Death of a Radical (34 page)

They slung him in a blanket and carried him back to the Queen's Head, listening to the sickening noises and waiting for them to stop. But each rasping breath was followed by another, catching and labored and mixed with deep sighs. The Bedlingtons exclaimed over the blood and the sight. Mrs. Bedlington sent her boy for the doctor and her maids running about. They washed Nat Broom and bandaged him and made up a bed by the fire in a small room beside the kitchen.

“All our upstairs rooms are taken. Besides, it's warmer down here and we can keep an eye on him.” Mrs. Bedlington's motherly face crumpled suddenly, as if she might cry. “What is the world coming to? He was never a good man, but who deserves this?”

“I don't know, Mrs. B,” Jarrett said gruffly. He looked away to her husband. “He'll need to be guarded, Jasper. The longer he lives, I fear someone may want to finish him off.” The publican held his eye a moment.

“Is that right?” he responded. “Oh dear me!” he murmured involuntarily. He wiped his hands nervously on his apron. “I'll make sure they all know to keep an eye out,” he assured Jarrett. “I'll go to the lock-up and tell Constable Thaddaeus of this affair, but I wouldn't expect much of him. He has his hands full. He's got six ne'erdo-wells in charge because of the fairs.”

“Bob and me we've nowhere special to be,” said Duffin, rubbing his dog's ears.

“I can take my turn tomorrow,” offered Dickon. Jasper left to inform the constable.

Jarrett looked down at the waxy, absent face. The lids were not fully closed. Slips of eye glinted meaninglessly under the lashes.

“Well, he's not going to tell us anything now. Did Lem say
anything
else about this bearded man?” he asked Dickon. “Anything else at all?” Dickon shrugged.

“Nothing worth knowing. Only that he liked his clothes.”

Nat Broom's head looked more peaceful rendered in pencil on paper. You could not hear him fetch those heaving sighs and rasping breaths. Jarrett examined his sketch. It was a face reduced to mere architecture. Unconsciousness had wiped away all character. The man on the bed sighed deeply. “If only they had found him out earlier!” Jarrett thought, in frustration. It was silent. Had he stopped breathing? Jarrett counted eight of his own heartbeats before Nat gasped and sighed again. Jarrett deepened the shading around the left eye socket.
Someone knocked his elbow. Duffin's dog inserted its head under his arm.

“Everyone's a critic,” Jarrett complained, stroking Bob's rough coat. “Ezekial.”

“Brought you some hot toddy, compliments of the house,” said the poacher. Jarrett took the mug gratefully.

“That reminds me, I must pay the Bedlingtons for his care. Anything to report?”

“The bar's full of soldiers. They've discovered Mrs. B's ale.” He propped himself up against the window sill.

“What links an Irish coachman, an army wool buyer and my young cousin, Duffin? Do you see it?”

“No.” Duffin lifted his mug to his lips. “Can't say as I do.”

“Just as we discover that Nat here was the man who introduced young Lem to this bearded twister in …”

“This,” supplied Duffin, with a gesture toward the bed.

“Someone tidying loose ends?”

“If it's connected.”

“True.” Jarrett pulled his shoulders back. “But when so many acts of unusual violence follow one another in swift succession, it seems reasonable enough to suspect they might be connected.”
Start at the beginning.
“Why kill a coachman?”

“Maybe he just likes killing,” Duffin suggested. “Could be no sense to it at all.”

“I don't see it. This man is careful and tidy. The first two murders nearly passed unnoticed—it was Grub's death that tripped him. That was rushed. It looks as if Grub followed him out there to Quarry Fell. If so, why?
What did he suspect? For God's sake! The boy had only been here two days!” He unfolded the handkerchief once more. The button lay in stark relief against the white lawn, the yellowish thread still attached to it and the flake of leather. The tooling of the raised rope border around the pewter button was crisp and delicate. Pewter, not silver. “Too fancy for a plain man but hardly rich enough for a gentleman,” he murmured to himself. A yellow thread.
Yellow gloves …
He saw the words written in Grub's hand heavily underscored on the back of a bill—a bill from the Royal Hotel in Leeds. Grub saw something in Leeds. Someone. He saw Strickland. No. It couldn't be Strickland. But why was Strickland there?
It's a convenient rendez-vous.
He had a meeting—a meeting with one of his men …

“My cousin saw someone in Leeds.” Duffin tensed at Jarrett's tone. “Bedford was there that day; he went to Leeds to collect his niece.”

“You don't mean Bedford—”

“No. His coachman! Just think, Duffin. Why kill the first man; why kill the coachman?” Duffin looked at him blankly. “For his job!” Jarrett exclaimed impatiently. “He wanted his job.” Duffin sucked his teeth thoughtfully.

“Trouble is Bedford's coachman is one man who couldn't have killed your boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was arrested that afternoon, at the fair. The colonel's soldiers had him in lock-up all night.”

*

He listened to Duffin snoring gently in counterpoint to Nat Broom's rasping breaths and sighs. He had not slept for days. He was beyond the boundaries of sleep. Nat Broom and he were two sides of the same coin: Nat trapped inside a sleeping body and he a waking one. He needed some air. He pulled on his greatcoat and opened the yard door. There was a smell, an intensely familiar smell. There was someone in the yard. He saw a dim patch of red, white facings and the glow of a pipe bowl. A sergeant sat on a barrel under the eaves smoking Spanish tobacco. His head was tipped back, his face turned up to the stars.

“That brings back memories,” Jarrett said. “The smell of your pipe.” The sergeant shifted his head slightly to cast him an idle glance. An angry puckered scar ran from his left temple, skewing the corner of his eye on its way down to his chin. This, along with his flat nose and a drooping mustache gave him a truculent, melancholy air. Jarrett looked up at the sky. The moon peeped coyly over a wisp of cloud.

“It's getting warmer. Been cold enough of late.”

The sergeant grunted. He took his pipe from his mouth. “Nothing to the bitter chill of the mountains of the peninsula,” he declared and resumed his puffing.

“That's the truth. I've spent winter in the Portuguese hills.”

“Thought you might have,” the sergeant said with some satisfaction. He tilted his bulk to reach in a pocket.

“Share a pipe?” he offered.

“No. Thank you. Just like the smell.” He had never taken
to the habit. He had found it bad for the health. When a man spent much time on the wrong side of enemy lines he soon learned that the smell of burning tobacco carried in open country.

“Got this in the retreat from Corunna,” the sergeant said, indicating the scar on his cheek. He cocked his good eye at Jarrett speculatively. “You?”

“I'd just got back from Walcheren then.”

“Fever posting! Rather you than me.”

“That retreat wasn't so easy either.”

The sergeant grunted. “There were so few of us left, they parceled us out all over. I ended up here. Recruiting party, or supposed to be!” he spat in disgust. He pulled on his pipe.

“Made many arrests, then, with the fairs?” Jarrett asked. The sergeant snorted.

“Not likely! Don't know what we're bloody here for.”

“What happened to those three taken up on opening day? Someone told me they were out to murder the magistrates.”

“No such luck. Just drunks. Magistrate let them all out the next day.” He fussed with his pipe bowl and sucked the stem industriously.

“Two miners and a townsman, fighting drunk, as I recall,” Jarrett mused. “That should have been a lively night in the lock-up.”

“You would have thought, wouldn't ya? The lads were all set to lay bets. The townsman was a scrappy little chap. Full of vigor and ready to have at it but colonel
shoved his oar in. Scrappy, you see, is in the employ of one of the big noises these parts. He was to be kept safe and quiet away from the others by colonel's direct orders.”

“Undisturbed.”

“Locked up in his very own accommodations out back.” Jarrett thought of the duke's warehouse the soldiers were using for their barracks. There was one lockable shed. It stood some yards off, on its own by the river. It was cold that night. If he knew soldiers, with their officers at the play, they would stay by the fire.

“That was troublesome, having to check on him through the night.”

“No need.” The sergeant shook his head. “Colonel said he should be left to sleep undisturbed. And I always obeys my officers. Colonel came back himself in the morning and let the man out. Scrappy must have been servant to a friend of his.” He leaned back his head and stared up into the infinite night. “Christ!” he said. “Bloody home postings! Much more of this and I shall grow moss.”

Nat Broom was still breathing—a little more calmly now. The Reverend Prattman's bell-ringers had begun to warm up their bells. Sunday. Another day and night gone by and no nearer to Grub's murderer.

“Down this way, you say? Well, if you don't think I'll disturb him, we'll just say good morning.” A skipping step pranced down the corridor. Jarrett moved swiftly to the door just in time. Hester's bright face smiled up at him. She had a Sunday ribbon tied fetchingly in her curls. Concerned that she should not see the ugliness in the bed, he swept her giggling into his arms.

“Good morning, Hester,” he said. “You're remarkably clean.” They stepped out into the corridor. Meg Teward waited to greet him. Her bonnet was tied with a large lilac bow under one ear. Her elfin head tilted as if the weight of the ribbons pulled it down.

“Mr. Jarrett! We're on our way to church; we'll not stay.” She dropped a shy look at the parcel she held in her
gloved hands. A flush of carmine touched her cheekbones. “You were such a comfort that day, when …” she trailed off.

“Please don't mention it!” he responded, rather more robustly than he had intended. Her pale eyebrows drew together in a little frown. Hester squirmed. He released her and she went to take her mother's hand.

“We've brought you curran wigs,” Meg Teward said. “Hester had me bake them special, just for you.”

“Why, thank you!” He was touched. As he took the parcel he thought of his sketch. He slipped back into the room to fetch it from the window sill, leaving the parcel in its place.

“I wonder if …” He held it out with one hand, pulling the door to behind him. “You don't by chance recognize this man, Mrs. Teward?” She examined the sketch carefully, her face as a solemn as a stained-glass angel.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked. “He doesn't look well.”

“Do you know him?”

“I
think
…” She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “Yes!” Jarrett felt the blood pump a little faster through his veins. “Last Tuesday! The two men that come visiting Mr. George. This is like the smaller one, the one with the bearded man.”

“Is Mr. George still with you at the Bucket and Broom?”

“Oh no! He was only booked in for t'fairs.”

Damn! Too late! He could hardly chase Mr. George to London to ask him about his contract and his visitors.

“There's the bells again.” Mrs. Teward was distracted. “We
must be going.” She bobbed a curtsey. Hester gave him a little wave as they turned to leave. “We dropped Mr. George off on our way,” Meg Teward said. “He's booked a place on the York flyer; it passes through at half past ten.”

He dismounted, exhilarated. If his pocket watch kept its time, it was twelve minutes after ten. He glanced into the coffee room. It was like many others in country coaching inns up and down the north road—stuffy and dim, with robust furnishings and a tired, rubbed look. The landlord hurried out from a back room.

“Mr. Jarrett; it's been a time since we've had the pleasure,” he greeted him. “You've something for t'mail? I'm just doing up bags.”

“I've no need to trouble you, landlord. I was hoping to catch an acquaintance; he has a seat on the flyer, I believe.”

“Mr. George, would that be?” There was the urgent sound of a chair scraped back and the shadow of movement in the room beyond.

“Never mind, I think I see him.” Jarrett brushed past the innkeeper into the coffee room.

Mr. George was standing by a table just to the left of the door. He had been tucked out of sight eating a plate of beef and bread.

“Mr. Jarrett. I take the stage at any minute.” He took a hurried side-step. His foot knocked against a small leather trunk stowed beside the table and he almost fell.

“We need to talk, Mr. George.” Jarrett advanced on him.

“About what?” Mr. George's eyes darted this way and that about the empty room. They were alone. The landlord had returned to his mailbags and the duke's agent blocked the path to the door.

“About corruption, sir, and murder.”

Mr. George suddenly resumed his seat. He glanced irritably at his half-eaten food and pushed the plate away.

“What is all this?” he demanded petulantly. “What do you mean coming here in this unmannerly fashion?”

Jarrett pulled out a chair to sit facing him.

“Tell me about the men who came to see you at the Bucket and Broom the night you arrived.” When they had first met, Mr. George had seemed such a cheerful man. Now his expression was frankly sulky. After a moment Jarrett realized that he was attempting an air of haughty indifference, but his neck and shoulders were too stiff for nonchalance. “One of them was this man.” Jarrett put his sketch of Nat Broom on the table between them. Mr. George rolled his eyes down to it reluctantly. Tiny drops of sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Who was the other?”