Death of a Radical (31 page)

“Sources.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“No.” The grotesque bag swung away a moment. “Time's up,” said the voice.

“What do you know of the death up at the Bucket and Broom?” Jarrett's question arrested him. The dark emptiness of the eye-holes fixed him. “A wool buyer for the army, a guest, died there a few days ago.”

“So?”

“He was murderered too.” The blank parody of a head seemed to tilt a fraction. The pink lips moved.

“Was he?” Jarrett fancied the whole wood was leaning in to listen. Even the sound of the river seemed to have hushed.

“The suspect in that case had an accomplice.” Jarrett felt, as much as saw, the infinitesimal pause. The figure shrugged.

“Farr was the one astray that night.” The voice repeated its refrain. “Your boy ran across him …”

“The boy had no reason to be up there,” argued Jarrett.

“Saw the man in town by chance, then, and followed him.” The figure shifted. Across the still, cold air Jarrett caught a whiff of a smell, woody yet out of place—too exotic for a northern winter. “Wrong place at the wrong time.” The figure bent and dropped out of sight.

Jarrett stood a moment, staring between the black tree trunks. There was no sound save the rush of the water below and the dripping trees. Moving swiftly, his boots slipping on the icy ground, he found his way to the head of the gully and followed it back down the other side to the tree where the man had stood. Hidden from his previous vantage point, he discovered a shallow trench, deep enough for a man to retreat out of sight. It ran to a rocky outcrop on the other side of which was a path that led back up to the cottages and gardens at the edge of town.

He retraced his steps to the place where the figure had stood. The leafy mulch covering the earth held no prints. He ran a hand over a knobbly protrusion he had noted during their interview hovering in line with the eyeholes of the mask. Mr. Strickland's man stood five foot five inches, or thereabouts. The fellow's arms, when hanging by his sides, were a touch longer than average. He was skilled at concealing his native accents—although he had slipped in that final phrase. He had shaped the combination of “r” and “o” in a manner that betrayed Lancastrian birth. For all the good that piece of deduction did him. Behind the mask, he suspected, this man was quite proficient enough to bend his voice and person
to any character he wished to adopt. He thought of Bess, redolent with innocence, as she was in her first entrance as Polly Peachum. The man was an actor. He paused a moment. Could that be the answer? A member of Sugden's troupe?

He slithered back down the damp hill to where he had left Walcheren tied to a branch. At least he had confirmation of machines coming into Woolbridge—Bedford no doubt. They might be here already. The traffic of the fair could provide useful cover. Was that what it was all about? Could Ison have used the government's preoccupation with radical insurgency to acquire soldiers merely to guard a commercial venture? There was that stink of corruption clinging to Mr. George and his army contract. Because of that contract, Bedford's mill had the prospect of turning pretty profits—but not yet. Everyone knew how long it took the government to pay its dues. The money from that contract might not appear for a year or more. If Bedford's finances were as precarious as Dickon Watson suggested, whose investment had paid for the machines? Was Ison in partnership with Bedford? It would take thousands. Did Ison have thousands of pounds? The river below him glinted with rosy lights in the late afternoon sun. He thought of Duffin and wondered how he was getting on.

Ezekial Duffin was half-blind and struggling to keep upright. If the good Lord was indeed a loving God, as the parson pretended, he would have reserved snow for open
country, he grumbled to himself. It was nothing but a trial in the town. The mercury in the thermometer hanging in Jasper Bedlington's stable yard had hovered just above freezing all day. Mud overlaid the slick ice. He cursed as his foot lost its purchase yet again. A day spent working his way through half the taverns and front room snugs in the lower town had loosened his balance. He had been to all the usual places, sitting in the corner with his pint pot and his dog, listening. He was up to date with all the current gossip. Folk were full of how the colonel's borrowed soldiers were out looking for the stranger who had murdered the duke's kin and interfering with decent citizens in the pursuit of their legitimate business in the process. But not a whisper of Jonas Farr. He tugged at the brim of his hat. The glare of the low winter sun reduced the street to a slice of frozen ground at his feet and a disorientating dazzle. A hazy presence passing by hailed him: “Now then young man!” Duffin grunted in response. He turned a corner into the full path of the setting sun and collided with a living wall.

“Beg pardon,” said a male voice.

As the fellow slipped out of sight, Duffin saw an outline in black and shadow: a coat, long in the waist, and a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat.

There were soldiers on the bridge stopping young men of average size and examining every wagon that passed. The fairs were winding down and the line of traffic
waiting to leave the town extended back as far as Bedford's mill. The Queen's Head was seething, some guests making their departure, others seizing the final opportunity to meet business acquaintances before they scattered for another year. The yard and the bar beyond were full. Jarrett entered the inn through the front door to avoid the press. Down a perspective, through an open door, he saw Miss Henrietta Lonsdale. Ice sparkled in her hair. She was flapping the edges of her open coat with both hands while Miss Josephine Lippett ran a handkerchief over the bare skin of her friend's neck. Had both ladies been equally good looking he might privately have thought it a pretty picture, but Miss Lippett's part in the scene repelled him. He did not like the attentive way she applied herself to her task. There is something unseemly in her manner, he thought distastefully. He rapped his knuckles on the door jamb. Henrietta Lonsdale turned her head.

“We were caught in an avalanche, Mr. Jarrett!” she greeted him, laughing. “From the roof! I fancy the snow must be thawing.”

“So you have come to town, ladies,” he responded lamely. Miss Lippett shot him a haughty look and turned her back, shaking her handkerchief out before the fire.

“There are always bargains to be had on the last day of the fairs,” Henrietta replied with a smile that made up for her companion's coldness. Her expression sobered. “And Miss Lippett is eager to discover news of her manservant.”

“I have come to offer the testimony of my good opinion before the authorities,” stated Miss Lippett. “I have no confidence in Colonel Ison's justice.”

“I applaud you, ma'am.”

Miss Lippett looked at him suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. Henrietta took a step toward him.

“And will you help this unfortunate young man, Mr. Jarrett?” she appealed. She searched his face. They stood quite close. Henrietta was suddenly conscious of Mr. Jarrett's gaze resting on her hair, her eyes, her mouth. How admirably the black lashes set off the smoky green of the eyes, Mr. Jarrett thought, distracted. He watched her expression grow quizzical.

“If I can, Miss Londsale,” he answered hurriedly.

“You do not believe him guilty of Mr. Adley's murder?” she insisted.

“Mr. Farr's guilt is certainly not proven to me. I am eager to speak with the man—”

“I do not know where he is!” Miss Lippett interrupted loudly.

All at once a question occurred to him, so simple and obvious he felt a fool not to have considered it before.

“How long has this Jonas Farr been in your employ, Miss Lippett?” he asked. The spinster blinked.

“Six weeks … more than a month at least,” she amended dismissively.

“You hired him on references? He was recommended to you perhaps?” Miss Lippett straightened her back, conveying by that gesture that her patience was being
severely tried. “I wonder how you came to employ a weaver from Yorkshire, ma'am.”

“A weaver? Farr is not a weaver.” Miss Lippett's inflection was smug, as if she had bested him. “Shoe-making is his trade, but he could do better,” she added. “He has a very neat hand. He restored a folder of soft Italian leather for me, an antique. It was torn, I thought beyond repair; and yet with his fine stitching he made it like new. And he will turn his hand to anything. It is rare to find so useful and sober a servant. I always say—” Miss Lippett was prevented from sharing her wisdom by an uncouth noise.

“Hisst!”

Jack, the landlord's young son, stood imperfectly concealed beyond the door jamb. He poked the upper half of his head through the aperture, widening his eyes significantly in Jarrett's direction.

“Yes, Jack?” he asked, amused.

“Mr. Duffin asks if you might meet him by the barn, Mr. Jarrett, where the players is,” the boy informed him in a strident whisper.

“Now?” queried Jarrett. Jack nodded. His innocent face was alive with excitement. “If you'll excuse us, ladies.”

Jarrett thought he perceived a glint of triumph in Miss Lippett's eye. All at once he had had enough of her unmannerly eccentricities. He was loath to leave her in possession of the field. He paused before Miss Henrietta. Taking her hand, he bowed over it, grazing the soft skin with his lips. “Miss Lonsdale,” he said, warm and low. For
a moment Miss Lippett was quite excluded. Then he followed the boy out.

He found the poacher lurking under low-hanging eaves at the far end of the stable yard. He was watching the closed door of the gray barn where so recently the whole town had watched Bess play.

“In there?” asked Jarrett.

“Recognized the hat,” Duffin replied.

Gray light filtering down from slits set high in the massive stone walls touched rolls of scenery piled alongside an assemblage of props and flats. By daylight the true nature of Jasper Bedlington's barn reasserted itself. The theatrical trappings intruded, tawdry and ephemeral, within its sturdy carcass. A handful of people were gathered on the stage. Jarrett recognized five principal members of Mr. Sugden's company, looking strangely colorless in their everyday clothes. Bess, he noted, was not among them—nor the comic, Mr. Jefferies. The actress who played Lucy Lockit in the opera sat on a large hamper cutting an apple into neat slices with a folding knife. By her side was the older lady who had played Mrs. Peachum. Both held their bodies self-consciously, like dancers. At their feet, reclining in a romantic posture, accepting tit-bits from Lucy's hand, was the handsome youth who had played Filch to the delight of the country maidens. A large painted screen, of the sort that concealed duped husbands and foolish wives in farces, formed a backdrop
behind them. The three were watching the manager in debate with the leading man—as if waiting for their scene, thought Jarrett. The picture intrigued him. Each one of the persons before him displayed themselves to the empty seats. He wondered if that was the mark of their profession—always to be looking to the audience.

“He says he will not attend, being unwell from his anxiety of last night …” Mr. Sugden, the manager, was saying, his face creased in a worried expression.

“Anxiety!” scoffed Dick Greenwood, the gallant Macheath. “Too much brandy, more like. Thank God he's leaving, I say!” As if they responded to a cue, the two men turned in a synchronized movement in Jarrett's direction. Mr. Sugden peered into the dim light.

“Yes?”

Jarrett climbed the short ladder that led to the stage. The sole of his boot slid a little on the step. The wooden treads were wet as if someone had recently come in from the muddy snow outside.

“Mr. Sugden, isn't it?”

Mr. Sugden regarded him speculatively. His thinning dark hair was cropped close, accentuating liquid, emotional eyes. He was a compact man. Barely five foot four, Jarrett estimated, making a quick comparison with his own height. Dick Greenwood, on the other hand, was quite tall. Perhaps five foot nine inches. Cordiality transformed the manager's expression. The scene has begun, thought Jarrett.

“Mr. Jarrett, isn't it?” Mr. Sugden pumped the visitor's
hand up and down with an excess of enthusiasm. “Bess's friend? Agent for the Duke of Penrith, if I am not mistaken,” he pronounced gaily. Jarrett winced a little at this public advertisement of his connection to Miss Tallentyre. He wondered where Bess might be.

“Let me introduce Dick Greenwood.” The little manager moved lightly on his feet. “Dick takes our first line of business, both tragic and comic …” Up close, Greenwood was a well-preserved fifty. He had a cynical air of detachment, as if he were well accustomed to life and it mildly amused him.

“You made an admirable Macheath, Mr. Greenwood,” Jarrett complimented.

With the flourish of a magician producing a bunch of flowers from his sleeve, Mr. Sugden directed his guest's attention to the lady with the apple.

“My heart's delight, Mrs. Sugden!” he declared. “Mrs. Clarice Hickson, to give her stage name,” he confided, low-voiced. “You'll have admired her Lucy, I'm sure.” The lady flashed her dimples in a roguish smile. The Ganymede at her knee tilted up his handsome face. “Will Vaughan, our walking gentleman—he takes our Romeos, Young Norval in
Douglas,
that sort of thing,” explained Sugden. The boy was about Grub's age. His features bore that unknitted look before character coalesces into maturity. “And this,” Sugden beamed companionably at the final member of the party, “is Mrs. Monk, our Mrs. Peachum. She takes our character parts. Her nurse in
Romeo
is one of the best in the business.”

“Your Mr. Peachum—he is not here?” Jarrett inquired. The ladies gazed at him without moving a muscle of their faces. Mr. Sugden's mobile mouth turned down.