An Uncertain Peace (The Making of a Man Series, Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Oh, there is one other matter before you go, Sir Richard. There will be a gentleman from the Lord Chancellor’s office to see you in a day or so, bearing a warrant appointing you Commissioner for the West Indian Slaves, the incumbent having finally cocked his toes up! He was expected to die six months ago but hung on semi-comatose all this time. It is an appointment for life, of course, or until the sinecure is finally abolished; there is some talk of tidying up government and it will eventually come to pass. When it does, I am assured, the office will be bought from you – you will probably be offered twenty years’ salary in return for its disposition!”

  Dick made his thanks; the money was not to be sneezed at, but more importantly it gave him status as a place-man, one who was of sufficient standing to be offered a reward by government. It put him on a level with judges who were offered rich Royal Commissions of Enquiry on retirement in exchange for being useful servants in their days on the bench.

  Plaistow dressed Dick in his oldest clothes, a suit that was very close to being passed down to the servants; he still looked prosperous but not fashionable. The tea-house provided a chop or a bowl of soup at midday and the girl had said that Ings ate a luncheon there three or four days of the week. Dick wandered casually in just before noon, ordered a bite to eat and sat quietly over a cup of tea afterwards. The room was quite small, space for no more than half a dozen tables so that any conversation was shared with everybody present.

  Ings came in on the dot of midday, a man of inexorable habit perhaps. He ordered soup and sat waiting, tapping on the table top, looking around him as if to seek out known faces. He certainly bore a resemblance to the Hanoverian kings, Dick thought, having a pointed nose and receding chin and forehead, but the likeness was not marked, was no more than partial; it was not impossible that he was a Royal bastard, there were a number of them. He noticed that Ings had the mannerism of regularly thrusting his hand inside his coat at chest height, as if he were checking for the presence of a wallet perhaps, or was adjusting a badly set shoulder holster. Dick watched as he spoke to the waitress and then gave her a tuppence tip before leaving.

  “Was that Mr Ings I saw, miss?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Do not mention that he is being asked after, if you please, miss.”

  Dick laid down four pennies to cover the bill and then placed a half sovereign, thirty times as much, beside them.

  “Nobody never said anyfing to me, mister!”

  “Good girl! There will be the same again whenever I come in here.”

  She nodded, presumably to prove that she could remain silent.

  “Which way to his house?”

  “He’s got a pair of rooms two roads across, sir, in them new places in Inkerman Street. Number seventy-four, ground floor back, sir. He goes for a walk along the High Street first, sir, and sometimes buys a few bits of groceries, sir.”

  Half a sovereign bought useful information it seemed. Dick glanced out of the door, saw the sky was cloud covered and grey.

  “If it comes on to rain, he goes into the bookshop and talks with the owner, sir.”

  “Thank you. I shall drop in there myself, I think.”

  Mr Ings was in the bookshop when Dick entered, leaning on the counter and talking; he looked up as Dick coughed for attention.

  “Could you recommend a volume covering the history of the period from the end of the wars to the Reform Act of 1832, sir? I recently found myself ignorant on the topic when it was raised in idle discussion among acquaintances. It is too recent to be history, of course, but is nonetheless before my time!”

  They discussed the books to hand and those that could be ordered in and Mr Ings joined the conversation, showing a detailed knowledge of the period.

  “I have a family interest in those years, sir. I am writing an account of certain aspects of the time, in fact, having no other occupation.”

  “My name is Richards and I am proprietor of a school for the sons of gentlemen located in the town of Poole. I was told of an establishment not so far from here that was for sale and have travelled up to observe the institution before perhaps bidding for it. Not what I am looking for, I fear. Dayboys, by the looks of it, and not the right sort, either!”

  The appeal to snobbery was immediately successful, Ings particularly becoming expansive on how he had come down in the world from the gentility of his youth.

  “However, sir, I have great hopes for the future. I shall, at a stroke, achieve a degree of renown, commensurate with my deserts!”

  “I am committed to return in the morning, Mr Ings, having made an appointment to speak to the people then. I cannot in all courtesy simply fail to attend the meeting, though I expect nothing to come of it. Perhaps you could tell me more of your hopes if we meet again.”

  “I shall take a refreshment in the morning at twelve o’clock, Mr Richards.”

  Book Three: The Making

  of a Man Series

  Chapter Ten

  Dick made a note of his first contact with Mr Ings and of his expenditure of ten shillings in bribes. He had been warned that he must record all payments carefully so that no mistake might be made in future; if an informant was used to a sovereign a time then another member of the office who gave only five shillings might cause deadly offence.

  He dropped into Major Hewitt’s room and gave him a summary of the day – this was his first case and he was very willing to accept advice.

  “We do not know what Ings has in mind, Sir Richard. Is he no more than a crank who wishes to bombard us with pieces of paper, or is he a crackpot who will use gunpowder? Either way he is a damned nuisance, of course, but we must ensure that our response is proportional to his needs.”

  “He has made references to the great public amaze that will be consequent upon his actions, but that could mean anything. I am to meet him again tomorrow, sir.”

  It was a dry day and Ings proposed that they should stretch their legs upon the Common, exercise being good for both body and soul, he said. He set a brisk marching pace for a few minutes but soon fell into a more leisurely amble as he stated his grievances. He did not stop talking for the hour of their excursion, explaining to Dick in great and convoluted detail just how honoured he was to be in converse with the true King of Great Britain. He gave a wealth of circumstantial evidence and said that he could show that his dear, late Mama had been in receipt of an income through a bank that could be traced back to a Royal source. The income had not been ungenerous and there had been a capital payment on her death which had left him with a thousand a year for life!

  It seemed likely to Dick that Ings was the son of one of the Royal princes, and very well treated, too. The gentleman had been mindful of his responsibilities and very open-handed. That made it probable that the father had been York or Clarence, from all he had read, for the Prince Regent had been renowned for his callous contempt for his unlawful get. He made no comment, merely listened to Ings’ rant.

  Ings stated absolutely that his mother had been no whore – that was an impossibility. Therefore it was obvious that she must have been clandestinely married. Her birth was no more than respectable, hence the need for secrecy – she could not have been acceptable as a Queen Consort. He had searched carefully and had found an entry in a parish register in Windsor that might well have been of her marriage, thus providing the proof he needed, especially as he was quite sure that she had been born in the town. He had finished his petition stating the case some weeks before and had endeavoured to present it to the Lord Chancellor; he had been refused entry to his offices! The same had occurred when he had taken himself to Downing Street. He had managed to speak to a gentleman in the Prussian Embassy after the French had laughed at him, but he had in the end been very rude and had suggested he might consult a mad-doctor, of all things!

  There was no alternative, Ings said; he must take his case to the Queen in person.

  Dick, who had listened in silence, for being unable to interrupt the flow of v
erbiage, was able to suggest that was not a good idea, because of the certain presence of policemen who would arrest him.

  “They will not stop me, Mr Richards. I have the means to prevent that. The usurper shall be removed from the throne, and from all public life!”

  A lot of noise, but little else, Dick decided. While Her Majesty remained in seclusion, in her protracted mourning, then Ings would have no access to her.

  He accompanied Ings to his rooms and had the privilege of reading his ‘Humble Petition of Right’, drawn up in best copperplate and written on expensive paper. There were a number of holes in the ‘proofs’ offered and more than one gap in the chronology; the document could, and would, be dismissed out of hand; his mother might have been a fine parent but there was no reason to suppose that she had been a paragon of virtue, indeed every indication that she had been to an extent the opposite. As for the record of a marriage at Windsor, there was no evidence presented that she had been the female party or that George IV had been the male; it was no more than wishful thinking. The man was a crank, probably harmless.

  He wished Mr Ings luck and withdrew courteously from his presence, having looked all about the room and seen no evidence of firearms or bombs, of fuzes or packets of ammunition. The man was a self-deluded fool, no more, he decided.

  He made his way quietly back to the tea rooms and spoke to the waitress, confirming that she was literate. He gave her another ten shillings and told her that if she heard anything out of the ordinary from or about Mr Ings then she should send a letter to Mr Richards at Poste Restante at the General Post Office. It would be picked up on the day it arrived, he assured her, telling her as well that she would not be forgotten if she did.

  Dick made a report to Major Hewitt and returned to Dorset, having decided that the end of the following week must see him in Birmingham, in the Gun Quarter, checking on his own investment and talking to other manufacturers in his role as a money man looking for a profit. Later in the month it would be the turn of the big naval shipyards in the North East; he could take the country one place at a time and build up a list of connections, slowly and thoroughly.

  Dick came into his office early on Monday – ten o’clock which was regarded as the crack of dawn in Whitehall. Major Hewitt called to him as he arrived, waving a grubby envelope.

  “A letter, Sir Richard, written carefully by a young lady who is not used to the exercise, I would say. In pencil and in a big, looping joined-up schoolgirl hand. It is about Mr Ings: I know that because it is addressed to the man Mr Richards what knows him!”

  “From the waitress in the tea room, no doubt, Major Hewitt. What has she to say? Of earth-shattering import, I doubt not!”

  They peered at the letter, discovered it to have been written on the back of an invoice from the baker, for Chelsea Buns:

  ‘Mr Ings is to go to Portsmuff, on a train, on Monday. Then he will go on a fairy to Cows. The paper says what the Queen is at Osburn on the Isle uf Wight. He says he will catch Her in the Park. He says he will bring Her to Her end.

  With Respect,

  Your Servant,

  Charlotte Edwards, Miss.’

  They stared in horror – they had misjudged the situation, had left the Queen at risk. Even worse, they would be seen as incompetents.

  “Bloody hell! Today. You must take the express from Waterloo to Portsmouth, Sir Richard. To the Docks station. I shall telegraph the Admiralty and demand a fast steam launch to make the crossing to East Cowes; they will respond to the threat of an assassination attempt. Then you must make your best way to Osborne House – it is little more than a mile, you can run if there is no carriage to hand. Into the park there and go directly to the Swiss Cottage and then start a search. I shall contact the police and her own detachment at the House, not that there will be half a dozen of either present. Do what you must, Sir Richard. I shall follow you to the Isle of Wight as soon as I have informed the proper people here.”

  They ran, thankful there was no fog.

  Waterloo Station to Portsmouth was a fast line with an hourly service; the demands of the Navy made it one of the most-used lines in the south of England. The Docks station was built on a pier in the harbour so that passengers had only a few yards to walk to the ferry. A uniformed petty officer was making his way along the first-class carriages, calling Dick’s name.

  “Here, sailor!”

  “Sir Richard Burke, sir? If you would come with me, sir.”

  Down a single flight of stairs at the side of the wooden platform and there was a steam picket-boat, a launch belonging to one of the new iron-clad warships, tied up to the jetty, a midshipman in command.

  “To East Cowes, sir?”

  “At your best speed, if you would be so good, sir. A landing as close as may be possible to Osborne House.”

  “There is a carriage waiting at the hard, sir. The order was sent across nearly an hour ago.”

  The midshipman shouted down to his steam engineer on the plate some four feet below him.

  “Higgins! Full astern, then to full ahead immediately on my order.”

  They cast off, pulled backwards into deeper water, the midshipman tweaking the lanyard of his steam whistle and thoroughly enjoying himself, having priority over all other traffic in the harbour. The little boat surged forward, crossing the bows of a steam frigate one hundred times her size and just working her way into a berth, forcing the great ship, commanded by a post-captain many ranks his senior, to give way.

  “I have the Port-Admiral’s order, sir, that I am to surrender right of way to nothing! Otherwise I would be beaten raw for that!”

  The boy – Dick guessed him to be no more than fourteen, his voice still unbroken – laughed aloud and looked for his next victim.

  “I must make the crossing in no more than half an hour, sir! Twenty-five minutes, sir, you see! Stoke her up, Higgins!”

  There was a sailor in the bows acting as look-out, Dick saw, and blowing on a bugle, presumably as a warning and to claim priority of passage.

  “Am I to wait for you in East Cowes, sir?”

  “No. Return to the pier, if you would be so good. I expect my own commanding officer to be on the next train in, possibly with a detachment of police officers or of soldiers.”

  “To go to Osborne House, sir?”

  “Yes, young man. To Her Majesty’s private residence. If your admiral has not already ordered you to silence, then be sure that he soon will. You will be well advised to remember no names you have heard today and to say nothing to any person at all, including your own family, unless the matter reaches the newspapers or the courts of law. Just at the moment you stand in line for a commendation for your efficiency this morning; open your mouth and you will be applying for a job with Cunard!”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  They swung in fast to the quayside at East Cowes, scraping the paintwork quite heedlessly. Dick jumped ashore and ran to a carriage and pair stood waiting.

  “I am Sir Richard Burke.”

  “Climb in, sir. To Osborne House, sir? To the Swiss Cottage?”

  In common with most people in the country, Dick knew that the Swiss Cottage, which stood in the grounds well separate from the main house, was private to Queen Victoria and her children, had been erected as a family home for them, the nearest they could come to an ‘ordinary’ life. It had been a favourite place of Prince Albert’s and it was said that the mourning queen spent hours there when she was at Osborne.

  Three uniformed police constables and a pair of unexceptional-seeming men in gardeners’ dress were waiting in the driveway of the Cottage.

  “I am Sir Richard Burke. You have been told I was coming?”

  “We have been given an alert, sir, but have no details.”

  Clearly spoken, but not a gentleman’s voice; an ex-sergeant, Dick guessed; the older of the apparent gardeners.

  “There is word of an intruder. Forty or thereabouts, my height, pointed nose, brow and chin receding, not unlike the old king
in looks. He believes he is the rightful king and is on his way here, we are told, to lay his claim to the throne.”

  “Raving mad, sir?”

  “Obsessed would be a better term. Not a barking loony but crazy over this one thing.”

  The policemen nodded; they had met that sort in the regular way of business.

  “He should be in the grounds already. He was a good two hours ahead of me at Waterloo so should have reached the Portsmouth ferry some time ago.”

  “Ferry from Portsmouth goes to Ryde, sir, not Cowes. He will have had to take a bus or hire a carriage, sir. He may only just have got this far, sir.”

  “I did not know that, and neither did he, it would seem. What a silly mistake to make!”

  The policemen nodded again; it was the little details that counted, they implied.

  “Is there no railway line from Ryde?”

  “Not yet, sir, though it is planned and much talked about.”

  “What of the present location of Her Majesty?”

  “In the main house, sir; the children as well. The request was sent that she should stay in a safe place this morning, that she should not come down to Swiss Cottage, and the family is remaining in the private, upstairs rooms.”

  “Good. We do not know the plans of this fellow, but he has said that he intends to ‘bring her reign to an end’. He believes that he has the right to the throne and he has put together a dossier of so-called evidence – flawed and valueless in any court of law. If he intends to offer this document then he must be arrested, held as a trespasser, warned and taken away. He might, of course, intend to take a more direct route to the throne and in that case he must simply be stopped. If you see him, do not approach him but call me and I will take necessary decisions or action. I suspect I am senior in military rank as a major?”

  The pair of gardeners agreed he was; the policemen saluted.

  The area of park around the cottages contained a number of small, fenced off kitchen gardens, backed by woodland and lawns intermixed in pleasing fashion, clearly laid out by a landscaper.