by Edward Cline
That evening he included it in a pile of other documents requiring the secretary’s signature, and it was signed by that eminence after only a cursory glance. “And what’s this?” the secretary asked hurriedly. “More spouting club slander? By God! You teach some men to read and the next thing you know they’re rewriting the Bible! Oh, yes, this was what you queried me about earlier, is it? I see, I see…Well, here, Goostrey, see this through, would you? And be sure these dolts are paid well for their crassitude! You know, pilloried, or hanged, or whatever the court sees fit as punishment. There’s so much scribaceous cacodoxy about these days, you never know where it could all lead! We really oughtn’t to encourage it…And this? Another arrest for rioting against the Militia Act? Let me see here…persons not yet conscripted? Damn it all! These ungrateful brutes ought to be tried under the Mutiny Act, ought to be whipped and strung up by their thumbs, like any deserter!… How much more have you? What time is it? Newcastle’s expecting me for supper…”
The next morning the junior attorney-general filed the informations with the King’s Bench, and deputized two king’s messengers to carry out the warrant on the evening of August 3. These worthies in turn arranged to have several parish constables accompany them to the place of arrest—“the Fruit Wench public house on the Strand, at the junction of Villiers Street”—for the informations indicated eight conspirators. The messengers, the constables, and the under-sheriff who would lead them were all bewildered by the absence of names on the general warrants. Their instructions were to arrest anyone admitting to membership in the oddly named club, which would meet at eight o’clock the next evening. The messengers were told that the members went by secret names, and that one of the conspirators was a nephew of a peer.
“If that much is known about him, why does his name not appear on the warrant?” asked the under-sheriff.
“There must be a delicate political reason behind this action,” replied one of the messengers, “and one of importance. It is not our privilege to pry.”
“Begging your pardon, good sir,” said the under-sheriff, “but it’s a damned queer warrant you carry. Still, we’ll do our duty.” He turned to one of the constables. “We’ll need a cart to carry them away. And cuffs. And a driver. Go and fix all that up, would you?”
On the evening of August 3, the Fruit Wench was as crowded and noisy as ever. The patrons’ talk centered on the food riots in outlying counties, on the trouble brewing over the Militia Act, and on the Pitt-Newcastle-Grenville dispute over policy. There was even speculation on what steps England would take to aid Prussia, if Frederick struck against Austria and the Imperial Coalition. Mabel Petty welcomed Tobius and Claude, who arrived simultaneously, took their order for supper and port, and escorted them to the room in the rear. Elspeth, Steven, and Abraham arrived shortly afterward. They exchanged remarks about the food riots, the Militia Act riots, and the political turmoil. But they were oblivious to any news about the posters that bore their club’s name.
The men awaited the arrival of Mathius, who would convene the meeting. Muir also was tardy. Steven brought a fresh new ledger in which to record the discussion, while Claude studied the notes for his address to the Society. Miltiades, they all knew, would be absent from this and the next meeting. Claude began to wonder out loud who he actually was, but Tobius reminded him of the rule never to speculate about the true identities of the members.
At eight o’clock they heard the clump of several pairs of boots approach the partitioned room. An under-sheriff, six constables, and two liveried men appeared and blocked the opening to the room. The noises of the tavern in front had diminished. The under-sheriff glanced at the men at the table. “Am I addressing members of an organization that styles itself the Society of the Pippin?”
The members looked at one another. Tobius rose and answered, “You are, sir. We are all members of that society. What is your business here?”
The under-sheriff nodded to one of the liveried men, who stepped forward, opened an envelope that bore the royal crest, and took out a large sheet of paper, from which he read:
“By order of the Secretary of State, Robert D’Arcy, Earl Holderness, and of the Attorney-General, Sir Charles Yorke, on the second day of August, 1756, in the twenty-ninth year of the glorious reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, George Rex the Second, you, gentlemen, confessed and acknowledged members of a private association styled the Society of the Pippin, are commanded to submit to arrest and detention without bail, for the purpose of answering questions put to you by the Secretary of State or his proxies, the Attorney-General or his proxies, and the Solicitor-General or his proxies, and to give truthful and verifiable answers to their queries under penalty of perjury.”
The messenger paused. “What are your names, sirs?”
One by one, the members rose as the warrant was being read. The constables produced pistols and twisted their barrels to make them ready.
“On what charge, sir,” demanded Tobius, “are we to be denied our liberty?”
“I cannot say, sir,” replied the messenger, “for we do not know. It must be a serious charge to merit such an extraordinary warrant.”
“I demand to know the charge!” said Claude.
The messenger shrugged. “The charge will be determined upon completion of your examination.”
The under-sheriff held up his baton of office. “Will you gentlemen submit to cuffs, or must you be taken into custody by force and injury?”
The suddenness of the event paralyzed the members. Tobius noticed that Claude was fingering the pommel of his sword. He shook his head and said, “I recommend, gentlemen, that we go with these men, and resist this outrage through legal channels.”
“That is a wise recommendation, sir,” remarked the under-sheriff. “Unbuckle your swords, please, and present your wrists for cuffs.”
As the members obeyed, Abraham asked, “Where are we to be taken?”
“To the Fleet Prison, and kept there until the Secretaries are ready to examine you.”
As five sets of cuffs were snapped over five pairs of wrists, the messenger asked again, “What are your names, please?”
Tobius replied, “We will give our names to the Secretary, sir, when we are informed of the nature of our crime.”
“As you wish, sir,” replied the messenger. “I feel obliged to remind you, however, that this warrant does not represent a criminal charge. It is an attainder.”
Claude laughed bitterly. “How could it represent a charge, sir, when it does not name a crime?”
The messenger looked offended. “I do not make the law, sir, but merely carry it out. You are suspected of complicity concerning whatever charges will be determined.” He looked around. “Our information is that there are eight members of this society. Where are the remaining three?”
Steven glanced around at his friends. “We don’t know,” he said with emphatic finality.
The under-sheriff shrugged. “I should advise you gentlemen that if information is not volunteered to the Secretaries in civil conversation, it may be volunteered on the application of pressing stones, pelliwinks, or other machines of confession.”
“We will volunteer our names when we learn the charges,” said Elspeth.
The members were led out of the Fruit Wench, each constable grasping a prisoner by the shoulder. The under-sheriff led the way, carrying the new ledger, an armful of sheathed swords, and the walking stick. The tavern became as quiet as an empty church as its patrons paused to watch the somber procession pass outside to the waiting dray. Mabel Petty stood behind the bar, her eyes wide and her hands holding the sides of her face. Her daughter Agnes stood among the patrons with a hand over her mouth.
Chapter 31: The Criminal
ACROSS THE STRAND, IN AN ENCLOSED PHAETON ON THE OTHER SIDE OF A crowd of spectators, Brice Blissom watched with satisfaction as the members emerged from the Fruit Wench and were helped aboard the wagon by the constables. Dusk was sliding into darkness. The wagon was a
heavy dray used to transport casks of ale and beer, hired by the under-sheriff. The young marquis frowned when only five cuffed men were taken out. The dray was turned around and escorted back down the Strand by the mounted under-sheriff, constables, and king’s messengers.
Hugh Kenrick was not among the prisoners, and neither was the Negro man whose club name, Brice Blissom knew, was Muir. The Marquis wondered if they had already been apprehended. “What the deuce?” he asked himself. He leaned forward and shouted up to his coachman to drive to Windridge Court. This man did not hear him, for the crowd was noisy and he remained gawking at it and the retreating dray. Brice Blissom leaned out his window and yelled angrily up to the man. “To Windridge Court, damn you, and be quick about it!” The coachman heard him this time, and snapped his whip over the heads of the two horses. The carriage moved forward with a jerk and rolled over the cobblestones in the direction of Windridge Court.
Glorious Swain, standing in the crowd of onlookers, watched with trepidation as his friends were taken away, and with relief that he had been late arriving at the meeting. But he was close enough to the phaeton to hear its passenger repeat his order to the coachman. He seemed to recognize the haughty voice, and glanced in time to see the Marquis of Bilbury’s face in the window of the carriage as it passed by. He watched the phaeton rumble away, and wondered what business that man could have at Windridge Court. With a last look at the dray and its escort, he turned and followed the phaeton as it rumbled slowly up the Strand to Charing Cross.
When it pulled up at the open gates of Windridge Court, Brice Blissom stepped down from the phaeton and ordered the coachman to wait. He patted one of his coat pockets for the pistol he had there, and strode purposefully over the flagstone court to the torches that lit the front of the house. He knew what he would do: Make a citizen’s arrest! It was his right, and his duty! And if Hugh Kenrick resisted—if he answered with his biting words and withering contempt—he would shoot him, as would be his right!
When this thought came to the young marquis, he stopped and realized that he could have told the under-sheriff that one more conspirator could be had, here, in this house. This thought was followed by a doubt, for the house was the home of a peer, and no common bailiff or other officer could enter it on arrest business. “Damn!” he exclaimed. Still, he himself was the son of a peer, and there could be no legal objection to him detaining the nephew of one.
Brice Blissom’s mind swelled with confusion and frustration. He so hated Hugh Kenrick, and was so furious that the young baron was not among those led out of the tavern, that he could not think clearly, he could no longer sustain the cool calculation with which he had plotted this entire affair. He wanted Hugh Kenrick on that dray, constrained by cuffs, immobilized, cowed, ordered about by commoners!
He ran up the front steps and banged the doorknocker insistently until a servant opened the carved oaken slab. The servant was in his nightgown, and looked perturbed in the light of the lantern he held. “Yes, sir?”
“I wish to speak with Baron Hugh Kenrick,” commanded the Marquis.
“Who is calling?” asked the servant.
“A friend.” Brice Blissom paused, then added, “The Marquis of Bilbury. He is expecting me. See to it.”
“Oh.” The servant looked apologetic, and bowed once. “Excuse me, milord, but I regret to inform you that milord Danvers is not at home.”
“Where is he?” asked Brice Blissom, struggling to keep the anger and impatience out of his words.
“He has gone home, milord, to Danvers, of course. He left several days ago, and will not return until late next month.”
“Damn you, you cretin! Why didn’t you tell me that in the beginning!” The young marquis raised a gloved hand and slapped the servant hard across the face. “I ought to have you flogged for your impertinence!”
The servant’s eyes narrowed. “My lord Kenrick is not at home, milord, and good night to you.” He closed the door and turned the latch.
“You’ll be taught manners by me, you ape!” Brice Blissom struck the door with a fist once, then kicked it once. With a last pounding on the door, he turned and went back down the steps, his mind a furiously boiling cauldron of malice for anything that stood in his way. It was intolerable! After all his planning, all the money spent! His thoughts flailed about for a solution. Would the prisoners give their names to the Secretary? Could they name Hugh Kenrick? No, they would not. Could not, if that foolish hack Horlick was right about the stupid rules of the club. He said that none of them knew the others’ names.
Well, he could fix that! He would go to his cousin and name Hugh Kenrick! But would Kenrick deny membership in the Society? Yes, he could, thought Brice Blissom, but he could be identified by the prisoners, and so much for that lie! But—would he lie? No, thought the Marquis, he would not! His fool sense of honor would drive him to protect his friends! Yes! That was the solution! Name Hugh Kenrick to the Crown, and watch him squirm!
“You will bend, Hugh Kenrick!” shouted the Marquis to the empty sky and the walls of the courtyard. “Your own honor will break your neck, and I’ll be there to watch you grovel and swing from a rope!”
Halfway across the courtyard, he stopped. A man stood in his path, his silhouette blocking out the lantern lights of the phaeton beyond the gates. Before he could say anything, the man struck a match and held it up. “Who are you?” asked the stranger. “Oh, it is you again!”
Brice Blissom squinted in the flaring matchlight. He recognized the Negro called Muir. “You!” he growled.
“What do you want with my friend, Hugh Kenrick?” asked Glorious Swain.
“I am the Marquis of Bilbury,” spat Brice Blissom, “and your friend will hang with the rest of his friends for treason! As will you!”
“He will not hang, neither will the others, nor will I,” said Swain calmly. “Are you responsible for their arrests?”
“I am,” proclaimed the young marquis. He reached into his coat and drew out his pistol. He twisted the barrel and pointed it at Swain’s chest. “I came here to make a citizen’s arrest! You are arrested!”
Swain’s match died and he dropped it. “Is this a new form of ambushing men in dark alleys, sir? The dark alleys of law? Of hanging them by their heels?”
“Yes!” laughed the Marquis, “and the law permits it! I will kill you now, and claim that you resisted! I will be exonerated!” Then he sniffed. “Unfortunately, it will be called manslaughter, for you are not a man, blackamoor!”
Glorious Swain did not reply. In an instant he knocked the pistol aside and punched the Marquis in the face. Brice Blissom fell backward, lost his balance, and crashed to the flagstones. The pistol flew from his hand as he tried to break his fall.
Swain jumped to pick up the pistol. He cocked it and waited for the Marquis to make the next move, holding the weapon level before him.
The Marquis thrust his hand out in the dark for the pistol, and not finding it, jumped to his feet and drew his sword. With an animal yell of rage, he raised the blade to strike.
Glorious Swain pressed the trigger. The pistol flashed, bucking in his hand, and the young marquis gasped, his other gloved hand jerking up to cover his heart. With another horrible gasp for air, followed by a guttural, unintelligible curse, Brice Blissom lunged at Swain, his sword arm sweeping down at Swain’s head. Swain stepped aside, and the young marquis collapsed on the flagstones. The silver buckles on his shoes scraped the stone briefly in what Swain knew was his death throes.
A dog barked from somewhere. Swain saw the coachman alight from his perch and cautiously peer into the courtyard. Swain glanced at the dark, still figure at his feet, thinking fast. He dropped the pistol, stooped over the body, and turned it over on its back, then unbuckled the sword belt. The front door of the Earl’s house opened, and a servant with a lantern appeared. “What’s going on out there?” A lantern light flicked on in the adjacent stable and began to move in Swain’s direction.
Swain jerked the swor
d from the Marquis’ hand and sheathed it in its scabbard. It would look like a mere robbery. He quickly searched the dead man’s body and found a purse. It was heavy with crowns and guineas. Swain allowed himself a smile; the money could be used to meet his friends’ legal expenses. That would be justice! he thought. He rose and ran past the approaching coachman, out the gate, and around the corner in the direction of Charing Cross.
The London Evening Auditor, and other newspapers, the next day reported the murder of Brice Blissom, son of Guthlac Blissom, Marquis of Bilbury, in the courtyard of the residence of the Earl of Danvers. “A sword and possibly a purse of coin were taken in the robbery,” said the Auditor, “and, as with so many other victims of crime in the metropolis, the young marquis erred by resisting his assailant. His presence at Windridge Court remains inexplicable, as he had never called there before, and was not known to be a companion of the young Baron of Danvers, after whom he had enquired. Mr. Horace Dolman, the Earl’s steward, advanced the opinion that the young marquis was in an agitated state, and had been rude to him. Mr. John Tucker, the late marquis’ coachman, was unable to offer an explanation for his employer’s presence or behavior, except to say the Lord Blissom had wished to go for a drive in the evening for air. The assailant passed Mr. Tucker in the courtyard, but darkness prevented him from seeing much of the culprit.”
The Auditor and other papers also reported the arrest of five men, on the same evening, “members of a club known as the Society of the Pippin, in connection with the recent appearance in public places of abusive and contumelious posters that proclaimed atheism and impugned the character of His Majesty and his grandson, the Prince of Wales. Their names were not given.”
William Horlick, when he read in the papers of both his patron’s murder and the arrest of his former colleagues, that very evening got roaring drunk, beat up his nagging wife, and went on a tour of taverns in his neighborhood. The next morning, when he was sober, he beat his wife again, and left his garret to call on the home of the Marquis of Bilbury. When he was admitted past the black crepe-bedecked door, he waited in an antechamber with other callers, in order to offer his condolences and suggest that he compose a eulogy for the Marquis’ late son, to be published in some newspaper. The elder Marquis, touched by the offer, agreed to the idea, provided he could edit it. William Horlick smiled and conceded the privilege.