The Whitechapel Conspiracy by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

pool to call upon. Volatile, of course.”
    “Volatile?” The Prince was still apparently lost.
    Vespasia was aware of others within earshot of this rather pointless exchange, and also listening. Lord Randolph Churchill was one of them. She had known him in a slight way most of her life, as she had known his father before him. She was conscious of his intelligence and his dedication to his political beliefs.
    “A great mixture of people,” Sissons was explaining. “Backgrounds, religions and so on. Catholics, Jews, and of course Irish. Lot of Irish. The need to work is about all they have in common.”
    “I see.” The Prince was beginning to feel he had said enough to satisfy courtesy and might be excused for leaving this exceedingly dull conversation.
    “It must be profitable,” Sissons continued, urgency rising in his voice, his face pink.
    “Well, I imagine with a couple of factories, you are in a position to know.” The Prince smiled pleasantly, as if to conclude the matter.
    “No!” Sissons said sharply, taking a step forward as the Prince took one away. “Actually three factories. But what I meant was not that it was profitable but that there is a great obligation upon me to make it so, otherwise over a thousand men will be thrown out of work, and the chaos and injury that would result from that would be appalling.” His words were tumbling out at increasing speed. “I could not even venture aguess as to where that would end. Not in that part of the city. You see, there is nowhere else for them to go.”
    “Go?” The Prince frowned. “Why should they wish to go?”
    Vespasia felt herself cringing. She had a very vivid idea of the soul-destroying poverty of parts of London, most especially the East End, of which Spitalfields and Whitechapel were the heart.
    “I mean for work.” Sissons was becoming agitated. It was plain in the beads of sweat on his brow and lip, which were glistening in the lights. “Without work they will starve. God knows, they are close enough to it now.”
    The Prince said nothing. He was clearly embarrassed. It was a most unseemly subject in this gorgeous, lavish display of pleasure. It was poor taste to remind men with glasses of champagne in their hands, and women decked with diamonds, that within a few miles of them thousands had not food and shelter for the night. It made them uncomfortable.
    “It is necessary I stay in business!” Sissons’s voice rose a trifle, carrying above the hum of other conversations and the beat of the distant music. “I have to make sure I collect all my debts … so I can keep on paying them.”
    The Prince looked bewildered. “Of course. Yes … it must be. Very conscientious, I am sure.”
    Sissons swallowed. “All of them … sir.”
    “Yes … quite so.” The Prince was looking decidedly unhappy now. His desire to escape this absurd situation was palpable.
    Randolph Churchill took the liberty of interrupting. Vespasia was not surprised. She knew his relationship with the Prince of Wales was long and had varied. It had been one of extreme hatred over the Aylesford affair in 1876, when the Prince had actually challenged him to a duel with guns—to be fought in Paris, such a thing being illegal in England. Sixteen years ago the Prince had publicly refused to enter the house of anyone who received the Churchills. Consequently they had been almost entirely ostracized.
    Eventually it had all died down, and Jennie Churchill, Randolph’s wife, had so charmed the Prince—apparently enoughto become one of his many mistresses—that he willingly dined at their home in Connaught Place and gave her expensive gifts. Randolph was back in favor. As well as being appointed leader of the House of Commons and Chancellor of the Exchequer, two of the highest offices in the land, he was the closest personal confidante of the Prince, sharing sporting and social events, giving advice and receiving praise and trust.
    Now he stepped in to relieve a tedious