astonished at being addressed by one of the Keeper's guests, and even more by such an extraordinary figure as the Reverend Lord Alexander Pleydell with his shock of red hair, hawklike nose and gangly figure. 'Well?' Lord Alexander demanded peremptorily. 'Is it so? I have heard it is, but on matters concerning hanging then you, surely, are the
'A silken rope, sir?' Botting asked weakly.
'My lord,' the Ordinary corrected him.
'My lord! Ha!' Botting said, recovering his equanimity and amused at the thought that perhaps Lord Alexander was contemplating being executed. 'I hates to disappoint you, my lord,' he said, 'but I wouldn't know where to lay hands on a silken rope. Not a silken one. Now this,' Botting caressed one of the nooses on the table, 'is the best Bridport hemp, my lord, fine as you could discover anywhere, and I can always lay hands on quality Bridport hemp. But silk? That's a horse of a different colour, my lord, and I wouldn't even know where to look. No, my lord. If ever I has the high privilege of hanging a nobleman I'll be doing it with Bridport hemp, same as I would for anyone else.'
'And quite right too, my good man.' Lord Alexander beamed approval at the hangman's levelling instincts. 'Well done! Thank you.'
'You will forgive me, my lord?' The Keeper gestured that Lord Alexander should step away from the wide central aisle between the tables.
'I'm in the way?' Lord Alexander sounded surprised.
'Only momentarily, my lord,' the Keeper said, and just then Lord Alexander heard the clank of irons and the shuffle of feet. The other guests drew themselves up and made their faces solemn. Lord Christopher Carne took a step back, his face even paler than before, then turned to face the door that led from the Press Yard.
A turnkey came in first. He knuckled his forehead to the Keeper, then stood beside a low slab of timber that squatted on the floor. The turnkey held a stout hammer and a metal punch and Lord Alexander wondered what their purpose was, but he did not like to ask, and then the guests closest to the door hauled off their hats because the Sheriff and Under-Sheriff were ushering the two prisoners into the Association Room.
'Brandy, sir?' One of the Keeper's servants appeared beside Lord Christopher Carne.
'Thank you.' Lord Christopher could not take his eyes from the slender, pale young man who had come first through the door with legs weighed down by the heavy irons. 'That,' he said to the servant, 'that is Corday?'
'It is, my lord, yes.'
Lord Christopher gulped down the brandy and reached for another.
And the two bells, the prison tocsin and the bell of Saint Sepulchre's, began to toll for those about to die.
===OO=OOO=OO===
Sandman expected the door of the Great George Street house to be opened by a servant, but instead it was Sebastian Witherspoon, Viscount Sidmouth's private secretary, who raised his eyebrows in astonishment. 'An unseemly hour, Captain?' Witherspoon observed, then frowned at Sandman's dishevelled state and the ragged looks of his three companions. 'I do trust you have not all come expecting breakfast?' he said in a voice dripping with contempt.
'This woman,' Sandman did not bother with the niceties of a greeting, 'can testify that Charles Corday is not the murderer of the Countess of Avebury.'
Witherspoon dabbed at his lips with a napkin stained with egg yolk. He glanced at Meg, then shrugged as if to suggest that her testimony was worthless. 'How very inconvenient,' he murmured.
'Viscount Sidmouth is here?' Sandman demanded.
'We are at work, Sandman,' Witherspoon said severely. 'His lordship, as you doubtless know, is a widower and since his sad loss he has sought consolation in hard work. He begins early and works late and does not brook disturbance.'
'This is work,' Sandman said.
Witherspoon looked again at Meg and this time he seemed to notice her looks. 'Must I remind you,' he said, 'that the boy has been found guilty and the law is due to take its course in one hour? I really cannot see what can be done at this late juncture.'
Sandman stepped back from the door. 'My compliments to Lord Sidmouth,' he said, 'and tell him we are going to seek an audience with the Queen.' He had no idea whether the Queen would receive him, but he was quite sure Witherspoon and the Home Secretary did not want the animosity of the royal family, not when there were honours and pensions to be had from the crown. 'Her Majesty, I believe' Sandman went on, 'has taken an interest in this case and will doubtless be intrigued to hear of your cavalier attitude. Good day, Witherspoon.'
'Captain!' Witherspoon pulled the door wide open. 'Captain! You had better come in.'
They were shown into an empty parlour. The house, though it was in an expensive street close to the Houses of Parliament, had a makeshift air. It was not permanently lived in, but was plainly let on short leases to politicians like Lord Sidmouth who needed a temporary refuge. The only furniture in the parlour was a pair of stuffed armchairs, both with faded covers, and a heavy desk with a thronelike chair behind. A beautifully bound prayer book lay on the desk next to an untidy pile of regional newspapers which all had articles ringed in ink. Sandman, when they were left alone in the drab parlour, saw that the marked articles were accounts of riots. Folk up and down Britain were taking to the streets to protest against the price of corn or the introduction of machinery to the mills. 'I sometimes think,' Sandman said, 'that the modern world is a very sad place.'
'Has its consolations, Captain,' Berrigan said carelessly, glancing at Sally.
'Riots, rick burning,' Sandman said. 'It never used to be like this! The damned French let anarchy into the world.'
Berrigan smiled. 'Things used to be better in the old days, eh? Nothing but cricket and cream?'
'When we weren't fighting the Frogs? Yes, it did seem like that.'
'No, Captain,' the Sergeant shook his head, 'you just had money then. Everything's easier when you've got cash.'
'Amen to that,' Sally said fervently, then turned as the door opened and Witherspoon ushered in the Home Secretary.
Viscount Sidmouth was wearing a patterned silk dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. He was newly shaven and his white skin had a sheen as though it had been stretched and polished. His eyes, as ever, were cold and disapproving. 'It seems, Captain Sandman,' he said acidly, 'that you choose to inconvenience us?'
'I choose nothing of the sort, my lord,' Sandman said belligerently.
Sidmouth frowned at the tone, then looked at Berrigan and the two women. The sound of crockery being cleared came from deeper in the house and made Sandman realise how hungry he was. 'So,' the Home Secretary said with distaste in his voice, 'who do you bring me?'
'My associates, Sergeant Berrigan and Miss Hood…'
'Associates?' Sidmouth was amused.
'I must acknowledge their assistance, my lord, as no doubt Her Majesty will when she learns the outcome of our enquiries.'
That not so subtle hint made the Home Secretary grimace. He looked at Meg and almost recoiled from the force of her small eyes and the sight of her mangled teeth and pocked skin. 'And you, madam?' he asked coldly.
'Miss Margaret Hargood,' Sandman introduced her, 'who was a maid to the Countess of Avebury and was present in the Countess's bedroom on the day of her murder. She personally escorted Charles Corday from the bedroom before the murder, she saw him out of the house and can testify he did not return. In short, my lord, she can witness that Corday is innocent.' Sandman spoke with a deal of pride and satisfaction. He was tired, he was hungry, his ankle hurt and his boots and clothes showed the effects of walking from Kent to London, but by God he had discovered the truth.
Sidmouth's lips, already thin, compressed into a bloodless line as he looked at Meg. 'Is it true, woman?'
Meg drew herself up. She was not in the least awed by his lordship, but instead looked him up and down, then sniffed. 'I don't know nothing,' she said.
'I beg your pardon?' The Home Secretary blanched at the insolence in her voice.
'He comes and kidnaps me!' Meg shrieked, pointing at Sandman. 'Which he got no bleeding right to do! Takes me away from my chooks. He can fake away off where he came from, and what do I care who killed her? Or who
