finally died, still imprisoned in his all-consuming madness, he could expect an even greater authority. Above all, the Prince Regent was his friend.
He attempted to look at it coldly, logically, as was his way with all obstacles. The Prince, “Prinny,” knew better than most the dangers of envy and spite. He was quick to see it among those closest to him, and would do what he could to preserve what he called “a visible stability.” Perhaps he had already tried to warn him what might become of that stability, if his inspector-general were to lose his wits to a woman who had openly scorned and defied that same society for the man she loved.
And I did not realise. He could even accept that. But to believe that the future King had betrayed him, had given him a mission merely to keep him away and safe from slander and ridicule, was beyond belief. Even as he knew it was true. It was the only explanation.
Marlow coughed quietly. “The horses have been changed, m’ lord. Shall I tell William to stand down now?”
Sillitoe regarded him calmly. So Marlow knew too, or guessed.
He thought of Catherine, in this house or around the river’s sweeping bend in Chelsea. Of the night he had burst in with Guthrie and the others and had saved her. Saved her. It was stark in his mind, like blood under the guillotine during the Terror.
He thought of Bethune’s stupid, conniving wife, and Rhodes, who had expected to be created First Lord of the Admiralty. Of Richard Bolitho’s wife; of so many who would be there today. Not to honour a dead hero, but to see Catherine shamed. Destroyed.
Now he could only wonder why he had hesitated.
He said curtly, “I am ready.” He brushed past his valet without seeing the cloak which was to conceal his identity. “That fellow from the Times, the one who wrote so well of Nelson…” He snapped his fingers. “Laurence, yes?”
Marlow nodded, off guard only for a moment.
“I remember him, m’ lord.”
“Find him. Today. I don’t care how, or what it costs. I believe I am owed a favour or two.”
Marlow walked to the entrance and watched Sillitoe climb into the carriage. He could see the mud spattered on the side, evidence of a hard drive. No wonder the horses had been changed.
The carriage was already wheeling round, heading for the fine gates on which the Prince Regent himself had once commented.
He shook his head, recalling without effort the grand display of Nelson’s procession and funeral. A vast armada of boats which had escorted the coffin by barge, from Greenwich to Whitehall, and from the Admiralty to St Paul’s. A procession so long that it reached its destination before the rear had started to move.
Today there would be no body, no procession, but, like the man, it would be long remembered.
And only this morning he had heard that the end of the war was imminent. No longer merely a hope, a prayer. Could one final battle destroy so monstrous, so immortal an influence? He smiled to himself, sadly. Strange that on a day like this it seemed almost secondary.
Sillitoe pressed himself into a corner of the carriage and listened to the changing sound of the iron-shod wheels as the horses entered yet another narrow street. Grey stone buildings, blank windows, the offices of bankers and lawyers, of wealthy merchants whose trade reached across the world. The hub, as Sir Wilfred Lafargue liked to call it. The coachman, William, knew this part of London, and had managed to avoid the main roads, most of which had been filled with aimless crowds, so different from its usual bustle and purpose. For this was Sunday, and around St Paul ’s it would be even worse. He felt for his watch but decided against it. Half an hour at the most. But for the delay with the Prime Minister, he would have had ample time in hand, no matter what.
He leaned forward and tapped the roof with his sword.
“What is it now? Why are we slowing down, man?”
William hung over the side of his perch.
“Street’s blocked, m’ lord!” He sounded apprehensive; he had already had a taste of Sillitoe’s temper on the drive to Chiswick House.
Sillitoe jerked a strap and lowered the window. So narrow here. Like a cavern. The smell of horses and soot…
He could see a mass of people, and what appeared to be a carriage. There were soldiers, too, and one, a helmeted officer, was already trotting towards them. Young, but lacking neither intelligence nor experience, his eyes moved swiftly to take in Sillitoe’s clothing and the bright sash of the order across his chest, and then the coat of arms on the door.
“The way is blocked, sir!”
William glared down at him.
“My lord!”
The officer exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, my lord, I did not know…”
Sillitoe snapped, “Must get through to St Paul ’s. I do not have to explain why, I trust.” He could feel the anger rising again; this was only the calm before the storm. He studied the officer coldly. “Fourteenth Light Dragoons. I know your agent, at Gray’s Inn, I believe?”
He saw the shot go home.
“A vehicle has lost a wheel, my lord. It could not have happened in a worse place. I have already had to turn back one carriage-a lady-”
“A lady?” It was Catherine. It had to be. He glanced at the shining helmets and restless horses, and said sharply, “I suggest you dismount those pretty warriors and remove the obstruction.”
“I-I am not certain. My orders-”
Sillitoe leaned back. “If you value your commission, Lieutenant.”
It took only minutes for the dragoons to drag the vehicle to one side, and for William to drive the length of the street.
Deliberate? An accident? Or was it what Richard Bolitho had always called Fate?
He thought of her. On foot, hemmed in by gaping, curious faces. He looked out again and saw St Paul ’s. Close to, it dominated everything, so that the silence was all the more impressive.
“Stop now!”
He knew William was against it, and was probably wishing the massive Guthrie was here with him, but he climbed down to calm the horses before they became troubled by the slow-moving crowds, and the unnatural silence.
What might they have done? Would they have dared to turn her back at the cathedral’s imposing entrance, on some paltry excuse, perhaps because there was no record of her invitation? Catherine, of all people. On this damnable day.
He quickened his pace, used to staring eyes and peering faces, beyond their reach, or so he believed now.
A hand plucked at his coat. “Would you buy some flowers to honour his memory, sir?”
Sillitoe thrust him aside with a curt, “Out of my way!”
Then he stopped, as if he had no control of his limbs. It explained the silence, the complete stillness, the like of which this place had never witnessed.
Catherine, too, stood quite still, and erect, surrounded by people and yet utterly detached from them.
Across the cathedral steps was an uneven rank of men. Sailors, or they had been before they had been cut down in battle. Men without arms, or hobbling on wooden stumps. Men with burned and scarred faces, victims of a hundred different battles and as many ships, but today joined as one. Sillitoe tried to reason with it, coldly, as was his habit. They were probably from the naval hospital at Greenwich and must have come upriver for this occasion, as if they had been drawn to it by the same power which had stopped him in his tracks. All wore scraps of uniform, some displayed tattoos on their arms; one, in a sea officer’s uniform, was wearing his sword.
Sillitoe wanted to go to her. Not to speak, but only to be beside her. But he did not move.
Catherine was aware of the silence; she had even seen the mounted dragoons ordered to remove the wrecked vehicle. But it was all somewhere else. Not here. Not now.
She stood, unmoving, watching the man in the officer’s uniform as he stepped slowly forward from the watching barrier of crippled sailors. The ones with wooden spars. Half-timbered Jacks, as Allday called them. She trembled. But he always said it without contempt, and without pity, for they were himself.
The officer was closer now, and she realised that his uniform was that of a lieutenant. Clean and well-pressed,
