Chapter Five
Seated in acorner of Boodle’s in Pall Mall, Flynn leaned forward in the leather chair as he and Lord Barraclough, talked quietly together. They shared a bottle of brandy while chatter and laughter filled the smoking room.
“I appreciate the wisdom of the Home Office to send you,” Flynn said. “We worked well together in that matter of the French Navy. Although this seems an entirely different kettle of fish.”
“That matter with the Navy was cut and dried. It’s entirely unclear what we’re dealing with here.” Barraclough related what he knew in a low voice. “Word has reached the king’s ear that radicals are plotting in secret.”
Flynn nodded. It was entirely feasible. Many were critical of the state of the country. Especially after what happened in St. Peter’s Field in Manchester last August, when the cavalry charged into a crowd of some eighty thousand people gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation. Public anger had grown to fever pitch after Liverpool’s government panicked and rushed through the Six Acts, introducing a raft of unpopular measures.
“I attended Sir Horace Crowthorne’s dinner, but had not expected to find possible suspects amongst the guests. And neither did I. If such a plot existed, it was well concealed. We can’t arrest everyone burning to change the whole system of government.” Flynn shrugged. “It would be half the country. Like finding a needle in a hay bale.”
“It’s not the radical journalists like Bentham, or Cobbett’s writings in theWeekly Political Register, who are dangerous. But those who keep their opinions quiet and prefer to remain unobserved.” Barraclough puffed out a cloud of smoke from his cheroot.
“The only two I found worth investigation were Goodrich and Wensley. I overheard them arrange a meeting in Crowthorne’s library. Their conversation ceased abruptly when I entered,” Flynn said, “which peaked my curiosity.”
“Don’t know them. Do you?”
“Only in passing. I thought it odd that they arranged this meeting somewhere out of Town.”
“They might be organizing a hunt or a private house party.”
“Unlikely. It’s the Old Gate Inn in Canterbury. Heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have. Could be something entirely innocent though. When is this meeting to take place?”
Flynn shook his head. “Couldn’t discover it. They regarded me with suspicion and clammed up.”
“You are known to be close to the king,” Barraclough said dryly. He took a sip of brandy. “That can make people wary.”
Flynn frowned in exasperation. “I’m surprised the king wants me involved. This is a matter for the Home Office or Bow Street, surely.” He swallowed the last sip of brandy in the snifter which left a faint tinge of bitter sweetness on his tongue. “I’d gladly hand this matter over to someone else. Baron Forth for example. He may not be the best investigator around, but the king approves of him. He’s the consummate dissembler.”
Barraclough’s chuckle sent another cloud of exhaled smoke into the room. “You are the king’s private investigator. He has come to rely on you. Due to your work on the Continent dealing with Princess Caroline, he believes you to be infallible.”
“No one is infallible. Least of all, I. But His Majesty grows more determined by the day. Caroline shall not attend his coronation as his consort. Ministers are anxious to avoid a divorce, for as much mud will stick to the king as it will to her.” He gestured to the bottle. “Another?”
Barraclough shook his head. “I must be off.” He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket.
“Sidmouth will arrange for his spies to follow these men,” Flynn said. “When you learn the time of their meeting, let me know. If it proves to be of interest, I’ll take it from there.”
Barraclough nodded. “It will be done.” The leather chair creaked as he moved his bulk to mash his cheroot into the ashtray. “Unfortunately, the little season works against us. Not a lot on the social calendar. There’s the Gossards’ soiree. I daresay you have an invitation?”
“I do.”
Barraclough climbed to his feet. “With so little entertainment to be had, you might find them there. Meanwhile, I’ll get working on it.”
*
Althea picked upthe brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and rapped on the Churtons glossy black door. Their butler opened it. With a discreet look of surprise to find her calling at such an hour, he offered her a chair in the entry hall and asked her to wait. Moments later, he returned to direct her upstairs to the drawing room. Relieved to find Churton at home, she crossed the blue Aubusson carpet in the elegantly furnished room which at present stood empty. Lady Churton had excellent taste. Althea only hoped her coming here did not anger the lady. She could not hope to meet Churton at a social event for London was still thin of company.
Althea sought to find a discreet way in which to frame her request to Churton. She sat on a brocade upholstered chair, her fingers gripping her reticule, and decided not to mince her words.
Lord Churton strode through the door with a smile which almost hid his astonishment. “Dear Lady Brookwood. But how delightful to see you.”
Althea rose quickly and crossed the room to him. “Forgive me, Lord Churton for calling in this fashion.”
“Not at all. Please do sit, Lady Brookwood.” He directed her to a chair.
His color, if anything, was more florid than when she had seen him last. “Lady Margery will be sorry to have missed you. She is attending to last minute shopping before we depart for Wiltshire.” He chuckled. “There are some things my wife refuses to live without while rusticating in the country. Please, won’t you sit? May I offer you tea, a glass of sherry?”
