Fetters had stood on the Rue St. Honoré outside the carpenter’s home where Robespierre had lodged who sent so many thousands to their bloody deaths and yet never saw the engine of destruction until he rode to it himself, for the last time.
Fetters had walked in the streets where the students manned the barricades for the ’48 revolution that gained so little and cost so much. Charlotte found tears thick in her throat when she finished it, and she had to force herself to pick up the next piece. And yet had Juno interrupted her, asked for them back, she would have felt robbed and suddenly alone.
Fetters wrote from Venice, which he found the most beautiful city on earth, even under the Austrian yoke, and from Athens, once the greatest city republic of all, the cradle of the concept of democracy and now a shell of its ancient glory, its spirit defiled.
Finally he wrote from Rome, again of the revolution of ’48, the brief glory of another Roman republic, snuffed out by the armies of Napoleon III, and the return of the Pope, the crushing of all the passion for freedom and justice and a voice for the people. He wrote of Mazzini, living in the papal palace, in one room, eating raisins, and of his fresh flowers every day. He wrote of the deeds of Garibaldi and his fierce, passionate wife, who died after the end of the siege, and of Mario Corena, the soldier and republican who was willing to give everything he owned for the common good: his money, his lands, his life if need be. If only there had been more like him, they would not have lost.
She put down the last paper on the desk, but her mind was filled with heroism and tragedy, past and present alive together, and above all the inescapable presence of Martin Fetters’s voice in her mind, his beliefs, his personality, his fierce, life-giving love of individual liberty within a civilized whole.
Surely if John Adinett had known him as well as everyone said he did, he must have had an overwhelming reason for killing such a man, something so powerful it could conquer friendship, admiration, the common love of ideals? She could not think what such a thing could be.
Then a thread of thought came, like a shadow passing across the sun. Could they have been wrong about murder after all? Had Adinett told the truth all along?
She kept her eyes down so Juno would not see the doubt in her. It was as if she had betrayed Pitt that the thought had even existed.
“He wrote brilliantly,” she said aloud. “I not only feel as if I have been there and learned what happened in those streets, but as if I cared about it almost as much as he did.”
Juno smiled very slightly. “He was like that … so alive I couldn’t have imagined he would ever die, not really.” Her voice was gentle, far away. She sounded almost surprised. “It seems ridiculous that for everybody else the world goes on just the same. Part of me wants to put straw down on the streets and tell everyone they must drive slowly. Another part wants to pretend it never happened at all, he’s just away somewhere again, and he’ll be back in a day or two.”
Charlotte looked up at her and saw the struggle in her face. She could understand it so easily. Her own loneliness was only a fraction of this. Pitt was all right; he was just a few miles away in Spitalfields. If he gave up the police force he could come home any day. But that would answer nothing. Charlotte had to know that he had been right about Adinett, and why, and she had to prove it to everyone.
Perhaps Juno had to know just as urgently, and the darkness in her face was fear as to what she might find out about her husband. There had to be something vast … and at least to Adinett, unendurable.
And secret! He had gone to the gallows rather than speak of it, even to excuse himself.
“We had better look further,” she said at last. “What we want may not be here in this room, but it is the best place to begin.” It was also the only place, so far.
Juno bent obediently and opened the desk drawers. For one of them Juno sent to the kitchen for a knife, and then pried it open, splintering the wood.
“A pity,” she said, biting her lip. “I don’t suppose it can be mended, but I didn’t have the key.”
They began there since it was the only one specifically protected from intrusion.
Charlotte had read three letters before she started to see a pattern. They were carefully worded; the casual glance would have found nothing remarkable in them—in fact, they were rather dry. The subject matter was theoreticaclass="underline" the political reform of a state which had no name, whose leaders were spoken of personally rather than by office. There was no drama, no passion, only ideals; as if it were an exercise of the mind, something one writes for an examination.
The first letter was from Charles Voisey, the appeals judge.
My dear Fetters,
I read your paper with the greatest interest. You raise many points with which I agree, and some I had not considered, but on weighing what you have to say, I believe you are quite right in your thinking.
There are other areas in which I cannot go as far as you do, but I understand the influences which have affected you, and in your place I might share your view, even if not the extremity of it.
Thank you for the pottery, which arrived safely, and now graces my private study. It is a most exquisite piece, and a constant reminder to me of the glories of the past, and the spirits of great men to whom we owe so much … as you have said, a debt for which history will hold us accountable, even if we ourselves do not.
I look forward to conversing with you further,
Your ally in the cause,
Charles Voisey
The next one was in a similar tone; it was from Thorold Dismore, the newspaper proprietor. It too was largely in admiration for Fetters’s work, and requested that he write a further series of articles. It was very recently dated, so presumably the articles were yet to be written. There was a rough draft of Fetters’s acceptance. There was no way of telling whether the final had been sent or not.
Juno held out a letter from the pile she had taken, her eyes filled with distress. It was from Adinett. Charlotte read:
My dear Martin,
What a marvelous piece you have written. I cannot praise you enough for the passion you display. It would be a man devoid of all that distinguishes the civilized from the barbaric who would not be fired by what you have said, and determined at all costs to spend all his strength and his substance in creating a better world.
I have shown it to various people, whom I will not name, for reasons you will know, and they are as profound in their admiration as I am.
I feel there is real hope. It is no longer a time merely of dreams.
I shall see you on Saturday.
John
Charlotte looked up.
Juno stared at her, her eyes wide and hurt. Then she passed over a sheaf of notes for further articles.
Charlotte read them with growing misgiving, then alarm. The mention of reform became more and more specific. The Roman revolution of ’48 was referred to with passionate praise. The ancient Roman Republic was held as an ideal and kings as the pattern of tyranny. The invitation to a modern republic, after the overthrow of the monarchy, was unmistakable.
There were oblique references to a secret society whose members were dedicated to the continuation of the royal house in its power and wealth, by any means at all, and the implication was there that even the shedding of blood was not beyond them if the threat was serious enough.
Charlotte put down the final sheet and looked across at Juno, who sat white-faced, her shoulders slumped.
“Is that possible?” Juno asked hoarsely. “Do you think they really planned a republic here in England?”
“Yes …” It seemed a brutal answer, but a denial would have been a lie neither of them could have believed.
Juno sat quite still, leaning a little on the desk, as if she needed its strength to support her. “After … after the Queen dies?”