Death of a Radical

by Rebecca Jenkins

  “Twisting in,” supplied Mr. Kelso knowledgeably, nodding his head with a solemn expression. The colonel shivered his shoulders as if shaking off a fly.

  “There is a canker spreading,” he declared, “and we must cut it out.”

  “Canker, colonel? And what is this canker that must be cut out?” Mr. Raistrick strolled into the room.

  “You are late, Raistrick,” the colonel said.

  The lawyer bowed ironically. He too held a paper, this one a printed ballad sheet.

  “I bring entertainment. Picked it off the ground out there.” Advancing one foot before the other, one hand on his hip, he began to declaim in an ironic tone:

  “Corruption tells me homicide

  Is willful murder justified.

  A striking precedent was tried

  In August ‘ninety-five’

  When arm’d assassins dress’d in blue”

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed Mr. Prattman. Raistrick shot him a contemptuous glance. Jarrett’s imagination drew a picture of an urchin taunting an elderly maiden aunt with gory tales.

  “Most wantonly their townsmen slew,

  And magistrates and juries too

  At murder did connive.”

  “Murder! Magistrates! Oh dear, oh dear!” repeated the vicar, his eyes wide.

  “An old song!” said Jarrett dismissively.

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Raistrick?” asked Charles curiously.

  “What does it matter what songs they sing so long as the mills turn?” the lawyer replied lightly, his tone at variance with his watchful eyes.

  “Drink!” said Sir Thomas, breaking through the surface of his habitual anonymity to remind his companions of his presence.

  “Drink, Sir Thomas?” faltered Mr. Prattman.

  Sir Thomas dipped his head to gaze up over his delicate pince-nez.

  “The magistrates should warn the publicans not to allow the people to remain in their houses tippling during the fairs.” His voice was soft. “On pain of losing their licenses,” he added helpfully. Then, appalled by the silence that met this contribution, the baronet retreated within the shell of his clothes.

  “An excellent suggestion, Sir Thomas.” Mr. Prattman looked around the company, vigorously bobbing his head like a puppet. “Indeed. Indeed. An excellent suggestion. We can post notices.”

  “Much good that’ll do,” jeered Raistrick. He lounged against the papered wall as if to mark himself out from the group.

  “There are God-fearing people in Woolbridge, Mr. Raistrick,” reproved the cleric. “Strange though that may seem to some,” he added tartly, looking faintly smug at his own daring.

  “Perhaps so, parson, but those aren’t the troublemakers.”

  The vicar didn’t appear to hear this riposte; his expression was thoughtful.

  “Two of those three arrested just now were miners from the workings up the Dale.” He frowned into the middle distance. “Woolbridge men aren’t likely to make common cause with,” he paused, “heelanders,” giving an arch emphasis to his use of the local term.

  “Miners!” exclaimed Colonel Ison.

  “No,” Raistrick said baldly. “There’s no such foolishness up there.” He intercepted Lord Charles’s silent inquiry to Jarrett. “I’d know of it,” he stated.

  Jarrett surveyed the lawyer’s bold features. His assurance was no doubt justified. There wasn’t a mine in those parts where Raistrick’s bullies did not control the workings.

  “My information comes from the highest authorities,” Colonel Ison insisted.

  “A government agent?” Jarrett pounced.

  “I would think that you would take heed, Mr. Jarrett!” blustered the colonel. “As his Grace’s steward you have much to defend—as we all do here.” Jarrett felt a vein pulse at his temple.

  “Spying on our own countrymen? Are we in France?” he demanded.

  “Pish posh!” responded the colonel surprisingly. “How else, pray, are we to be forewarned? Forewarned is forearmed …”

  “I heard you were a spy yourself once, Mr. Jarrett,” the lawyer’s voice slipped in. What did he know? Jarrett thought of Bess and momentarily the ground shifted beneath him, although he could be sure neither his face nor posture betrayed him. He had been at the game too long for that. Fortunately the colonel had the bit between his teeth.

  “My information is quite precise,” he was saying. “Men are named. The tailor’s son, John Blackwell, and William Dewsnap from Quarry Fell …”

  “But what manner of man denounces them?” Jarrett demanded. “His Majesty’s subjects cannot be condemned by mere accusation!” Charles shifted his position and shot him a warning look.

  “This is not a philosophical society, Mr. Jarrett! Property and lives are at stake,” scolded the colonel.

  “Since it is a question of lives and property, should we not be certain of our information?” the duke’s agent responded vigorously. “Is there any corroborating evidence?”

  Mr. Prattman leaned forward to interpose himself. “Indeed colonel, I too should like to know who accuses John Blackwell. I always thought him a thoughtful young man. His father has been a member of my congregation for nigh on thirty years; why, he was my parish clerk and sexton for six until his good wife passed away and—”

  “If only every son was a pattern of his father, Mr. Prattman!” Ison raised his hand to wave the anonymous note in a rhetorical gesture. “Will you ignore the evidence?”

  “Anonymous accusations.” The parson shook his head. “I do not like them. Wicked things. They lead to all sorts of mischief.”

  Bravo Mr. Prattman! Jarrett contemplated the man’s moonish face; there was a stubborn morality there he had not perceived before. Perhaps there was more to the parson than he’d suspected.

  “Enough!” Colonel Ison smacked his hand against the table top. “There is a dangerous conspiracy afoot, gentlemen. I know my duty and I will do it!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Remind me what the hell we’re doing here?” muttered Jarrett as they descended from the carriage to face Bedford’s front door for the second time that day.

  “Because we’ve been invited; there are few enough amusements in the country.” Charles glanced sideways at him with the ghost of a smile. “Think of it as intelligence gathering—how better to keep an eye on the colonel? He’s bound to be here.”

  The day had closed with that still, expectant light that promised snow. Jarrett could feel the icy pavement beneath his feet. As he reflected on the absurdity of evening pumps masquerading as shoes, a flake of snow landed on his forehead. He glanced up at the night.

  “That was snow.”

  “Nonsense,” responded his lordship.

  Jarrett tugged impatiently at the impeccably folded cravat confining his throat. Ever since Tiplady had resumed command of his domestic life, he was insistent that his master attend social functions properly attired.

  “What do you make of that note the colonel found pinned to his carriage?” Charles asked as they climbed the steps. “A disaffected servant perhaps?”

  “I wonder.”

  “Ison seemed mighty put out.”

  “No doubt he was offended by the sentiment that in the end even justices shall be judged.” Jarrett snorted. “An unlikely enough event in this life!” The door swung open to reveal an interior full of warmth and candlelight.

  “By the by, where’s Grub?” asked Charles, handing the servant his cloak and hat.

  “He said he’d make his own way.”

  “Oh! I see.”

  Jarrett turned to follow the meaning in Charles’s voice. There, framed in an open doorway, was Favian. He was standing by a sofa talking to a short young lady in figured muslin over peach-colored silk and matching ribbons in her thick dark hair. Jarrett recognized the young woman Grub had been squiring at the fair that afternoon. He was holding forth in the way of flattered young men while his companion looked up at him attentively.

  “Not bad,” said the ma
rquess, running a practiced eye over the girl’s figure.

  “She’s much too young for you,” responded Jarrett mechanically, coining over in his head the various excuses he might make to withdraw before the theatrical portion of the evening. He used to enjoy watching Bess perform, but in those days there was no question of mixed company. The room was packed with what passed for good society in Woolbridge. Half of them were staring at the new arrivals with the avid curiosity that always followed Lord Charles in the provinces. He caught a glimpse of their hostess in pink figured silk wearing a Spanish hat of rose sarcenet with three large ostrich feathers bobbing over it. She had her arm locked around the blue sleeve of Lieutenant Roberts’s soldierly arm. As she flitted between her guests the young officer moved a beat behind her as if uncertain of his cue. Jarrett shifted irritably. He should never have let Charles persuade him to turn out.

  “I see they’ve arrived.” Mrs. Adams craned her head to look round the intervening guests. The ladies had managed to secure one of the rare sofas. Mrs. Bedford believed that a successful party rested in pressing all her guests into one room. “From the old manor,” she elaborated. Mrs. Eustace moved to one side and Henrietta saw Mr. Jarrett. “I will say, you can always tell a London gentleman,” Mrs. Adams added with a sentimental sigh. Her husband, Captain Adams, had his suits cut for comfort in York.

  Mr. Jarrett’s dark blue coat had been expertly fitted. It lay across his shoulders without a tuck or crease, the figured waistcoat was just what was proper and his pale knee-breeches molded to his skin. (His valet, Mr. Tiplady, was secretly very proud of the shape of his master’s legs.) As she walked about the fairs that afternoon, Miss Lonsdale had seen the duke’s agent more than once. She had thought he might come up and speak to her. Lord Charles had been his usual convivial self. Had she so offended Mr. Jarrett by interrupting his conversation with that actress? If that were the case, Henrietta thought crossly, Mr. Jarrett had more to apologize for than she; she wasn’t the one keeping company with strolling players. She felt the sting of the scene in Bedlington’s yard and her face grew hot.

  “He is so much more of a gentleman than poor Mr. Crotter.” Mrs. Adams was openly staring at the man.

  Mr. Crotter had been the Duke of Penrith’s previous agent whose untimely demise had brought them Mr. Jarrett. Why, it was nearly a year ago now, Henrietta recollected. In small towns people soon become familiar with their neighbors and yet Mr. Jarrett remained a mystery. For one thing he neither looked nor behaved like an agent; then there was his unexplained connection to the duke’s family. Ever since she had heard the marquess’s young relative greet Mr. Jarrett as “cousin” in Bedlington’s yard Miss Henrietta had been puzzling at the meaning of it. She had even snatched an opportunity to consult Lady Catherine’s copy of the Almanach de Gotha. She had found no mention of Mr. Jarrett. She had closed the book feeling ashamed. What did it matter? If Mr. Jarrett and the duke’s family did not wish to speak of the nature of their connection, it was no one’s business but their own. She wondered if he would turn his head and see her.

  Mrs. Parry, the surgeon’s wife, stepped over to talk to Mrs. Eustace and her view was blocked by an ample expanse of turquoise silk.

  “Mr. Jarrett! Come join us!” Mr. Prattman hailed him from a group standing by the fireplace. Jarrett identified Captain Adams, a career soldier who had retired to the town on a modest inheritance, the Richmond magistrate, Mr. Kelso, their host, the mill owner, Mr. Bedford, and standing at Mr. Bedford’s elbow, Mr. George, his acquaintance from the Bucket and Broom. The civil servant’s eyes slipped away as Jarrett’s crossed his.

  “I was saying that there’s considerable distress in the parish …” the vicar continued. Raistrick was over by the buffet table just to the left of them. The lawyer yawned and helped himself to a handful of nuts.

  “A subscription,” Mr. Prattman announced. “We should raise a subscription among our neighbors to buy wheat and staples to be offered to those in distress at a reduced price. A little late, perhaps, but an appropriate Easter charity.” Jarrett heard the lawyer snort. The vicar picked up his pace. His round face was sincere and flushed under his wig. “Every other week some poor woman makes application to me. If the women of Woolbridge are prepared to accept charity their distress must be real indeed.”

  “Soup kitchens and Easter subsidies! Sop to the consciences of the rich!” sneered Mr. Raistrick, cracking a nut between his back teeth.

  “Charity is a gift, Mr. Raistrick, and a Christian duty!” responded the parson, twisting his neck uncomfortably to cast a severe glance at the man standing behind him.

  “But is there enough to buy? That’s the difficulty,” said Mr. Kelso with a philosophical shake of his head. “What with dealers taking up whatever they can find at well over the odds—I’ve heard they’ve been traveling from as far afield as Manchester.”

  “There’s plenty of oats!” scoffed Raistrick. “Townsfolk grow soft. Want everything handed to them easy.”

  Over the hot hubbub of the room Jarrett heard the mantel-clock strike seven. He’d give it a half-hour more.

  As the last chime of the church clock resounded, Mr. Prattman’s curate turned the lock and withdrew the massive iron key from the door. He picked up his lantern, gathering his thick wool cloak about him, and paused a moment, listening to the peaceful stillness. There would be snow soon. If he hurried he could catch most of the farce. He liked a good comic. As he made his way down the path toward the marketplace he heard nailed clogs scuff stone on the other side of the church. The path through the churchyard was a popular short-cut down the backs to the river. More than one person was walking with the firm energetic tread of youth.

  “What’s the hurry?” a voice said. “They’ll all be at Bedford’s or t’play.”

  “It’ll take a good hour and I want us there before eight,” came the curt reply.

  It was only as he crossed by the tollbooth, negotiating his way between the pens, that it occurred to Mr. Prattman’s curate to wonder what business might cause a person to walk such a distance out of town on a cold night like this.

  Favian felt tall and capable and splendidly alive. Miss Bedford was an excellent listener. He fancied he could see his every meaning reflected in her mobile face. In a few snatched moments while dressing he had made a promising beginning on his sonnet. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about it when an alarming matron in pink descended upon them, feathers bobbing above her head. Keeping her voice low, she addressed Lally passionately.

  “I’ll have you know, young miss, this is not your house that you may invite any Tom, Dick or Harry that takes your fancy. I’ve never seen this young man in my life!” she hissed. The hard blue orbs ran over him as if she were tallying up the cost of his evening dress in her head. The bill must have added up to a consideration, because she appeared to check herself. “Well?”

  Lally’s dark brows drew together in a stubborn expression.

  “Aunt Amelia, may I present Mr. Favian Adley. Mr. Adley, my aunt, Mrs. Bedford, your hostess.” Lally’s self-possessed tone surprised him. Favian felt a flush of pride in his diminutive companion. He imitated the saloon bow perfected by his most dandyish Oxford friend, a graceful inclination from the waist with left foot advanced before the right.

  “Madam,” he said, looking up into his hostess’s cross face. “My apologies; I would not intrude. It is a misunderstanding. My cousin, Lord Charles, swore I was invited—”

  “Lord Charles?” said Mrs. Bedford sharply. One of the ostrich feathers in her hat slipped out of place and quivered slyly over her left eye. He bit his lip for fear he might laugh. Her eyes narrowed. She appeared to swell with indignation. Favian wondered in a panicked way what one was supposed to do if one’s hostess boxed one’s ears.

  “I see you’ve arrived before us!” Charles’s voice washed over him with the cooling sensation of relief. The marquess laid a casual hand on Favian’s shoulder. “How rude of me to arrive after my guest!” he decla
red with the cheerful confidence of a man who is welcomed wherever he goes. “You must forgive me, Mrs. Bedford. I see you’ve already met my young cousin Mr. Adley—but then you will have noticed the family resemblance, I’m sure.”

  Mrs. Bedford’s expression switched from startled to flirtatious in a blink. She smacked her niece’s arm none too gently with her fan.

  “Our young people have stolen a march on me, Lord Charles. My husband’s naughty niece never told me they were acquainted!”

  “What are young girls coming to these days!” exclaimed Charles comically, with a smile to Lally that invited her to join in the joke. Mrs. Bedford’s eyes snapped.

  “Adelaide, your uncle wants you!” she commanded.

  “Let me escort you, Miss Bedford,” said Favian quick as a flash, offering his arm.

  Charles watched the couple depart.

  “Ah the young,” he said sentimentally.

  Mrs. Bedford was glaring at a point in middle distance, as if burning to tell it some home truths. With a convulsive twitch of her gloved hand she summoned a servant. The nervous girl curtsied and offered up thin biscuits piped with pastoral scenes in gold arranged on a painted porcelain charger.

  “Gold leaf,” his hostess informed him.

  “Thank you,” Charles replied, sweetening his negative with a smile for the maid. “I find precious metals set my teeth on edge.”

  Mr. Sugden surveyed his theater, chewing the side of his nail as was his nervous habit on such occasions. Well past seven o’clock and the pit barely three-quarters full. Profits were made in the boxes. They were woefully bare. Just an old bent hunchback of a gentlewoman with her maid.

  Jasper Bedlington’s barn had been transformed. Platforms ran down each of the long sides at breast height, tapering toward the front and flaring out toward the back, so that the seats faced the stage on a rough curve. The well between formed the pit where the sixpenny ticket holders were accommodated on long benches. The side platforms were divided into stalls with painted boards. Here the box patrons were offered chairs with backs for two shillings (cushions obtained at the pay table, thruppence a time ). Jefferies, the comic, was wooing the pit over the stage lamps with his trademark song “Tidi didi lol-lol-lol, kiss and ti-ti-lara.” His squints and lewd gestures were causing much merriment among the country folks. There was none better than Jefferies in low comedy. He was well worth his two pounds a week—when there was the money to pay him. Sugden threw a disconsolate look over to the pay table by the door. Mrs. Monk, in her make-up and the apple-green dress with orange sleeves, ready for her part as the thief-taker’s wife Mrs. Peachum, sat, her face abstracted as she counted sixpences. If Justice Raistrick’s friends took much longer they’d arrive after the halfway mark and that meant half price; then there’d be no profit in the night at all. He’d have to send the call boy to the bar for Dick Greenwood and the others for the opera soon. He touched the rabbit’s foot he kept in his watch pocket. A poor start meant a troublesome engagement, he thought gloomily.