For Our Liberty (37 page)

“Ben, for God’s sake, sit,” Lucy said, putting her book on her lap. We were sitting in the drawing room of her house in Golden Square. Or rather she was sitting and I was pacing. Outside it was cold and wet like only London can be on a December day. Grey sleet beat against the window, driven by an unrelenting east wind. The fire was lit in the grate but the warmth did not extend much beyond the chairs drawn up close around it. Lucy sat on one. I had briefly sat next to her and tried to read like her but had discarded my book after I had reread the same paragraph three times. I’d gone to the window to wait for sight of the post boy for the thousandth time, hoping that news would come that day.

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” I replied.

“Please, try. It’s only been a few days. Father will have to write to Brooke. Brooke will have to reply. It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow, he may not even be in his office. It may be another week yet before you hear anything.”

“I know, I know,” I said sitting back down and then almost immediately getting back up. I knew I’d go insane within a week. I walked back to the window and managed to stop myself pacing and instead just stared out into the square. I watched the icy little drops of sleet hit the window and slowly slide down as they melted. The square was empty, apart from George II on his plinth looking ill-dressed for the weather in his Roman attire. The trees were bare and the grass around the statue was long and ridden with weeds. A cab clattered around the far side and for a moment I had hope but then it turned off down Lower John Street. A matronly figure swaddled against the cold struggled against the wind, a maid carrying her umbrella did her best to shelter her but only at the cost of a drenching for herself. The maid’s hat blew off and she turned to chase it but her mistress obviously demanded she remain where she was and the hat rolled down the street before settling in a puddle while the maid got wetter and colder still.

“I’m sorry, Lucy,” I said as I sighed and returned to my chair. The leather creaked and groaned welcomingly. I held my hands to the fire and then picked up my book again. I flicked aimlessly through the pages trying to find my place. Lucy reached out and put her hand on mine.

“It will be alright, I know it will,” she said. I didn’t believe her but I didn’t say anything. I just gave her hand a squeeze back.

“What shall we do today?” I asked, giving up on the book and tossing it on to a table.

“James is coming over later to take me shopping. You can come if you like?” She must have seen my face drop, the only thing I could think of that was worse than staying in and pacing all day was being dragged around the numerous milliners, drapers and perfumers Lucy would want to visit.

“Thank you, no. I shall be fine. I’ll read,” I said reaching for the book again in desperation.

“We can go somewhere else if you prefer? We were thinking of visiting the British Museum again soon.”

I didn’t really want to go to the museum, the artefacts from Egypt had unpleasant associations for me, but I found myself nodding anyway and putting the book back down. I had to do something to take my mind off things. I was about to suggest a time when I heard footsteps coming to the door and the rattle of the knocker. I was on my feet quicker than a Duke in a brothel when its raided. The maid was just paying the post boy when I snatched the letter off her and ripped it open. It wasn’t the good news I had been hoping for. It wasn’t good news at all. I read it and swore darkly.

Lucy had come into the hall, she bade the maid leave us and looked at me expectantly.

“What is it Ben?”

“Nothing. Nothing to do with France anyway,” I said as I screwed the letter up into a tight ball.

“Then what?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” I said harshly, even though it did. Lucy has always been quick of mind and now she proved herself equally quick of body. She stamped on my foot and while I was hopping up and down she deftly took the crumpled letter from my hand, flattened it out while she backed away from me and read it before I could stop her. Her face went white.

“This could ruin everything,” she said as the paper dropped from her hands. It landed on the stone floor and drifted slowly across it.

“I’ll deal with it,” I said.

“I… We… James…” she began several sentences but left each unsaid. Tears welled in her eyes. I took her in my arms and held her close. She shook with enormous, silent sobs.

“I’ll deal with it,” I repeated. At least I now had something to take my mind off the waiting.

Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett lived in an elegant house in King Street, near the Guildhall. The street was full of tradesmen; linen drapers, watchmakers, tea dealers, booksellers, various wholesalers and the odd solicitor. I wondered if any of them knew the two gentlemen’s trade. Number nine was dark and shuttered, but I knew they were home. I’d arrived just as the lamplighter was doing his rounds and had slipped the old man a coin to not light the one nearest to number nine. I had stood in the wide doorway of a warehouse opposite with my hat pulled low and cloak collar high, and kept to the deep shadows. The wind brought the pungent scent of the Cheapside tanneries. I watched as candles were lit in each room and then extinguished as the two gentlemen went to their bed. It was a bitter night but I was determined to be patient and waited until I was certain the two gentlemen and any servants were asleep. My outrage kept me warm, but a flask of brandy helped as well.
 

I took one last long sip of the spirit, picked up the bag at my feet and crossed the road. The alley that led to the back of the house was narrow, fetid and dark. I opened the gate to the back yard and stood for a moment, checking that there were no lights in the windows on that side of the house either. There weren’t. I walked silently up to the back door.

One of the many lessons I had been taught at Monsieur Cadoudal’s little school for spies was how to pick a lock. I applied those skills now to the door of Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett’s house. I manipulated the thin strips of metal I had been given in the keyhole until I heard the lock click. I took a last glance at the street and then opened the door.

I trod softly into the passageway and closed the door gently behind me. I again stood and listened. I could hear nothing, bar the ticking of a clock. I poked my head into each room coming off the passage to be sure no one was downstairs. It was too dark to blunder about without a light and so I lit a candle from the embers of the kitchen fire. I found my way into the hall and unlocked the front door, just in case I needed an alternative exit.
 

I crept slowly up the stairs, testing each tread for any creaks. The flickering candle light cast bizarre shadows on the walls. I passed the first landing, went up to the second and found the door leading to the servants’ quarters. There wasn’t a lock on it but I put the candle down, carried a chair from a nearby room and jammed it under the handle to prevent it opening. It might not hold for long but I didn’t need it to. I went back down to the first floor landing. I had only seen light in one room on that floor when I had supposed the two gentlemen were going to bed and guessed which of the three doors on that level lead to their chamber. I put the candle on a table and opened my bag to pull out my carbine, I cocked it as quietly as I could and gently opened the door to their bedroom just a crack. A duet of snores told me I had the right room. I picked the candle up and pushed the door open with the gun.

I tiptoed into the room and quickly looked around. There was a chair and a dressing table near the window. I put the candle on the dresser and sat in the chair, a pistol in the pocket of my cloak clunked as I sat down. Mr Bennett was a light sleeper. He stirred and looked blearily towards the light. He nudged his partner who grunted and then also opened his eyes. The carbine I pointed at them had a 28 inch barrel and a calibre of over half an inch. It was not the kind of gun that you wanted to see pointed at you when you were rudely awakened, which was precisely why I had opted for it rather than the less intimidating pocket pistols I also carried.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said as they both warily sat up, neither taking their wide eyes from the barrel of the carbine. “As you can see, this time I have brought a bigger gun, and this time it is most definitely loaded.”

“What an unexpected and unwelcome pleasure Mr Blackthorne,” said Bennett.

“Unwelcome I’ll give you but surely not unexpected. Did you think you could send a letter attempting to blackmail me, threatening to ruin my sister’s happiness and not have me visit you?”

“We anticipated a more conventional visit,” said Oldfield. His long hair, normally held in a queue, got in his eyes and he flicked a lock from his face. He noted the twitch in the barrel of the carbine at the sudden movement and paled.

“But I am not a conventional man. Or perhaps I am. I think any brother might adopt desperate measures to protect his sister. Have either of you gentleman got a sister? No, I thought not. Or you would have realised the boundary you had crossed. Oh, and by the way, my sister’s affianced is also my best friend and if he had received your letter rather than I then you’d already be dead.”

“Come now, Blackthorne, you don’t really expect us to take your threats seriously do you. I’m surprised you are sober enough to hold that ridiculous weapon steady. I know your sort. I see wastrels like you at our tables every day. If you had an ounce of mettle you wouldn’t squander whatever allowance you were handed by your misguided father,” said Mr Oldfield, shifting his position slightly. “You’re are making a very big mistake coming here. We were tolerant of your idle threats last time, but we will not be on this occasion. Leave now and we may find it in our hearts to overlook your foolishness.”

“No, it is you who have made the mistake. Your information is sadly outdated. I was that man once but now I hope I am better than that. My threats are far from idle, I assure you.”

“Your type never change,” said Bennett.

“Usually no. But in my case circumstances have been rather exceptional. Do you know how many men I have killed this past year?”

“Killed? You?” sneered Oldfield.

“Yes, killed. Let’s see. There was that corporal of the Municipal Guard I left drowning in the filth of a Paris street, but I daresay he came round or a colleague assisted him. Likewise the dragoon I kicked off the balloon as I left Paris certainly will never walk quite the same again but I doubt he died. So let’s not count them.

“However, I am certain that I accounted for at least one gendarme when I was cornered in that cellar. The next was the dragoon on the beach. I know I killed him because I sank his own sword into his back. Then there was that spy that followed me in Paris. Nasty business that.

“There was the guard on Fulton’s boat. He went to the bottom of the Seine with my knife in his guts. Lastly, when Mr Fulton and I were being chased by the police I did for at least one more,” I said. I held up my fingers and counted. “So what’s that? Four. Perhaps more. They just threatened me or got in my way. What do you think I’d be prepared to do to anybody that harmed my family?”

They didn’t answer. All through my monologue they had looked more and more worried. They were the ones used to making the threats, not receiving them.

“I can see that we have made a miscalculation,” admitted Oldfield.

“A miscalculation? Yes, you have. I told you when I paid you my debt our business was done. But when you heard that Lucy planned to marry above her station (but not her worth) you thought you’d try and get a little more gelt from me by threatening to expose some sordid details of her past to the Hawkshawe family. Yes, gentlemen, you made a miscalculation. You mentioned you had some letters from one of her former lovers. I want them. Now.”

“Please accept our apologies, Mr Blackthorne,” said Oldfield, reaching into a drawer to take out a packet of letters and tossing them to the foot of the bed. The carbine followed his every move.

“No, I will tell you what I will accept, along with those letters. You will leave me and my family alone. This will be your last warning.” I stood, picked up the letters and put them in my pocket. I kept the carbine pointed at them and started for the door. Neither of them took their eyes from me for a second, but I had to flick my own eyes towards the door to open it. As soon as he saw my eyes shift Bennett instantly reached for the drawer on his side of the bed.

“No!” Oldfield shouted, trying to restrain his lover. It was too late. Bennett was holding a pistol and swinging it towards me. I had no choice. The explosion from the barrel of the carbine lit the room like a flash of lightning and the thunder of the report echoed into the night. Bennett was flung back on to the pillows, a bloody hole the size of an orange in his chest.

“No!” shouted Oldfield again in anguish and cradled Bennett’s head in his arms. “What have you done?”

I heard hammering on the door to the servants’ quarters. The chair wouldn’t stop them for long and I fancied that some of the more brutal of the staff from the gambling den probably lived in. I didn’t have long. I slung the carbine over my shoulder, took out a pistol and cocked it. I backed away from the mess on the bed.

“What have you done?” asked Oldfield again but this time with a snarl. He reached for the pistol in Bennett’s dead hands. I shot him in the back before his fingers even reached it. I had no choice. I knew he wouldn’t have rested until he had exacted vengeance, that was the mistake I made the last time. They had brought the disaster upon themselves. I turned and ran. They were right when they said they had miscalculated. I wasn’t the man I once was.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

January 1804

The English coast is not pleasant in the winter; bracing, perhaps, dramatic in a storm maybe, but seldom pleasant. Gunmetal clouds hung low over a gunmetal sea and the wind came direct from the endless wastes of Russia, carrying with it a desultory drizzle that was sufficient to dampen anyone’s spirits. I was wrapped in my best cloak, a scarf and had my favourite wide-brimmed hat clamped low on my head but I was still frozen to the bone and more than a little damp. Walmer Castle, also, was not as agreeable in the winter as it had been in the summer. The sentry, who looked so blue that I wasn’t convinced that he was alive until he shuffled stiffly to attention, took my papers with chilblained fingers and fumbled them open enough to glance at them before waving me in so his hands could return to the pockets of his greatcoat.