by Celia Rees
She conducted Gabriel into her father’s study where he expressed horror at the danger that she had been in and denied most vehemently that it had anything to do with him. He had said nothing to Fitzwilliam, he swore, and was upset that Sovay could even think such a thing. Sovay apologised for ever doubting him. Which only left the highwayman. Greenwood must be the culprit.
‘He’d likely sell his grandmother for a handful of silver,’ Gabriel remarked. ‘Let that be a lesson. Such men are like that.’
‘The involvement I had with him was none of my choice!’ Sovay flared back.
‘I never suggested otherwise.’ Gabriel put his hands up to ward off her anger. ‘Let us not quarrel, Sovay.’
Sovay was slightly placated, but still thoroughly out of temper. She busied herself putting the papers out for Gabriel’s inspection. She needed the opinion of another before she deposited the documents with young Mr Oldfield at her father’s firm of solicitors, near to St Paul’s.
Gabriel studied the documents on the worn green leather of the desk. He read them with distaste, hardly wanting to touch the sheets. Some of them were much folded and greasy to the touch, and some had an odd, sharp smell about them, reminiscent of rotten onion. To Gabriel, they all gave off the same dark reek of subterfuge and spies, as pungent and offensive to him as the unwholesome stink of the crowded city streets outside.
‘What do you think they mean?’ he asked her. ‘Why were they being sent? For what purpose?’
‘The warrants are obvious. As for the rest, the bulk of them are evidences against people, like those collected against my father, and they were being sent out to magistrates in different parts of the country with the runner acting as courier. Some others,’ she shook her head, ‘I can’t be sure about. They appear to be of little consequence – innocent missives on unrelated subjects, but if that is the case, why are they in the same wallet? I’m hoping that Mr Oldfield may be able to tell us more.’ Sovay collected the papers together. ‘I will give them over to him. Greenwood was right about one thing, they are too dangerous to have in one’s own keeping.’
The offices of Oldfield and Oldfield were off Ludgate Hill where Carter’s Lane met Shoemaker Row. Sovay hadn’t visited the offices in years, not since she used to accompany her father as quite a little girl.
Young Mr Oldfield came out of his office to greet Sovay personally. He was always known as young Mr Oldfield, even though he was now approaching middle age. Under his crisp, white wig, he looked very much the same as she remembered him, with a rather stern look upon his face and his brow furrowed into a permanent frown. Sovay had been a bold child, but something about his austere demeanour had made her wary. She had sat in a corner of his office, keeping mouse quiet, aching to play with all the pens and inks, papers and ribbons but thinking it wise not to and trying to keep still. Now, she found him somewhat less off-putting. His mouth was firm but in no way mean or cruel; his grey eyes were sharp, but not unkind. It was the face of a man who could have been cold and ruthless but had chosen not to be.
‘Miss Sovay,’ his countenance relaxed into something that was almost a smile, ‘you have changed. You quite light up our dull offices. Does she not, Skidmore?’ He addressed his clerk who was staring at her in admiration. ‘Would you like some tea? Skidmore, don’t stand there gawking! Tea for Miss Sovay and be quick about it.’ He ushered her into his office. ‘Now, what can we do for you?’
The room was lined with bookcases full of legal volumes and all piled about with the ribbon-tied bundles of papers that she had found so enticing as a child. Wood panelling darkened the room and the small leaded windowpanes of green and grey glass were coated with yellowy London grime and let in little light. Lamps were lit, despite the early hour, and a fire burned bright in the grate. It might be summer outside but the law knows no seasons and in here it was always a winter’s day.
‘This is Mr Stanhope,’ Sovay introduced Gabriel. ‘He’s the son of my father’s Steward and my most trusted friend. I would like him to stay.’
‘Of course.’ Oldfield bowed slightly. ‘Mr Stanhope. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He took his place behind a wide oak desk stacked with further bundles and strewn with documents. A newspaper lay cast aside, as if he had just been reading it. ‘Now,’ he repeated his question, ‘what can we do for you?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘No trouble, I hope.’
Sovay and Gabriel took chairs opposite the desk.
‘Firstly,’ Sovay looked at Oldfield directly, ‘I would like to know if you have seen my father recently.’
‘Sir John has not visited Oldfield and Oldfield for some months. Skidmore would be able to tell you when it was exactly. That’s if he ever arrives with that tea.’ He sprang up and went to the door. ‘Skidmore!’
His clerk was a tall youth of about nineteen or so, dressed in lawyer’s black, his curly black hair neatly tied back. When he looked up, his startling green eyes were as sharp as his master’s. He put down the tray he was carrying and commenced pouring tea.
‘Sixteenth of February,’ he said. ‘That was the last time Sir John was in. I remember distinct.’
‘Thank you, Skidmore. Off you go. Call you if I need you. Wonderful memory,’ Oldfield commented as the young man left. ‘Just like his father. Old Skidmore. Never forgot a thing. Married late. The lad a bit of an afterthought. Father’s getting a bit long in the tooth now, like my old pa. Neither comes into the office much any more. Anyway, tea to your liking?’ He suddenly looked at her, brows more deeply furrowed. ‘Your father is missing. You are concerned.’
Sovay remembered his habit of talking inconsequentially, his mind busy all the while on some other thing.
‘Well, yes.’ Sovay nodded. ‘And Hugh.’
‘Hugh? He is missing, too?’
‘He’s been sent down from his college.’
‘Oh, when was this?’
‘Christmas, it seems.’
‘Oh, that long ago. And for what reason?’
‘He wrote a seditious pamphlet.’ At the word, seditious, Oldfield’s face grew graver still. ‘He’s not been home since the New Year,’ Sovay went on quickly. ‘We’ve had no word and don’t know where he could be. Except . . .’
‘Except?’
‘Mr Fitzwilliam, his tutor, mentioned he wanted to go to Paris . . .’
‘Hmm.’ The lawyer looked at her over steepled fingers. ‘Not a wise choice of destination, given the present political circumstances. Find one, however, and you’ll find the other. Your father always gave the boy too much rein. Always getting him out of some scrape or another. Never could deny him anything after the death of your dear mother. Boy took it very hard, you see. You were too young to remember, but he was just the age . . . Now,’ he collected his thoughts again, gripping the side of his chair, as though about to spring into action, ‘what to do. Tricky. Difficult.’ He glanced at the newspaper. ‘Things over there are worsening by the day.’ He stood up and began to pace about. ‘Needs thought. Indeed it does. Tricky one, like I said, but,’ he suddenly smiled, ‘I like puzzles.’
He went to the windows and commenced to stare out of the smeared grey and green panes.
‘Now,’ he turned back to her, ‘what is the other thing that brought you here?’
‘How did you know . . . ?’
‘In my profession, it does to make as close a study of faces as any deed or document.’ He switched his attention to Gabriel. ‘All the while we’ve been talking, your young companion has been staring at that case he has with him. He has his hands gripped round it as if it has something live inside it, something that needs containing. Every now and then he looks at me, as if that something is matter he both does and does not want me to see.’ He stood behind his desk again. ‘Hand it over, young man. Let me relieve you of whatever it is that is so worrying you so.’
Gabriel opened the small portmanteau that he had been carrying and took out the wallet. Oldfield removed bundles from his desk and spread the documents that So
vay passed to him over the cleared surface. When they were set out to his satisfaction, he leaned over, his hands gripped on the opposite edges of the desk, studying each one in turn. He stood for a long while, his stern face brooding down at them. Then he looked up, his grey eyes clearing, like the sky after rain.
Sovay had determined not to say a word about how she came upon the documents. What could she say without giving her felony away? Oldfield was a lawyer above everything, a profession that took a dim view of lawbreaking, whatever the justification. She did not think he would turn her in to the nearest magistrate, but she did not relish being the object of his disapproval or his censure.
Oldfield welcomed her reticence, but could not help smiling to himself. As a lawyer, what he did not know, did not concern him. Hadn’t anyone told her that?
‘I won’t ask where you came upon these, er, documents,’ he said, his face as grave as ever. ‘But you did right to bring these to me, Sovay. Yes, you did right.’ He let go of the desk and began pacing, hands clasped behind him. ‘These papers are of importance. National importance. They must be returned to the Government office which has,’ he paused, as if to search for the correct euphemism, ‘mislaid them. I’m sure they will be glad of their safe return.’ Sovay started forward, alarmed by the very idea. He put his hand up with a smile, as if to anticipate her objection. ‘I will not pass on how I came upon them; you may satisfy yourself on that score.’
‘That is not my concern,’ Sovay said quietly. ‘I’m concerned for those mentioned here, they might lose their liberty.’
‘I know. And I am concerned, too, perhaps for different reasons, but you are my client, and as such your safety is my first concern. If these documents are no longer in your possession, then no one will come looking for them.’ He looked at Sovay sharply, then to Gabriel. ‘Has someone come looking for them?’ Sovay gave a slight shake of the head, but Gabriel nodded. Oldfield watched the exchange of looks between them. ‘If that is the case, they must be returned without delay.’
Sovay gave her consent. She had brought them to him for safe keeping merely. She had not expected them to pass out of her possession, still less to be returned to the spy master himself, but she remembered Toby’s whispered words and could see the logic behind Oldfield’s decision. He had her best interests at heart.
‘There is danger here, most certainly there is threat, but I will find a way to draw the venom,’ Oldfield went on, sifting the letters with the point of his letter opener, as if they had poison upon them. ‘To alert those concerned in a way that will not bring attention to me. Or to you. Do not mistake me, I am not of the same opinion as your father, or those named here. I am not of the same stripe, not of the same colour.’
He returned to the desk and picked up his copy of the London Chronicle.
‘I deplore the Revolution in France, despair for that poor country, and dread the prospect of such a thing ever happening here. We live in a time of very great danger, Sovay, very great fear. Each day the news from France brings details of some fresh cruelty, each as unimaginable as the one that went before it. Fear breeds repression. We have only the law to protect us, but our laws on sedition, even treason, are vague and open to interpretation. The temptation is to introduce ill-considered legislation which will do more harm than good. Statutes to persecute rather than to protect. Unfortunately, that is already happening and what we have here is proof of it.’ He pointed his letter opener at the papers. ‘All sorts and kinds of people rounded up and arrested on little more than hearsay and gossip, much of it with malice behind it, or collected from spies who are paid to make up lies, but in these uncertain times that may be enough to get men arrested, even convicted. Men like your father. Once that happens, then the innocent are swept up with the guilty, if, indeed, such guilt exists. Association, open debate and discussion are stifled and pushed outside the law. When men are deprived of such freedoms as they do enjoy, then conditions are right for rebellion and the very thing that is most feared will be brought to pass.’
Having delivered his lecture, Mr Oldfield stared down, arms folded. He sniffed, his thin nostrils flaring, and then selected one letter after another.
‘Hmm.’ He held up each in turn to his long nose. ‘What do we have here?’
He held one so close to the lamp that the light shone gold through the paper. Still not satisfied, he took the paper over to the fire. Sovay started from her seat, thinking he was going to fling it into the flames.
‘Mr Oldfield! I do not think you should . . .’ she began to say, but he was not listening. He squatted down, holding the paper up to the blaze.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘come here and look at this.’
Sovay feared for the lawyer’s hands as he held the paper taut and steady and as close as he could without it burning. The glow of the fire showed red, the thin paper rendered almost transparent by the light from behind it. Sovay leaned closer, ignoring the heat on her face. Tiny lines of writing began to appear, creeping across the warming paper as if by magic.
Gabriel joined them, brows drawn together. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Invisible ink. Onion juice by the smell of it. Revealed only when heat is applied to it. As to what message is contained?’ The lawyer brought the paper closer. ‘It’s in cipher.’ He studied the page carefully. ‘That is unexpected. The unexpected always makes me suspicious. I distrust things that are secret. I like things to be above board. I haven’t seen this cipher for many years, but I have seen it before.’ He took the paper away from the fire and the symbols disappeared. ‘I’m curious to know what needs to be concealed in this way. I will give these pages some study before I pass them on to their rightful owners. Indeed, I will.’
He walked back to his desk, distracted. His mind on the cipher, he began to sort through the papers anew. Sovay deemed that it was time to leave.
‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Oldfield. Will you tell me if you make any discoveries?’
‘Oh, you are leaving.’ He looked up, his grey eyes barely seeing her. ‘Skidmore will show you out. Skidmore!’ The clerk appeared immediately. ‘Show Miss Middleton and Mr Stanhope to the door.’
Oldfield closed his own door, his mind already on the mysterious document written in invisible ink. He had not seen this cipher since his youth. As a student, he had studied in Germany, at the University of Ingolstadt. While he was there, he had joined a secret society that had since gained considerable notoriety. His code name had been Lusus, companion to Bacchus. He sighed at the reminiscence, such a very great distance had grown between who he was now and the young man who had chosen such a sobriquet. One of the tasks that they had been set as they progressed from one level to another in the Order was to master this cipher.
He sat down and began to transcribe. He called for a candlestick and candles. He would copy the document first, then he could decipher it at his leisure. When he looked up from his task, the candles were guttering stubs and the room had grown dark. He sighed and swivelled on his chair to stare at the dying embers of the fire. The young Mr Oldfield believed in the law above all other things. At first, he had not been averse to the happenings in France but, like many others, he had looked on askance at each new turn of events. He did not believe that any faction had the right to take over a nation, to make their own laws and then break them, which was what he believed to be happening now. To take a king out and try him and then execute him; to treat his queen in the same manner; to slaughter innocents indiscriminately with no hope or recourse to proper trial. Like Saturn, the Revolution had begun to eat its own children, so one of its leaders had said. That man was now dead. This was not the rule of law, in his opinion; it was a tyranny, brought about by the rule of the mob. He feared the mob above every other thing. He remembered the Gordon Riots. He’d been a young man then, a young lawyer, just beginning in practice with his father.
To have lived through it was never to forget it. Although the demonstrations had started peacefully eno
ugh, he had felt deep perturbation at the tens of thousands streaming through the streets towards the Houses of Parliament, all wearing blue cockades, waving banners and chanting ‘No Popery’ with Lord George Gordon at the head of them, carrying his petition. It had not taken long for it to turn ugly, once entry was denied them and the petition refused.
By nightfall, the city was given over to the rule of the mob: shops and commercial premises looted; churches and chapels broken open and sacked, furnishings, vestments, dragged out and made into great bonfires. The night sky had been blotched and badged with the red glow from burning buildings, while the mob, made filthy by their own destructions, had roamed with wild, restless fury, their faces blackened with soot, or made pale as ghosts by plaster dust, all quite mad with the sense of their own importance and power.
For over a week, the city had been entirely commanded by the rioters. Oldfield and his father had stayed, watching from behind the shutters, with anything valuable and important moved to the cellars, while the Bank of England was attacked, the bridges over the Thames seized. Finally, the infantry and cavalry had been called out and together they had succeeded in restoring order, firing on the crowd wherever they found it, charging them with sword and bayonet.
It was not the people he despised, he felt sorry for the poor devils, hundreds of their number dead in the streets, others ending up swinging at Tyburn. No one a jot the better off. No, he reserved his loathing for those who led them, men like Lord George Gordon who sought to use them as a blunt instrument to cudgel their way to power.
He turned back to documents that he had lately translated. Terrible as those riots had been, they were nothing compared to what was planned here. Gordon and his petition had been like a torch thrown into a hayrick, causing it to flare up and burn with such a fierce heat that none could go near it, but the fire had died down just as quickly, once the fuel was spent. This was something entirely different and far more destructive, as in a fire carefully and artfully laid with each part of a building connected with fuses and mined with black powder. All that was needed was the initial spark.