The eyebrows rose on the well-cut face, and Major Royce took another sheet of paper and copied the essentials of the first, addressing the new message to Mr Morrison Cope at the Admiralty. He could deliver it as he left.
EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF SIR JOSEPH PLUMMER
Twenty-seventh of July: Madame de la Frenais. Another tiresome performance of the masque of deceit, and I grow ever more weary of it. Somewhere within me the old spirit burns fierce and angry, but it is damped down by the painted layers of affectation and duplicity. A part of me longs to be out of London, to be left in some raw and troubled part of the land with nothing but my mind and voice and the chance to do some small but clear act of brutal progress. I long for the simple certainties and strong potential of orator Hodge, the simple certainties and strong potential that once were mine. Instead I must stifle in these political theatres, trying to tell apart the few truly committed from the host of faint-hearts and followers of fashion.
And it is an ever-murkier pool in which we swim. Almost everyone this evening, and probably I myself, was engaged in some pretence, some deception of others or of themselves. Some are pretending to be more radical than they are, some pretending to be less. Now, though, there is an ever-larger shoal of men pretending to be what they are not. I fear that fully three in ten of those present this evening had some secret and treacherous motive. Can a man be truly as bluff and crude as Tuff? What does Delacroix write, and for whom does he write it? Why is it that a man like Grey, among the fittest and most intelligent there, must also be among the most shadowed and shifting? I loathe these perversions of truth and ideal. It is a world where men are trying to betray treason, a world where names and faces lie, where words themselves are dust.
I know myself not a man of violence or anarchy, but that same simple part of me secretly hopes for some clear and definite act to cut through the fog of pretence and doubt. I have lived and thrived by my words, and I know it my duty to use my words until the very last of them to advance the cause of equality and reform in this land. But the blade and bullet and the barrel of powder have a clarity and certainty that cut through mere words. If progress grows ever slower, with the weight of resistance and conflicting ideals and deceit that do drag on it, then it will take some piece of pure, silent action to throw us forwards.
[SS M/1092/1]
28th July 1805
My dear Gabriel,
I had your letter from Nottingham but none since and I think one lost. It heartens me much when I hear of you. Also I was thankful that you sold three pamphlets and hope that you are well for food and boots and so forth.
Gabriel, you seemed sad and angry in your letter and I wish you peace as I fear for where the devil will lead you if you stray. I hope that the great assembly will bring greater peace among men like you said and not greater violence because so many men will make a great mischief if they are not well guided. I beg you to have a care for yourself for one act of prudence will keep you for a hundred acts of spirit. I hope your voice is well.
Here Purvis is more angry now even than before and sometimes Jenny suffers because he is too much a coward to attack the King or the soldiers but Jenny will do. He is asking for a little money for my keep but there is only what I can sew for. Do not fret for this as normally his moods pass. Mrs Tunny died. Yesterday we had news from Wakefield. The coal men marched to the Mayor’s house and cried We demand bread at one hapenny and the Mayor said You are all good men and I will see you well. But some of the men began to throw stones and turfs and there was scuffling and the Captain of Volunteers cried for his men to protect him and protect the Mayor but they cried We will not fire on good and honest men but then some of the soldiers did fire and two men were very hurt. Now the Mayor is more angry and the Magistrates are like to hang some of the men but they cannot trust the soldiers now either.
Even though Purvis is not always a good man I envy Jenny that she has him and wish that I am beside you soon. The trees are lovely in the evenings and it is pity to walk under them alone.
Your devoted wife,
Flora Chance.
[SS M/1108/2]
There were two men loitering near the door as Jessel approached it, and with surprising speed one shifted to block his path. Jessel smiled at him, which got no reaction at all, and then coughed over the rounded bulk of the shoulder and through the doorway. Lord Hugo Bellamy looked up and growled his permission for entry.
‘Is Roscarrock coming here?’
‘As you instructed, My Lord; here at any time.’
‘Know what this place is, Jessel?’
‘No, My Lord.’
‘Never been here, then? Never heard of it?’
‘No, My Lord.’
The Admiral seemed to evaluate this for a second. ‘It’s Kinnaird’s lodging, Jessel. Or rather: it was.’ He straightened a piece of paper in front of him, checked for new certainty in it, and then his head lifted to stare bleakly at Jessel. ‘He’s flown. He’s absconded. Sir Keith Kinnaird has disappeared.’
Eyes wide, Jessel murmured, ‘Christ…’
The news only increased his curiosity about where the elusive old man had lived when in London. A house in an anonymous courtyard within sight of the Bank of England; a pair of rooms at the top of the building, comfortable but plain. The living room was quickly summarized: the large, leather-top desk behind which Bellamy sat in grim majesty and which took up fully a third of the space; two well-upholstered chairs framing a small fireplace; a set of shelves holding perhaps fifty books, with a few gaps. Through another open door Jessel could see a bedroom.
The only decoration on the walls was provided by three large maps, of London, the whole of Britain, and north-western France. ‘Not exactly a connoisseur, was he?’ Jessel said quietly.
‘Explains why his conversation was always so damned dull. He’s taken a couple of books with him, but you can see the rest: with the exception of a couple of bits of German philosophy, it’s all business. Directories, gazetteers, shipping, trade, engineering, agriculture. If you wanted the name of a north country parson, if you wanted to know the ancestry of a Provençal count, if you wanted to catch the next ship to Lisbon, Kinnaird would have been indispensable.’
‘Papers?’
‘Oh yes, Jessel, he had a whole desk full of papers.’
‘Had?’ He followed the Admiral’s glare across the room. ‘Oh. And now he has a whole fireplace full of ash. Not in too much of a hurry, then.’
A hint of satisfaction settled on Bellamy’s heavy stone face. ‘Perhaps just a bit.’ On the leather in front of him he spread out three fragments of paper, each of the same irregular shape, each badly scorched around the edges. ‘He has taken some papers and books with him, but he was too efficient to carry this – little pocketbook of some kind — his reflections and opinions.’
‘Anything?’
‘Two dozen pages survived under the grate, mostly too scorched.’ Bellamy’s fingers drummed once on one of the sheets. ‘He certainly picked up my suspicions about him.’ The hand moved to the next sheet. ‘And this will interest you.’ The outstretched fingers spun the single bruised page and pushed it towards Jessel.
The fair head bent down over the desk, picking at the broken words with a mutter and then skimming through an undamaged block of the meticulous script.
[SS M/827t]
‘Roscarrock, of course, My Lord.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Ireland?’
‘I told you to look at that name.’
Someone barked a low ‘Sir’ from the doorway. Jessel turned and Bellamy looked up to see one of the guard dogs standing on the threshold. Behind him was Tom Roscarrock.
Bellamy nodded, and the gatekeeper stood aside.
‘Excellently timed, Roscarrock. Close the door. You can tell us about Sir Keith Kinnaird.’
Roscarrock stood on the bare floorboards, feeling the confrontation in the eyes and attitudes of the two men in front of him, wondering at the closed door and the he
avy men behind.
After five long and watchful seconds, he said, ‘I’ve spent less time with him than I have with the man who brought me supper last night. I only know of him what Jessel has told me.’
The acidity in the Admiral’s words was tempered by his usual measured pace. ‘Very well, then let me tell you a little. Kinnaird is eccentric, wayward and insubordinate. But he is also obsessive about procedure and rigorous in his professionalism. He roams the country working God knows what mystery and mayhem and amusing himself at my ignorance of it, but in two years he has never been a single second late for the regular council that I hold with him and certain other associates. I have known him hurry from his sickbed, I have known him hurry from Dublin, just to keep the appointment. This morning he failed.’ Bellamy flexed his delicate fingers. ‘Certain… procedures were immediately put into effect. When a man of Kinnaird’s seniority is missed, every known aspect of his property is secured.’
Roscarrock stood watchful and poised near the door.
‘Two explanations were possible. But a dead man would not have burnt his papers and removed a satchelful of books.’ Roscarrock glanced to the gaps on the shelves, then back to the Admiral. ‘For reasons best known to himself, Sir Keith Kinnaird has decided to sever all connection with this organization. He’s slipped his anchor. He’s gone.’
Like Jessel before him, Roscarrock looked around the room, for clues to a life and a mind, now less substantial than ever.
‘You ever hear of a place called Tiverton, Roscarrock? In Devonshire?’
Now Roscarrock was very watchful indeed.
‘Word arrived at the War Office late last night that a dragoon had been murdered there. No indication of who or why.’
Roscarrock felt and tested the balls of his feet in his boots, thought of the door and the men behind him, checked the position of the window to the left of his vision, watched for the words on the Admiral’s lips.
‘Kinnaird killed him. He says as much.’
This was news to Jessel too. ‘He admits it, My Lord?’
Bellamy tapped the third scorched page. ‘Explicitly. He’d been meeting some of his regular contacts around the south-west. In Tiverton, he saw the dragoon and decided he was an inconvenience. On some pretext he invited the man into the Magistrate’s house there, which was empty, and stabbed him.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘There’s an odd kind of pride in the description. I suppose Kinnaird was always more of a manager than a man of action.’ He looked up. ‘This sheet alone would hang him.’
Roscarrock’s confusion escaped onto his face, and Bellamy saw it. ‘Unhappy, Roscarrock?’
Roscarrock hesitated, then shook his head slowly. ‘Yours is a damn strange world, Admiral. The other two pages?’
‘One does not concern you. Kinnaird’s private reflections on me, and I’m sure you don’t need Kinnaird to fuel your wit at my expense.’ He looked up at Roscarrock, discreet interest on the heavy face. ‘The other does concern you – you explicitly, Roscarrock.’
Jessel had a thin, hard smile – of a secret shared, of relish at the intensity of the moment – and Roscarrock saw it. ‘Tom, for those of us who had not the honour to be recruited by Sir Keith, your story’s very inspiring.’
The Admiral brushed away the interruption. ‘Your reminiscences and insights about America we can reserve for another day. Your Irish contacts may prove useful sooner. Kinnaird’s assessment of you – filtered through my own assessment of Kinnaird – does not alter my attitude at all. I do not trust you, Roscarrock. You are the choice of a man whose motives and loyalties have always been suspect and are now to be greatly feared. But I trust none of those who work for me; I trust only your ability to do your work. We have yet to see your full talents, I think. You will prove yourself or not in my service. You are under the closest scrutiny, Roscarrock.’ A pause and a disdainful glance invited comment.
‘Fine,’ Roscarrock said firmly. ‘We know where we stand.’ He did not know where he stood; his last certainties had collapsed.
Bellamy was pushing the damaged pages together with his fingers. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said to the table, ‘the fox is out now. We need waste no more time bumbling in the undergrowth.’
Jessel said, ‘What do we do about him?’
‘The grim possibilities of what he is really up to, and in whose service, are no matter for the public. For the public, I have already put it out that he is wanted for murder.’
‘The dragoon?’
‘Too dull, Jessel. In half the towns of England they’d elect him mayor for that, rather than turning him in. No, Sir Keith Kinnaird has foully murdered his wife and infant son.’
‘So then we leave it to the Magistrates and the militia to find him.’
‘Jessel, I’d be pleasantly surprised if most of our Magistrates and militia could find the nearest privy. But this might keep Kinnaird out of mischief.’
Roscarrock said quietly, ‘His network – all those unique agents – would he try to damage it?’
‘It’s a point but, frankly, any damage he hasn’t already done he’ll be able to do long before we can get to him.’ The Admiral sat back, stiff. ‘To be honest, Roscarrock, I’m more concerned with the use to which he might put that precious network of his. Or, indeed, the use to which he has been putting it for some time.’
‘Do you think he’s working for France or not?’
‘You heard the conversations last night, Roscarrock. Isn’t everyone?’ The great head shook slowly. ‘Kinnaird has always worked for his independent interest. We must speculate that he no longer believes that interest best served in this organization.’ The gaze snapped back. ‘Do not become sentimental. Kinnaird’s treachery does not change the essential. You have problems enough with your own reputation, Roscarrock.’ The eyes were cold. They held Roscarrock’s for a second longer, then switched to Jessel. ‘Progress?’
Jessel shrugged. ‘One of Kinnaird’s specials seemed to have responded well to Roscarrock – one we’ve not heard from in months – said he might know something about our tailor – but he’s not sent what he promised.’
‘The Irishman – Fannion?’
‘You saw the reports from Liverpool, My Lord. He’d been there sure enough, but no traces. The Irish community has just closed in on itself – protecting their own.’
Bellamy shook his head in ponderous distaste – whether at the deficiencies of his organization or of the Irish race was not clear. But his eyes stayed locked on Tom Roscarrock.
‘Your task will not get easier until you make it so. You now have Kinnaird to think of too – what he was doing, and what he is doing. The man better connected than most in the Kingdom, who’s just gone bad. The man who sent us Tom Roscarrock.’ Roscarrock looked for pleasantry in the eyes, but there was none. ‘Never mind, Roscarrock. Perhaps the doubts of a man himself of doubtful loyalty make you purer than any of us.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘Finish up here.’
Then he was gone, escorted by one of the burly guards.
Roscarrock closed the door, breathed out, and turned to Jessel. ‘So I’m checking the room, and you’re checking me?’
Jessel smiled, but there was no life in it. ‘Problem is this, Tom: not that Kinnaird’s network is even more lost to us, or in danger, but that it might not be what it’s supposed to be.’ Roscarrock nodded understanding. ‘Think of it: all those influential and knowledgeable people, all over the country, controlled by a man whose loyalties have just drifted across the Channel.’
‘So why aren’t you putting the thumb-screws on me?’
‘In good time, Tom; in good time. We’re all dubious characters hereabouts. And like the Admiral said, the fact that Kinnaird had his own suspicions about you may be a good sign.’ He started walking towards the bedroom, then stopped. ‘But yes, we’re watching you.’
Kinnaird had been efficient in his living and efficient in his leaving, and a thorough search didn’t take long. Having looked in, under or behind every one of the fe
w pieces of furniture and bedding, they spent another fifteen fruitless minutes looking for loose floorboards, hollow beams or panels, and re-covered plaster. A further thirty were spent riffling through the books and journals. Jessel conceived an interest in Kinnaird’s business dealings – did his financial speculations illustrate his changing loyalties? Did a concern with trade accompany an exchange of allegiance? The wrappers of recently arrived mercantile reports – to Sir K. Kinnaird, at Fitzsimmons’s, Fleet Street – a coffee house across town – were thrown impatiently aside as he tried to conjure potential deceits from Kinnaird’s knowledge of the state of Baltic trade. Roscarrock, meanwhile, was leaning against the door, distracted early in the process by a bulky and occasionally annotated gazetteer of every port in Britain. A sharp breath from Jessel as he found another mark in a margin by an apparently uninteresting snippet of Prussian trading data, or spotted the recurrence of a company or a commodity, would shortly be followed by a hiss of irritation as the new guess collapsed and he spotted his own desperation. Roscarrock slipped the book of ports back into its place, and watched his companion. He rarely saw anger and energy in languid, sardonic Jessel, and wondered what he’d be like as an opponent.
The Irishman, the tailor and the fleet. English stability and French instability. Kinnaird’s words; where did he stand now? He needed to know what game the old man was really playing, and by what rules. Without that he would never make sense of anything.
He dutifully pulled out Morris’s Register of Ships, then pushed it back. These rooms and these books told the plain truth about Kinnaird: a man deft and knowledgeable in the currents of finance and goods and information of north-western Europe, a man well suited to business and to intelligence; a man, perhaps, who saw no difference between them. The rooms and the books told no more of the truth than Kinnaird wanted.
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