Jarrett indicated a carved cabinet. “May I offer you refreshment?”
“You were in Portugal, were you not? Under McCloud, I think? Sherry if you have it.”
Jarrett picked up a decanter. “Is the Royal Hotel a regular rendez-vous?” he asked.
“Coaching inns are convenient,” responded Mr. Strickland ambiguously. He held his glass up to the light. He sniffed then tasted the amber liquid and made an approving face. “Passable.”
“What can you tell me, Mr. Strickland?” Jarrett sat across from his guest. Light from the window gilded Mr. Strickland’s profile, highlighting his hawkish nose.
“What do you think you know, Mr. Jarrett?”
“That there is an agent active in this neighborhood. I suspect he is one of yours.” The spymaster inclined his head in a courtly manner. “Speculative mission, or particular?”
“Bit of one, bit of the other. Why should you need to know more?” Mr. Strickland paused. His eyes widened. “You think my man may know something about the boy’s death? No, no! That’s quite the wrong track.”
“How so?”
Mr. Strickland leaned forward. “We are talking murder?” Taking Jarrett’s slight tilt of the chin as confirmation, he continued. “In this case,” he positioned his glass with precision in the center of the mahogany table beside his chair, “my man was entirely otherwise engaged.”
“You were with him?”
“No, but he is accounted for. All night. He is a fruitless pursuit.” They contemplated one another in silence a moment.
“If your man is hunting insurgents, he may have information to my purpose,” Jarrett said.
“You expect to find young Adley’s murderer in that quarter?”
“Perhaps. Colonel Ison certainly thinks so.”
“The magistrate hereabouts? You disagree?”
“I have insufficient intelligence.”
“Hence your desire to interview my man?” Mr. Strickland stared at the ceiling a moment. “My man is well placed,” he mused.
“In a substantial home in the manufacturing quarter, I’ll venture.” Jarrett was almost certain he had scored a hit. Mr. Strickland’s eyes reacted with an infinitesimal flicker. His lips curved upward in a painted smile.
“You’ll forgive me if I cannot comment.”
“Do you trust your man?”
“He has proven himself.” Mr. Strickland took a mouthful of sherry, holding it on his tongue a moment before swallowing. “He was useful in rolling up the Ludlow gang,” he expanded, “and he uncovered an assassination attempt on precious Prinny in 1810.”
Jarrett’s attention sharpened. Surely that must exclude Bedford—and the other Woolbridge men in the case. But what did he know of their individual histories? He had only been here a year himself. Then again, Strickland was not above direct deceit.
Mr. Strickland tapped his glass against his lower lip.
“I would say my man was sound.”
“A good man?” Jarrett rolled the stem of his glass idly between forefinger and thumb.
“Now we can’t expect that in our line of work,” replied Mr. Strickland archly. “But he’s expert. Not one to stray from the brief.”
“And his brief in this case?”
“To track an agitator said to have fled Leeds a while back, active in corresponding societies.”
“I thought the corresponding societies were all disbanded after ’93?”
“’Tis true, the execution of King Louis did bring many to their senses, but we’ve been keeping our eye on an active remnant. For a time now there’ve been tales of recruiting.”
“Tales?”
“Information,” corrected Strickland gently. “Reports of clandestine meetings, the administration of illegal oaths to disaffected apprentices—that sort of thing.”
“And you think this Leeds man a recruiter? The candidate in this case seems very young to be of importance. He must have been in leading strings in ’93.” Mr. Strickland raised his eyebrows and pursed up his mouth. “I have come across him,” Jarrett replied in answer to the look. “This is not a populous place.”
And that being so, he thought to himself, what of Colonel Ison in all this? And what of Mr. Raistrick?
“What do the magistrates know?” he asked out loud.
“As little as possible.” Strickland brushed a speck of dirt from his cuff. “Small-town men lack finesse,” he drawled. “Best to avoid them if one can.”
Jarrett experienced a spurt of ill-temper. His head was sore and dull from the fumes of last night’s brandy. It was hard work guarding his expression. There was a time when he had enjoyed such fencing. He had lost his taste for it.
“Your man’s been feeding reports to Ison,” he stated baldly. Mr. Strickland met the challenge with a benign, blank look.
In his mind’s eye Jarrett saw a chair, a traveling bag beside it, and a pair of worn buckled shoes placed neatly beneath. The memory reproached him.
“And what of Pritchard?” he asked abruptly.
“Pritchard? Who is this Pritchard?” Mr. Strickland was hardly given to transparency, but he gave a convincing show of surprise.
“He came to town with a colleague, a Mr. George: a pair of buyers looking to fill a wool order for the army. He died at an inn called the Bucket and Broom.”
“What’s that to the purpose? People die.”
“They do,” Jarrett conceded. “But in this case it was murder, and my cousin was likely killed by the same hand.” Mr. Strickland’s gaze intensified.
“And what does the colonel think?” he asked mildly. “Ison. He is the law in these parts, I believe?”
No mention of Raistrick. Was that significant? Jarrett marshaled what he knew of the man before him. They had never worked together but Strickland was well known in the service for running tight operations at a gentlemanly distance. From what he had heard, Francis Strickland was not one to involve himself with boot-strap bullies like Raistrick. They were too independent as a type.
“The colonel does not think,” Jarrett said out loud.
“But you do?”
“I am persuaded.”
Mr. Strickland searched his host’s face. “You are persuaded,” he repeated.
Jarrett nodded.
“Very well.” Mr. Strickland tilted his head in an echo of the gesture. He stood up and returned to the window. “I shall arrange a meeting,” he said, looking out. “On one condition.” Jarrett held his peace. “My man will answer your questions; he will share any relevant information; but in return you will engage,” here Strickland cast a pointed look over his shoulder, “upon your word of honor, not to use the encounter as a means to penetrate his disguise.” He turned back wearing a collegial smile. “You know how important anonymity is in this line of work. I must protect my operatives.”
Outside the snow was beginning to melt. In the silence of the room they could hear the dripping trees.
“Agreed,” Jarrett replied.
“Bleak country, this,” Mr. Strickland remarked.
“It is winter.”
“Even so.” Mr. Strickland shivered. “God knows how you stand it.” He cocked his head to one side. With his length and his hard, bright eyes, he reminded Jarrett of a giant heron. “There’s always work for a man like you. Glad to put a word in.”
“Thank you but no. Those days are behind me.”
“As you will.” Mr. Strickland picked up his cloak and hat. “Change your mind. Happy to be of service. Give me a few hours to contact my man. I’ll send word.”
They took their leave. The older man’s grip was iron. Jarrett matched it.
“Forgive me, but I cannot wait long,” he said firmly. “A matter of family, you understand.”
The brush trailed symmetrical tracks through Walcheren’s thick winter pelt. It was cozy here, wrapped in the miasma of sweet straw and warm hide. The big bay vibrated his velvet lips contentedly as dust and loose hair flew from Jarrett’s brush. At least this was one ta
sk he was sufficient to. If only he could separate truth from deceit so easily.
Who was Strickland’s man? In such a small neighborhood, it was likely he had met him already. He thought of Bedford and his watchful stillness. He discarded him. The manufacturer was too high-placed. This sort of operation needed an agent who blended in among the little men—someone who could mix with weavers in the manufacturing quarter. That would be an agitator’s hunting ground, the place to find the disaffected and fearful. One might have thought that a foreigner like that would stand out these parts. The fairs were insufficient cover. They would be over in a day. Then again, there were always folk passing through—merchants, drovers, pedlars, laborers on the tramp … A sudden thought struck him, absurd in its simplicity. He had gone along with the colonel’s casting of Jonas Farr as the radical in the case. But what if he were Strickland’s man? He was a stranger, come from Leeds, and in tight with the song club …
When was that affair with the Ludlow gang? He was almost certain he had heard talk of it when he had been in London on leave in 1806. Six years ago now. He checked himself impatiently. Farr was much too young. At best, he could only have been in his mid-teens then; a mere stripling.
The rhythmic slap and draw of the brush across Walcheren’s hide was soothing. Farr intrigued him. He needed to get closer to the man. He wondered if Colonel Ison had managed to run him to ground yet. He rather hoped he hadn’t. He ducked under Walcheren’s neck.
What did he know, from his own observations? He thought back to Grub that first day at the Queen’s Head, squirming in the grip of Lieutenant Roberts. The lieutenant had been in pursuit of the distributors of inflammatory songs. That small puzzle was answered. The song sheet he had found interleaved in Grub’s notebook convinced him that Dickon Watson and his friends from the Red Angel were the source of the ballads papering the town. But those were just songs. They were no real threat. The note in the colonel’s carriage—that was the one piece of evidence that suggested something more: a direct threat of violence. It had found its way onto the seat of the colonel’s carriage during the hat game played in the marketplace by Watson and his friends. Did it follow that the Red Angel song club were responsible? That game was a convenient diversion. And yet, the note troubled him. What could be the purpose of it? If there were a conspiracy brewing, why risk the attention? Unless some wider plan had misfired and been abandoned.
He thought of the colonel, blustering and red-faced as he waved that dirty piece of paper. It was a good joke, if one was there to see it … His hand stilled, the brush idle in its track. Raistrick? The lawyer had swaggered in late to that meeting at Bedford’s. Had there been an extra touch of mischief in his manner that day? Walcheren looked back at his master reproachfully.
“My apologies.” Jarrett resumed his rhythmic task. “But in truth that note is a mystery.”
It might appeal to Raistrick’s humor but he couldn’t picture the lawyer going to the trouble of forging and placing such a note for so small a return. I need more information, he told himself. I need a weaver … The snatched exchange between Harry Aitken and Watson he had overheard as they left the Old Manor eddied up from his memory. Harry Aitken had been inclined to confide in him, he was almost certain of that. If he could just put himself in the way of a private conversation …
An awareness pricked his skin. He looked up. Duffin stood in a halo of winter daylight just within the door.
“Ezekial!” he greeted him. Duffin’s outline was still against the pearly light. Jarrett tensed. A shadow loomed just outside. Duffin jerked his head.
“Come on now!” he urged the concealed presence. “Step up!”
The shape coalesced into the spokesman of the Red Angel song club, the young giant, Dickon Watson.
“Dickon here’s got summat to tell yous,” the poacher announced. Jarrett knew him well enough by now to discern the tinge of satisfaction in the countryman’s voice. “Out with it, lad.”
Dalesmen, as a breed, were stocky and square to the ground. Dickon Watson was constructed to similar proportions but on a massive scale. He loomed, like an idol or dolmen. He seemed ill at ease. He cast a wary eye over the line of stalls. Walcheren bent his sleek neck, observing the newcomer with mild interest. Jarrett kept up his brushstrokes, concentrating on his horse’s front legs. So Duffin had been busy, had he? He had wondered where the poacher vanished to after they brought Grub down from the fell.
“Ezekial Duffin says you’re to be trusted,” the young giant declared abruptly. He paused and started again, his voice swelling with truculence. “Soldiers are looking to take up Jonas for Book Boy’s murder. I come to tell yous, he never done it.” Walcheren stamped a back foot restlessly. The young giant flinched. “Jonas would never hurt Book Boy,” he continued in a milder tone. “None of us would. He was a good soul.”
Jarrett surveyed his visitor over Walcheren’s broad flank.
“What’s your trade, Mr. Watson?” he asked.
“Weavin’, when I had one,” answered Dickon, startled.
“Had?”
Dickon advanced further into the stable, keeping to the outer wall.
“Me da was a partner in Cullen’s shop—did well enough when I was a bairn. But then da took a consumption and died and me ma couldn’t keep up wi’ debts …” His voice trailed off, his attention focused on Jarrett’s hands. The duke’s man was detaching the rope that secured the big bay’s head collar to an iron ring set in the wall. Jarrett turned Walcheren about.
“Here, take his head will you?” He addressed Dickon, handing him the rope. For a moment it looked as if the man might flee; instead he took the rope. He stood stiffly, eyes front, as Walcheren pulled back his head and looked down on him from his greatest height.
“Stepped on as a bairn, was you?” Duffin asked mockingly. Dickon scowled and hunched his shoulders.
“Where’s that tail comb got to … ? Go on,” Jarrett prompted the youth. “What happened then?”
“Ma had to sell out to Cullen so as we could eat,” answered Dickon, watching Jarrett search the straw around his horse’s feet. “Cullen apprenticed me and I served me time. Now I’m a daytal man.” Jarrett shot a questioning look at Duffin.
“Paid by the day,” the poacher explained.
“I save what I can,” Dickon elaborated. “I’ll buy me back in one day.”
Walcheren sighed and dropped his head, inspecting the ground for stray oats. Dickon looked down at him and breathed out through his nose. “Sim Cullen and me, we have plans—if his da can hold on t’shop.”
“Times are bad?” asked Jarrett.
“They’re bitter, Mr. Jarrett. I haven’t had work at t’looms for months.” Dickon changed the rope from hand to hand, flexing his freed fingers.
“But you’ve been busy, nonetheless. You and your friends have been handing round those songs, have you not?” Jarrett said. Dickon stared at him blankly for a moment.
“What’s a man, Mr. Jarrett?” he burst out, suddenly rhetorical. “A man must be worth more than to work himself out for the profit of rich men and never himself. Working men need their eyes opened.”
“And once men’s eyes are opened, what then?” Jarrett spied the missing comb half under Walcheren’s hoof and gave him a shove. Dickon started as Walcheren moved his foot and settled again. The large weaver widened his stance.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jarrett. Material things,” he said, leaning forward a little, as if impelled by his urgency to make his point. “A few weeks back we heard word of these army buyers coming to Woolbridge fairs with a big order to fill—work for the whole town, maybe. It’s been a bad winter. Price has come down tuppence a piece on last year. Bedford can’t fill an order like that alone. We heard these buyers were stopping in Penrith, Sim Cullen and me. We goes over. We found one of them buyers, going from shop to shop looking at cloth, talking prices. We had words. He made himself out an honest man. We would have our chance to make our bid, he said, at the fairs—all straight an
d above board.” He paused significantly.
“And,” prompted Jarrett obligingly.
“Them buyers stops at an inn outside town. Next we hear, our man’s dead.” Dickon swept his widened eyes between Jarrett and Duffin and back again.
“Pritchard. The man you spoke to in Penrith was Pritchard?” demanded Jarrett. Dickon nodded.
“And the deal’s been struck—with Bedford and no other.” The weaver stood closer now, the sheer breadth and height of his frame adding force to his words. “And here’s a thing, Mr. Jarrett. All through winter there’s been talk of Bedford’s mill failing but what diz ta think? He’s bringing in machines—and them’s not got for naught. When Bedford has machines, he’ll have no more need of piecework. Then a man’ll slave for him or starve.”
Jarrett finished combing Walcheren’s mane. He gave the bay’s neck a pat.
“So, no more independents,” he remarked.
“There won’t be if we can’t find redress. I’m telling you, Mr. Jarrett: not Jonas, not I, nor any of us, had a reason to harm your boy.” Nor Pritchard, neither, thought Jarrett to himself, if what you say is true.
Walcheren was staring off through the open yard door with an abstracted air. Dickon was more at ease than when he first made his entrance. He met Jarrett’s gaze with unwavering eyes. Jarrett took the rope from him and led his horse down the narrow walkway to his stall.
“I believe you,” he said over his shoulder. “But what of Farr? He’s not accounted for the night of the play—for he wasn’t with you, was he?” Dickon followed in their wake, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. He shrugged.
“I’m not his keeper,” he said.
Jarrett regarded him thoughtfully, pondering what kind of man this Jonas Farr must be to elicit such loyalty on so short an acquaintance.
“Why are you so sure of him?” he asked. “A month or so ago you must have been strangers.” Dickon shrugged again.
“With some men, you know,” he said simply. He looked away, his skin reddening. “You’ve heard him sing,” he said. “No liar ever sung that true.”
Death of a Radical Page 22
