A Seditious Affair(79)

He was far, far too late.

George Ruthven, a constable whose face was all too familiar to London’s transgressors, was at the back of the group shouting orders to someone. There was a gaggle of gawping watchers in the street as well, and as Silas stared, one of them turned and looked at him, and their eyes met.

It was George Edwards, standing with the Bow Street officers. Edwards’s mouth opened, and he lifted his arm to point at Silas, crying out.

Then, finally, Silas ran.

—

The next day, around dawn, Silas stood with his hat pulled low on his brow and read the freshly pasted bill.

London Gazette Extraordinary,

Thursday, February 24, 1820.

Whereas Arthur Thistlewood stands charged with high treason, and also with the willful murder of Richard Smithers—



The imbecile. The stupid, blockheaded shitfire. He’d killed a man and damned them all.

—a reward of One Thousand Pounds is hereby offered to any person or persons who shall discover and apprehend, or cause to be discovered and apprehended, the said Arthur Thistlewood.



It was signed by Sidmouth. Which was remarkable, when you thought about it, because the stable had been raided around half past eight the evening before, and here it was just past seven in the morning, and in that time the bill had been written up, approved and signed by the Home Secretary, and printed, and it was now being pasted around London. Why, it was as if they’d had it planned.

Fast work was evident in the newspapers too. The Morning Chronicle was already on sale, and the cry of “Bloody murder” echoed through the streets. Silas picked up a discarded copy of the Chronicle and leaned against a wall to read.

The wall was damp, but Dom’s greatcoat was looking shabby anyway after Silas’s long night in the cold. He’d run while he could, then walked, not sure what to do, but knowing he had to stay far away from anyone he could hurt.

Information had been received at Bow Street, the Chronicle said, about an illegal meeting of some thirty men in a Cato Street hayloft. That sounded very impressive, though Silas doubted the numbers were any more accurate than the description of a stable as a hayloft. A formidable body of Bow Street officers had demanded entrance, it said; the persons assembled had made desperate resistance, and an officer by the name of Smithers had been stabbed.

Silas shut his eyes. That was what had done for the Gordons, Harry’s parents, the soldier killed during one of their riots. Juries were vague in their understanding of high treason, but everyone knew what murder was.

Silas read on. Some of the conspirators, including Thistlewood, had fled. Others had stayed and fought and been arrested. Several other officers had been dreadfully injured, whatever that might prove to mean. Thistlewood and the rest were sought by the law. Silas wondered if that would include himself. He’d come onto Cato Street at the other end of the stable. He’d just been standing there watching. George Edwards couldn’t truly have thought he was a part of the murder plot.

But Edwards was a traitor for the government. Why would he care about the truth?

Every meeting for radical reform is an overt act of treasonable conspiracy against the king and his government. Those had been Lord Sidmouth’s words, and here was his treasonable conspiracy, supported by the unlicensed meetings and possession of arms that his Acts had banned.

The government had won. They’d proved their case, or had the Spenceans prove it for them. Silas could taste the defeat, bitter as chicory.

There was one chance left for the Spenceans, and that was a repeat of the Spa Fields trial. If Edwards could be shown in court to be an agent provocateur, they might just stave off this disaster.

He had to find one of the Spenceans who’d escaped. They’d all be arrested; he had little doubt of that. They’d be caught, and their only chance was to accuse Edwards of leading the plot. If they could make that case, there was hope. Not for Thistlewood, of course. He would swing for murder no matter what. But better to swing than to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for treason, and Silas believed that Thistlewood would stand by his colleagues. If he came out and blamed Edwards, with nothing to gain from it, the rest might have a chance.

Silas had to find Thistlewood, and he had a fair idea where he’d be. They’d had a few more drinks than usual one night a couple of years ago, when he and Thistlewood had been in charity with one another, and compared notes on good places to lie low. Thistlewood had mentioned a place in Moorfields, and Silas had made sure he remembered that address. It was a stone’s throw from Finsbury Square and the old Sodomites’ Walk, where a man might still pick up company for an evening. He’d gone now and again for that purpose before Dominic, and a man never knew when a place to hide might come in handy.