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“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.
