverly concealed.”
Voisey stiffened very slightly. “Indeed? I assumed they had made a very thorough search.” His eyes flickered towards Charlotte, and then away again. She had the sensation that Pitt’s failure pleased him, and she had to make a deliberate effort not to defend him.
Juno did it for her. “They were bound into a book. He did his own binding, you know? He was very good at it. Unless you were to read every volume in the library there would be no way of being certain to find it.”
“And you did that?” There was a slight lift of surprise in his voice.
She smiled bleakly. “I have nothing better to do.”
“Indeed …” He allowed it to hang in the air, unfinished.
“I wished to know why John Adinett, whom I had always believed to be his friend, should kill him,” Juno went on levelly. “Now I do know, and I believe it is morally necessary that I should acknowledge it. It seemed to me you were the right person to tell.”
He sat quite still. He let out his breath slowly. “I see. And what did these papers say, Mrs. Fetters? I assume there is no doubt they are his?”
“They are not in his hand, but he bound them into a book and concealed them in his library,” she replied. “They were letters and memoranda in a cause in which he very obviously believed. I think when John Adinett found out, that was why he killed him.”