Death of a Radical Read Free Page B

management of the Duke of Penrith’s northern estates more by accident than design. In his military days he had endured many wet and cold weeks in the saddle in a cheerful spirit. He had survived asinine superiors, incompetent allies and enemy ambush, but that day he could not recall feeling so put out of sorts by anything as one and three-quarter hours spent in the company of Mr. Hilton of High Top.
    Mr. Hilton was a sociable man; a principal tenant ofthe duke’s and a leading light of the Woolbridge Agricultural Society. He had sought out the duke’s agent to inquire whether his Grace might be inclined to contribute to a subscription being raised among agriculturalists in the neighborhood to engage Mr. Colling of Alnwick to bring his fabled bull, Cupid, to stand at Woolbridge and improve the stock in the Dale. That subject had been speedily settled but a good hour and a half passed before Mr. Jarrett was able to shake himself free near two whole hours wasted breathing the stifling exhalations of his beasts while Mr. Hilton made conversation.
    In the Dale everyone knew one another’s business. What they did not know, they speculated. Jarrett’s head was ringing with snatches about Mr. Hilton’s preference for fish, soggy bottoms (“that piece down there by the beck, it’s a trial”), pockmarked trees, Mrs. Anders’s arthritis and our Dot’s knees (“a canny milker our Dot”). Or was it Mrs. Anders’s knees and the cow suffering the arthritis? He longed to ride away, set sail, chop some wood—any simple exercise of action: clean, clear, wordless action with direction and a point to it.
    And now he was late. The Queen’s Head rose before him. The inn had sat comfortably at the southern end of the market opposite the church for more than a hundred years. For the last twenty it had been in the capable hands of Jasper Bedlington and Polly, his wife. The magistrates met there; the Agricultural Society, the Box Society; the Odd Fellows held dinners there and every quarterdances were mounted in the convenient assembly rooms on the first floor. The oppression of respectability seemed to crowd in on him as he marched under the coach arch. He took off his hat to run an impatient hand through his corn-blond hair. Could this really be his life?
    â€œMr. Jarrett! There you are!” Mrs. Bedlington, the publican’s wife, called out from the kitchen door. “Colonel Ison’s upstairs in my best private, when you’re ready.”
    â€œDamn the man,” Jarrett muttered to himself. “Good morning Mrs. B. You didn’t hear that, did you?”
    She screwed up her face in a comical expression of sympathy. She was a good woman. He smiled back.
    Colonel Ison was Member of Parliament and the leading local magistrate. A compact man with restless eyes under heavy black brows, he was ever busy in the public interest—especially in so far as it coincided with his high estimation of his own importance. This morning he was in his costume as Colonel of the Woolbridge and Gainford Volunteers. It was the habit of the commanders of such companies to design their own uniforms. Ison’s was not as extravagant as some.
    â€œAm I not to have the pleasure of Lord Charles’s company today?” The colonel looked over the agent’s shoulder as he greeted him.
    â€œThe Marquess of Earewith is out of town,” Mr. Jarrett replied. For him this was something of a relief. Charles had been keeping him company for months. He could see, however, that the colonel was disappointed.
    â€œMight I know when his lordship is to return?”
    â€œI am not informed of his plans.” When Charles had left he had been more than usually mysterious. Jarrett suspected he was up to something; as perhaps the marquess’s closest friend, he was resigned. Having no duties or responsibilities to speak of, my lord often took pleasure in preparing surprises with which