Death of a Radical Read Online Free

to ambush his intimates.
    Colonel Ison expelled a hard little sigh. He was a man who relied upon the security of rank and the rank of Mr. Jarrett eluded him. On the one hand, Mr. Jarrett was the duke’s man of business: a trusted agent but still a servant and as such the social inferior of a magistrate and Member of Parliament. And yet, Mr. Jarrett was intimate with the duke’s family, in particular with his Grace’s son and heir, the Marquess of Earewith. The colonel being a mere public acquaintance, the most aristocratic family in the district and their circle had not seen fit to elucidate the mystery. The ambiguity of the precise nature of Mr. Jarrett’s connection with the ducal family, therefore, rankled. Whenever he was with his Grace’s agent Colonel Ison had the obscure feeling that someone was making a fool of him.
    â€œDomestic peace is most precious in time of war,” the colonel pronounced. He thrust a pamphlet at Jarrett, planting his feet to stand four-square. “Civilization itself rests upon it. As I told the Home Secretary in the lobby last week, we need decisive action, a firm hand.”
    Jarrett took the proffered paper and looked down at it, wondering by what unlucky chance
he
should havebeen selected for this particular address. The British had been at war with the French for the best part of his adult life, and there was still no end in sight, but Ison was the worst kind of armchair warrior. A part-time soldier, he had never faced a real enemy in his life. He was, in consequence, at the same time loudly bellicose and fearful. Jarrett turned over the document in his hand. It was printed on thin parliamentary paper, GEORGIII REGIS, CAP.XVII in bold print on its cover:
An Act for the more effectual Preservation of the Peace, by enforcing the Duties of Watching and Warding.
    â€œWhat manner of action, sir?”
    â€œDisturbances are in preparation for the Easter Fairs, I am sure of it.” The magistrate swayed a fraction toward him, deploying his formidable eyebrows to add weight to his words. “I am certain of it.”
    â€œI have heard nothing locally, colonel,” Jarrett responded mildly. In his past life Raif Jarrett had had considerable experience of undercover work. He prided himself on his intelligence. Mr. Hilton was the greatest gossip in the neighborhood and as far as Jarrett could recall, his best piece of news had been Mrs. Anders’s arthritis (that and an obscure anecdote about some newly discovered fungus that pockmarked trees).
    â€œForeign agitators!” the words were expelled from the colonel’s lips. “It is a matter of outside agents.”
    â€œYou can’t mean the French?”
    The colonel tweaked one gold-braided cuff impatiently. “You can be sure our enemy will benefit.”
    Britain being an island, French agents were not that common an occurrence. Jarrett could think of nothing that might tempt them to their isolated neighborhood. There were no munitions factories, no important barracks or prison camps and Woolbridge was miles from the coast. He wondered briefly if the colonel was drunk. He scanned the polished surfaces of Mrs. B’s best parlor. There was no liquor in evidence.
    â€œMy dear sir …” he began.
    â€œIntelligence, Mr. Jarrett; I have intelligence!” snapped the colonel. His cheeks flushed red. “There are rumors … Radicals. Insurgents.” He straightened his shoulders a fraction as if bracing himself. The agent’s expression was unreadable. He seemed entirely unmoved.
    Jarrett was aware of the incidents of machine breaking in recent months. The worst of it had been down in Nottinghamshire. Stockings and serges formed a principal part of Woolbridge’s manufacture, but the methods of the local masters were traditional. “We have no steammills here,” he objected. “Our weavers have no new machines to break.”
    He heard the breath rush through