During the conversation, Anne struggled with a delicate question, not wishing to offend Sarah or seem to pry into her affairs. Finally she found an opportune moment. “I can't help wondering why you sat with the nymphs, giving the appearance that you were one of them.”
“I don't resent the question,” Sarah said with a patient smile. “The bartender and most of the patrons know who I am and why I'm there. I'm a seamstress like my mother. We make clothes for those women. Nothing I do or say suggests that I wish to sell my body.”
“But your manner with the women is friendlyâ¦.”
“The Pharisees condemned Our Lord Jesus for sitting at table with sinners and for allowing them to touch him. He did not judge them. I follow his example.” She held Anne's eye in a steely grip, her voice husky with pent-up passion. “You sit at table with Sir Harry Rogers, a proud greedy man, who carries on a cruel trade in human flesh. I sit with three poor ignorant girls who have no choice but to sell themselves.”
“I take your point,” said Anne, feeling ashamed. As an actress, she had felt the harsh judgment of modern hypocrites.
A smile softened Sarah's expression, her voice cleared. “The three young women at The Little Drummer are kindly, generous girls, loyal and brave. You saw how they prevented the other sailor from attacking us. I enjoy their company. They see the funny side of life, as well as the misery.”
While the young woman spoke, Anne began to feel a kinship with her despite their obvious differences of race and class. They were both independent spirits and lived without regret beyond society's respectable circles.
On the way back to Combe Park, once more in her own dress, Anne sorted out her impressions. Contrary to his master's will, Jeffery had gone to Sarah Smith to learn to read and to make contact with the Quakers. The footman knew he was being followed and would be reported. Sir Harry would surely be furious and resort to drastic measures. Yet, the footman took only simple precautions. He must believe he would be freed very soon.
Anne sensed the making of a tragedy. Jeffery seemed desperate for freedom, prepared to risk everything. She could not bring herself to imagine the consequences.
Partners
Tuesday, April 3
It was now midmorning. Bath was fully awake; carts and carriages clogged its streets. Colonel Saint-Martin made his way through the traffic on foot to the York Inn. By this time, Georges was trailing after Fitzroy. Anne was somewhere in the city. She had been seen walking from Combe Park, dressed like a housemaid. Curious, he thought, she hadn't left a message. Investigating on her own, he supposed, a little disquieted.
At the entrance, the colonel was surprised by a sudden anxiety at the prospect of meeting Dick Burton. Would he see a conflict of interest between them over Captain Fitzroy? Last night in the Tea Room, the Bow Street officer had asked why Fitzroy had struck Roach. Saint-Martin had told him the rumors concerning Charlie's parentage and the alleged affair between Lady Margaret and Fitzroy. Burton had kept a straight face, had not commented.
That worried the colonel. When engaging Burton to search for Anne last April, he had gathered only a superficial impression of the man. His character and opinions had not been an issue then, but they were now. Burton was a patriotic English policeman and might object to any French attempt to kidnap the rogue Irishman. He might also want Fitzroy as a possible witness against Roach in an extortion trial.
Now was as good a time as any to find out. The colonel squared his shoulders and strode into the inn determined to turn Dick Burton into an ally. After all, they shared the goal of ending Roach's depredations in Bath and his threat to Anne. They would have to negotiate their differences.
At the front desk the colonel inquired after the officer and was directed to the breakfast room. A cool northerly light filtered through lace curtains into the oak-panelled interior. Only a low murmur of voices, an occasional clatter of tableware disturbed the hushed silence.
Saint-Martin paused in the entrance and surveyed the patrons. Few tables were occupied at this hour. The Pump Room was already open and had drawn many of the guests away to the water. The colonel spotted his man sitting by himself at a small table near a window, a newspaper to his left and a pot of coffee to his right.
The colonel took a few steps into the room, then paused for a closer look. Last night had not offered him a good opportunity to study Burton. They had met by candlelight in the hubbub of the Assembly Rooms and had also been distracted by the conflict between Roach and Fitzroy. Now, in the window's cruel daylight, the man looked unhealthy, his face creased and gray, the sabre scar a dull blue line. A cane lay on the floor under his chair.
At the colonel's approach, Burton stirred as if to rise. As he shifted his weight, a brief spasm of pain flashed across his face.
“Stay seated, please.” Saint-Martin took the chair opposite the officer.
“Chronic arthritis. It's gotten much worse since we first met. Mornings are hell.” Burton smiled wanly. “Couldn't sleep overnight coming from London. My coach hit every bump on the road. Didn't sleep well last night either.”
The colonel gazed sympathetically at his ailing companion. “I hope you'll soon feel better. You've come to the right place. Perhaps a hot bath will help.”
“Thank you, Colonel. Hot water does usually ease the pain. Didn't help much today. Just got back from King's Bath. I've tried the doctors too. Quacks, every one of them. They've no cure. By the looks of it, Jack Roach will be my last case.” He gestured to the pot of coffee. “May I order one for you?”
Although he had breakfasted earlier, Saint-Martin agreed for fellowship's sake and out of self-interest. In view of Burton's infirmity, he might welcome assistance even from a pair of Frenchmen, though he could not be expected to admit it.
Another pot of coffee arrived. Saint-Martin leaned forward to pour, but Burton waved him back and took the pot. “You're my guest. I'm not helpless,” he remarked with asperity. Though his hands trembled over the cup, he didn't spill a drop.
While the colonel stirred a lump of sugar into his cup, he reported on Lady Margaret's panicked return to her room in Combe Park. Someone had spied on her with a hidden optical device and had stolen something precious to her from a secret drawer.
“I see the Red Devil's hand in this,” said Burton, a hint of admiration in his eyes. “Provoking Fitzroy was a clever ploy.”
“A skillful villain, indeed,” said Saint-Martin, his voice heavy with scorn. He surmised that Roach's criminal talents had won the officer's respect over the year he had been pursuing him. The colonel went on to describe how the theft had thrown Fitzroy into a fury and led him to beat Lady Margaret.
Leaning back in his chair, Burton listened attentively and asked a few brief questions. When Saint-Martin finished, the Bow Street officer sat up, took a drink from his cup. “Whatever was stolen concerned Fitzroy in some way and had been wrongly concealed from him. Love letters, I'd guess. Sounds like evidence Roach would want to sell to Harry Rogers.”
“But if Critchley still has it,” countered Saint-Martin, “he might try to bargain with Roach. Or, better yet, ignore Roach and sell directly to Rogers.”
Burton shook his head. “And risk Roach's wrath? Not likely.”
Saint-Martin raised a warning finger. “Consider Captain Fitzroy. To save what he has invested in Lady Margaret, he might lash out at Roach.” He handed Burton a basket of bread and a pot of butter. “By the way, Roach must also be behind Critchley's spying on Jeffery. What should we make of that?”
The officer smiled his thanks and buttered a roll. “Roach can't expect to extort money from a black slave. Perhaps he could force him to spy on Lady Margaret. Or, he might try to influence the boxing match tomorrow and hedge his bet.”
Saint-Martin idly stirred his coffee, drank slowly. His inner gaze focused on Jack Roach, trying vainly to grasp the man's mind. Exasperated, he looked up at his companion. “Roach may be juggling more balls than he can manage.”
Burton rose stiffly from the table and reached for his cane. “Let's watch him.”
***
The Pump Room was doing a lively business as Saint-Martin and Burton entered. They looked around for Roach, but he wasn't to be seen. This morning, the room seemed filled with bent middle-aged men shuffling painfully about, clutching glasses of hot spring water. Burton stared at them, then bent over, tapped his cane, and mimicked their grimaces. “I'll soon come to this,” he snapped. In the next instant, he straightened up and turned to Saint-Martin. “Sorry for the self-pity.”
The colonel smiled reassuringly. “Perhaps the water will help.” With Burton hobbling behind, Saint-Martin pressed through the crowd. At the counter he bumped into Madame Gagnon. “Pardon,” he said, startled.
“Good morning, Colonel Saint-Martin! What a pleasant surprise!” she exclaimed in French, then noticed the companion behind him. If she were concerned she had compromised herself, she didn't show it. She turned back to the counter, paid the attendant, and took her glass.
Saint-Martin had no choice but to introduce her to Burton, adding, “Madame Gagnon owns a fine millinery shop on Milsom Street.” He dared not reveal her connection to Baron Breteuil, a secret best shielded from the sharp prying eyes of a Bow Street officer. The government might call upon him one day to investigate French espionage in Britain.
Saint-Martin placed an order at the counter and wondered how to disarm Burton's suspicion. The officer was surely asking himself how a French colonel, apparently on a secret mission to Bath, had come to know this woman. To say they had met accidentally in her shop, or at church, or any other simple lie would insult Burton's intelligence. Saint-Martin opted for a partial truth.
He handed the officer a filled glass. “Madame Gagnon and I have a mutual interest in restraining Jack Roach. He's as troublesome to some of her customers as he is to Miss Cartier.”
Burton's eyebrow arched a bit. He raised his glass in a mocking toast to Roach. “Amazing! He touches so many lives!” He bowed to the milliner. “Would you allow me, Madame, to pay you a call and discuss his depredations in greater detail?”
She took his measure with a glance. “Of course,” she replied, “I'm across the street from the Somerset and Avon Bank.” With a wave and a wink, she disappeared.
Roach arrived a few minutes later, looking pleased with himself. He strutted through the room, greeting almost everyone on his way to the counter. A glass of hot spring water in his hand, he surveyed the crowd like a bird of prey.
Observing Roach from a few paces away, Burton leaned toward Saint-Martin and whispered, “You have to give the Red Devil credit. He enjoys his business.”
“But he's so brazen about it.”
“With the excisemen behind him, he thinks he can't be touched.”
When Critchley arrived, Roach's face brightened. They exchanged a few words. Roach appeared momentarily startled, then frowned. He beckoned Critchley to follow him from the Pump Room.
Saint-Martin and Burton set off after them, the latter limping, grimacing with pain. Roach and Critchley crossed the church yard through a light mist, walked around the Abbey Church, and continued through Orange Grove to the wall near the river.
Despite the cool wet weather, small clusters of people were walking in the grove, offering cover to Saint-Martin and Burton. They drew close enough to see the two men, but could not hear what they said. In the shelter of a tree Saint-Martin raised his small jointed telescope to observe their facial expressions and gestures. Suddenly, Roach shoved a hand forward as if to demand something. Critchley jumped back a step, shaking his head violently. Roach took a step forward, raised his fist to within an inch of Critchley's face and screwed up his features into a fierce scowl.
“Mon Dieu!” Saint-Martin murmured. “They are close to blows.” He lowered the telescope and handed it to Burton. “I think Roach desperately wants whatever Critchley has stolen from Lady Margaret. And Critchley refuses to give it up. If that's the case, why doesn't Critchley go directly to Sir Harry?”
Burton peered through the telescope for a few minutes, then said softly, “Because Roach has power over Critchley and is threatening him. They are probably arguing over a price. Critchley wants too much and doesn't trust Roach to pay.”
Roach turned abruptly on his heels and stalked away toward the bridge to Spring Gardens. Critchley left in the direction of Combe Park.
Burton lowered the telescope and turned to Saint-Martin. “One of the balls Roach was juggling has just gotten out of control.”
***
Early in the afternoon, Saint-Martin and Burton returned hungry to the York Inn. As they entered the public room, the aroma of beef stew and ale teased their nostrils. Patrons coming and going jostled with waiters serving the tables. Dishes clattered above the general din of voices.
The two men exchanged glances and engaged a small private room. At the recommendation of an honest-looking waiter, they ordered the stew and ale. After serving them, the waiter left a large pot of ale and a bottle of brandy on a sideboard. The door closed behind him.
Saint-Martin broached a matter that had intrigued him earlier. “Back in Orange Grove, you said Roach had a hold on Critchley. Would you mind telling me what you meant?”
Burton put down his fork, then swallowed a mouthful of ale. “From following Roach in London, I've learned he has employed Critchley as a spy before, especially in the homes and offices of wealthy merchants. I reasoned there had to be a dark spot in his past that Roach knew about. Eventually, I discovered that an employer had discharged Critchley under suspicion of having stolen a large quantity of silver plate. He escaped arrest and hanging because the Bow Street magistrate could not confirm the accusation or find the silver. I suspect he sold it to a fence whom Roach knew. He could have informed against Critchley and collected a reward, but chose instead to use him as a spy and earn more money through extortion. Roach can hand him over to the magistrate any time he wishes.”
“Then Critchley's little more than a slaveâone who surely hates his master.”
“There's no love lost between them.” Burton turned his attention back to his stew.
Conversation lagged until they finished their meal. Then, in search of common ground, Saint-Martin remarked, “You mentioned earlier having served with British forces at Minden.” He cast a glance at the old soldier's scar. “My father was also thereâ¦on the French side. Lieutenant-General of Cavalry. He died of his wounds.”
“I was lucky to have escaped with just this.” Burton stroked the scar, then reached for the bottle of brandy and filled their glasses. “At the time, I hardly knew what happened. Thick smoke blanketed the battle field. French horsemen came upon us by surprise, sabers slashing, hooves pounding. In an instant, the battle ended for me. I awoke an hour later in a sea of blood and gore. French and British dead lay together all around me in a jumbled mass. I took no pleasure in our victory and vowed to serve God and country in another way.”
The officer seemed to slip into reverie. His eyes gazed into a distant past. Saint-Martin leaned back in his chair and sipped quietly, recalling his father away at war and his mother in deep depression.
The silence of the room jarred Burton into the present. “Colonel, your father and I could have met at Minden.” His voice was full of sadness. “The ways of Providence are puzzling! You would have been very young then.”
“Ten.”
“With no father. What became of you?”
“First, a cadet in the royal military academy, then a commission in the cavalry and service in America. After the war, a provost of the Royal Highway Patrol. Since the last time we met, I've broken up a ring of jewel thievesâwith Miss Cartier and my adjutant, Georges, deserving most of the credit.”
“You are too modest,” Burton observed, toasting him with a glass of brandy. “A colonel and provost before the age of forty!”