Death of a Radical (9 page)

“For ill-purpose, Mr. Jarrett! You may scoff but I cannot be so easy when I hear what I have learned of late.”

“Pray tell.”

Colonel Ison looked at him full face. A shutter fell at the back of his eyes.

“I'm not alone in my suspicions, Mr. Jarrett,” he blustered. “I have official reports—”

“Official reports?” repeated Jarrett. The colonel's
temper, it seemed, had betrayed him into saying more than he had intended.

“May I remind you, Mr. Jarrett, that you are invited here as an observer.”

“Of course, sir, but I am also his Grace's representative and his Grace, the Duke of Penrith, has concerns as to what might justify the imposition of a troop of regulars on this neighborhood.” That was a lie, but a white one. Neither Jarrett nor Lord Charles had had any communication with the duke in weeks. However, Raif knew his patron well enough to anticipate his response. His Grace would tilt his head in that charming fashion he had and tell him in a rueful tone to do whatever he thought best.

Colonel Ison resolutely ignored him.

“Gentlemen,” he pronounced impressively, “I am here to inform you all that disorder threatens. My information is endorsed by the highest authorities. As Chairman of the Bench I tell you that this information must and will be acted upon. The Home Secretary himself has been apprised.”

Mr. Prattman sat up with a sharp intake of breath. Colonel Ison bestowed an approving glance upon him.

“Indeed,” he said.

Urgent knuckles rapped the door. It opened to admit the disembodied head of Jasper Bedlington. A tuft of the soft fringe of hair encircling the innkeeper's bald pate stood up, giving him a harassed air. Distant sounds of raised voices filtered into the magistrates' chamber.

“I beg pardon, colonel,” he said, “if you'd be so kind.
There's a small misunderstanding below. Lord Charles—the Marquess of Earewith—he sends his compliments and requests that you and Mr. Jarrett might join him down in the courtyard.”

An audience had gathered along the gallery. A trio of players from Mr. Sugden's troupe stood half dressed, as if just emerged from their beds, exchanging witticisms as they shared a loaf of bread. Jack, the Bedlingtons' young son, hung out over space stretching to gain the best possible view of the action. Down below in the yard stood an officer in a hussar's blue jacket trimmed with silver. He held a slight figure in an undignified arm lock while Lord Earewith looked on, holding a red-tasseled shako under one arm.

The commotion had drawn the ladies out of their ground-floor parlor. Jarrett's attention was caught by the line of Miss Lonsdale's neat figure, delineated by the mustard-yellow shawl of fine wool that draped in fluid folds down her back. Miss Lippett's servant stood by the door, his face turned upward to the gallery, an expression of frank admiration on his face. Miss Lonsdale caught the look and searched out its object. Justice Raistrick had appeared on the opposite side of the gallery
with Bess Tallentyre on his arm, the little manager Sugden bobbing in their wake. The actress showed every sign of being delighted with her escort. When his gaze rested frankly on her bare neckline, she smiled coyly at him. She detached herself with a graceful side-step and took up an attitude by the balustrade. Her bold eyes found Jarrett's and she winked. He took an involuntary step back into the shadow of the wall.

Henrietta Lonsdale was well acquainted with Lord Earewith. She was curious as to his connection to the young man being detained by the lieutenant. She had the distinct impression that the youth had taunted the lieutenant and she was near-certain she had observed him tread on the officer's boot. She was impatient of such behavior. Lord Earewith was a charming young man but he was not going to stop this by dancing around the pair so ineffectually. She took a brisk step forward.

“I repeat, unhand my cousin!” The marquess's crisp elocution carried up to the gallery. “Raif!” he called out. “Come talk sense into this damned Achilles. I beg your pardon, ma'am. Miss Lonsdale, I did not see you there.”

“Lieutenant! What is the meaning of this?” Colonel Ison's martial roar resounded as he thundered down the gallery steps with the duke's agent a close second.

In profile Jarrett observed Miss Lonsdale drop back in a fine counterfeit of maidenly modesty. Her lips were pleasantly red in the chill air.

The lieutenant released Favian abruptly. He turned to the colonel, snapping into a salute.

“Lieutenant Roberts, colonel sir!” His hand went to his jacket and then stilled. “Beg pardon, colonel; orders are in my saddlebag.”

Lieutenant Roberts was the sort of young hero frequently described as a “pretty fellow.” He was of taller than average height. His nose was straight. An ill-natured person might point out that his eyes lay a mite close to one another but his figure was good. Gray mud clung to the knees of his white breeches and stained the tasseled ends of his scarlet sash.

“What's this? What's this sir?” the colonel barked. “Have you been wrestling in a ditch?”

Favian's clothes too were scuffed but his expression was animated. He seemed almost elated. Jarrett's eyes narrowed in speculation.

“Perhaps Mr. Adley could give us his account of what has occurred,” he suggested dryly.

“Cousin Raif! How good it is to see you again!” The young man's face lit up with touching affection. Miss Lonsdale's eyes traveled back and forth between the youth Lord Charles had just claimed as kin and the man the boy called cousin Raif, her brain a web of speculation.

“And you,” replied Jarrett with the flash of a warm smile that was so brief and sudden that a moment later Miss Lonsdale wondered if she had imagined it. “Can you explain this?”

“I've just arrived in town,” Favian responded dutifully. “I lost my way. There's a wide street down by the river?
There was a group of people gathered there listening to this fellow singing. He was most tuneful and as I have a particular interest in folk song …”

Jarrett gave him a hard look. Favian paused, his hazel eyes guileless.

“Well, up comes the lieutenant,” he continued. “He pushes through the crowd and sets in after the fellow. The singer, he took to his heels—well, I think that's what happened; it was hard to see. I was jostled in the crowd. I was standing by the mouth of an alley. Up comes the lieutenant and somehow we get into a tangle and down we fall in a heap. I was crushed under him—he's a fair weight I can tell you.”

“You little wretch! You tripped me!” exclaimed the lieutenant with heat.

“I did not,” Favian stated calmly. “You knocked me down.”

“Colonel, I must protest. This—this
boy
—interfered with my pursuit. The song was seditious. The singer had a knapsack; I am certain he was distributing bills.”

“Let me see them,” demanded Ison. The lieutenant blinked.

“I had my hand on one, sir, but I dropped it when this boy tripped me … I couldn't find it afterward. The crowd had scattered. Perhaps he stole it.” He took a step toward young Adley as if he were in a mind to search him. The youth pulled his shoulders back.

“I did not trip you,” he repeated, the picture of injured innocence.

“Could you identify this singer, lieutenant?” intervened Jarrett.

“There is little hope of that.” Roberts was aggrieved. “He was wound up in a muffler.” Jarrett watched the boy's face, noting that his breath was labored as if his chest was tight. Charles threaded a hand under his young cousin's elbow. Favian's chin went up.

“Mr. Adley,” the agent asked, “did you get a clear view of this man the lieutenant was pursuing?”

“Not so as I could recognize him again.” He spoke loudly. “It all happened too fast. Could have been a woman for all I saw.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” snapped Lieutenant Roberts, scowling like a child.

“An unfortunate mistake—don't you agree, Colonel Ison?” Lord Charles appealed to the magistrate, his smile at once both intimate and bashful as if they two alone shared an understanding. The bluster drained from the colonel. He simpered. Charles proffered the shako he held to Roberts.

“Yours, I believe. I am sure that your energy and zeal are a notable acquisition to the forces of law and order, lieutenant.”

“This is the Marquess of Earewith, lieutenant! Heir to his Grace, the Duke of Penrith,” Colonel Ison declared. “If Mr. Adley is his cousin there must be some mistake. Apologies, Lord Charles, apologies. I hope the boy is none the worse for wear?”

“The ‘boy,' colonel, is—” Favian began heatedly. Jarrett
slipped his hand under the opposite arm to that held by Charles, confining him between them.

“Enough, Grub!” he murmured. “I am sure that Mr. Adley regrets any misunderstanding, Lieutenant Roberts,” he continued firmly. Mr. Jarrett stretched out his hand. “A poor welcome to Woolbridge, I fear. Frederick Jarrett, agent to his Grace. I have made the arrangements to billet your men down on the river. Do they meet you here?”

The lieutenant returned his grip with the bewildered look of a man out of his depth.

“They are halted to the north.”

“Let me know when you wish to be shown your barracks.”

“First the lieutenant and I have matters to discuss,” said Colonel Ison, darting a curious look between Jarrett and the marquess. He waved Roberts aside. “You will excuse us, gentlemen.”

“Grub! What have you been doing?” hissed the marquess, as he steered Favian away. “Must say,” he interjected, looking the boy up and down, “you've grown.”

“Delighted to see you too, cousin Charles.”

“How did you give Tiplady the slip?” Charles demanded. “He was to meet you at Greta Bridge just past noon.”

“The coach arrived an age ago. I made my own way.”

Jarrett followed them, contemplating his dilemma. They were advancing toward that part of the yard where Miss Lonsdale stood with her friend. The ladies were monitoring their approach with frank curiosity. It was not every day that a new relation of the duke's appeared in
the neighborhood. He wondered what the company thought of Grub's greeting him as cousin. That was bad enough, but at the edge of his vision he was aware of Bess Tallentyre craning over the gallery rail adjusting a tendril of her springy copper hair. Given his earlier feelings it was ironic how he now prayed that Raistrick found further reason to detain her.

“I think we should introduce Grub to Miss Lonsdale, don't you Raif?” Charles had recovered his habitual poise. “She is one of the most charming ladies in the neighborhood, Grub.”

To reach the ladies they must pass the gallery steps. Jarrett fought the desire to slip away down the archway to the street. He sensed movement above. He was on stage in a farce without an exit line.

A curse on small towns! A gentleman of his experience was bound to enjoy variety in his female acquaintance but that variety was not supposed to meet. Like the wrong colors laid side by side, Miss Lonsdale's gentility was compromised by Bess's presence while the gentlewoman's proximity tarnished the actress's charms.

Bess glided down the gallery steps to his right. She leaned over the rail, sweeping her expressive eyes up to Raistrick who observed them from above. “Your wolf can bite my ass anytime,” she said.

Jarrett winced. Charles was introducing his cousin to Miss Lonsdale.

“That one has an interest in you, lover,” commented Bess. She looked Miss Lonsdale up and down. “Stiff and
starch—though a pretty enough figure. She should smile more.”

“That's no business of yours, Bess.”

Charles was inviting the ladies to accompany him into the inn. Miss Henrietta consulted her companion. Miss Lippett was determined to press her case. She indicated the gallery where Mr. Raistrick stood conversing with the vicar and Sir Thomas. Framed in the doorway to the tap, Charles performed a comical shrug for Raif's benefit, pulling a face in Miss Lippett's direction. The eccentric gentlewoman was in full flood once more. With a pair of matched bows, Charles and Favian disappeared into the inn leaving Jarrett marooned.

Henrietta scarcely heard her friend's diatribe. She had a liking for originals and little qualm about the spinster's public eccentricities but her mind was preoccupied. Miss Lonsdale was a self-assured woman. She had had the running of her aunt's not inconsiderable estate for some years and she had long since passed the first blush of youth. She was not, however, unconscious of the demands of reputation—that most fragile and valuable of qualities for a female lacking great personal wealth or the protection of a forgiving husband. She was not certain that she could risk being seen in public conversation with an actress. And yet, her curiosity was overwhelming.

She took advantage of a dramatic pause in Miss Lippett's impassioned monologue.

“I should like a word with Mr. Jarrett. Will you walk with me, Miss Josephine?”

“But he is talking to that creature!” cried Miss Lippett, affronted.

“That creature, Miss Josephine?”

“That player! Rogues and vagabonds by the letter of the law alone—and I dare say a deal worse that may not be spoken by a lady of breeding! You cannot mean to speak to that man now!”

Miss Lippett's vehemence made up Miss Lonsdale's mind. She disliked being told what she might or might not do.

“Let it never be said that I compromise my friends!” she said lightly. “I shall risk my reputation alone.”

“I shall keep you in sight!” Miss Josephine hissed after her in a carrying tone.

She felt rather exposed as she crossed the few yards to Mr. Jarrett. She wished that Lord Charles had not gone in. Mr. Jarrett had his back turned to her and she was forced to the subterfuge of a small cough to catch his attention.

The actress had very bold hair. It was unruly, curling every which way. Henrietta resisted the impulse to touch her own smoothly confined tresses. Perhaps that was what men liked. Mr. Jarrett certainly seemed to approve. In height, Miss Tallentyre was shorter than Miss Lonsdale, and yet the actress contrived somehow to look down on the gentlewoman with a knowing air Henrietta did not like. She straightened her spine.