The Old Order (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 7) Read online

  Book Seven: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Digital edition published in 2014 by

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  The Old Order

  Copyright © 2014 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents:

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Scene Setter

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  By the Same Author

  Scene Setter

  The continuing story of erstwhile, small-time smuggler Tom Andrews, who in earlier adventures, escaped from England to avoid the hangman’s noose. He was shanghaied onto a Caribbean bound privateering ship, before Tom fled to New York, accompanied by Joseph Star, a part Carib freeman. They were betrayed and were forced to return to England at the beginning of the first great industrial boom; as unscrupulous businessmen they quickly became wealthy. Tom met the beautiful, Lady Verity Masters, the daughter of an impoverished local aristocrat. Later, Tom and Verity set out their plans to place their dynasty in a position of economic, social and political leadership in England. All seemed to be going smoothly until tragedy struck.

  In The Old Order, tragedies, triumphs and political intrigues continue to occupy the day to day lives of the two great families.

  Introduction

  Tom Andrews is in his sixties and looking towards a last few years of ease, though his second wife Frances, has a surprise for him.

  Tom becomes involved in the sordid suicide of Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, and plays a major part in the cover up, earning much political gratitude for the whole family.

  James marries well and begins to lay the foundations of a political career, as a Whig.

  The hunt for Godby Fletcher leads to America.

  Joseph, busy with his inventions and in contact with the Stephensons, faces tragedy which may be too much for him.

  Joe Star dies of a sudden heart attack, greatly affecting Tom who has been showing uncertain health for some months.

  Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated The Old Order in a style reflecting English usage in novels of the Georgian period, when typically, sentences were much longer than they are in modern English. Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  Book Seven: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter One

  “Eighteen months, Captain Hood, and we still seem to be no closer to catching our little murderer!”

  “Yes, Mr Robert, I would say that was a fair summary. We know more of him and we have a good idea where he is not. Where he actually is, however, I cannot at this moment say.”

  Tom intervened before Robert exploded.

  “We have in fact made significant progress, Captain Hood.” He eased himself in his wingchair, shifting the weak arm to a more comfortable position. “We are within reason certain that he sailed from Bristol three days after the shooting. An unaccompanied young man with a ‘low accent’ but with ample funds, conforming to his age and general description, took a single berth, an expensive cabin, to New York – and that was unusual enough to stick in the shipper’s memory, though not sufficiently so for him to inform the authorities before he sailed. We do not know where he went after going ashore in America, and it is not a small country, but we can be within reason sure that he is not in the Cape or sailed to Botany Bay.”

  Eustace Hood bowed in acknowledgement.

  “We know as well, my lord, that he had stolen a large sum from his late employer. The whisper is that he took in excess of four thousands, one half in gold coin, the rest in notes from country banks in the Midlands and Birmingham. A few notes have been changed in New York, but that is not too uncommon an event, there being a substantial degree of commerce between Birmingham and America. What is noticeable is that almost no such notes have surfaced in other banking centres in the States.”

  “Then we have a strong indication that he is in New York,” Robert said.

  “There or thereabouts, Mr Robert. He could be in one of the small towns or villages in the state: he is a country youth by background and might not feel at home in a large city. But, there is, one is informed, a rather large community of criminals in New York. It would seem that many failed settlers have returned to New York and been unable to make an honest living or to return to England; in other cases emigrants have been forced out of their homes in England or Ireland and simply dumped destitute on the quaysides of the New World. A ruthless young man with some money could very quickly make a place in the back streets, could become a leader amongst these derelicts and would be well able to enforce silence. I think it more likely that he is in a position of sufficient power to cover his tracks than that he has disappeared into the wilderness.”

  Robert knew enough of the gangs in the rookeries of London to be aware that an informer was likely to be very short-lived. A gang leader would have a substantial degree of power in his own little precinct and could hide his identity for many years.

  “So… what is to be done next? The search will continue, Captain Hood, never ceasing until it becomes probable that he has died of old age, yet I know that you would be ill-advised to travel to the States in person, your previous occupation rendering that ineligible.”

  Captain Hood was believed to have worked with one of the Intelligence departments that had proliferated during the wars, had virtually admitted to being known in America.

  “Mr James Andrews has as factotum a Mr Murphy, once a sergeant in his company of the Rifles and before that articled to an attorney in Dublin. A literate and intelligent gentleman, even if somewhat indiscreet in his attachment to a free Ireland. He is no longer an indispensable member of Mr James’ household.”

  Tom and Robert had both met Murphy and respected his abilities. Murphy had been responsible to a very great degree for the way in which James had overcome the crippling loss of his leg; the young Member of Parliament was now contemplating marriage and his wife would take Murphy’s place.

  “You wish to send him to the States, Captain Hood?”

  “Another Irishman who has left his country in urgent fashion, my lord. Possibly drifting on the waterfront with a few coins in his pocket, an obviously able and self-reliant man, he would, I suspect, very soon be recruited into the company of others of his background. Alternatively he could go as our employee, asking questions of the powerful. Either way, and the choice would have to be his, I would have every hope of a succe
ssful outcome.”

  “How will Murphy return him to England for trial, Captain Hood?”

  The younger men stared at Tom, open-mouthed in amaze. Robert waved Hood to silence, chose his own words with some care.

  “’Trial’, as such, does not figure high on my list of priorities, Papa. In fact, sir, it does not feature at all! Provided the identity is established then there is no doubt of guilt. He murdered Mr Quillerson, for no better reason than that he was in the way. He tried to kill you, and was within a very few inches of success! He slaughtered his most recent employer, or so it seems very likely. He is a thief. Whilst I should like to see him dangling on the Tyburn tree, I will have no objection at all to him being shot like a dog in the gutter!”

  Tom thought about the matter of due legal process, concluded that he really was not too committed to a ritual semblance of legality. Godby Fletcher deserved to die, needed to be killed, the world would be a cleaner place without him.

  “My mistake, Robert. He must be dealt with, and it would be quite impossible to drag him aboard ship and hold him in custody for a month before delivering him to the constables in Bristol or Liverpool. I presume that there are no provisions for the trial of an English criminal before an American court?”

  Robert did not know, but Captain Hood was fairly certain that it could not be done, there would be no jurisdiction.

  “I would wish to speak to Mr Murphy myself. Can that be conveniently arranged?”

  Robert thought it to be unnecessary, but it could be done, much though he wanted to spare his father any effort or distress.

  “What of Fletcher’s sister, she who is thought to have travelled to Botany Bay as an emigrant?”

  Captain Hood thumbed through the leather brief-case he had brought with him, a small bag of legal invention and rarely seen except in barristers’ hands. He produced a letter.

  “A reply to my query made some sixteen months ago, my lord. I used the good offices of a friend who is still a serving naval officer and was enabled to obtain a very rapid response from another acquaintance who accepted a commission with the Rum Regiment when attempts were made to reform that appalling body.”

  They had heard of the Rum Regiment, the militia that provided a military presence in the penal colony and which was sufficiently corrupt to be noteworthy even in that age.

  “Has the reform achieved any success, Captain Hood?”

  “None whatsoever, Mr Robert! The men remain vicious drunkards and the officers have without exception become very substantial landowners, all with bands of convict-slaves to work their acres. I regret to say that the gentlemen who were sent out from England to remedy the sad state of affairs found that the prospect of possession in freehold of many thousands of acres of sheep and wheat lands tended to vitiate their reforming zeal. They became, in fact, just as enthusiastically corrupt as their predecessors!”

  They were not surprised, tended in fact to be amused at the naivety of politicians who had expected any other outcome.

  “Patience Fletcher, gentlemen, has taken the name of the Mr Hogsflesh who she travelled with, and to whom she has borne a child, and is living with him in some degree of domestic harmony. He has a position as a master tradesman with the authorities there, and, one understands, is in the way of achieving prosperity. My correspondent assures me that she has no knowledge of her brother, had suspected him to be dead, having received no word from him at all. He is quite certainly not in her company.”

  That made his residence in America even more likely.

  “We have no quarrel with her, so I trust your correspondent will not be moved to take action against her.”

  “He would not, my lord. He was employed in a function very similar to mine and knows very well that one must never compromise one’s sources. He will simply keep a distant watch upon her, listening out for any contact that may be made – she might be sent a letter, for example. Any mail that arrives in the colony for her will be perused before it reaches her hands, I am sure.”

  Tom thought that was rather nasty – it was spying rather than intelligence gathering.

  Captain Hood had met with that attitude before, was able to restrain his sneer.

  Tom and Frances travelled to London later that week, slightly more slowly in their own heavier and well-padded chaise than could have been achieved by post, but far more comfortably.

  Their main purpose was to consult with Sir William Knighton on the progress of Tom’s arm. The stomach wound, at first the main cause of alarm, had transpired to be little more than a laceration of the surface flesh, the ball never penetrating to any depth, and had healed very quickly and cleanly. The broken arm had knitted only slowly and still caused some discomfort.

  Knighton shook his head gravely – if only they had brought the case to his immediate attention! Now, a year and a half after the event, he was limited in all that he could do. He examined the arm, palpating the flesh as gently as was possible; he peered at the larger wound and traced a line across to the point of entry of the ball.

  “An inch below the exit wound, my lord, I do not know if you can see, let me hold a mirror to your arm…”

  A little manoeuvring and Tom could pick out a small, white, raised lump, at most a quarter of an inch across.

  “I strongly suspect, my lord, that there is a splinter of bone just there. It is causing you pain and may therefore develop into an abscess.”

  Frances had remained in the room, peered in her turn.

  “There is a possibility that it may simply remain inert, my lord. There is a stronger chance that it will mortify. My opinion is that it should be removed at an early date, the sooner the better.”

  “Then so be it, Sir William. Would you wish me to attend at a hospital?”

  Knighton was horrified at the very prospect.

  “Not in London, my lord! That would be little more than a sentence of death! The wards are full of fever cases. It is winter now and the incidence is not as great, but the risk of infection is unacceptable even so. Better far to attend to the matter here and now.”

  Knighton pulled a cloth out of his bag, bloodstained from a previous patient, laid it across a side table to protect the varnish. He took a lancet and a pair of whalebone tweezers from an inside pocket, wetted his finger in his mouth and rubbed the instruments clean.

  “A little brandy, if you would be so good, my lord. Not to drink, I would add, sir. A little trick I was shown by a Scottish man of my acquaintance some three years ago, one that seems to improve on the success of minor operations.”

  Aitkens brought in the spirits and, at Knighton’s instructions, poured a trickle over Tom’s arm, resting on the table.

  “It stings a mite, my lord, but it does something useful to the skin, or so it seems. Now, then, if you would just look away, my lord, holding perfectly still the while, just a small nick…”

  Knighton swiftly cut a cross over the white lump and poked with the tweezers.

  “Ha! Got him!”

  He held his trophy in triumph, a splinter less than half an inch long, rather like a bloody fish bone.

  He pushed down with his finger, probing inside the cut to see if there was another present.

  “No! Quite clear. Provided all goes well with the healing of this incision then we may hope for an improvement in your condition, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Sir William, I am obliged to you, sir! Aitkens, don’t go away quite yet!”

  The butler, white in the face, having no love of bloodshed, poured a stiff brandy and handed it to his master. Tom was fairly sure he would help himself to a tot of the same as soon as he was out of sight; he did not blame him.

  Frances escorted Knighton to the door – he was only a doctor, yet he was probably the best in his trade in London so one could not really afford to snub him.

  “Thank you, Sir William. I am a little worried, doctor, about Lord Andrews’ general strength and constitution – he seems to have made a less than full return to his vigour.” />
  “Removing the splinter will have helped, ma’am, provided he survives the operation, of course; the wound may yet mortify and that would demand amputation, which is undesirable at his age, or indeed at any stage of life! That apart, a healthy diet will work wonders – less of red meat and more of fowl, fresh fruit when possible, green vegetables at every dinner, all will help. My lord shows none of the signs of a drinker, and that in itself will be to his advantage. Perhaps he might take tobacco? A cigar of an evening is often said to be of great use to an invalid.”

  Frances did not like the smell of tobacco, decided she would not pass on that piece of advice.

  Knighton returned next day, was delighted to discover Tom dressed and sat downstairs.

  “A successful operation, my lord! You are, of course, aware that a doctor may claim his triumph if the patient has survived twenty-four hours after the first incision? No? Not to worry. May I look at the wound?”

  The swelling had subsided and the whiteness of the flesh was much lessened. Another great success to be laid at the good doctor’s door – as he would take pains to make known in the fashionable world.

  Knighton was also aware that living patients were far more likely to pay a bill – executors for the late lamented often displayed a reluctance to meet the doctor’s very reasonable fees, possibly feeling they had not received their money’s worth.

  James Andrews was dressed in his very best, valet and factotum fussing about him, both very pleased that Scott had just delivered his latest coat.

  “A perfect fit, if I might say so, Mr James! Not quite the cut of the dandy but definitely showing the mark of the Town Smart, sir! The trousers… well, there is no alternative, sir, the leg must be hidden, though of course Lord Petersham has gone some way to making the garment fashionably acceptable.”

  James had seen the Petersham Trouser worn by younger men-about-town, had not approved of the great, flapping twenty-four inch cuffs, the arrogant statement of defiance of Brummel’s dictum that the well-dressed man should not be startling. Brummel had held, and James agreed wholly, that a man could be told to be well-dressed if everything about him was simply right so that his clothing was austerely and invisibly correct. The loss of a leg meant that James could not wear proper breeches or pantaloons as a gentleman should, yet that was no reason to be outlandish in appearance.