But there, suddenly, under the oak by the road, was an alien pair of boots. They stuck out crudely, and then crossed themselves. Staring harder, Joseph could see a puff of smoke from behind the tree.
No one else was supposed to inhabit this dream. The boots gave a little spasm, disappeared, and a man emerged from behind the tree, a man in soldier’s uniform, knocking a pipe against the trunk and reaching for a musket. Why did his mother need a sentry? Was she a prisoner? Would they punish her for what Joseph had done?
He had to get inside. Inside was warmth and a comfortable chair and his mother brushing at the dust on his coat with fussy hands as he stood over her.
The soldier was an invasion by the ugly adult world. He had to be careful now. Did the young Master give him any advice for this?
Lady Sybille, holding the pages for him and pointing out the words. Now, let’s have a look at this one, Joseph. This is a tricky one. What can you see here?
Half an hour later, a young woman sauntered in from the centre of the village and up to the oak tree, a coin fresh and warm in her pocket and a smile and something like make-up on her face. She kicked playfully at a big boot with her little foot, brushed the musket with torn gloves, glanced up into the dull wondering face – a cold morning, a little present from his friends in the barrack room – and led the sentry away. A minute later, and Joseph slipped by trees and hedges and shadows to the porch.
The little cottage was the coldest thing he had ever known, a terrible mortal cold that burst into his chest and would never leave him. Joseph hunched on the chair for the rest of the day beside the shrunken, bleached body of his mother, coughing great, dry sobs and crying silent hopeless tears. With dusk, the cold finally became too much, and he rose and felt his way to the door blank and blind. He was incapable now of thought or emotion, his hollow body filled with a dead, stone purpose that he could not challenge or change.
Joseph checked where the sentry was but the sight prompted no emotion; he made his silent way to the trees by hidden ditches that flowed deep and slow in his blood.
The moon hung low and fat over London’s docks, silvering furled sails and blackening the lattice of masts and spars that held them. Strange sounds that the daylight bustle of humanity normally covered now emerged from hiding, creaks and splashes and rustles, and always the washing of the river against the city. With night, some of the stench of fish and men was subdued, as if the moon was giving fresh clarity to the breeze as well.
Buried in the shadows of a warehouse, Roscarrock sat with timbers beneath and behind him and enjoyed the old, familiar sensation of it. Even the aches in shoulders and backside felt somehow honest.
His head flicked round, though he kept his eyes on the warehouse opposite. After five seconds he said quietly, ‘Keep the noise down, will you? I’m trying to sleep.’
Jessel moved forwards and squatted beside him in the darkness, looking out across the alley. ‘Anything?’ he murmured.
The whole conversation was in the same soft monotony, respectful of the night. ‘Two men arrived half an hour ago. One left after five minutes.’
‘Good. Recognize him?’
‘Delacroix. The French writer who was at the reception. Can I go to bed now?’
‘Fun’s just starting. Come on; I’ve got two soldiers downstairs. We’re going to do a bit of official breaking and entering.’
Jessel led the way back down out of the warehouse, steps slow and measured in the darkness, Roscarrock following and welcoming the movement in his sore limbs.
‘Sorry I was late, Tom. One of our Magistrates had sent in a report he was convinced was urgent. Newmarket. No more than the sort of unhappy talk we hear all over the country, frankly. But the Magistrate is convinced they’re planning something. Odd references to a big event tomorrow. The usual troublemakers quieter than normal, which is never a good sign. Unexpected voices in the wrong sorts of conversations in the inn. He’s convinced they’ll be burning his house down by the weekend.’
‘Newmarket?’
‘Exactly. Where the tailor might be headed, according to the report from your friend. That’s why I bothered reading beyond the title.’
They were at street level, in the warren of muddy alleys among the warehouses. Jessel pointed them towards two shadows at the corner, shadows with muskets.
‘And Delacroix?’
‘We’ve been watching him for a while. He brings the occasional crate in – we assume from France, but everyone’s doing that. Pays his dues very properly. But we don’t know what he’s bringing in, we don’t know whether he’s bringing in more than he says, and we don’t know why he has a share of that storeroom you were watching.’
‘Smuggling? Haven’t we got better things to be worried about?’
‘Quite.’ Jessel grunted a greeting to the two soldiers, silent pillars in the gloom. ‘The Admiral thinks maybe he’s part of the French intelligence network here.’
‘I took that for granted. But smuggling information in crates?’
‘My guess is he’s counterfeiting. And don’t tell me we’d all do it if we had the chance. If the French took it seriously they could destroy this country without getting their feet wet or firing a shot. Whatever he is, this evening we’re being customs officers.’
They left the two soldiers in the gloom of the alley between the warehouses, and in silence climbed a flight of wooden steps that creaked up into the moonlight. At the top, Jessel examined the door and lock and, satisfied, simply turned the handle and stepped inside. ‘Customs officers,’ he said politely. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
The solitary occupant of the storeroom looked worried. Short and solid, with something in his stance and battered face that made Roscarrock guess he’d been at sea, he stared back at the two visitors and scratched uneasily at the scar that ran down from one twisted eye.
‘I don’t know you’re Customs, do I?’
Jessel called one of the soldiers up to the storeroom, and explained to the still-scratching watchman that it now didn’t matter what he thought he knew. He and Roscarrock began to search, while the watchman stood and fidgeted over his chair.
It took three minutes. The room contained a chair, a table, one wall of shelving filled floor to low ceiling with rolls of fabric, a short ladder propped against one of the bare timber walls, and two open crates of books in Latin and Greek. The search could largely be conducted from the doorway, but the two men made one careful tour of the small space, peering behind the rolls of material and rummaging to the bottom of one of the crates.
The watchman had both hands by his sides again and his shoulders had settled.
Roscarrock said to Jessel, ‘Disappointed?’
‘Not yet.’ Jessel had also glanced at the watchman, and now from his standpoint back near the door he moved a careful gaze around the room. Then he said, ‘What’s the ladder for, would you say?’
Roscarrock nodded. ‘Good question.’ Jessel began to examine the floor near the ladder, and after a moment he positioned its feet on two worn marks on the boards and started up towards the top of the blank wall.
The watchman moved quickly and he moved quietly for someone of his shape and size. He was a step towards Roscarrock, hand behind him, before he was noticed; at two steps the hand was high and held a cosh; at three the cosh was halfway down towards Roscarrock’s skull and Roscarrock had only started to turn. He turned fast and he turned into the advancing watchman, stopping the charge dead with his right shoulder and using his left arm to deflect the downward strike rather than trying to block it. As the watchman stumbled where he stood, Roscarrock swept his right fist up and around backhand to catch the man high on the face and send him staggering back. He took one step forwards and pushed the man down into his chair. ‘Settle down, shipmate,’ he said quietly.
The soldier was only now beginning to move his bayonet towards the horizontal. From his position above the room, Jessel snapped, ‘By all means use that before he attacks us,’ and continued up th
e ladder. He quickly found the trapdoor among the timber joints of the wall and reached in.
From below, Roscarrock heard a cry of satisfaction and saw Jessel pulling a sheaf of papers into the light. Then Jessel’s easy laughter echoed into the cavity.
‘It’s French, it’s illegal, and it’s probably a terrible threat to order,’ he said as he turned on the ladder. ‘But we’ll risk showing it to a professional like you.’
The papers fluttered down onto table and floor. They were all engravings of the highest quality and finest detail; the uppermost was an elegant representation of a revolutionary soldier, buried deeply and graphically in a swooning but obviously satisfied aristocratic lady.
Jessel dropped down the ladder and picked up a bundle of the pornography. ‘Better take a few,’ he said earnestly.
‘To show Lord Hugo, of course.’
‘Of course.’ They left the two soldiers to guard the watchman and the storeroom, and descended the stairs into the darkness of the alley.
Stamping in silence through the squelching gloom, Roscarrock said, ‘Report from Newmarket, and Gabriel Chance the tailor is going towards Newmarket. Is Newmarket anywhere near Bury St Edmunds?’
‘Only a few miles, I think. Why?’
‘The arrival of one tailor, however radical, wouldn’t create the kind of fuss your Magistrate’s talking about. But at the reception the other night, that man Hodge – the speech-maker – he asked if I was going to be near Bury. Said he would keep an eye out for me, get me an invitation if he could.’
‘He’s holding a meeting, isn’t he?’ Jessel’s eyes were gleaming in the darkness. ‘That makes sense! Another great rally for reform.’
‘Which would be a draw for Chance the tailor, and reason for the tremors in Newmarket.’
‘Lovely.’ Jessel was nodding. Then he looked hard at Roscarrock. ‘Maybe you’re useful for our side after all, Tom.’
‘Shut up and bring your dirty pictures.’
It was getting cold.
Another part of the city, constellations of candle flames sprinkling light on gold and glass in another drawing room, voices at ease and voices at play among the silks and velvets, and a fine china hand accepting a glass of wine from an admiral’s sleeve.
‘I’m delighted to see you here, Lord Hugo.’ Words without meaning, words as mere coins of exchange.
‘It is delightful to see you anywhere, Lady Virginia.’ Words as duty.
Indifferent to social convention, Lady Virginia Strong lifted her glass in a silent toast. ‘And how have your affairs been in my absence, Hugo?’
Bellamy found the recitation tiresome. ‘Kinnaird, like some greased rodent, has gone. He’s loose in the bracken. He’s rogue.’ The crystal blue eyes opposite him now wide in concern. ‘He has left me with a man who may or may not be as treacherous as his former sponsor, but who certainly has history with radicals in America and probably Ireland.’
A new light in the eyes. ‘The handsome one – rather… roughly carved? At Seldon – with the insolent eyes?’
Not a thrust to the Admiral’s taste. ‘Roscarrock, whether or not that’s who you mean.’
‘Roscarrock.’ She tasted the name. ‘Roscarrock becomes more interesting.’
‘Indeed – perhaps even useful.’ But the lady showed no further interest in Tom Roscarrock’s politics.
Civility came most easily to Admiral Lord Hugo Bellamy when entirely feigned. ‘Delighted to discuss my employees with you all night, Lady Virginia.’ But it was not common currency. ‘Feel at liberty to wake me when you wish to proceed to the main business.’
30th July 1805
FIELD REPORT (FRANCE), TAKEN THE 27TH DAY OF JULY 1805. CIPHER MALMSEY. CREDIT +
The Emperor and the Minister for the Navy are much delighted with the readiness of the new fleet. They are confident of its abilities. It has drawn ships and good men from other fleets, augmented by supporting craft taken from all around the French coast and fitted out to naval standard and given light armament. The Emperor will be confident of the success of the fleet, and convinced that at last he has the key to matching the Royal Navy and securing passage to Britain for the Grande Armée. The Emperor’s pet name for this special fleet, his Sharks (Fr. Requins), is typical of his affection for those in the army and navy judged particularly capable of fulfilling his ambitions.
[SS F/307/24]
The road to Bury St Edmunds led through Saffron Walden and as they trotted down its tidy, complacent main street, Jessel handed Roscarrock a sheet of paper from inside his coat.
Roscarrock skimmed the page. ‘Another one of Kinnaird’s specials, I assume, who you’re worried might not like your face.’
‘That’s it, Tom.’ Jessel caught him by the arm and looked directly into his face. ‘Like the Admiral said: this is a good time to show you’re useful, and useful to the right side.’
Roscarrock rode on.
The door he wanted was tucked into a side street. It was discreetly pillared, and had been recently painted. A brass plaque to the right of the door advertised ‘Andrew Malloy’ in understated style, and another below it the offices of the Voice of the Land news-sheet.
Roscarrock rang the bell, and waited. There was no sound of response inside. After a minute he rang again. Further down the street, someone was kicking and swearing at a jammed door. The hot, sour smell of malt hung over the town.
He stepped back off the step to look up at the house, and as he did so a curtain fell back across a bow window on the first floor.
He waited. Behind him a horse clapped lethargically over the cobbles, echoing away between the neat house fronts.
The door opened with the heavy crack of a latch.
Andrew Malloy was as smart as his plaque, a clean face behind shining spectacles over a neat and unostentatious coat. Only his inky hands showed hard work, and confirmed that this was the editor of the Voice of the Land. The eyes were big in the spectacles, and cold.
‘Yes?’
‘Good morning.’ Damn Kinnaird. ‘The King’s roads are a weary place for the traveller.’
The newsman’s expression had not changed. Eventually he said, ‘I’m sure. But I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Two paces behind him was a hefty servant, big hands rolled at his sides and watching Roscarrock suspiciously. Smart indeed.
Roscarrock’s glance flicked to the door plaque as his mind checked over the details on Jessel’s paper.
‘The King’s… I’m a friend of Sir Keith Kinnaird. He asked me to visit.’
This was the place. He hadn’t made a mistake. He knew he hadn’t made a mistake, because Andrew Malloy’s was not an innocent suspicion. The scrutiny from the window, the servant standing guard, told of a man expecting trouble.
‘I’ve never heard of him. You’ve obviously made a mistake. Good morning.’ The door began to close.
‘Mr Malloy, I must warn – Sir Kei—’ and the door closed, dull and final.
Jessel’s fair hair was clear as soon as Roscarrock stepped into the inn, and he dropped down beside him at the counter. ‘I shouldn’t settle,’ he said curtly. Jessel looked round in curiosity. ‘He’s not having it. Never heard of Kinnaird, never heard of us, nothing could be further from his mind than a casual bit of intelligence work.’ He leant into Jessel. ‘He was warned.’
Jessel gazed back cold. ‘That’s not good, Tom.’ The words were brusque.
‘Don’t come that, you miserable sod. He was got to! Either Kinnaird’s told him to clam up, or he’s learnt something about Kinnaird that’s made him slip his anchor. Either way he’s not talking, and I can’t change that regardless of whether I’m a spy for Bonaparte.’
Jessel’s gaze held for a further cold and unnecessary second, and dropped back to his drink.
PROCEEDINGS OF THE ADMIRALTY BOARD, FIRST LORD, ADMIRAL LORD BARHAM, PRESIDING, THE 30TH DAY OF JULY 1805
The First Lord, with Lord G. Garlies, Admiral J. Gambier, and Admiral Lord H. Bellamy being
present, the Board convened at twelve of the clock.
Admiral Gambier confirmed no substantive change to the dispositions of the fleets as previously reported.
There being no other business of record, the Secretaries withdrew.
[PROCEEDINGS OF THE ADMIRALTY BOARD, VOLUME XXIV]
‘Well, Bellamy? No doubt you have good reason for convening us. Come to tell us you’re joining the Revolution?’
‘I am grateful for your time and patience, My Lord. I thought that the Board would wish to be aware of the latest intelligence from Paris. The mysterious French fleet is confirmed. It operates outwith the normal channels of command, such is Napoleon’s mistrust of his senior Admirals. That fact, incidentally, explains the unusual difficulty in getting clear information about it. The ports of France have been raided for vessels that, with armament, will serve as auxiliaries. The core of the fleet is formed of some of the best ships, with the best captains, from the Emperor’s conventional fleets. This is the fleet that, in combination or alone, is expected to challenge our navy.’
‘Number of hulls?’
‘Not known, My Lord.’
‘Location?’
‘Not known, My Lord.’
‘I’m curious, Bellamy: do we know anything?’
‘One detail, My Lord. It seems that it amuses the Emperor to refer to this fleet as his Sharks.’
‘Charming. Anything else?’
‘I’m afraid so, My Lord. In a coda to this report – and the real reason for my calling you today. We know from previous reports – shared with you, My Lord, – that Fouché, the Minister of Police, has some plan to destabilize the Kingdom and critically weaken the navy. We assumed he was working with radical elements in this country. It now seems that, as part of this scheme, he has sent an assassin into England.’
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