George Ruthven was already at the Horse and Groom, and had been since two that afternoon. Northington, garbed still in the wool jersey and rough coat, sat with him as they waited. Tyler was posted outside to keep watch on the stable. At the stable across the dark street, lights flickered below and above in the hayloft.
“They’ve been arriving since early today,” Ruthven said calmly. “There’s about two dozen men.”
“Hardly the fifteen thousand Thistlewood predicted.” Colter balanced his chair on its two rear legs, arms crossed over his chest as he and several others took turns watching out the window for the conspirators. “We may not have to wait on the Coldstream Guards to arrive.”
Ruthven nodded and slid a glance toward Richard Birnie, who was a Bow Street magistrate in charge of the operations. They had just arrived, a dozen police officers and the magistrate, now staring into the darkness of Cato Street. The was an air of tense excitement in the room.
Tyler slid into the room a few minutes later, his face sharp with tension. He beckoned to Colter and said tautly, “You were right. John Brunt has delivered sabers, swords, pistols and rifles to the stable all day, but I was just told they have armed themselves with a hand grenade.”
“Christ,” Colter swore softly. “A hand grenade is more than we bargained for. They might as well have cannons sitting in that bloody stable.”
“What should I do? Do I tell Birnie?”
Colter glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. Tell him, but wait until I’ve gone.”
Tyler’s jaw set. “You’re not exactly unknown. If they recognize you, that would destroy any chance of surprise we have.”
“Then don’t wait long after I’m gone to tell them what you know, Tyler.”
It was a risk, but there was little choice. It was all happening too quickly now, and an argument with Birnie would take up valuable time.
It was cold, the night pressing down as he stepped outside. Chimney smoke clogged the air, layering beneath the clouds to burn eyes and nose. Across from the pub, a lamp burned over the stable door; the second floor was darker, with something over the windows. The small stable was near a corner where some five-story brick buildings ran parallel. An arch cut under one of the buildings, and he saw a casual lounger waiting beneath the fitful light of a small lamp.
There would be no second chances.
Darkness greeted him on the first floor of the stable, the smell of hay and dung strong as he slipped inside a side door and paused. Stationed at the main door, a man watched the street intently, the dull light a pale glint along the stock of his weapon.
The old reckless exhilaration was on him now as Colter moved on the balls of his feet across the straw-littered dirt of the stable floor, a knife in one hand. He’d done this kind of thing before, in France and in the steaming swamps of Louisiana, and even in the hot, arid desert of California. This kind of fighting wasn’t military precision but guerrilla style, stealthy and devastating to morale if not numerically superior. Nervous sentries never knew from where an enemy would come, rising out of black night to slit a throat or put a blade between the ribs, or hiding behind bushes or walls, lying in wait for an ambush.
It was these times he felt truly alive again. It was a paradox that a man only felt alive when he was in danger of dying, but maybe that was because he felt stifled by the atmosphere in which he found himself most of the time. He hadn’t felt this acute sense of danger, of risk, since he’d returned to England.
There were only a few minutes before Ruthven and Birnie acted, and he had to find the hand grenade before any of the conspirators had a chance to use it. Disarming the guard was no challenge, sliding up behind him and putting the tip of his knife to the spot just below his ear, his voice soft as he told him to throw down his weapon.
“Softly now. If my hand slips…”
There was no need to say more. The man nodded silently, terror making him clumsy but obedient.
“What’s your name?” The knife prodded slightly when he only stammered.
“Ings…James Ings!” was the hoarse whisper.
“Now, Mister Ings, why don’t you show me where you keep the hand grenade and other weapons. You know it’s all over now, so no sense in being stubborn. The police will be here any minute, and in any case, there are twice as many of them as there are of you, so you don’t have a chance. A trial could go either way, just as the last one. And at least you’d have a chance that way. If you warn Thistlewood, I’ll gut you right here.”
Reflected light from the lantern outside on the wall betrayed Ings’s pasty pallor, and he nodded slowly.
“The…grenade is over there. I was to use it if we were stormed.…”
It took only a moment to bind and gag Ings, then find the grenade. Colter stood up when Ruthven led his small force inside. Silently he gestured to the ladder, and Ruthven flashed him a grin.
Colter followed as they swarmed up the ladder to the hayloft. As they burst into the loft Ruthven shouted, “We are peace officers! Lay down your arms!”
Thistlewood and Davidson drew their swords, and were immediately engaged by some of the officers, while several of the conspirators hastily tried to load their pistols. A table was knocked over in the confusion as men scrambled, a lamp landing dangerously close to a mound of straw. Moving swiftly, Colter brought his foot down on one man’s arm and bent to pluck the pistol from his hand. There was shouting, but it was over quickly, and officers moved to arrest them, herding them in a group.
Glancing up, Colter shouted “Watch him!” just as a desperate William Davidson lunged forward with his sword to pierce one officer in the chest.
As the officer reeled, he gasped out, “Oh God, I am…” then collapsed.
Colter leaped over the fallen man and tackled Davidson, taking him to the wooden floor. A vicious blow to the jaw made lights explode, and he countered the next punch with an upraised arm, his free hand slashing out and down, catching the conspirator in the angle of his neck and shoulder, sending him crashing to his knees. Straw chaff flew into the air as they fought, but with the advantage of weight and experience against him, Davidson was quickly subdued.
Panting, Colter hauled him to his feet, a pistol stuck into the man’s back as he gave him into the custody of one of the police officers. Then he saw Tyler.
He dragged his sleeve across his jaw as he watched the officers round up the others, and said, “They delivered all the munitions for us. All that has to be done now is deliver them to the magistrate.”
“Once we catch those who escaped.” Tyler shrugged at Colter’s sharp glance. “When Smithers was stabbed, a few of them escaped. Thistlewood took advantage of the confusion, and according to Edwards, so did Brunt, Adams and Harrison.”
“How’s Smithers?”
“Dying, it looks like.”
Colter glanced around the loft; the fallen officer lay on his back, blood seeping to the floor, his breath rattling in his throat, while around him his comrades milled in great distress and anger.
“We need to catch them,” Tyler said softly, and Colter nodded.
“They’ll be caught. And they’ll hang.” He looked back at Tyler. “I think I know where they might hide.”
It was easy enough to find the men who had fled, and Colter found Tyler an able comrade, quick thinking and even quicker to act. They turned them over to the magistrate, a little worse for their ordeal, defiant to the end and spouting radical speech.
“They’ll hang,” Tyler predicted laconically, leaning on the pub table, a half-empty tankard in his hand.
“Or be deported.” The pub was stuffy and full of smoke, swirling every time the door opened. They were waiting for Mowry, though he would come to the back room instead of the common room. Tyler shook his head.
“Not Thistlewood and Davidson. They’ll hang, along with Brunt, who hid the weapons. Too bad we couldn’t charge John and James Carlisle with anything.”
“Not enough proof. The magistrates aren’t anxious to lose another case against the Spenceans, though this time there’s more than enough proof on Thistlewood.”
Mowry confirmed their conclusions, satisfaction evident as he gloated. “Sidmouth is most pleased. As well he should be, since it would have been his head adorning a pole at the city gates.” Leaning back, he twisted the stem of his wineglass between his thumb and fingers, a smile lingering as he said, “It seems disaster has been averted yet again. It’s regrettable that not all the men involved can be brought before the courts, but one day they will make a misstep. When they do, I’ll have them.” His eyes flicked to Colter. “Even Whigs must recognize men like that are dangerous.”
“Danger is in a mind closed to progress and reform. But that’s another discussion. I have other business to attend.”
“Ah, yes, the matter of Miss St. Clair. I trust that all is well in that quarter.”
“It will be when I get there.”
“Of course.” Mowry’s smile sharpened slightly. “She must be waiting for you. I trust she’ll be more forthcoming in the future.”
Damn Mowry, the man never said things directly but had to be so bloody oblique.
“If you have information to share, I’ll be glad to hear it,” he said. “But I’m in no mood to play games.”
“No, it doesn’t sound that way. Any information I have is just rumor. I’m sure you’ll take care of things in your own way.” He rose to his feet, his eyes hooded. “You’ll want to pay a visit to Barclay before you leave London, Northington. He’s always so—informative.”
Christ, how was Mowry involved in that business? He had too many damned informants.
“I’m not at all sure I appreciate your delving into my private business concerns, Mowry. There are areas in my personal life that are not open for your review.”
“Certainly, unless you happen to be involved in illegal activities.”
“Are you making an accusation?”
“No, a point. One hand should know what the other is doing. The Inland Revenues do not care to be cheated, nor do the Revenue cutters like chasing boats with men who shoot at them.”
“None of which has anything to do with me.”
Mowry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That has yet to be proven. His Majesty’s taxes are expected to be paid on goods that come into this country, even goods that come by way of the back door.”
Dammit, his father would destroy them all one day.
“If you’re insinuating that I’m smuggling goods from my own ships into the country, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t take the risk for a negligible amount of money.”
“Perhaps not, but it seems likely that not everyone in your firm feels the same way. Investigate it, Northington, and I think you will be surprised. Heed me well. Not every head that rolls in these situations is guilty, but if they must be sacrificed, it is done. But you know that.”
“Yes,” he said grimly. “I know that.”
With a frosty smile, Mowry said coolly, “Excellent. I look forward to our next meeting, gentlemen.”
It sounded almost like a threat.