Mosca’s blood suddenly ran cold.
‘No, she won’t,’ she said. ‘I heard the Duke give her a by-your-leave to bring in a big ship from the coast, all up to its ears in troops for keeping order. That’s who the new Birdcatcher printings are for…’
‘The Watermen would never allow it!’ exclaimed Miss Kitely.
There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the room.
‘In case you have not noticed, madam,’ Goshawk interjected, ‘there are currently hardly any Watermen in Mandelion. Most of them disappeared upstream several days ago.’
Mosca looked sideways at the Locksmith leader. ‘I heard Lady Tamarind say something about that too. They’ve been sent to “delay” the Locksmith troops that she knew were waiting upstream.’
‘Are you saying that the waterway is clear for a ship full of Birdcatcher troops to sail into Mandelion and take it over?’ Pertellis was cleaning his monocle hard enough to push the lens out. ‘When does this ship arrive, Miss Mye?’
‘She said it would take ten days to get ’ere. An’ that was… about ten days ago.’
‘Beloved above,’ whispered Pertellis. ‘They could turn up at any moment.’
The conversation became very animated and confusing, so Mosca went and sat next to Eponymous Clent, and kicked her heels against the chair leg for a minute or so.
‘So, you just found the barge captain’s body in the clothes chest, then, did you?’ she asked at last. She was not very good at apologizing.
‘On the bed, actually. When you found me, I was trying to, ah, hide it. I fear I was not thinking with my usual crystalline lucidity. I even suspected for a while that you might have been responsible for, as it were, spilling the fellow’s claret. You need not look so shocked – younger than you have done worse, and you have a wealth of rage in that reed-like form of yours.’
‘But you didn’t cackle on me?’
‘No.’ Clent looked a little embarrassed, as if he had been caught out in a weakness. ‘When you denounced me in the watch house I saw myself reflected in your eyes as a monstrous mankiller, and I realized that you truly thought I was guilty. I suppose I could have exposed your petty little crimes and dragged you to the gallows with me, but… what would have been the point?’
‘I came back to sort it all out,’ said Mosca, after an awkward pause.
‘Ah,’ Clent responded without the faintest trace of hope.
‘Thought I’d better. No one else cares ’bout you at all, do they?’
‘No, I suppose not. Have you been rubbing ashes into your hair as a sign of penitence?’
‘That’s just powder. I’m in disguise.’
‘As a wig-seller?’ Clent nudged the wig box with his toe.
‘The box is just borrowed,’ Mosca explained quickly. ‘Had to put Saracen somewhere, didn’t I?’
‘Of course.’ Clent lowered his face into his hands. ‘The sad and weatherbeaten violins of my existence are tuning up for the coda of my life’s symphony, my hopes and dreams are preparing to drain into the forgetful sands like so much rain – and my last and darkest hours would not be complete without the presence of The Goose.’
While Pertellis and his fellow radicals tried to make sense of what Mosca had told them, Miss Kitely, who had withdrawn through a little doorway, re-emerged, this time without a coffee-pot.
‘Mr Pertellis,’ she said, her quiet voice creating a space for itself amid the raised tones, ‘I have consulted him on the matter, and he would like to speak with the girl.’
‘Him?’ Mosca looked a question at Pertellis.
‘Our leader.’ Pertellis beamed with pride.
‘But… I thought you were the leader!’ Mosca exchanged a glance with Clent, who seemed as surprised as she was.
‘Oh no, not really. The truth is, we’ve never really had a leader.’ Pertellis gave the men around him an abashed smile. ‘We were just a group of friends who did our best to change things for the better in little ways – and met in this coffeehouse so we could talk safely. I suppose I kept everyone in touch with each other, but I was always ready to step down when a true leader came along. And he did – in our darkest hour. A man of action, of decision.’ A number of the Locksmiths were looking curious, and Mosca suspected that perhaps they had not met the mysterious leader either.
Mosca rose a little unsteadily and found that Clent was also on his feet.
‘If you have no objection, I shall accompany my secretary. I would be glad to trade a few words with this incomparable leader of yours.’
The leader would be someone with eyes as sharp as glass shards, Mosca thought, a man whose mind cut to the heart of things like a knife through cheese, a man like her father. The leader would be a man calm in every crisis, with a clear gaze and a smile as frank as a handshake.
Pertellis held the door ajar for Mosca and Clent, and he followed them into the room. It had the sick-room smells of vegetable soup and laudanum, but the man seated in a mahogany chair was dressed crisply, not with the slack helplessness of the invalid.
The radical leader was Captain Blythe the highwayman.
S is for Sedition
Captain Blythe, the highwayman. Captain Blythe in a redingote of good green cloth, with his hair combed back in its pigtail, and cobbled boots on his feet.
‘This is the young lady with the printed heart.’ Pertellis diligently recounted Mosca’s words.
Blythe did not offer him so much as a glance. Nor did he look at Mosca. His eyes were set upon the face of Eponymous Clent, as if he hoped to pin him with his gaze like a butterfly to a board.
‘How long has this man been here?’ he asked sharply as soon as Pertellis had finished speaking.
‘Mr Eponymous Clent was one of many languishing in the jail when your men led the rescue mission using the information and keys that Mr Goshawk gave us. He is… not exactly of our party but we took him with us because, well, we were not sure what else to do with him.’
‘I need to speak with him. Alone, if you please.’ Blythe remembered Mosca and gave her a fleeting glance. ‘All right, his familiar may stay if she must.’ Pertellis left the room without complaint.
‘I must say,’ Clent declared, rallying from his shock, ‘this is not a total surprise to me. When we, ah, met by the road to Mandelion, even then I noted something of a twinkle in your eye and said to myself, here is a gentleman who is more than he seems. Thievery is a game that he plays to, ah, mislead those who seek the leader of the valiant, freedom-loving radicals…’ Something in Blythe’s glare quelled Clent’s flow of words.
The highwayman placed his hands upon his knees, and leaned forward, still piercing Clent with his eyes. ‘Are you aware that you and your infernal ballad have ruined my life?’
‘Ah…’
Blythe erupted to his feet and took a few angry paces down the room and back, gripping his own fist as if trying to crush it.
‘I always laughed at those gulls who thought going on the highway was the way to become a gentleman. I saw them riding in darbies to the tree in their velvet lapels, with lasses of the town pretending to weep for them. And I laughed at them – for I knew that was not how it was done. It should be blood, and business, and keep your dreams in your head.
‘Then your cursed ballad changed everything. All my men started hearing they were my Gallant Company of Merry Rogues, and they took a liking to it. Then one evening, I came upon a big man in a black cap bullying two village lasses. They hailed me as if they knew me – they didn’t ask me to help them, they beamed and told Black-cap that now I was there they would surely see his crown broken. So he rounded on me, and so I rounded on him, and… tapped his claret for him. He ran off with his broken nose, and I found myself with a bundle of rosemary and half a rye cake in thanks. I could hardly peel their arms from round my neck. Well, that…’