by Tracy Grant
They found Will Carmarthen perched on an age-mellowed crimson velvet sofa in a corner of the room talking with a broad-shouldered man with a shock of thinning hair the color of damp birch leaves, a sharp-featured face, and a quick hazel gaze. George Bartlett was a barrister, known for the erudition of his arguments as well as the inflammatory nature of the cases he chose to take on. He'd defended Gavin, the manservant, three years ago.
Bartlett noticed them first as they approached the sofa. "Malcolm. Mélanie."
Will gave a grin that almost masked the flash of concern in his eyes. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight. I thought you were busy assisting Bow Street."
"We found ourselves with a bit of time," Malcolm said.
"Nothing like convivial company to clear the head," Bartlett said. "Malcolm, here's a new one for you. 'The good of the people is the chief law.'"
"Cicero."
"Damn it, boy, you're too well read. You take all the fun out of things. Wonderful quote, must use it in a closing. It's good to see you both. We've missed you. Haven't turned too Whiggish, have you?"
"Perish the thought," Malcolm said. "You'd never say so if you heard the talk in the coffee room at Brooks's."
"I was in the coffee room at Brooks's once. Damned stuffy. That was a good speech on the evils of the corn laws, though it didn't go quite far enough."
Mélanie, who had argued as much with her husband, held her tongue.
"You, on the other hand," Bartlett continued, turning to Mélanie, "didn't hold back a bit in the article on marriage rights. Took even me by surprise."
"Yes, well, I'm a woman. I can afford to be more extreme because no one takes me seriously. And the Political Register is a bit different from the House of Commons."
"Shouldn't be, m'dear, shouldn't be. In a just world, it wouldn't be."
"The troublesome question, of course, is how to bring that just world about," Mélanie said.
"Without resorting to unjust means? Question for the ages. Plato would say—"
"Do stop pontificating, George. You'll scare them off." Hetty Bartlett slipped her hand through the crook of her husband's arm. She was gowned in bronze lustring cut to show her figure to advantage. Her thick ebony hair was dressed in a style that looked as if it might have been copied from a Renaissance oil, and her dark eyes sparkled brighter than the topaz ring that gleamed on her hand. The daughter of a forward-thinking engineer and a former slave, she had grown up in Jamaica and Italy, performed as a singer, and then turned novelist. "Talking of ways to change the world, I hear your play is about to set London about its ears," she said to Mélanie.
"I only hope people find it coherent," Mélanie said.
"It's hard enough to be coherent. But you have a knack for getting your point across while doing so. And making people laugh."
"Also for writing dialogue that actually sounds like natural speech," Will said. "Even if Brandon does mangle it. Sorry, Mel."
"No need to apologize. He actually helped me improve the speech. Oh, there are Kit and Sofia." Mélanie caught sight of the young couple as she glanced across the room. "I didn't know they'd be here tonight." Had Kit come to warn Will after his talk with Malcolm? She met Malcolm's gaze for a moment. "I should speak with them. I haven't seen either of them since the terrible business with Lewis Thornsby."
Chapter 18
Malcolm felt Will Carmarthen's gaze on him when Mélanie moved across the room to talk to Kit and Sofia, and Hetty drew George Bartlett away to speak with friends. "I was actually hoping for a word with you, Carmarthen."
"I'm happy to be of help," Will said as Malcolm settled himself on the sofa. "But I told you what I could about Thornsby earlier today. We didn't mingle much. His circles are a bit above my touch."
"Hardly that, Carmarthen. You have a knack for fitting in to most society." Malcolm returned Will's frank regard. He was clearly educated, but whether the education was self-acquired or university taught remained unclear, as did everything else about his past.
"Perhaps," Will said. "But our confrontation about Letty aside, I didn't spend much time with Thornsby. I don't think I'd have fit in well with his friends."
"How did you fit in at the jail in Lancaster?"
Will's back stiffened. Then he relaxed against the sofa cushions. "What does that have to do with what happened last night at the Tavistock?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"Do you want me to make up a story? I could come up with a damned good one if I put my mind to it, but I don't see how a farrago of lies would be of much help to either of us."
Malcolm dived a hand into his pocket and pulled out his copy of the decoded list he and Roth had found in the rooms Thornsby had occupied as Montford. "Do these dates mean anything to you?"
Will scanned the list. "They're dates of Radical disturbances. I was involved in several. On one occasion, as you alluded to, I spent a few nights in jail in Lancaster. I owe my release to the kind offices of your friend Worsley. Don't think I'm not grateful. But what the hell does that list have to do with last night's murder? Don't tell me you believe the idiots who say Thornsby was killed by bloodthirsty Jacobins."
The puzzlement in Will's face appeared utterly genuine, but Malcolm was not sure. In a lot of ways, Will reminded him of himself a decade ago.
"We found the list in rooms Thornsby had been using," Malcolm said. "Does the name Montford mean anything to you?"
Will frowned as though genuinely searching his memory, then shook his head. "No. I don't think it's anyone at the Tavistock. Or any of the Levellers."
"It's an alias Thornsby was using."
"Thornsby had an alias?" Will said. "For God's sake, why?"
"That seems to be the general reaction to his having had an alias. And why would be the pertinent question. He'd taken rooms in Rosemary Lane under that name."
Will gave a short laugh. "I wouldn't have thought Thornsby could even find his way to Rosemary Lane. He certainly didn't have need of anything secondhand. Sorry." He raked a hand over his hair. "I keep forgetting he's dead."
"His being dead doesn't change who he was in life."
"No, but it makes me realize I wasn't always fair to him. I'd have said the rooms and the second identity were some sort of elaborate gambit to seduce Letty, except that doesn't make sense given that Letty knew precisely who he was and where he lived. And as I told you this afternoon, I'm no longer sure he was trying to seduce Letty. Although—" He frowned. "If he wanted to marry Letty in secret but not tell his family, he'd have needed a place they could live together as husband and wife without questions. He was the sort who would care about no one's looking askance at Letty."
"An ingenious idea." One Malcolm admitted hadn't occurred to him. "But Miss Blanchard is known. You think she'd have agreed to live quietly in Rosemary Lane?"
Will's mouth twisted. "Possibly, if she was dazzled enough by what she thought she might eventually gain as Thornsby's wife. Or if she loved him more than I've wanted to admit. But she wouldn't necessarily have had to. She could have gone about her life at the theatre, Thornsby could have gone about his as a man about town. They'd just need a safe identity when they—wanted to be together as a couple. Thornsby might have thought that with time he could persuade his family to accept Letty. But he didn't want to wait for marriage and everything that went with it."
Malcolm nodded. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but it's possible. Though Thornsby established his Montford identity with a care that suggests to me he was trained as an agent. And it doesn't explain that list of Radical disturbances."
Will studied the list again. "You already knew Thornsby was a Leveller. Which to some means a Radical, a Jacobin, a Sans-Culotte—"
"Those names are a bit French Revolution, aren't they?"
"A lot of people can't get past the French Revolution. You think Thornsby was involved in the disturbances on that list?"
"I think there's an explanation for what he was doing with the list. I'm not in the least
sure what the explanation is."
"You're starting to talk like someone at the home office, Rannoch. Seeing conspiracies everywhere. Imagining we're all connected. Look about you." Will's gaze swept the drawing room and the open doors to the parlor. "Do you see ten people who could find a half-dozen topics to agree on, let alone plan a conspiracy? Lack of agreement has been the curse of Radicals back to the United Irish Uprising."
Raoul shot into Malcolm's mind, so vividly Malcolm could almost imagine he was in the room. Which Malcolm very much wished he was, for a number of reasons. "Why the United Irish Uprising in particular?"
"Because it seems less obvious than saying the French Revolution." Will regarded him for a moment. "Aren't you going to give me the lecture?"
"What lecture?"
"About how you were just like me when you were my age, but now you see the dangers of too much agitation, and if I were sensible I'd stand for Parliament like you and Worsley and Roger Smythe and work for reform through legal channels."
Someone was singing "Dove sono" at the piano. Whoever it was had a pretty voice, but lacked the passion Mélanie brought to the aria. "When I was your age," Malcolm said, "I spoke and wrote a bit, largely for an audience who already shared my beliefs. I hardly think I had your flair."
"That's not the way I hear it. You and your friends—Tanner and Worsley and Lydgate—caused quite a bit of consternation among government types like Carfax and Castlereagh and Sidmouth."
"I'd take that as proof of their paranoia rather than of any power on our side."
"And then when your reckless undergraduate days were behind you—"
"I ran off to the Continent, mostly because I couldn't face the demons at home. I met my wife and got quite good at picking locks and decoding documents. But as far as living up to the ideals I'd espoused in my undergraduate days, I can't claim I made a very wise choice. In fact, one could say for a time I turned my back on everything I believed in. For what it's worth, I do think you'd be quite effective in Parliament."
"Yes, well, we can't all afford to buy our way in. Sorry, that was a low blow."
"No," Malcolm said, "I'd call that above the belt."
Will sat forwards on the sofa. "I like you, Rannoch. More important, I admire you. But you're never going to get Parliament to reform a system that favors its own members to so great a degree."
"So what's your alternative?"
"I don't know. At this point, I wouldn't rule anything out, though."
"On a number of issues of the day, the official positions of the Whigs and Tories are so close as to be almost indistinguishable. Yet the fact that we have two parties gives us the illusion of debate, while neatly excluding from the discussion any opinions that fall outside that narrow spectrum."
"That's quite well put. Are you trying to mimic something I'd write?"
"No, I'm quoting something I wrote myself."
"When you were a heedless undergraduate?"
"Last week."
"One can argue that anyone who doesn't actively oppose an unjust system is complicit in the tyranny," Will said.
"So one can. Have you read Cagano?"
"A former slave. He claimed every man in Great Britain was responsible in some degree for slavery. I wonder what Hetty Bartlett would say. Or your friend Josefina Lopes."
"You'll have to ask them. For that matter, Carfax's late sister-in-law was the daughter of a former slave."
Will frowned. "Carfax's younger brother's wife?"
"His elder brother. Carfax inherited the title when his brother died shortly after the death of the brother's only son." It was a long time since Malcolm had thought of Arthur Mallinson, David's older cousin. If Arthur had lived, David's life would have been a great deal simpler. "As a second son, Carfax had gone into the army. That's how he got into military intelligence. And then, even after he inherited the title, he never really left it."
"And his brother married the daughter of a slave? He must have been quite different from the present Carfax."
"Actually, in their politics they were much the same. Carfax's brother married the daughter of a wealthy Jamaican planter who had married a former slave. The late Lady Carfax came to Britain as a great heiress."
"And money has a way of trumping everything. Even prejudice."
"She died when I was a baby, but I imagine she still had to deal with prejudice. Or at least with being an outsider in the beau monde. I don't know what she'd have said about Cagano's comment, but I certainly wouldn't disagree with him."
"So what's your solution?"
"I don't know," Malcolm said. "I haven't ruled anything out either. But as a former diplomat, I incline to compromise rather than confrontation."
"Diplomacy can become a quagmire."
"So can war."
"But it offers the possibility of victory."
"Violence can have unintended consequences."
"In other words, if you let the ends justify the means, the ends become warped?"
"Whom do you identify with in Julius Caesar?" Malcolm asked.
"The plebeians. They're pawns, whoever's in power. But I feel a certain sympathy for Brutus's fear of tyranny."
"And yet in the end, Brutus and his companions assassinate Caesar and Rome still ends up with an emperor. A colder, more calculating emperor, as Shakespeare portrays him. Morality aside, violence tends to convince those in the middle that any sort of reform will lead to blood in the streets. Which in turns lends support to tyranny."
"Very well done, Rannoch. That's one of the best arguments for inactivity I've heard in an age."
Malcolm regarded Will. "So you don't know of any connection among these events?" he asked, gesturing towards the list.
"They all caused a lot of consternation at Whitehall and Westminster and in Mayfair drawing rooms. A lot of the same people were present at all of them. None was as well organized as it should have been. Other than that—No."
"You don't suspect any of the Levellers might have been involved?"
"I probably wouldn't tell you if I did, but as it happens, no, I don't. Philosophically, we don’t advocate violence. And I know you'll say we can't be sure of all our members, but practically we aren't organized enough to pull any of those incidents off."
"Which doesn't account for a splinter group."
"You're right I can't be sure of it. But it would have to be a splinter group I don't know about."
"Was Kit there for any of the incidents?"
"Surely you've asked Kit? Or you can—he's across the room with your wife."
"I'm asking you."
Will's gaze settled like a dagger point on Malcolm's face. "Good God. You suspect Kit."
"I'm trying very hard not to suspect anyone without evidence. And not to make assumptions about anyone's innocence either."
"Kit came up to Lancaster with Worsley after I was arrested—you probably know that. But he wasn't there before. And he wasn't at any of the other incidents, that I know of."
"What about Thornsby?"
Will's brows drew together. "That's the odd thing. Thornsby actually was in Lancaster. Well, I suppose it's not so odd. Letty was performing. Thornsby and a couple of the other Levellers who weren't in the company had come up to Lancaster and were staying at a hotel. A much more elegant hotel than where the company were billeted."
"Tell me about what happened. How you came to be arrested. I haven't heard all the details."
"We heard about a protest meeting. We were all drinking in a tavern after an afternoon performance and a bunch of us decided to go along to the protest. It's not my sort of thing, normally. I'm all for change, but I don't like the energy in a crowd. But everyone else was going and I was curious about how these things happened in Lancaster and I wanted to show support. And I'd had a couple of pints. It was already crowded by the time we got there, and speeches were underway. There were a lot of shouts and applause, but it seemed pretty orderly at first. We were standing towards the back and it was hard to
see and hard to make out the words with all the noise and the fact that a north country accent isn't in my repertoire."
Will shifted in his seat. Malcolm made a mental note that wherever Will was from, it apparently wasn't the north country, unless this was elaborate subterfuge.
"Then all of a sudden, I heard a shout that didn't sound like support for the speaker," Will said. "The crowd started pushing backwards. I tripped and realized I'd fallen over Tim Scott who'd got knocked to the ground. I tried to pull him up, but people kept pushing into us. All of a sudden, a pistol went off. Suddenly the crowd pulled back round us. There was a man bleeding on the ground alongside Tim and me, and a pistol lying there. I crawled over and bound my cravat round the wounded man's leg, while Tim pulled out a flask to splash brandy on the wound. The next thing I knew, someone grabbed me from behind and people were asking where I got the pistol, and a man in a blue coat I'd never seen before was saying he saw me shoot the pistol. I had handcuffs on and was being pulled off to jail before I had time to think. Tim tried to get me free, but I told him the wounded man needed help more. I was sure it was a misunderstanding, but a few hours later Tim came to see me with Letty. They'd bribed the turnkey to let them in. They said the man in the blue coat was sticking to his story and there was another witness. The charge was attempted murder. Letty said she was sending to Simon. She got Thornsby to pay for an express."
"What do you know about the people who informed against you?"
"Nothing." Will took a drink from his glass of claret and frowned into the dregs. "Tim and Letty started searching for them. Worsley and Kit tried to get their names. They seemed to have melted into thin air. Worsley got the names from their statements, but even with that they couldn't trace them. Then the charges were dropped and everyone stopped trying." He looked up and met Malcolm's gaze. "And yes, it feels like a setup."
