Death of a Radical

by Rebecca Jenkins

  “Murderer! That’s a hard word. I take exception to that, Mr. Jarrett.” Judkin was offended. “I take no pleasure in killing. Can’t abide a suffering creature. Why, do you call yourself murderer? You’ll have killed plenty in your time and not all neat and tidy on the raging battlefield, I’ll be bound. What you and I do, Mr. Jarrett, it’s not common murder. When we take a life it is of necessity. You can’t pursue our line of work without a little quiet killing.”

  “A little quiet killing? Of honest men like Pritchard? There is no justice in that.”

  Judkin was stung. His native accents began to color the contrived voice. “Justice! There’s no such thing! It’s a matter of means and what is. You’ve had it easy; my lord’s pet all your life—playing the hero. You do your killing in foreign parts; that’s the only difference between us—that and you’ve been blessed with connections. You’ve no call to be looking down at me. You and I we do what we do and we’re good at it. And as for Pritchard,” Judkin exclaimed irritably, “we all take a job on the side now and then, so long as it’s not out of our way. I was only going to talk to him. The silly fool woke up dopey and started creating. Had to silence him quick. He wasn’t supposed to go like that. Must have had a weak heart.”

  “He was a civil servant, a servant of the Crown.”

  “How was I supposed to know he had a weak heart?” Judkin protested, aggrieved. “There was no unpleasantness. How did you know?” he inquired with sudden equanimity.

  “Because of the way you left him. You practically laid him out. What were you thinking?”

  “He flayed about a bit and I had to tidy him,” the little spy responded, matter-of-factly.

  “But why like that?”

  Judkin looked startled a moment, then a secret reminiscent smile settled around his eyes. “Knew a man once who slept like that, said it made him ready for heaven.” The expression vanished. He pulled the lobe of one ear, thoughtfully. “Besides, ran out of time and had to leave him. Never thought the bumpkins would notice. How was I to know the likes of you would be passing?” He paused a moment; his mood shifted. “It’s a pleasure to be tested by a fellow professional,” he finished cheerfully.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Jarrett began again after a stunned moment. “How come you got yourself arrested on fair day?” A shadow passed over the spy’s face.

  “Those damned weaver boys and their lumping leader,” he said discontentedly. “They were out to grab that Porter boy. He nearly led them to me.”

  “So you get yourself arrested—quick thinking,” Jarrett conceded. Judkin looked pleased.

  “I’m hardly a novice. Ready for anything, that’s my motto,” he said modestly.

  “But you took a risk. How did you know you could get out when you wanted?”

  “Like I said, ready for anything. Lady luck tossed me a bone and I made the most of it.”

  “Why not stay snug for the night?” Judkin shrugged.

  “Needed to make a try for that daft boy Porter and shut his mouth before those weaver lads learned something they shouldn’t. And what a sweet alibi! Who could resist?”

  “I’ll give you that,” Jarrett said, seasoning his voice with reluctant admiration. “But how did you arrange it?”

  Judkin waited, a playful smile on his lips. Jarrett thought back to Colonel Ison’s late entrance at Mrs. Bedford’s entertainment before the play. He had been surprised at his marked improvement in mood. The magistrate had been positively buoyant. “You revealed yourself to Colonel Ison that afternoon,” he supplied. “You revealed yourself as a government agent, the source of those reports, and enlisted his help.”

  “It’s a pleasure to watch you reason, captain! The magistrate was kind enough to provide me with private accommodations. How pleased was he to be party to business of state!” Judkin’s contempt for Ison was clear. “The rest I could do myself. The lock on that shed was as good as no lock at all.”

  Jarrett searched the bland face, wondering how much the spy knew of the closeness of his connection to Grub. He wanted to keep the man talking. He seemed to relish the opportunity to relate his cleverness.

  “And Mr. Adley?” he prompted. “You knew the weavers had Lem Porter and you wanted to stop him talking …”

  Judkin’s pupils contracted for a fraction of a second.

  “That lily-handed boy!” he spat in a flash of venom. “I’d seen him with those weavers. What was he doing mixing with them? It’s unnatural. If he’d warned them, it’d be all up with me. I can’t abide it,” he said, primly. “Gentry have their privileges because they’re above us. When they steps down like that, they’re no better than the rest of us.”

  To hear Grub discounted so casually! Jarrett choked down the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. Easy now! He clung to his reason; there is more you can learn from him.

  “How come Mr. Adley recognized you?” he asked, relieved to hear his voice sounding perfectly calm. “He saw you with Strickland in Leeds?”

  Judkin flashed him a razor-sharp look. “You know about that?” He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Wasn’t sure he’d seen us at that inn. But then of course, the chief had to go in and have a chat. Bloody gentry! Every bugger knows the other or someone they went to school with,” he parodied bitterly.

  “So he recognized you that night and followed you up on to the fell and you murdered him,” stated Jarrett evenly.

  “Why do you say murdered?” protested Judkin, half playfully. “The young gentleman might have fallen and knocked his head. Weather like that and a sickly boy not used to riding.”

  “Is that what happened?” Remembering the bruise on Grub’s throat, Jarrett thought the words might choke him, but he got them out. “You were there at least.”

  “I left him comfortable. Had to get back; time was getting on.” For the first time, a faint suggestion of nervousness crossed the pale eyes. “A casualty of war, Mr. Jarrett; a casualty of war.”

  “Then you went back to your shed and waited for the colonel to release you the next morning. And you took the opportunity to send him after Farr. How could you be sure Ison would not suspect you of Mr. Adley’s death? Is the colonel party to all this?”

  “That great booby! I had only to whisper in his ear and he’d jump as high as you could wish,” Judkin boasted. “The colonel’s very trusting. I’d told him I had wind of a meeting on Quarry Fell; that’s why I needed my liberty while the world thought me stowed away. I was collecting evidence of the administration of illegal oaths that night—all he could wish for. Next morning, all I had to do was bring news that Farr was not where he was supposed to be.”

  “But how could you be sure of that?”

  “Saw him all over that doxy with the players and took a chance. The way they were going at it, he was fixed for the night. So there I was, sweet as a nut, and the colonel himself comes in with the news of the young gentleman’s death. All I had to do was be amazed to hear of it; the colonel he puts two and two together all on his own.” He stopped. They seemed to have exhausted the subject. Judkin regarded him speculatively, as if he were a guest and it was time for him to call for his hat. He seemed to fear no retribution for what he had done.

  “We’ve spoken of enough to hang you.”

  “Really? What proof is there?”

  “And if I had proof?”

  “But you don’t, do you? It’s nothing personal, captain. It’s just a job. It was all for the mission. You go ask the chief.”

  “Strickland? Is he still here?” demanded Jarrett.

  “You’ll likely catch him up at the church if you hurry. He doesn’t attend but he likes to call by on a Sunday. I must be getting going—things to do. The family’ll want collecting soon.” He gave a brisk nod, dismissing him. “I doubt I’ll see you again.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “Just picked up new orders. This seam’s exhausted. I’m for Manchester. Something big’s brewing there, they say. The kind of thing to mak
e a man’s name in the service. Mr. Bedford will have Mr. Judkin’s notice tonight. One more day as Matthew Judkin, then tomorrow I’m off.”

  They were singing inside Mr. Prattman’s church. A traveling carriage waited in the lane. Its blinds drawn and the coachman hunched immobile on the box. Jarrett found the familiar stork-like figure among the tombstones.

  “We meet again, Mr. Jarrett. You look a trifle peaked.”

  “Mr. Strickland.”

  “The Yorkshire boy has slipped away, I hear. To Manchester … ?” Strickland’s gaze was probing. “No matter,” he said with a vague smile.

  “Since Farr is innocent of all charges.”

  “Ah! Which one of us is truly innocent!” Strickland was in philosophical mood. He tapped a moss-stained tombstone with the tip of his cane. “I’m fond of graveyards. They have a certain melancholy peace—particularly in the winter. In the warmer months the smell can be unpleasant.”

  Jarrett thought of Judkin following Jonas Farr to Manchester. He tried again. “Your agent falsely accuses a decent man.”

  Mr. Strickland made a faint moue of distaste. He lifted his eyes to the far horizon. “Of course, you have fought your war abroad,” he mused. His tone turned gently chiding. “It is easier to play the hero on foreign soil. Operations at home can be a dirty business—I’ll give you that. But the truth, my dear Jarrett, is that the common Englishman has no more of a heart of oak than your average Frenchman. They are preoccupied with the petty struggles of their little lives. They complain of the tax and how trade suffers and the price of wheat. They grow restless. These little public dramas help keep the spark of their loyalty bright. A traitor hauled from the shadows every now and then—it draws the plebs together. Thus may Britannia and her liberties endure beyond this war.”

  “That is how you justify the sacrifice of innocent men?”

  Strickland pursed his lips. “It is an old argument. I am no philosopher. These are proven tactics.”

  “Pritchard, the second victim. He was a servant of the Crown.”

  The corners of Mr. Strickland’s mouth turned down sorrowfully. “There were extenuating circumstances—a weak heart, I believe? But that was indeed bad. The men will take the occasional job on the side—extra money you know. They’re always complaining we don’t pay them enough. My man was reprimanded, I can assure you.”

  Jarrett snorted impatiently. “And my cousin? Do you dismiss Favian Adley’s death so lightly?”

  “Indeed, indeed I do not. A great tragedy,” Strickland answered smoothly.

  “He was only a boy!”

  Mr. Strickland wagged his head judiciously, as if weighing up the matter. “Perhaps so, but a boy who chose poor company.” He sighed. “It can happen in the best families, but …” he raised a hand, interrupting Jarrett’s retort. “I must tell you, with regret, when I found him in Leeds young master Adley was reading material of a decidedly seditious nature.” He paused. “I burned the pamphlet, of course,” he continued silkily. “I’m certain his family would not want the scandal.”

  They had reached the end of the path. Mr. Strickland’s servant opened the wicket gate. His master passed through. He tapped Jarrett’s shoulder in an avuncular gesture.

  “My condolences. My condolences, of course.” He mounted the steps of his carriage and was swallowed by the dim interior. “A regrettable adventure, but it is over now at least. You should get some sleep, Mr. Jarrett. You’ve had a trying week.” He turned his hawkish profile and knocked the head of his cane briskly on the ceiling above him.

  Jarrett watched the carriage roll out of sight. It was all slipping away from him. He had no evidence to bring to law. Mr. George wouldn’t speak and Nat Broom couldn’t. Colonel Ison, the local chairman of the bench, was already convinced of Jonas Farr’s guilt. Tomorrow Judkin would be gone. The Marquess of Earewith had money and connections, and Charles, of course, would want Grub avenged; but how far would he go? How far could he go with men like Strickland guarding their interests in the shadows? Charles did not have the temperament for such a fight. The grinding, ugly truth was that Grub’s murder would most likely be laid at Farr’s door. He saw Jonas Farr’s open face and he knew those eyes would haunt him.

  He was so tired. His limbs performed their tasks mechanically. He listened to his heart flogging his blood through his veins.

  These are unjust times—there is no justice. Grub spoke to him from his painting chair, his face bright with the clear passion of youth. An honorable man stands by his beliefs. You taught me that.

  And what had he answered? Imperfect order is better than anarchy?

  What you and I do, it’s not common murder, murmured the spy. When we take a life it is of necessity. You can’t pursue our line of work without a little quiet killing.

  Then Mrs. Adley’s powdered mouth spat at him: What are you good for?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  He lay along the boards framing the void. He caught the length of the reins under the weight of his body, so that there was no danger of them hanging down and giving him away. He waited, cloaked in shadow, regulating his breathing; listening to the sounds of the horses shifting below. It was past eleven. The church clock chimed the quarter-hour. He heard a footfall in the stable below. He tightened the leather strap between his hands.

  Light swung up the stairs. The crown of a head rose smooth and bare. The head turned. They looked eye to eye. He saw the surprise in the pale gaze and the recognition—but it was too late. The strap snaked over the head and bit into the soft flesh of the neck. The lantern clattered down a step or two and went out.

  Velvet bristles brushed his mouth. He turned his face away to protect his nose. The skin-covered skull knocked hard against his cheek. All the burning intensity within him was concentrated on that moment. Detached, he listened to the harsh, desperate noises in the dark. He felt the weight collapse against his leather reins. Life ebbed between his hands. Beneath the fear and the other effluvia of death, he could smell sandalwood soap.

  He ticked off seconds in his head. It was done. He looped the long reins and tossed them over the beam. He heaved the body up. The swollen face bobbed up and up from the darkness. A third of the body was out of the stairwell. He crouched down against the weight, pausing to adjust his grip. The head lolled inches away. The sandy-lashed lids were half closed.

  He tied off the leather straps. Sliding past the legs, he retrieved the lantern and lit the candle and shuttered it. By its dim light he arranged things, taking his time, dusting away marks, checking his clothes. Then he left the way he had come, passing through the trees, and over the orchard wall—silent and unseen.

  The end of it. Once again he was walking under the arch leading to the yard of the Queen’s Head where it had all begun; and now it was done. Grub was avenged. His firm step echoed against the stone as if it belonged to someone else. Pale lines of light glimmered from shuttered windows. He heard the rumor of voices. There were still men in the bar. He did not want company. He wanted oblivion. He climbed the gallery steps as weary as death. He needed a drink. A door opened ahead of him. He smelt a familiar perfume.

  “I thought you were gone,” his voice said.

  “Company went ahead with the baggage. Principals follow tomorrow. He’s safe on his way to Manchester.”

  “But you’ve not gone with them?” he repeated dully.

  “We take the stage tomorrow.” Her hand rested on his breast. It slid up to his face and cradled his cheek. He leaned his tired head against it. He felt her warmth on his cold skin. “You’re all tired out, my love.” He looked into the light, knowing eyes. She saw him as he was and she expected nothing more. “Come with me,” she said. Her small hand clasped his and he followed her into the darkness.

  What are you good for?

  This?

  He woke with a pounding head and a dry mouth. The fire was out. A froth of copper curls lay on his chest. She slept beside him with her mouth open, her milky skin flushed on the cheeks like a chi
ld. Her freckled breast seemed somehow more naked in the morning light.

  His only thought was to get out. He pulled on his clothes by the door, fearful every second of waking her. Minutes later he swung up onto Walcheren and was heading for open ground.

  The snow had melted. The earth was fresh and green under a strengthening sun. The hedgerows were full of birdsong. Henrietta Lonsdale rode up above the Carlisle road light-hearted. The fairs were over and the players departed. She sensed hope in the air among the puffs and wisps of cloud that hung in the blue spring sky. Her mind wandered over the events of the past week. Mr. Adley’s death was not the first thing she remembered, and she felt a sting of shame when she recalled it. His death was very terrible and she felt deeply for Mr. Jarrett, but she herself had hardly known the boy. Her thoughts lingered over other scenes.

  Henrietta was conscious of how little she knew of Mr. Jarrett and his origins. She was no green girl. She speculated that the mystery obscuring his connection to the duke’s family concealed a scandal but she found she did not care. The truth, she told herself boldly (and when she was alone Henrietta could be bold), was that she was bored by the confines of her respectable existence. And Mr. Jarrett’s company was … exhilarating. The even tenor of her life had at last been broken open and she delighted in it.

  He could not bear the thought of returning to the Old Manor. He was detached, untethered, as if his actions had broken his recent, fragile moorings. How could he stay on now? What would he do if he left? He had sold his commission; he had few funds. Distracted and part-mesmerized by the rhythm of Walcheren’s familiar gait, he hardly noticed that they were heading up the southern slope of Quarry Fell. You and I, we do what we do because we’re good at it … Strickland would probably give him a job. The thought made him heart-sick.