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  DEATH OF A RADICAL

  An early fan of Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances, Rebecca Jenkins began collecting diaries and journals from Georgian England as a child. Her passion for the period led her to study history at Somerville College, Oxford, from where she went on to become an accomplished journalist and broadcaster. Death of a Radical is her second novel. She lives in County Durham.

  Also by Rebecca Jenkins

  F.R. JARRETT MYSTERIES

  The Duke’s Agent

  NON-FICTION

  Fanny Kemble—the Reluctant Celebrity

  The First London Olympics—1908

  DEATH OF A RADICAL

  Rebecca Jenkins

  New York • London

  © 2010 by Rebecca Jenkins

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to Permissions c/o Quercus Publishing Inc., 31 West 57th Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10019, or to [email protected].

  ISBN 978-1-62365-323-1

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by Random House Publisher Services

  c/o Random House, 1745 Broadway

  New York, NY 10019

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  For Bob and Gail Jordan—to Bob for sharing his

  profound knowledge of the history of objects,

  and Gail, the best of readers.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Ancient walls rose up against an indigo sky. Ice frosted the pavement. In the deserted courtyard the merest sliver of a glow seeped out from between shuttered windows. At this time of the evening, in the depths of February, the college’s inhabitants were huddled up within its thick walls. A slight figure lurched out of the shadows. One arm encumbered with a bundle, he carried a lantern shielded against his body.

  Favian Vere Adley paused a moment, propping an elbow against the cold stone.

  Favian was proud of his name. The father who burdened his offspring with such weight was a gentleman of means whose hobby was classical erudition. “Favian signifying a man of understanding,” he would rehearse to his only child. “And Vere—faithful and true. Worthy qualities in any man. Mind you live by them.”

  Favian aspired to live up to his name. He was a sickly child; his world was narrow and confined, but amid the sweet smell of oiled leather in his father’s library he discovered the enchantment of words. He marveled at the truths they encompassed in neatly bound lines of print. Young Favian believed in the power of the word to reform the world and make men’s souls sing.

  So naturally he desired to give the world a poet.

  As a boy he set out to instruct himself. He read The Times from the age of eight and later the Manchester Guardian when he could get it. He read Shakespeare and Hume, Wordsworth, Shelley and Godwin. He was eager to learn meaningful things. But to be honest (and Favian desired to be rigorously honest), he lacked direct experience of the world. Favian Adley had never felt the vital pulse of Life until one April day walking down Piccadilly. He was just a boy of sixteen, still in the care of his tutor. They rounded a corner to find themselves confronted by soldiers, big as life, riding down the pavement. The troopers were herding a crowd with drawn swords. It was not a mob of drunken rabble, as some reported. The boy saw ordinary folk, dressed cleanly—tradesmen and even women; citizens being ridden down by the soldiers of their own king.

  They had lined the streets to protest the removal of the people’s champion, Sir Francis Burdett, to the tower. Sir Francis was Favian’s hero. He had followed the story avidly but newsprint had not prepared him for this: the shrill cries, the ominous percussion of hoof beats, the violence and fear sharpening the very air. A man pushed past him holding his bloodied head and moaning out loud. Favian was stunned and elated and terrified all at once. He could feel his own blood humming under his skin.

  His tutor gripped his arm and they were home before he knew it. Taking off his coat in the familiar confines of his own room, Favian found a smear of blood on his sleeve. He knew then, at the age of sixteen, that there were things—real things—to be said. And Favian Vere Adley swore to himself that he would say them.

  For months he tumbled fervent words on to the page only to throw them into the fire. Then the day came when his father entered him as a gentleman commoner at Oxford University. Now, at last, he was ready to publish.

  Throwing back the wings of his scholastic gown, Favian lowered one knee unsteadily to the frozen pavement. His icy fingers fumbling a little, he unfolded a toy balloon.

  “Fierce roars the …”

  The words came out in an undignified croak. His thin back rounded over with a spasm of coughing. The cold was injurious to his chest but he was determined. He had copied his “Ode on Tyranny” out in his best hand on hot-pressed paper and signed it with a flourish “Fidel,” advocate of the people. He and Studdley had planned the little ritual together. But Studdley had succumbed to brandy punch and was snoring half off the sofa in the rooms they shared.

  At the third attempt Favian succeeded in attaching the paper to the balloon.

  “Fierce roars the tyrant’s ire, freedom’s spirit to consume …”

  That time the words came out with a pleasing cadence. What better publication for one’s poetry than to send it up into the night trailing fire?

  Favian was proud of his poem. At times, the scansion ran a little uneasily (Studdley assured him that the feeling carried it through) but it had true dramatic scope. His Muse of Freedom visited Sir Francis in the Tower and the journalist Peter Finnerty in the cell where he languished for telling the horrid truth about the Walcheren campaign. Favian was particularly fond of the stanza that began,

  Wasted blood shed in Walcheren fields

  With tyranny’s destiny congeals

  And an indignant people raised at last

  Redeem their birth right …

  His ink-smudged fingers held the wick to the lantern flame. It smoldered, then glowed. The paper sack bellied out delightfully. With a faltering lurch it rose into the dark, trailing its paper tail. Looking up, the notion of his poetical essay on the Existing State of Things floati
ng past the Warden’s very windows struck Favian as wonderfully ridiculous. His snort of laughter exploded in the disapproving silence of the frozen courtyard.

  It was at that moment that he observed the open casement. For the first time he heard the muffled chime of silver on china and then, more clearly, a disembodied laugh. The balloon seemed to hesitate. With languid malice it curved into the Warden’s window and disappeared. There was a soft implosion, a flare, and a woman squawked. With a considerable turn of speed, Favian Adley snatched up the folds of his gown and scuttled away into the shadows.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Snow had come early to the moors that year. It came on an aching east wind that welded the moderate falls into a thing of torment. As February prepared to give way to March, the winds dropped, leaving curdles of snow in the hollows. Amid the brittle ochre straw new life grew pale green, pliant and vital. Jonas Farr was in good spirits. Thanks to a couple of days’ work in the last town, he had a full stomach and his mind was at ease with itself. He was a young man—not yet twenty years old—with a strong, compact body and an open face. He strode over the rough ground, swinging out his staff.

  Jonas caught movement against the dull colors of the damp moor. Some way off two boys appeared to be crouching on the edge of an overhang. One stretched up an arm, etching a vicious shape against the white sky. The arm snapped down. The boy’s companion scrabbled to gather up more missiles.

  The assailants were too preoccupied with their game to notice Farr’s approach. “What’s this then?” he demanded, laying a hand on the collar of the nearest wretch. He looked down into a pinched, feral face and glanced over to see what the boys had caught.

  Down below, a slight gentleman was cornered on a path running some ten feet beneath the overhang. Eyes peered up between the brim of a low-crowned hat and a mud-spattered scarf held close by a gloved hand.

  With an explosion of energy that caught him unawares, the second boy was up and off. His companion twisted out of Jonas’s grasp, delivering a painful kick as he rolled away to race after his accomplice. Cursing, Jonas loped a few paces, then stopped. It would be foolish to leave his pack and staff, and encumbered as he was, there was little chance of catching them.

  “You are not hurt, sir?” he called out to the man below.

  But the man had not stayed. His receding figure was hurrying across the moor toward the horizon.

  Perhaps the poor daisy had been too ashamed to tarry. Held at bay by a couple of young ones hurling muck! Jonas surveyed the landscape about him. He was a stranger to these moors and the gentleman might have reassured him that he was traveling on the right road. His best option seemed to be the narrow causeway below.

  Climbing down to the road he heard the tinkle of a harness bell. A chapman came into sight, trudging toward the overhang with a string of pack-horses, his lumpy outline mimicking his lead pony’s swaying gait.

  “Good-day!” Jonas called out.

  The chapman cocked his head in acknowledgment of the greeting without slacking the rhythm of his pace. A man with property had reason to be cautious of strangers met on the moor. Jonas stepped back to give him room.

  “Say, goodman, is there a place hereabout a journeyman might shelter the night?”

  For a moment he thought the man would pass without answering him, but as he drew abreast their eyes met. With a jingling of harness and bells, and some shoving between beasts and man, the pack-train came to a halt. The chapman planted his weight comfortably.

  “Not from round here, then?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Jonas fondled the nose of the nearest pony, inspecting the line. There were half a dozen little Galloways, shaggy-haired and stoic, each loaded with sacks. The pony pushed its rough head against his chest amicably as he scratched its forehead under the straggling mane.

  “Yon pack’s shifted,” he commented. “This jagger’s back’ll be good for nowt.”

  The pedlar came round to look.

  “I’ve had naught but trouble with this poxy crook!”

  Shaking his head the chapman lifted the heavy sack to reveal a pad stuffed with heather fastened to cross-pieces of wood. A binding on one of the cross-pieces had frayed, allowing the pad to slip.

  “Make do for another trip yet, Enoch, she says. I’ll make do her!” the chapman pronounced. “Told her it was buggered, didn’t I? Women!” He jerked his head in Jonas’s direction. The young man stepped forward to take the weight of the sack. Muttering to himself, the chapman pulled a couple of strips of leather from inside his sleeve and proceeded to make a rough repair.

  “Thanking you,” said the chapman, his good humor restored. “How do you know nags then?”

  “Me auntie Annie’s of your trade—carries cloth out Saddleworth way. Spent a summer with her once as a lad.”

  “You’re never kin to Jagger Annie!”

  “You don’t know Annie!”

  “I do! By heck she’s got a tongue on her has Jagger Annie.” The pedlar eyed the young man with fresh interest. “What brings you this way?”

  Farr indicated the pack he had put aside on the ground and the shoe last that hung from it.

  “Shoe making’s my trade. Had a fair place, but these times … The master couldn’t keep his family let alone a journeyman—work’s so pitiful scarce.”

  “Bad times,” agreed the pedlar. He fixed the young man with a mournful look and shook his head. “Desperate times,” he repeated gloomily. Jonas met his eyes.

  “As bad as they’ve ever been.”

  The weather was closing in, charging the air with a fine, freezing drizzle. The chapman fiddled with a buckle, adjusting his leader’s harness.

  “Militia’s out Yorkshire side,” he said.

  “Oh aye?”

  “Aye. Getting ready for the fairs, I reckon. Haven’t the heart to go far—it’s bitter this time of year.” The pedlar added a contemptuous snort.

  “Easter Fairs? Hiring fairs, are they? Where about these parts?” Farr asked.

  “Woolbridge, in a few weeks’ time,” the older man jerked his head, “mile or two that-a-ways, down on the river. Well now,” he gave his pony’s cheek a final pat. “Best be off. Yon track there, that’ll lead you to Grateley Manor. Cook there likes company and they’ve a couple of barns that aren’t overlooked.”

  With a brief nod and a medley of “hie!”s and clicking noises, the chapman hauled his train back into motion.

  The track climbed up steps of land to a windswept expanse where hardy trees stood within a high stone wall. Drawing near, Jonas saw that beyond the wall a sunken track led into a milking yard. Towering over the yard, with the air of an ancient strongplace, was an old farm house, its deep-pitched roof carried on walls studded with few windows.

  A thin gentlewoman of middle age stood at the kitchen door. Straight-backed and arms crossed, she cut an odd figure in an old-fashioned jacket and plain cloth riding skirt. She had a long, narrow face, her pale skin accentuated by the springy black curls of her cropped hair. Her figure radiated indignation. A path curved round to the public side of the house where dirt and pebbles gave way to cobbles. The gentlewoman’s attention was fixed on a group that was passing through the whitewashed gateway and down the hill. A man pushed a handcart of belongings, trailing a woman with a baby in her arms. The woman spoke sharply and Jonas caught a glimpse of a sullen boy beyond the cart.

  Farr’s staff struck stone with a sharp tap and the gentlewoman spun to face him.

  “What do you do here?” she demanded.

  “Beg pardon mistress. I’m a journeyman. Shoe-making’s my trade—but I’ve a fair hand for carpentry and the like if you’ve a broken chair, or some other job.”

  Jonas braced himself for an abrupt dismissal.

  The gentlewoman glanced back into the shadows behind her.

  “He can feed in the back-kitchen, cook, but he’ll sleep in the barn.” The hot eyes snapped back to Jonas. “Your name?”

  “Jonas Farr, mistress.”<
br />
  “And have you come far?”

  “Served my apprenticeship in Leeds, mistress.”

  “You can have shelter tonight and in the morning there’s a pair of slippers and a chair need attention.” The passionate energy welled up again. “No fires or tricks, mind. I keep my pistols by me and I do not scruple to use them!” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked into the house.

  Jonas Farr found himself facing the substantial figure of a woman who eyed him with the moist gaze of a friendly bovine. She ushered him into the kitchen with a wave of plump, floured fingers.

  “Arethusa,” she said. “That’s me given name but Miss Lippett she calls me cook. I’m cook and I don’t know what else for I’ve scarce help about the place—all but none since Betty Tully’s been sent off along with her Ben.” She set out bread and cheese on the table and pulled out a chair. “Take a cup of ale? It’s warmed and spiced—just the thing against the cold.”

  Arethusa settled herself in a wide country chair by the kitchen range. Resting her trotters comfortably on the grate, she snuggled a pot of warm ale to her pillowy chest and fixed Jonas with the full force of her curiosity.

  “Such a day! Dismissed Ben Tully and his family, just like that! And not a chance of hiring until the Easter Fairs—not way out here.”

  “Fairs come round soon enough,” Jonas responded, his eyes on his plate. He had never seen cheese like it. It was an anemic cream color, sweaty and crumbly. He laid a fragment on the corner of a piece of bread and took a cautious bite.

  “And who’s to do the outside jobs?” Arethusa demanded, ignoring him. “Never mind what Betty did about the house—and even that no-good boy of theirs. Miss Lippett, she bowls in all in a fury, pays Tully his wages and turns him out. Wife and bairns along with him. There’s no telling what that’s all about.” The cook gazed at Jonas as if he might have an explanation of the mystery.

  “She has a temper, then, your mistress?” asked Jonas, warming the tip of his nose in the fragrant steam that rose from his mug. Arethusa gave her head a good scratch.