Stanhope would never stoop to using his standing with the government for such a cause, but he could give Renzi valuable inside knowledge of the wheels of power, perhaps an insight into how... But Stanhope was beyond reach for a mere mortal. Dejection returned as Renzi thought through the impossibility of gaining access to a senior government figure in a wartime crisis.
Then another flood of recollection: a crude palm hut on a Caribbean beach, an injured Stanhope and a promise exacted from Renzi that if Stanhope were not to survive, he should at all costs transmit his intelligence to a Mr Congalton, at the Foreign Office.
Renzi hurried back to the White Hart. The landlord provided writing materials, and in his tiny room he set to. It was the height of gall, but nothing could stop him now. The form of the letter was unimportant: it was simply a request for a hearing, through Congalton to Stanhope, shamelessly implying a matter of discreet intelligence.
He folded the letter and plunged out into the night, scorning the offer of a link-boy. Without a long coat and sword he would not be worth the attention of robbers. The Foreign Office was well used to late-night messages passed by questionable figures, and he slipped away well satisfied.
A reply arrived even while he was at an early breakfast - 'Hatchard's, 173 Piccadilly, at 10 a.m.' He forced his brain to an icy calm while he rehearsed what he intended to say, and in good time he made the most of his attire, clapped on a borrowed hat and appeared at the appointed place.
It turned out to be a bookseller recently opened for business, well placed in a quality district and just down from Debrett's. No stranger to books, Renzi eyed the packed shelves with avarice. Bold tides on political economy and contemporary analysis tempted, as well as tracts by serious thinkers and pamphlets by parliamentary names. Engrossed, he missed the activity around the carriage that drew up outside.
'You would oblige me by the use of your back room, Mr Hatchard.'
Renzi wheeled round. It was Stanhope, the lines in his face a little deeper, the expression more flinty. Renzi bowed and was favoured by a brief smile.
'If you please, my lord.' An assistant took Stanhope's cloak, then led the party up a spiral staircase to a comfortable upper room at the rear, where they were ushered to the high-backed chairs before the fire.
'Coffee, my lord?'
'Thank you, John, that would be welcome. Renzi?' The interval, as the assistant served, allowed time for Renzi to compose himself.
'A long time, my lord,' Renzi said, his heart hammering. There was now no one else in the room. The chandelier threw a bright, pleasing light over several reading desks arranged to one side.
'You have not asked me here on a matter of intelligence,' Stanhope said shortly, his voice just loud enough to be heard.
'Er, no, my lord,' Renzi said. He knew enough of Stanhope to refrain from dissimulation: it would help nobody to delay.
'Then ... ?'
Renzi took a deep breath. 'Your advice is solicited, my lord, in a matter which touches me deeply.' 'Go on.'
'A very dear friend has been unfortunate enough to be caught up in the recent mutiny, and I am concerned how to extricate him.'
'The Nore?'
'Just so.'
'Therefore he has chosen not to avail himself of the King's gracious pardon?'
'It would seem that is the case.'
Expressionless, Stanhope steepled his fingers and said, 'You realise, of course, I can have no influence on the course of this unhappy affair once it has reached its climax. It is completely within the jurisdiction of the Admiralty courts, his only hope of mercy lying in the King's express forgiveness. I rather suggest that in the circumstances of the King's known hostility to the mutineers' actions this will not be a likely prospect. I advise you, Renzi, to resign yourself. Your friend unhappily has nothing but the gallows to reflect upon.'
'Nothing?'
