“It seems I must make the sacrifice, my dear Janet, if I am ever to have a home to call my own again.”
Margaret muttered something under her breath.
“What did you say, Margaret?”
“Nothing, mother.”
“You are not even a good liar, Margaret.”
“Oh, I do believe our Margaret can show cunning,” said Mary. “She is no sorry, helpless, little creature. She is capable of betraying a friend to satisfy her urge for revenge.”
Margaret coloured. “I do not understand you, madam.”
“I think you understand me very well. It was you I have to thank for betraying my brother—you told Edmund that Henry was meeting with his sister Maria in secret. And as a consequence, Edmund nearly refused to marry me. Your useless jealousy and spite over my poor brother cost me dearly in my husband’s eyes.”
“B-because he learned that you had been deceiving him, you mean?” Margaret shot back, too miserable to care. “Such a pity he did not profit from the lesson! And what could I tell your husband now, madam, about Wales!”
“How dare you! To what do you refer?”
“But—as your p-poor husband was foolish enough to marry you in the first place, let him remain a fool! And take you with him to Ireland, or g-go jump in the sea!”
And Margaret fled to her bedroom, weeping.
“Wales?” asked Mrs. Fraser. “My dearest, most intimate friend, whatever happened when you were in Wales? How could you have kept a secret from me? What is the little fool talking about?”
“I have no notion, Janet. Truly. But the surest way to punish her is to ignore her.”
* * * * * * *
John stood in front of the police office, breathing in the familiar, ripe smells of the ebbing tide. The Thames was crowded with shipping as usual; the forest of masts, their sails furled away, waved restlessly back and forth as ships settled in their berths, the curlews and gulls circled and swooped to plunder the rubbish exposed by the receding waters. The rising wind plucked at his clothes and his hair like so many nagging thoughts.
Mr. Laing, the head clerk, had given him the afternoon off. John was not supposed to be there, lingering in front of the office—all staff were to come and go by the back door—but Mr. Harriott always came in at the front door, and John wanted to speak to him privately.
‘Mr. Harriott! Sir! A moment of your time, sir, if I may.”
The magistrate paused. “Well, what is it, Mr. Price?”
In a low voice, John reminded the magistrate of the recent visit of John Bellingham, and his complaints of ill-usage by the English ambassador to Rome.
“This ambassador, sir, I have learnt, is now in London. Lord Leveson-Gower. He is now a member of Parliament, sir, and lives on Stanhope Street, near Primrose Hill.”
“And? What does this have to do with our office?”
“Indeed, sir, this is not in our jurisdiction, but I have information—I fear—that is, my friends and I are quite certain—Mr. Bellingham intends some outrage upon Lord Leveson-Gower. You will recall, sir, when Mr. Bellingham came to our office—”
“Ahem! Yes, now I recall the gentleman. You need not concern yourself, Price. The authorities are well aware of him. This Bellingham fellow has been everywhere, including Bow Street. And Bow Street contacted the officers at Parliament. So everyone who ought to be informed, has been informed, and is fully aware of this man’s eccentricities and his discontents.”
Mr. Harriott made for the front door, but John persisted:
“Would it not be better to arrest Mr. Bellingham and bring him in for questioning?”
“Questioned about what? He has broken no law. He has not threatened violence against anyone. He has not said or written anything of a seditious nature, to my knowledge.”
“He is exceedingly angered sir, he is quite taken up with his grievances. My friends and I think he is not in his right mind.”
“The law does not give me license to apprehend a gentleman, even a nuisance of a gentleman, for petitioning his government. He is exercising his ancient rights and liberties.”
“But, only question him, sir—speak to him—ask him what he is about. I am certain he is bent on mischief—more than mischief.”
Mr. Harriott waved John away impatiently. “It would be highly injudicious for me to intervene. The Home Secretary made it clear that he does not want humble John Harriott sticking his nose into matters which don’t concern him. I do not care to expose myself to further mortification of the sort I endured, when attempting to protect this neighbourhood from the Ratcliffe killer.” Again Mr. Harriott’s hand went to the door knob, but he added, “We must take into account places, persons, and prerogatives, Mr. Price. You and I are not answerable for Mr. Bellingham’s conduct, according to the Right Honourable the Home Secretary.”
“Yes sir, but may I add, that Mr. Bellingham has been seen firing a gun on Primrose Hill. And Primrose Hill is very close to Stanhope Street.
Mr. Harriott paused. “Hmmm. I would not, on any account, alarm Lord Leveson-Gower unnecessarily, but if this is indeed the case, I may send a note to him. Thank you, Mr. Price.”
To spare Mr. Gibson the expense of another trip to Stoke Newington, Mrs. Butters asked Donald McIntosh to drive Fanny into town, where she met with her brother and her friend at a tea-shop on Broad Street in the early afternoon.
“This morning I confirmed Lord Leveson-Gower is here in England. He is a member of parliament now,” John reported. “And he lives with his family on Stanhope Street.”
“Stanhope Street—isn’t that near Primrose Hill?” asked William Gibson.
John looked grim. “Indeed it is. Very near. That may mean something, or nothing. But, listen to this—we would not be the first to share our concerns with the authorities. About the same time
