Chapter 4
Charles, Lord Jarvis, opened the pearl-studded lid of his gold snuffbox with the flick of a finger, raised a delicate pinch to one nostril, and sniffed.
The other two men in the room—one a former prime minister who now served as Home Secretary, the other Chief Magistrate of the powerful Bow Street Public Office—watched him anxiously.
They were assembled in the chambers reserved exclusively for Jarvis’s use at Carlton House by his cousin George Augustus Frederick, Prince of Wales and—thanks to the madness of the Prince’s father, King George III—Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
A large, fleshy man in his early sixties, Lord Jarvis held no government portfolio and never would, for he’d learned long ago that ministers come and go, while those who exercise power quietly and competently from the shadows endure.
He was both brilliant and cunning, with a reputation for uncanny omnipotence and utter ruthlessness.
But no one was more dedicated than he to preserving and expanding the power of Great Britain and its beleaguered monarchy.
Without Jarvis, the British royal family could easily have gone the way of the French, and they knew it.
He took another pinch of snuff, then snapped the box closed and fixed his cold, intense gaze on the Home Secretary. “I was expecting Liverpool to join us this morning.”
A slender, loose-limbed man in his fifties with a long nose and wispy, receding hair, Henry Addington, First Viscount Sidmouth, gave a tight smile and adopted an airy tone.
“The Prime Minister believes it would be better if he were to keep his distance from these discussions. For appearances’ sake, you understand. ”
“Indeed,” said Jarvis in a way that caused the color to drain from Sidmouth’s face.
“I mean— That is to say—”
Jarvis held up a hand, cutting off the man’s stammering. “This public meeting is scheduled to take place in a little over a week. I trust all necessary preparations have been made?”
This remark was addressed to the third person in the room, a stout older man with thick, dark gray hair and an obsequious manner.
As Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant was the metropolis’s most senior stipendiary magistrate; his public office’s activities in fighting crime throughout the kingdom had been famous for decades.
But Bow Street’s most important role was considerably less well-known, for it was Conant—through his chief clerk—who controlled the legion of domestic spies, informants, and agents provocateurs used by the government against reformers, republicans, Radicals, Spenceans, and anyone else who dared criticize the monarchy or Parliament, or even suggest that Britain’s current political and social systems might in some way be improved.
Nominally the Chief Magistrate reported to Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary.
But he was Jarvis’s creature and always had been.
“Never fear, my lord; we’re ready,” said Sir Nathaniel Conant with a precise bow.
“Our agents are all in place and understand their assignments.” He allowed himself a tight smile.
“These Radicals are about to discover that crowds might be easy to stir up, but they’re not so easy to control once they get the bit between their teeth.
With any luck, we should be able to lop the heads off a good half dozen of the treasonous rascals and transport another twenty or thirty more.
Enough to squash this nonsense for a generation. ”
“Hopefully for rather longer than that,” said Jarvis, tapping one forefinger on his snuffbox’s lid. “Now tell me, what’s this I’m hearing about the son of a member of Parliament being burned alive at the top of Primrose Hill like some sort of heathen sacrifice?”
The two men’s quick exchange of glances was not lost on Jarvis.
Conant gave another of his obsequious smiles. “Unfortunately, Fleet Street’s editors do have a habit of allowing their imaginations to run away with their sense.”
“You’re saying the man wasn’t set on fire?”
“Oh, he was definitely set alight. Burnt to a crisp, actually. It’s just that we don’t know if he was alive at the time. As for this nonsense about human sacrifice, well, there’s no evidence we’re dealing with anything of the sort.”
“Except for the man’s crispy corpse, one assumes,” said Jarvis dryly.
“Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t care if this Marcus Toole was alive or dead at the time he was turned into a human torch, or what his killer’s religious motivations may have been.
All I know is, the last thing we need at the moment is to have something like this causing mass hysteria.
I want whoever is responsible identified and behind bars—preferably by next Monday, if not sooner. ”
“A week from tomorrow, my lord?” said Conant. He was no longer smiling. “But we have no idea who—”
“Good God, man. If you can’t find the person responsible, then find someone else. One of these bloody Spenceans you’re watching should do just fine. Pick the most annoying one and charge him.”
The two men exchanged another quick glance, then bowed in unison. “Yes, my lord.”