was being used too widely or that it was a nonsense to hang a hungry villager for stealing a five-shilling lamb, but few folk wanted to do away with the noose altogether. The scaffold was a deterrent, a punishment and an example. It was a necessity. It was civilisation's machine and it protected all law-abiding citizens from their predators.
Witherspoon, satisfied with Sandman's indignant answer, smiled. 'I did not think you were a radical,' he said emolliently, 'but one must be sure.'
'So,' Lord Sidmouth glanced at the grandfather clock, 'will you undertake to be our Investigator?' He expected an immediate answer, but Sandman hesitated. That hesitation was not because he did not want the job, but because he doubted he possessed the qualifications to be an investigator of crime, but then, he wondered, who did? Lord Sidmouth mistook the hesitation for reluctance. 'The job will hardly tax you, Captain,' he said testily, 'the wretch is plainly guilty and one merely wishes to satisfy the Queen's womanly concerns. A month's pay for a day's work?' He paused and sneered. 'Or do you fear the appointment will interfere with your cricket?'
Sandman needed a month's pay and so he ignored the insults. 'Of course I shall do it, my lord,' he said, 'I shall be honoured.'
Witherspoon stood, the signal that the audience was over, and the Home Secretary nodded his farewell. 'Witherspoon will provide you with a letter of authorisation,' he said, 'and I shall look forward to receiving your report. Good day to you, sir.'
'Your servant, my lord,' Sandman bowed, but the Home Secretary was already attending to other business.
Sandman followed the secretary into an anteroom where a clerk was busy at a table. 'It will take a moment to seal your letter,' Witherspoon said, 'so, please, sit.'
Sandman had brought the Corday petition with him and now read it all the way through, though he gleaned little more information from the ill-written words. The condemned man's mother, who had signed the petition with a cross, had merely dictated an incoherent plea for mercy. Her son was a good boy, she claimed, a harmless soul and a Christian, but beneath her pleas were two damning comments. 'Preposterous,' the first read, 'he is guilty of a heinous crime,' while the second comment, in a crabbed handwriting, stated: 'Let the Law take its course.' Sandman showed the petition to Witherspoon. 'Who wrote the comments?'
'The second is the Home Secretary's decision,' Witherspoon said, 'and was written before we knew Her Majesty was involved. And the first? That's from the judge who passed sentence. It is customary to refer all petitions to the relevant judge before a decision is made. In this case it was Sir John Silvester. You know him?'
'I fear not.'
'He's the Recorder of London and, as you may deduce from that, a most experienced judge. Certainly not a man to allow a gross miscarriage of justice in his courtroom.' He handed a letter to the clerk. 'Your name must be on the letter of authorisation, of course. Are there any pitfalls in its spelling?'
'No,' Sandman said and then, as the clerk wrote his name on the letter, he read the petition again, but it presented no arguments against the facts of the case. Maisie Cruttwell claimed her son was innocent, but could adduce no proof of that assertion. Instead she was appealing to the King for mercy. 'Why did you ask me?' Sandman asked Witherspoon. 'I mean you must have used someone else as an investigator in the past? Were they unsatisfactory?'
'Mister Talbot was entirely satisfactory,' Witherspoon said. He was now searching for the seal that would authenticate the letter, 'but he died.'
'Ah.'
'A seizure,' Witherspoon said, 'very tragic. And why you? Because, as the Home Secretary informed you, you were recommended.' He was scrabbling through the contents of a drawer, looking for the seal. 'I had a cousin at Waterloo,' he went on, 'a Captain Witherspoon, a Hussar. He was on the Duke's staff. Did you know him?'
'No, alas.'
'He died.'
'I am sorry to hear it.'
'It was perhaps for the best,' Witherspoon said. He had at last found the seal. 'He always said that he feared the war's ending. What excitement, he wondered, could peace bring?'
'It was a common enough fear in the army,' Sandman said.
'This letter,' the secretary was now heating a stick of wax over a candle flame, 'confirms that you are making enquiries on behalf of the Home Office and it requests all persons to offer you their cooperation, though it does not require them to do so. Note that distinction, Captain, note it well. We have no legal right to demand cooperation,' he said as he dripped the wax onto the letter, then carefully pushed the seal into the scarlet blob, 'so we can only request it. I would be grateful if you would return this letter to me upon the conclusion of your enquiries, and as to the nature of those enquiries, Captain? I suggest they need not be laborious. There is no doubt of the man's guilt. Corday is a rapist, a murderer and a liar, and all we need of him is a confession. You will find him in Newgate and if you are sufficiently forceful then I have no doubt he will confess to his brutal crime and your work will then be done.' He held out the letter. 'I expect to hear from you very soon. We shall require a written report, but please keep it brief.' He suddenly withheld the letter to give his next words an added force. 'What we do not want, Captain, is to complicate matters. Provide us with a succinct report that will allow my master to reassure the Queen that there are no possible grounds for a pardon and then let us forget the wretched matter.'
'Suppose he doesn't confess?' Sandman asked.
'Make him,' Witherspoon said forcefully. 'He will hang anyway, Captain, whether you have submitted your report or not. It would simply be more convenient if we could reassure Her Majesty of the man's guilt before the wretch is executed.'
'And if he's innocent?' Sandman asked.
Witherspoon looked appalled at the suggestion. 'How can he be? He's already been found guilty!'
'Of course he has,' Sandman said, then took the letter and slipped it into the tail pocket of his coat. 'His Lordship,' he spoke awkwardly, 'mentioned an emolument.' He hated talking of money, it was so ungentlemanly, but so was his poverty.
'Indeed he did,' Witherspoon said. 'We usually paid twenty guineas to Mister Talbot, but I would find it hard to recommend the same fee in this case. It really is too trivial a matter so I shall authorise a draft for fifteen guineas. I shall send it to you, where?' He glanced down at his notebook, then looked shocked. 'Really? The Wheatsheaf? In Drury Lane?'
'Indeed,' Sandman said stiffly. He knew Witherspoon deserved an explanation for the Wheatsheaf was notorious as a haunt of criminals, but Sandman had not known of that reputation when he asked for a room and he did not think he needed to justify himself to Witherspoon.
'I'm sure you know best,' Witherspoon said dubiously.
Sandman hesitated. He was no coward, indeed he had the reputation of being a brave man, but that reputation had been earnt in the smoke of battle and what he did now took all his courage. 'You mentioned a draft, Mister Witherspoon,' he said, 'and I wondered whether I might persuade you to cash? There will be inevitable expenses…' His voice tailed away because, for the life of him, he could not think what those expenses might be.
Both Witherspoon and the clerk stared at Sandman as though he had just dropped his breeches. 'Cash?' Witherspoon asked in a small voice.
Sandman knew he was blushing. 'You want the matter resolved swiftly,' he said, 'and there could be contingencies that will require expenditure. I cannot foresee the nature of those contingencies, but…' He shrugged and again his voice tailed away.
'Prendergast,' Witherspoon looked at Sandman even as he spoke to the clerk, 'pray go to Mister Hodge's office, present him with my compliments and ask him to advance us fifteen guineas,' he paused, still looking at Sandman, 'in cash.'
The money was found, it was given and Sandman left the Home Office with pockets heavy with gold. Damn poverty, he thought, but the rent was due at the Wheatsheaf and it had been three days since he had eaten a proper meal.
But fifteen guineas! He could afford a meal now. A meal, some wine and an afternoon of cricket. It was a tempting vision, but Sandman was not a man to shirk duty. The job of being the Home Office's Investigator might be temporary, but if he finished this first enquiry swiftly then he might look for other and more lucrative assignments from Lord Sidmouth, and that was an outcome devoutly to be wished and so he would forgo the meal,
