Hugh Kenrick (40 page)

The junior attorney-general sent for the junior solicitor-general, showed him the documents, and conferred with him on the urgency of the matter. He also mentioned the Marquis’s late favor. The attorney-general and solicitor-general, who had delegated certain responsibilities to their subordinates, were away at their country homes for the summer, and would not, presumed the juniors, want to be consulted on so pedestrian a matter.

The junior solicitor-general, who represented any legal matters concerning the state, agreed that the documents were proof of a heinous attempt to disparage the king and the government; he also agreed that the authors of the documents were guilty of the chargeable crime of blasphemy. The juniors agreed that action was called for, action that would also be a credit to their careers. The young marquis promised the junior attorney-general his father’s political support in the future, if it was needed, and proposed to write a note of waiver absolving the junior solicitor-general of his gambling debt—provided the culprits were in fetters the very night of their
criminal meeting. Brice Blissom also offered to indemnify the solicitor-general, the attorney-general, and their subordinates from any suits resulting from a failure of the courts to find the parties guilty of any charge.

On that note, Brice Blissom took his leave. He had refrained from naming Hugh Kenrick, for he wished to surprise that party with an unexpected arrest; also, he was afraid that the Kenrick family might have connections in the government and be warned of the impending scandal. The junior attorney-general and his colleague wondered privately why their patron was so eager to see the Society broken and punished. But they had no need to wonder about the carrots he had dangled before them, or about the stick, which was their scandalous behavior at Vauxhall Gardens the night before. They concluded that they had been set up, that the young Marquis was a devil, and that they must pay him his due.

The junior attorney-general and his colleague made an urgent appointment with the secretary of state, northern department, to present the case and persuade him to sign a general warrant for the arrest of the members of the Society of the Pippin. This eminent person, however, was a member of the Board of Trade and Plantations, an overseer of the East India Company, and an advisor to the Duke of Cumberland, and at the moment was too embroiled in a multitude of other duties to chat with the subministers. After being advised that the matter did not personally involve the king or the present ministry, he delegated responsibility for its handling and resolution to Sir Miles Goostrey, an under-secretary of state.

The under-secretary of state listened to the arguments, read the poster, and became fixated on some of the leaves of the ledger. He was properly appalled by what he read, and ordered drawn up a general warrant for the arrest of the “authors, printers, and publishers” of the material.

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.

A
CROSS THE
S
TRAND, 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?”