Death of a Radical (38 page)

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. “What 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.”

Mrs. Adley never liked Jarrett's portrait of her son. There was something about the eyes, she said. Mr. Adley donated the picture to his son's college where it was hung over the fire in a junior fellow's study. The new French tint, Dumont's Blue, recommended by Field, the colourman, proved fugitive. The colourman cut it from his lists that same year. As the months passed, the summer sky Jarrett painted to shine down on Grub turned black in the acid smoke of the coke fires. The lights dimmed until only a pale face and hands glimmered out of the dark. But Favian Adley was not forgotten. Jarrett remembered him each time he opened his paint box, and Book Boy was the toast of the Red Angel song club every Wednesday night for many a year. And, throughout a long life, Lally Bedford never forgot the gentle, eager youth who once held her close to his heart.

Writers aren't supposed to work in real time, but, due to the vicissitudes of life, this book has taken almost the length of Jarrett's foreign campaigns to complete. It owes its existence to the patience and indulgence of many. I am deeply grateful for the financial support of a New Writing North Writers' Award provided by the Leighton Group, the Society of Authors and the Royal Literary Fund. Thank you too, to Quercus and my admirable editor, Charlotte Clerk; and, of course, Caroline Montgomery—it could not have been done without you.