Death of a Radical (28 page)

“You missed Miss Lonsdale.” Charles leaned against the table drinking his coffee. “The blessed creature happened by and settled the gorgon before she left. She told me of the colonel's hunt for this man Farr.” Jarrett's hand stilled.

“Do you blame me?”

“No. I never thought of blaming you,” Charles answered as if they were talking of an overturned jug. Jarrett faced him.

“How can you say that? He would never have come here but for me and this!” He jabbed with his brush in the direction of the canvas, barely missing its surface.

“Vain speculation and quite useless!” Charles exclaimed impatiently. Raif's one weakness was to think too much. He took things too much to heart. Always had. The marquess frowned down at the cup in his hands, remembering the last time the three of them had been together—the last time they would ever meet—that evening in the barn theater when the foolish boy had snubbed Raif. “He loved you.” His voice was soft. “I know—for he and I were not so different when it came to you. As boys you were our model. It was your actions, your temper we most wished to emulate.”

Jarrett moved impatiently and winced. His head was aching from the brandy.

“You and I are not suited to melodrama!” he said with a lopsided smile.

“Be booed off the stage,” Charles agreed. He resumed with an air of defying their mutual embarrassment. “Some villain robbed the boy of his life. You could not protect him from that, but I know you. You will find this man and you will avenge our Grub.”

Mrs. Adley reached up her plump mittened hands and pulled the veil over her face. She passed by without the
slightest acknowledgment of his presence. Jarrett stood to attention, shaved and correct. His head was throbbing. Whatever the woman did, he would see Grub off. The men loaded the coffin onto a waiting cart drawn by a matched team of black horses. Lord knows where Tiplady had found those. It occurred to him he did not appreciate his valet's skills sufficiently. He should thank him later. Charles had elected to ride. His showy gray stallion was playing up, tossing its head and fretting to be off. Mrs. Adley took her place in the carriage. She leaned forward and addressed the marquess through the window.

“He knows he will not be welcome at the funeral?” she said distinctly. “Let him stay away.
He
has done his part!” The gray stallion curveted and spun its rider away. Mastering his mount, Charles brought him round to Jarrett. He leaned down from the saddle.

“Pray for me,” he murmured. Jarrett rested his hand on the horse's muscular flank.

“Good luck.”

“I'll need it,” responded the marquess gloomily.

The little procession set out—the coffin cart leading the way with the carriage and its outrider following. In the middle distance, along the road, a smart traveling carriage had drawn up on the verge. Blinds covered its windows. The coachman and his assistant waited, hats in hand, for the coffin to pass. All at once Jarrett felt overwhelmingly hungry. He could not recall when he had last taken food.

A short time later, Matt the footman found him in the kitchen eating some of Mrs. Martin's game pie.

“There's a visitor, sir; a gentleman to see you.” Matt handed his master a rectangle of board. Jarrett glanced down at the card and rose to his feet, his food forgotten.

A tall man with gray hair stood with his back turned, outlined against the window. He swung about.

“Frederick Jarrett!” Grasping Jarrett's hand he shook it vigorously, baring thin, gray teeth. “A pleasure, a pleasure. Heard good things.”

“Sir. You have caught me unawares.”

“'Twas fortunate your letter found me at home. Dreadful news about young Adley! Dreadful! Sympathies. Understood, eh?”

“Thank you for responding swiftly—and in person.” The man must have traveled through the night. “This is an unexpected courtesy. Do sit down, Mr. Strickland.” Mr. Strickland settled himself. He bore none of the signs of urgency. His linen appeared freshly laundered. His clothes were unobtrusive but fine. Their expert cut spoke of Stulze, the Duke of Wellington's tailor.

“Only saw him a week or two back. Was at school with me little brother, don't ye know.” The visitor paused,
giving due weight to the melancholy thought. “Ran into him in Leeds. On his way up here, as it happens.”

Jarrett indicated a carved cabinet. “May I offer you refreshment?”

“You were in Portugal, were you not? Under McCloud, I think? Sherry if you have it.”

Jarrett picked up a decanter. “Is the Royal Hotel a regular rendez-vous?” he asked.

“Coaching inns are convenient,” responded Mr. Strickland ambiguously. He held his glass up to the light. He sniffed then tasted the amber liquid and made an approving face. “Passable.”

“What can you tell me, Mr. Strickland?” Jarrett sat across from his guest. Light from the window gilded Mr. Strickland's profile, highlighting his hawkish nose.

“What do you think you know, Mr. Jarrett?”

“That there is an agent active in this neighborhood. I suspect he is one of yours.” The spymaster inclined his head in a courtly manner. “Speculative mission, or particular?”

“Bit of one, bit of the other. Why should you need to know more?” Mr. Strickland paused. His eyes widened. “You think my man may know something about the boy's death? No, no! That's quite the wrong track.”

“How so?”

Mr. Strickland leaned forward. “We are talking murder?” Taking Jarrett's slight tilt of the chin as confirmation, he continued. “In this case,” he positioned his glass with precision in the center of the mahogany
table beside his chair, “my man was entirely otherwise engaged.”

“You were with him?”

“No, but he is accounted for. All night. He is a fruitless pursuit.” They contemplated one another in silence a moment.

“If your man is hunting insurgents, he may have information to my purpose,” Jarrett said.

“You expect to find young Adley's murderer in that quarter?”

“Perhaps. Colonel Ison certainly thinks so.”

“The magistrate hereabouts? You disagree?”

“I have insufficient intelligence.”

“Hence your desire to interview my man?” Mr. Strickland stared at the ceiling a moment. “My man is well placed,” he mused.

“In a substantial home in the manufacturing quarter, I'll venture.” Jarrett was almost certain he had scored a hit. Mr. Strickland's eyes reacted with an infinitesimal flicker. His lips curved upward in a painted smile.

“You'll forgive me if I cannot comment.”

“Do you trust your man?”

“He has proven himself.” Mr. Strickland took a mouthful of sherry, holding it on his tongue a moment before swallowing. “He was useful in rolling up the Ludlow gang,” he expanded, “and he uncovered an assassination attempt on precious Prinny in 1810.”

Jarrett's attention sharpened. Surely that must exclude Bedford—and the other Woolbridge men in the case. But
what did he know of their individual histories? He had only been here a year himself. Then again, Strickland was not above direct deceit.

Mr. Strickland tapped his glass against his lower lip.

“I would say my man was sound.”

“A good man?” Jarrett rolled the stem of his glass idly between forefinger and thumb.

“Now we can't expect
that
in our line of work,” replied Mr. Strickland archly. “But he's expert. Not one to stray from the brief.”

“And his brief in this case?”

“To track an agitator said to have fled Leeds a while back, active in corresponding societies.”

“I thought the corresponding societies were all disbanded after '93?”

“'Tis true, the execution of King Louis did bring many to their senses, but we've been keeping our eye on an active remnant. For a time now there've been tales of recruiting.”

“Tales?”

“Information,” corrected Strickland gently. “Reports of clandestine meetings, the administration of illegal oaths to disaffected apprentices—that sort of thing.”

“And you think this Leeds man a recruiter? The candidate in this case seems very young to be of importance. He must have been in leading strings in '93.” Mr. Strickland raised his eyebrows and pursed up his mouth. “I have come across him,” Jarrett replied in answer to the look. “This is not a populous place.”

And that being so, he thought to himself, what of Colonel Ison in all this? And what of Mr. Raistrick?

“What do the magistrates know?” he asked out loud.

“As little as possible.” Strickland brushed a speck of dirt from his cuff. “Small-town men lack finesse,” he drawled. “Best to avoid them if one can.”

Jarrett experienced a spurt of ill-temper. His head was sore and dull from the fumes of last night's brandy. It was hard work guarding his expression. There was a time when he had enjoyed such fencing. He had lost his taste for it.

“Your man's been feeding reports to Ison,” he stated baldly. Mr. Strickland met the challenge with a benign, blank look.

In his mind's eye Jarrett saw a chair, a traveling bag beside it, and a pair of worn buckled shoes placed neatly beneath. The memory reproached him.

“And what of Pritchard?” he asked abruptly.

“Pritchard? Who is this Pritchard?” Mr. Strickland was hardly given to transparency, but he gave a convincing show of surprise.

“He came to town with a colleague, a Mr. George: a pair of buyers looking to fill a wool order for the army. He died at an inn called the Bucket and Broom.”

“What's that to the purpose? People die.”

“They do,” Jarrett conceded. “But in this case it was murder, and my cousin was likely killed by the same hand.” Mr. Strickland's gaze intensified.

“And what does the colonel think?” he asked mildly. “Ison. He is the law in these parts, I believe?”

No mention of Raistrick. Was that significant? Jarrett marshaled what he knew of the man before him. They had never worked together but Strickland was well known in the service for running tight operations at a gentlemanly distance. From what he had heard, Francis Strickland was not one to involve himself with boot-strap bullies like Raistrick. They were too independent as a type.

“The colonel does not think,” Jarrett said out loud.

“But you do?”

“I am persuaded.”

Mr. Strickland searched his host's face. “You are persuaded,” he repeated.

Jarrett nodded.

“Very well.” Mr. Strickland tilted his head in an echo of the gesture. He stood up and returned to the window. “I shall arrange a meeting,” he said, looking out. “On one condition.” Jarrett held his peace. “My man will answer your questions; he will share any relevant information; but in return you will engage,” here Strickland cast a pointed look over his shoulder, “upon your word of honor, not to use the encounter as a means to penetrate his disguise.” He turned back wearing a collegial smile. “You know how important anonymity is in this line of work. I must protect my operatives.”

Outside the snow was beginning to melt. In the silence of the room they could hear the dripping trees.

“Agreed,” Jarrett replied.

“Bleak country, this,” Mr. Strickland remarked.

“It is winter.”

“Even so.” Mr. Strickland shivered. “God knows how you stand it.” He cocked his head to one side. With his length and his hard, bright eyes, he reminded Jarrett of a giant heron. “There's always work for a man like you. Glad to put a word in.”

“Thank you but no. Those days are behind me.”

“As you will.” Mr. Strickland picked up his cloak and hat. “Change your mind. Happy to be of service. Give me a few hours to contact my man. I'll send word.”

They took their leave. The older man's grip was iron. Jarrett matched it.

“Forgive me, but I cannot wait long,” he said firmly. “A matter of family, you understand.”

The brush trailed symmetrical tracks through Walcheren's thick winter pelt. It was cozy here, wrapped in the miasma of sweet straw and warm hide. The big bay vibrated his velvet lips contentedly as dust and loose hair flew from Jarrett's brush. At least this was one task he was sufficient to. If only he could separate truth from deceit so easily.

Who was Strickland's man? In such a small neighborhood, it was likely he had met him already. He thought of Bedford and his watchful stillness. He discarded him. The manufacturer was too high-placed. This sort of operation needed an agent who blended in among
the little men—someone who could mix with weavers in the manufacturing quarter. That would be an agitator's hunting ground, the place to find the disaffected and fearful. One might have thought that a foreigner like that would stand out these parts. The fairs were insufficient cover. They would be over in a day. Then again, there were always folk passing through—merchants, drovers, pedlars, laborers on the tramp … A sudden thought struck him, absurd in its simplicity. He had gone along with the colonel's casting of Jonas Farr as the radical in the case. But what if
he
were Strickland's man? He was a stranger, come from Leeds, and in tight with the song club …

When was that affair with the Ludlow gang? He was almost certain he had heard talk of it when he had been in London on leave in 1806. Six years ago now. He checked himself impatiently. Farr was much too young. At best, he could only have been in his mid-teens then; a mere stripling.

The rhythmic slap and draw of the brush across Walcheren's hide was soothing. Farr intrigued him. He needed to get closer to the man. He wondered if Colonel Ison had managed to run him to ground yet. He rather hoped he hadn't. He ducked under Walcheren's neck.

What did he know, from his own observations? He thought back to Grub that first day at the Queen's Head, squirming in the grip of Lieutenant Roberts. The lieutenant had been in pursuit of the distributors of inflammatory songs. That small puzzle was answered. The song
sheet he had found interleaved in Grub's notebook convinced him that Dickon Watson and his friends from the Red Angel were the source of the ballads papering the town. But those were just songs. They were no real threat. The note in the colonel's carriage—that was the one piece of evidence that suggested something more: a direct threat of violence. It had found its way onto the seat of the colonel's carriage during the hat game played in the marketplace by Watson and his friends. Did it follow that the Red Angel song club were responsible? That game was a convenient diversion. And yet, the note troubled him. What could be the purpose of it? If there were a conspiracy brewing, why risk the attention? Unless some wider plan had misfired and been abandoned.