Death of a Radical

by Rebecca Jenkins

  A rider rode toward him out of the sky. With a falling sensation below his sternum, he recognized the pretty black mare and the sage-green habit of the woman on its back.

  “We have the same idea, Mr. Jarrett,” Miss Lonsdale called out to him as she rode up. “Spring is come at last!” There were delicate sweeps of shadow under his eyes and his skin was pallid under his tan. How tired he looks, she thought compassionately. She watched him rub the back of his thumb wearily over one eyebrow as if he couldn’t think what to say.

  “Come,” she said bossily. “The exercise will do you good.” Before he could answer, she urged her black mare forward into a canter. “Catch me if you can,” she called over her shoulder like a careless girl. Walcheren stretched out his legs and gave chase.

  She had an excellent seat. Her mare was quick and strong. They gave him a good race. Over a short distance at least, it was only Walcheren’s longer legs that gave him the edge. Miss Lonsdale brought her mare to a halt on a little outcrop of hill that seemed designed as a viewing platform for the sweeping panorama of the valley below. Jarrett took his bearings. They were near the packhorse trail, above the Anderses’ farm. Blood coursed through his veins and the clear air filled his lungs, refreshing him. He eased back in the saddle, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and neck relax.

  After a moment, he began to suspect that Miss Lonsdale was waiting for something. He glanced over. Her profile was serene; she appeared to be admiring the view. She rose a little in the saddle, tilting her head to look downward. He was intrigued. The movement seemed somehow exaggerated. He followed her eye-line down.

  Their platform overlooked a pretty copse nestling in a dip. A path ran to it alongside a field—a field that lay on the outer edge of the Anderses’ farm. In punctuation to this thought, a woman came into sight down the path. She was wearing a yellow dress and a straw bonnet, a blue shawl, and most extraordinarily for Quarry Fell on a brisk spring morning, she carried a parasol in white-gloved hands.

  “Miss Anders!” he exclaimed under his breath. He glanced at his companion. She was still looking out over the view, with a little smile on her lips.

  A gentleman stepped out of the trees: a gentleman dressed like a beau of a generation before in a long-waisted coat. He swept off his low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat and bowed low to Miss Anders. They turned together, arm in arm, and Jarrett saw the gentleman full face. He recognized the curls; hair like black lambs’ wool. In a flash he saw the painted insignia of Miss Lippett’s family crest, the cornflowers twined in the harvest sheaf, and the penciled design on Miss Anders’s sewing with its vivid blue flower head. If he had been struck by lightning he could not have been more stunned.

  Henrietta Lonsdale was watching him closely with a slightly anxious look in her gray-green eyes.

  “You were so fixed on discovering the man Mr. Duffin saw on the fell that night,” she said astonishingly. “I had to speak. I knew Jonas Farr was not that man, and that the man Mr. Duffin saw was no murderer.”

  “Nor man neither,” he countered curtly.

  “No,” she agreed. Her eyes danced.

  “How can her family be ignorant of this?” he demanded.

  “It is Monday—the third Monday of the month,” she replied prosaically. “Matthew Anders and his brothers always attend the Woolbridge agricultural meeting on the third Monday of the month.” Jarrett stared down at the extraordinary couple below.

  “And her grandmother? I thought old Mrs. Anders never left the house?” Henrietta arched her elegant eyebrows.

  “Mrs. Anders? She’s as deaf as a post.” She leaned down abruptly to pat her mare’s sleek neck, hiding her face.

  “But she can’t be blind!” he exclaimed. Miss Lonsdale heard the revulsion in his voice. She coaxed her horse round to face him.

  “This is a woman’s secret, Mr. Jarrett,” she said seriously. “I believed I might trust you with it. Besides,” she added, trying for a lighter tone, “I dare say you have seen stranger things.”

  “I am not so certain,” he replied. Down on the path below the gentleman presented Miss Anders with a small parcel wrapped in tinsel paper. The farmer’s daughter opened her present with every appearance of delight. She placed a chaste kiss on her admirer’s cheek and they strolled by the trees arm in arm beneath the joyous sky. A thought struck him and he swung round in his saddle to face his companion. “You are telling me that others know of this?”

  “Other women, yes. Some old friends and neighbors.” He thought of Mrs. Hilton sitting among her hulking husband and sons.

  “And yet their menfolk are ignorant?”

  “Men are inclined to judge uncommon women harshly,” Miss Lonsdale said carefully. He heard a wistful note in her voice. “Miss Josephine’s eccentricities do no one any harm. Mary-Anne is happy to have so genteel an admirer.”

  He stared at her.

  “She knows?”

  “Of course!” she answered, amused. His attention was drawn, fascinated, back to the couple below.

  “But why?”

  “It is very pleasant to be read to and admired. The country swains would never pay Mary-Anne such pretty attentions. I do not see why Miss Lippett should be pilloried for so harmless an eccentricity. Besides,” she added with a twinkle, “the Lippetts are one of our oldest families.”

  “Eccentricity!”

  Henrietta caught the undertone of disgust. “I can trust you?” she asked urgently. He looked into her eyes. He was astounded by her faith in him.

  “Yes ma’am,” he answered. “You can.” He watched her relax. She gathered her reins more securely in her gloved hands.

  “I am to meet Lady Catherine at the Queen’s Head in an hour. I must return to town.” He flinched at the thought of the Queen’s Head. He fell in beside her, trying to remember if he knew what time Bess was supposed to leave.

  “Let me escort you—as far as town at least. Was Farr aware of …” he waved a hand wordlessly.

  “I think Jonas Farr was, beside yourself, perhaps the one member of your sex who was. Somehow he gained Miss Josephine’s trust and proved worthy of it.”

  “So that is why he would not tell me how he came by those clothes! But why would he … ?”

  “I believe—if I have read certain hints aright—Mr. Jonas Farr has an aunt who is somewhat similarly inclined.” He felt his jaw drop. He mastered it. Henrietta bit her lip.

  “Why, Mr. Jarrett,” she said gently, “I thought you a man of the world.”

  They came off the sunlit fell and trotted down the Carlisle road. His sleep-starved brain was reeling. He slid a side-look at the rider beside him. She sat, back straight, perfectly composed, rising and falling neatly on her pretty mare. His eyes drifted down the smooth fabric of her habit as it curved so closely across her breast. The vignette he had glimpsed at the Queen’s Head rose in his mind: that ludicrous spinster patting Miss Lonsdale’s bare neck with a napkin on the pretext of her having been caught in a shower of snow. He realized she was watching him with an anxious little frown.

  “Madam, you astound me,” he said.

  “I hope that’s a good thing.” She laughed and he found himself laughing with her.

  Ahead of them the honeyed light of the sun glazed the curve of the bridge and danced on the surface of the river. Woolbridge rose up the hill on the other side. He tasted Bess in his mouth and felt the weight of her hair against his skin; as his hands held the reins, they seemed to flex with the memory of what they had done. He stopped laughing.

  “You do not know me, Miss Lonsdale,” he said abruptly.

  “No?” Her head was tilted back a little; the long lashes curtained her green-gray eyes. “I suppose I must go by appearances.” Although he feared a true answer, he responded in the drawing room manner.

  “And what do you see?” He braced himself for some flippant, foolish bon mot. Instead she answered sincerely.

  “I see a man who cares for others; an honorable man; a man who can be trusted.” He was war
med by a sudden surge of hope. Henrietta Lonsdale spurred her horse over the bridge. “And I,” she said, humor lifting her voice, “am an excellent judge of character.”

  They turned up Cripplegate Hill. Dickon Watson ran out from Powcher’s Lane.

  “Mr. Jarrett! You should come see this!”

  “Perhaps you’d best go on to the Queen’s Head, Miss Lonsdale.”

  “Nonsense!” she responded briskly, following him.

  “It’s Bedford’s coachman. He’s only gone and hung himself!”

  Mr. Bedford, Colonel Ison and Constable Thaddaeus were clustered at the bottom of the stairs to the stable loft staring up at a pair of suspended feet.

  “There’s a beam that runs above the stairs over the well,” Constable Thaddaeus pointed upward with his staff of office. “He must have meant to do it. He could have kicked out and taken purchase on a stair if he’d had a mind.” He craned his neck. “Used a pair of your carriage reins, looks like, Mr. Bedford.”

  “What’s the meaning of these, do you suppose?” Mr. Bedford held a pair of bloodstained gloves. “They were lying on the stairs as if he wanted them found.”

  Jarrett cast a glance at Miss Lonsdale. Her face was pale. She met his eyes and raised her chin defiantly, but she dropped back and left the stable. She stayed in view. He could feel her watching him from the yard.

  His hand went to his breast pocket. He unfolded the white handkerchief.

  “When I found Mr. Adley dying he could not speak of his attacker,” he said. “He had only the strength left to give me this.” His listeners shuffled nearer to see the button. “He held it in his fist—it was torn from his murderer.”

  “A glove button,” said Mr. Bedford.

  “If you’ll permit …” Jarrett took the right-hand glove from him. He held out the button with its thread and flake of leather and the glove with the tear at the wrist.

  “The buttons match,” said Mr. Bedford. Colonel Ison looked up at the hanged man.

  “He must have given way to his conscience. Well. Take him down.” Dickon Watson climbed the stairs and took hold of the legs while Constable Thaddaeus went above.

  “But why the blood?” queried Bedford, turning over the gloves.

  “There was a man, Nat Broom,” said Jarrett, “who was brutally attacked on Saturday night.” The colonel’s eyebrows climbed further up his forehead.

  “You don’t mean?” Judkin’s feet swung and rapped against wood. There was a grunt and a thud as Dickon heaved the body onto the boards above.

  “Silencing an accomplice, you think?” Constable Thaddaeus’s voice called down from above.

  “See this!” Dickon’s face appeared in the stairwell. He handed down a circular tin containing a mess of black hair. “Found it in his coat.”

  “What’s this?” asked the magistrate.

  “False beard, I should say,” replied Mr. Bedford dispassionately, as if nothing in the world could surprise him.

  “Nat Broom was seen with a bearded man up at the Bucket and Broom visiting the wool-buyers—just before that Pritchard died,” Dickon chipped in. The colonel made a strangled noise.

  “Good Lord!” He did not seem to want to meet Jarrett’s eyes.

  “He was always a secret and solitary sort of man,” commented Constable Thaddaeus comfortably above them. Through the boards Jarrett could see the soles of his boots. He appeared to be looking down at the body. “They are the ones, aren’t they? For this sort of thing.”

  Mr. Bedford was still examining the gloves.

  “There’s another button missing.”

  “Young Saul, me brother, found that some weeks ago, sir; here in this very loft,” Dickon said.

  “What was he doing here?” demanded the manufacturer.

  “Saul? He was helping the carpenter you had repair the loft, Mr. Bedford—after him that was coachman before died in that fire.”

  “And the buttons match?” The colonel glanced upward. He swallowed and turned away. Mr. Bedford’s face was unreadable.

  “Strange,” he said, drawing out a paper. “I have his resignation.” Colonel Ison half snatched it from him.

  “Says he found himself unhappy in his place. Well, that explains it. Unhappy,” repeated the colonel. He pocketed the paper. He put his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet. “An end to a melancholy affair. Eh?” He flicked a side-glance at Jarrett under lowered lids.

  “If you say so,” responded Mr. Bedford with a shadow of a shrug.

  “The end of it,” repeated the magistrate with a firm nod.

  “Well, the man’s dead,” the manufacturer said. “I suppose I must look for another coachman.” He left the loft.

  *

  “But wasn’t Bedford’s coachman arrested at the fairs?” demanded Lady Catherine blowing gustily on her tea.

  “I think so,” Henrietta answered vaguely. She stood with her cup by the window. “He must have got out somehow.”

  “Unsatisfactory!” complained the old woman. Her little dog barked. “Yes,” she nodded down at it. “Unsatisfactory.”

  “As Sir Thomas has remarked,” said Henrietta, “Mr. Bedford is unlucky in his choice of servants.” Her eyes were fixed on Mr. Jarrett. He had stopped in the street below beside a coach she did not recognize. She leaned toward the glass. That was a woman’s hand. She saw copper curls.

  “What is it?” piped Lady Catherine, tapping the floor with her cane to draw her attention. “What do you see?”

  “I thought you’d gone,” he said.

  “You’ve said that before.” Bess was as brittle as spun glass. “I’ve had another offer.”

  “What about the boy?”

  Her smile was bitter. “It’s many a year since I dreamt of you every night, captain. I take my rest where I will.” She waited as if she expected him to say something. He did not. All he wished was to be somewhere else. He fancied he could see the shell forming around her. He looked into the pale blue eyes and felt nothing. He was disgusted with himself.

  “You liked me well enough in the shadows, but now you want to be in the light, is that it?” she said. His hand opened toward her a moment, then retracted. He turned his face away. “Well, then,” her voice was harsh. “I’ve accepted an offer from Mr. Wilkinson’s management in Richmond,” she said brightly in her old manner. “Very advantageous terms. I’m to have the pick of First Tragedy and genteel comedy too.”

  “Richmond,” he repeated.

  “Aye. Mrs. Siddons had her start there! You must come see me, lover. If you don’t, I’ll be visiting you. There’s always the summer tour and I’ll make sure this old barn is on the circuit. I’ve grown quite fond.” She waved gaily and was gone.

  A few days later, the Marquess of Earewith returned. Charles was glad to hear of the death of Grub’s murderer. Jarrett never told him the details of it, but sometimes he thought he suspected the truth.

  “There is one thing that puzzles me,” Charles said. “Who had this Pritchard killed?” They were driving out of town toward home. “Surely not Bedford? You’re not telling me I’ve dined with a man who has people murdered for profit?” Jarrett noted the delicate distinction and was grateful for it.

  “He might have done, but from what I hear, he lacked the money. He must have borrowed heavily for the new machinery. My guess is he has a partner.” They were nearing the bridge. The carriage halted.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Charles. Jarrett craned his head out of the window.

  “Construction. There are wagons bringing in materials. It looks as if they are getting ready to tear down the old black and white house on that plot over the road from Bedford’s mill.” The plot was large—larger than might be expected once the old house was cleared. It was a fine situation on rising ground, overlooking Bedford’s mill and the lower town and the river curving round it. The wagons ahead were moving again. They turned into the site one by one. Jarrett spotted a familiar figure.

  “Dickon Watson,” he called out. “W
hat do you do here?” The light in the carriage dimmed as Dickon filled the frame of the window.

  “Day laborer, now,” he replied. “The machines are in at Bedford’s and Cullen’s selling up. I’m a weaver no more.”

  “I am sorry.”

  Dickon shrugged. “Shouldn’t complain. Justice Raistrick pays good wages.”

  “Mr. Raistrick? This is to be his house?”

  “Aye.” Dickon surveyed the site with a certain proprietorial pride. “Job’ll last a while too. I’ve seen the plans. They’re grand enough. Hey!” His face brightened with a thought. “Have you heard about Nat Broom?”

  “Only that a relative has taken over his care.”

  “Relative! Nat’s not got relatives! His master, more like!”

  “His master?”

  “Aye,” Dickon responded, slyly deadpan. “The magistrate has a reputation for looking after his men.” He tossed his head meaningfully.

  “What does he mean?” complained Charles, bewildered. “Ison?”

  “No,” answered Jarrett, his eyes locked on Dickon’s. “Raistrick. Have you seen the Justice? Is he in town?”

  “Hang about, I’ll ask. Lads!” Dickon called over the inquiry.

  “Heard he’s gone to Richmond,” came the reply.

  “Word is, he’s got a new woman there,” said Dickon. “Well, I must get back. Pleasure to see you, Mr. Jarrett.” Jarrett nodded. His jaw was tight. He knocked briskly on the roof of the carriage.

  “Drive on!”

  “Mr. Raistrick!” Charles was astonished. “He’s Bedford’s partner? And he had a man killed!” Jarrett was looking back at the plot. Laborers had grappling hooks into the plaster wall of the stately old house, ready to pull it down. So Justice Raistrick was moving up the hill.

  “Monstrous! This is monstrous!” Charles was indignant. “The man cannot be allowed to get away with it!”

  “Do I hear passion, Charles? You’ll find it unsettling.”

  “I may be a gentleman, but I am also an Englishman.” As far as the elegance of his person would allow, the Marquess of Earewith squared himself belligerently. “So what’s to be done?”

  “For the present? Nothing. But there shall be other engagements with Mr. Justice Raistrick; you can be sure of that.”