Remus had known the truth—and died for it. But what was it? The question beat in her mind. Had the man behind the Whitechapel murders killed him because he knew it was a conspiracy to hide Prince Eddy’s indiscretion? Or was it the Inner Circle, because he had discovered it was not true—and Jack the Ripper, Leather-apron, was a lone madman, just as everyone had always supposed?
He had taken his secret to his fearful death, and no one would tell the story he had found—whichever it was.
She loosened herself just enough to put her arms around Tellman’s neck, then moved closer again, and felt his cheek and his lips on her hair.
Isaac and Leah’s house was silent, almost dead-seeming without them. Pitt heard his own footfalls sounding in the passage. The click of pots and pans was loud as he made supper in the kitchen. Even the noise of his spoon against his bowl seemed a disturbance. He kept the stove going so he could cook and have at least some hot water, but he realized it was Leah’s presence that had given the house true warmth.
He ate alone and went to bed early, not knowing what else to do. He was still lying awake in the dark when he heard the sharp, peremptory knocking on the door.
His first thought was that it meant further trouble in the Jewish community, and someone was looking for Isaac to help him. There was nothing Pitt could do, but he would at least answer.
He was half dressed and on the stairs when he realized there was a kind of authority in the knock, as if the person had a right to demand attention, and expected to receive it. And yet it was more discreet and less impatient than the police would have been, especially Harper.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and went the three steps across the hall. He undid the bolt and opened the door.
Victor Narraway walked straight in and closed the door behind him. His face looked haggard in the hall gaslight, and his thick hair was wild and damp from the mist.
Pitt’s stomach lurched. “What is it?” Imagination raced hideously through his mind.
“The police have just called me,” Narraway answered hoarsely. “Voisey has shot Mario Corena.”
Pitt was stunned. For a moment the news had little meaning to him. He could not place Corena, and Voisey was only a name. But the look in Narraway’s eyes said that it was momentous.
“Mario Corena was one of the greatest heroes of the ’48 revolutions across Europe,” Narraway said quietly, a terrible weight of sadness in him. “He was one of the bravest and most generous of them all.”
“What was he doing in London?” Pitt was still bemused. “And why would Voisey shoot him?” Memories of things Charlotte had said, and Vespasia, came back to him. “Isn’t Voisey sympathetic to republican feelings? Anyway, Corena is Italian. Why should Voisey care?”
Narraway’s face pinched. “Corena was bigger than any one nation, Pitt. Above all, he was a great man, willing to put all he possessed on the line to fight for a decent chance for all people, for a quality of justice and humanity anywhere.”
“Then why would Voisey kill him?”
“He said it was self-defense. Put your clothes on and come with me. We’re going to see what it’s about. Be quick!”
Pitt obeyed without question, and half an hour later they were in a hansom pulling up outside Charles Voisey’s elegant house in Cavendish Square. Narraway climbed out, paid, and strode ahead of Pitt to the front door, which was opened as he reached it by a uniformed constable.
Pitt went up the steps and inside immediately behind Narraway. There were two other men in the hallway. Pitt recognized one as a police surgeon; he did not know the other. It was the second who spoke to Narraway, then gestured towards one of the doors leading off.
Narraway glanced at Pitt, indicating that he should follow, then went over to the door and opened it.
The room was plainly a study, with a large desk and several bookcases and two carved, leather-padded chairs. The gas was turned up and the room flooded with light. On the floor, as if he had been walking from the door towards the desk, lay a slender man with a dark complexion and dark hair liberally threaded with white. On his fine-boned hand was a signet ring with a dark stone in it. His face was handsome, almost beautiful in the passion of its form and the peace of its expression. The lips were curled in the faintest smile. Death had come to him with no horror and no fear, even as a long-awaited friend.
Narraway stood motionless, fighting to control emotion.
Pitt knew the man. He knelt and touched him. He was still warm, but apart from the bullet hole in his chest and the scarlet blood on the floor, there was no mistaking death.
Pitt straightened up again and turned to Narraway.
Narraway swallowed, looking away. “Let’s go and speak to Voisey. See how he can … explain this!” His voice was choked but the rage poured through it.
They went out, and Narraway closed the door softly, as though the room were now a kind of sanctuary. He walked across the hall to where the second man stood waiting. They exchanged only a glance of understanding, then the man opened the door and Narraway went in, Pitt on his heels.
This was the withdrawing room. Charles Voisey sat on the edge of the large sofa, his head in his hands. He looked up as Narraway stood in front of him. His face was drained of all color except for the livid marks where his fingers had pressed into the flesh of his cheeks.
“He came at me!” he said, his voice rising high and cracking. “He was like a madman. He had a gun. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen. He—he didn’t seem to be hearing anything I said. He was … a fanatic!”
“Why would he want to kill you?” Narraway asked coldly.
Voisey gulped. “He—he was a friend of John Adinett, and he knew I had been also. He thought I somehow … betrayed him … by not being able to save him. He didn’t understand.” He glanced at Pitt, then back to Narraway. “There are loyalties higher than friendship, no matter how you … regard someone. And there was a great deal that was fine in Adinett … God knows …”
“He was a great republican,” Narraway said with an edge to his voice, a mixture of passion and sarcasm that Pitt could not read.
“Yes …” Voisey hesitated “Yes, he was. But …” Again he stopped, uncertainty in his eyes. He looked at Pitt, and for a moment the hatred in his face was naked. Then as quickly he masked it again, lowering his gaze. “He believed in many reforms, and fought for them with all his courage and intelligence. But I could not deny the law. Corena could not understand that There was something of the … savage … in him. I had no choice. He came at me like a lunatic, swearing to kill me. I struggled with him, but I could not take the gun from him.” The flicker of a smile touched his lips, more in amazement than any kind of humor. “He had extraordinary strength for an old man. The gun went off.” He did not add any more; it would have been unnecessary.
Pitt looked at him and saw the blood on his own shirtfront, at the right height to have matched Corena’s wound It could have been true.
“I see,” Narraway said grimly. “So you are saying it was self-defense?”
Voisey’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course I am! Good God—do you think I would have shot the man on purpose?” The amazement and incredulity were so intense in his whole being that in spite of his own feelings, Pitt could not help but believe him.
Narraway turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.
Pitt looked at Voisey once more, then followed after Narraway.
In the hall, Narraway stopped. As soon as Pitt caught up with him he spoke very quietly.
“You know Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, don’t you?” It was barely a question. He did not even wait for an answer. “Perhaps you didn’t know that Corena was the greatest love of her life. Don’t ask me how I know; I do, that is enough. You should be the one to tell her this. Don’t let her read it in the newspapers or hear it from someone who doesn’t know what it means to her.”