“There is another store-room in the rear of the building, Miss Price,” said Mr. Bellingham, “stocked with goods for those who are professionals in the trade.”
Turning to his landlady, Mr. Bellingham explained, “Miss Price is an instructress at a sewing academy. Isn’t that so, Miss Price?”
“Indeed, Mr. Bellingham. And in fact, my errand today is on business. I never could afford to buy so much lace for myself,” and Fanny emitted what she hoped was a natural-sounding laugh.
“Pray, Miss Price,” said Mr. Bellingham genially, lifting a hinged section of the counter so that they might walk through. “Allow me to introduce you to the owner. His office is through here. He is a good friend of mine and I undertake to guarantee, he will give you a generous reduction on anything you desire, for so worthy a cause as your academy. Mrs. Robarts, kindly rest for a moment.”
Continuing to play her part, and hoping she would not have to lay out monies on lace, Fanny followed Mr. Bellingham through a fringed curtain, down a long dimly lit corridor, and then, to her surprise, through a door which opened on a dark, narrow, alley-way.
“Where is the office, Mr. Bellingham?”
“There is no office, Miss Price.” His hand slipped into the skirt of his coat, and he pulled out a short-barrelled pistol and pointed it at her.
“You were telling me falsehoods, madam. You and Mr. Gibson were following me from the museum.”
Fanny felt the blood rush from her head and the ground swayed beneath her feet.
“You did not arrive at the shop by carriage, and you are no longer employed at the academy. But I don’t have time to listen to your explanations or any further falsehoods. I have urgent business which cannot be delayed another moment. Where is Mr. Gibson?”
“Mr. Gibson—Mr. Gibson—he will be returning shortly, with the Bow Street Runners!”
“Do not attempt to deceive me. You are a poor liar, Miss Price. I trust you understand the unfortunate consequences should you try to step away from me, or summon aid.”
He grabbed her arm tightly—she could not prevent a little cry of fright from escaping her lips—and he pulled her close to his side, as though they were lovers.
“You observed how quickly I was able to draw out my pistol, Miss Price. I am putting it back in my pocket but pray believe me, I will not hesitate to shoot you if you impede me or attempt to escape. Come along.”
And he drew her, with great rapidity, down the alley and then circled back toward St. James’s Street.
So this was real danger—not the foolish pretended fright she had given herself at Christmas-time, when she thought the Ratcliffe killer was stalking the academy! Yet, although her heart was pounding rapidly, and her breath came in faint gasps, Fanny felt strangely detached, oddly numb, and disbelieving, as though she were watching a play. This could not really be happening. Could she really be the captive of a deranged man with a pistol?
Fanny was too overcome to speak for a few moments, and soon rather too breathless, but she managed to say, “Mr. Bellingham, does this have anything to do with your... with the injustices you have suffered? Is that your urgent business?”
“Why do you enquire?”
“Because, sir, many of us who—who have been taken into your confidence concerning that unhappy matter are—are—concerned, very concerned, you are about to do something rash and desperate.”
“Rash? Desperate?”
Oh no, thought Fanny to herself. I have offended him.
“When I appealed directly to Downing Street, and some government lackey dismissed me, and I asked them what in heaven was I to do next, he said—and I quote—’I should take such measures as I deemed proper!’ I take them at their word.”
“Oh heavens, Mr. Bellingham,” Fanny murmured. “What steps? What are you going to do?”
He looked at her with his familiar mild smile. “I will inevitably be given the platform they have so long denied me. I will be able to present my case to His Majesty’s Attorney-General, a judge, a jury of my peers, and the public. Of course no jury will convict me in a cause so righteous.”
Fanny looked around in vain for her brother and Mr. Gibson. Mr. Bellingham warned her to look only straight ahead and continued his painful grip on her slender arm.
He swept her along swiftly, and in a few moments, they reached the broad avenue of Pall Mall and her captor pulled her in the direction of Carlton House. Mr. Bellingham was breathing heavily and sweating freely, looking neither to the right nor left, and a thrill of horror shot through Fanny at the sudden suspicion he intended to harm the Prince Regent himself. No, it was madness even to suppose... She had no intention of asking him and perhaps putting more insane ideas into his head.
They passed by several late afternoon loiterers, but Fanny was speechless, unable to signal her distress.
“I remind you Miss Price, I will shoot you on the instant if you make a noise or make any sign of alarm,” Mr. Bellingham said quietly, and she was suddenly filled with the conviction that the Prince Regent was his target. Fanny tried to console herself with the thought that no-one could just stroll into the grounds of Carlton House and shoot the Prince. Surely, someone would intervene. But perhaps Mr. Bellingham had a reason for being here, at this particular time. Perhaps he had some information, maybe the Prince was about to exit the gates in his carriage. Then, it would be all too easy to step right alongside and shoot him.
Oh, dear Heaven! What was she to do?
Surely, she must do something! And if it was her moral and civic duty, regardless of her sex, what would be best to do? Should she refuse to let him
