Death of a Radical (3 page)

Frederick Raif Jarrett strode across the marketplace toward the Queen's Head. There was anticipation in the air beneath the steely skies. The first herd had arrived at Woolbridge. A group of drovers with their broad-brimmed hats, heavy coats and long staffs were gathered around a brazier. The Easter Fairs were approaching, marking the end of winter and bringing trade and diversion to the town.

Jarrett had always considered himself an even-tempered man but he had been cross for days. A few months previously he had assumed management of the Duke of Penrith's northern estates more by accident than design. In his military days he had endured many wet and cold weeks in the saddle in a cheerful spirit. He had survived asinine superiors, incompetent allies and enemy ambush, but that day he could not recall feeling so put out of sorts by anything as one and three-quarter hours spent in the company of Mr. Hilton of High Top.

Mr. Hilton was a sociable man; a principal tenant of
the duke's and a leading light of the Woolbridge Agricultural Society. He had sought out the duke's agent to inquire whether his Grace might be inclined to contribute to a subscription being raised among agriculturalists in the neighborhood to engage Mr. Colling of Alnwick to bring his fabled bull, Cupid, to stand at Woolbridge and improve the stock in the Dale. That subject had been speedily settled but a good hour and a half passed before Mr. Jarrett was able to shake himself free near two whole hours wasted breathing the stifling exhalations of his beasts while Mr. Hilton made conversation.

In the Dale everyone knew one another's business. What they did not know, they speculated. Jarrett's head was ringing with snatches about Mr. Hilton's preference for fish, soggy bottoms (“that piece down there by the beck, it's a trial”), pockmarked trees, Mrs. Anders's arthritis and our Dot's knees (“a canny milker our Dot”). Or was it Mrs. Anders's knees and the cow suffering the arthritis? He longed to ride away, set sail, chop some wood—any simple exercise of action: clean, clear, wordless action with direction and a point to it.

And now he was late. The Queen's Head rose before him. The inn had sat comfortably at the southern end of the market opposite the church for more than a hundred years. For the last twenty it had been in the capable hands of Jasper Bedlington and Polly, his wife. The magistrates met there; the Agricultural Society, the Box Society; the Odd Fellows held dinners there and every quarter
dances were mounted in the convenient assembly rooms on the first floor. The oppression of respectability seemed to crowd in on him as he marched under the coach arch. He took off his hat to run an impatient hand through his corn-blond hair. Could this really be his life?

“Mr. Jarrett! There you are!” Mrs. Bedlington, the publican's wife, called out from the kitchen door. “Colonel Ison's upstairs in my best private, when you're ready.”

“Damn the man,” Jarrett muttered to himself. “Good morning Mrs. B. You didn't hear that, did you?”

She screwed up her face in a comical expression of sympathy. She was a good woman. He smiled back.

Colonel Ison was Member of Parliament and the leading local magistrate. A compact man with restless eyes under heavy black brows, he was ever busy in the public interest—especially in so far as it coincided with his high estimation of his own importance. This morning he was in his costume as Colonel of the Woolbridge and Gainford Volunteers. It was the habit of the commanders of such companies to design their own uniforms. Ison's was not as extravagant as some.

“Am I not to have the pleasure of Lord Charles's company today?” The colonel looked over the agent's shoulder as he greeted him.

“The Marquess of Earewith is out of town,” Mr. Jarrett replied. For him this was something of a relief. Charles had been keeping him company for months. He could see, however, that the colonel was disappointed.

“Might I know when his lordship is to return?”

“I am not informed of his plans.” When Charles had left he had been more than usually mysterious. Jarrett suspected he was up to something; as perhaps the marquess's closest friend, he was resigned. Having no duties or responsibilities to speak of, my lord often took pleasure in preparing surprises with which to ambush his intimates.

Colonel Ison expelled a hard little sigh. He was a man who relied upon the security of rank and the rank of Mr. Jarrett eluded him. On the one hand, Mr. Jarrett was the duke's man of business: a trusted agent but still a servant and as such the social inferior of a magistrate and Member of Parliament. And yet, Mr. Jarrett was intimate with the duke's family, in particular with his Grace's son and heir, the Marquess of Earewith. The colonel being a mere public acquaintance, the most aristocratic family in the district and their circle had not seen fit to elucidate the mystery. The ambiguity of the precise nature of Mr. Jarrett's connection with the ducal family, therefore, rankled. Whenever he was with his Grace's agent Colonel Ison had the obscure feeling that someone was making a fool of him.

“Domestic peace is most precious in time of war,” the colonel pronounced. He thrust a pamphlet at Jarrett, planting his feet to stand four-square. “Civilization itself rests upon it. As I told the Home Secretary in the lobby last week, we need decisive action, a firm hand.”

Jarrett took the proffered paper and looked down at it, wondering by what unlucky chance
he
should have
been selected for this particular address. The British had been at war with the French for the best part of his adult life, and there was still no end in sight, but Ison was the worst kind of armchair warrior. A part-time soldier, he had never faced a real enemy in his life. He was, in consequence, at the same time loudly bellicose and fearful. Jarrett turned over the document in his hand. It was printed on thin parliamentary paper, GEORGIII REGIS, CAP.XVII in bold print on its cover:
An Act for the more effectual Preservation of the Peace, by enforcing the Duties of Watching and Warding.

“What manner of action, sir?”

“Disturbances are in preparation for the Easter Fairs, I am sure of it.” The magistrate swayed a fraction toward him, deploying his formidable eyebrows to add weight to his words. “I am certain of it.”

“I have heard nothing locally, colonel,” Jarrett responded mildly. In his past life Raif Jarrett had had considerable experience of undercover work. He prided himself on his intelligence. Mr. Hilton was the greatest gossip in the neighborhood and as far as Jarrett could recall, his best piece of news had been Mrs. Anders's arthritis (that and an obscure anecdote about some newly discovered fungus that pockmarked trees).

“Foreign agitators!” the words were expelled from the colonel's lips. “It is a matter of outside agents.”

“You can't mean the French?”

The colonel tweaked one gold-braided cuff impatiently. “You can be sure our enemy will benefit.”

Britain being an island, French agents were not that common an occurrence. Jarrett could think of nothing that might tempt them to their isolated neighborhood. There were no munitions factories, no important barracks or prison camps and Woolbridge was miles from the coast. He wondered briefly if the colonel was drunk. He scanned the polished surfaces of Mrs. B's best parlor. There was no liquor in evidence.

“My dear sir …” he began.

“Intelligence, Mr. Jarrett; I have intelligence!” snapped the colonel. His cheeks flushed red. “There are rumors … Radicals. Insurgents.” He straightened his shoulders a fraction as if bracing himself. The agent's expression was unreadable. He seemed entirely unmoved.

Jarrett was aware of the incidents of machine breaking in recent months. The worst of it had been down in Nottinghamshire. Stockings and serges formed a principal part of Woolbridge's manufacture, but the methods of the local masters were traditional. “We have no steammills here,” he objected. “Our weavers have no new machines to break.”

He heard the breath rush through the colonel's nose.

“If I could relate to you all that I have been privy to, Mr. Jarrett,” Ison exclaimed irritably. “Only last Friday I was speaking with Yorkshire members in Westminster—manufacturing districts to the south of us have suffered more than the odd broken frame. There is coordination sir and the canker is spreading—how else may a stocking knitter in Nottingham find common cause with a West
Yorkshire cropper? They both sing songs of General Ludd! We face a great conspiracy, sir: one that threatens not only property but perhaps the very security of the state!”

Jarrett stared into the wide-opened eyes in the empurpled face. The man seemed genuinely moved. He wondered if the colonel had some particular reason for his concern.

“Is one of our manufacturers bringing in new machines?” he ventured.

“Men of property must be allowed to carry on their business.” The colonel looked away and cleared his throat. His attention fixed on a painted box lying askew on a side table. He straightened it.

“The matter under discussion, Mr. Jarrett, is the preservation of the public peace. I have called you here as a courtesy. Please inform his Grace that I am calling on my fellow magistrates to enact the Act. I have already requested assistance. I am expecting a troop under the command of Lieutenant Roberts.”

“You've called in the regulars?” exclaimed Jarrett, startled. The country had been through two bad winters; people were tired of the war and the price of bread was high. But as far as he could tell from his rides up and down, the local populace in this isolated dale were as they had always been—not entirely law-abiding as far as the strict letter but loyal subjects of their king. The only reason he could see to use the Act to call in a troop of regulars to this out-of-the-way district would be to strengthen the magistrate's hand—but to what purpose?

“The Easter Fairs draw thousands to Woolbridge, who knows what villains concealed among them,” the colonel was saying.

“Surely our militia is sufficient to contain any—”

“They are not sufficient to this!” the colonel cut him off.

Jarrett had experience of what a bored troop of battle-hardened regulars could do to a town. He had a profound distaste of martial law.

“But you know how the regulars are disliked,” he persisted.

“We are at war,” the colonel stated fatuously.

Jarrett felt a powerful urge to take a swing at the man. For a glorious moment he imagined the startled look on the MP's face at finding himself on his ass in the hearth. Instead he turned away and leaned on the mantel. A log had rolled out. He kicked it back into place with rather more energy than the task required. In selling out he had thought to regain his independence. And yet, here he was again forced to watch the follies of his self-styled superiors unfold. He wanted to leave that room. Ride away and never come back. His eye was drawn to the mirror above the fireplace. The reflection of the self-important little man behind him dominated the scene. The neighborhood had two powerful magistrates, the one vain and ambitious, the other ambitious and corrupt. Fortunately the pair despised one another. Had it been the latter—Jarrett's old opponent Raistrick—who was seeking to acquire an armed troop, the duke's
interest and every other interest in Woolbridge would be at risk. Ison was a blowhard but he cared what other men of standing thought of him. That should keep the colonel within bounds, Jarrett told himself; this was none of his business.

Some way off deep in the bowels of the inn, he heard a woman's voice. It had a cheerful, domestic tone. A vision of Mrs. Bedlington and her mild, helpful husband sprang into his mind. His horse, Walcheren, was below in the stables, only a few yards away from where they stood. That made him think of Robert Mouncey, the saddler he patronized in Powcher's Lane who liked to spout irreverent philosophy while he mended your bridle. He liked these people. He was the duke's representative in this out-of-the-way place. He could make it his business.

“If I may make a suggestion, sir …” he turned back donning his most conciliatory face. “His Grace has a warehouse in town. It is standing empty and the location is convenient to the markets.” The colonel chewed his bottom lip.

“A military strategist such as yourself, sir,” Jarrett continued, mentally kicking himself for sinking so low, “will see the benefit in lodging the troop together and I am sure his Grace will be willing to meet the expense.”

The colonel's eyelids flickered. “A generous offer,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Shall I make arrangements?”

The colonel drew a fat letter out of his pocket and tapped it against the palm of his free hand. “I have called
an extraordinary meeting of the magistrates tomorrow,” he said. “Should Lord Charles have returned by then his counsel would be welcomed.”

“The warehouse?” Jarrett prompted. Colonel Ison jerked his chin.

“Do it.” The older man unfolded his letter and pretended to absorb himself in its contents. “I have another appointment, Mr. Jarrett,” he said. “I must prepare. Goodday.”

Jarrett almost laughed out loud. Did the old badger expect him to back out bowing low like a footman?

“I shall wait to hear from the lieutenant when he arrives, then,” he informed the room with a slight bow. As he left, the colonel's voice followed him.

“If the marquess is not available, perhaps you would attend the meeting in his place. Twelve noon.”

The galleried courtyard of the Queen's Head was empty and still. It was that lull in the morning after the deliveries and before the midday customers gathered. Jarrett could smell ale and baking bread. He heard a woman singing. Ringing out in the calm of the yard the voice was enchantingly pure with a heart-catching lilt. He stilled, listening to the song.

Every night I dream about him,
Every day I take no rest,
Every instant thinking on him,
My heart ever in his breast.