Chapter 5: Our Friends in the North

The house was silent when I returned from depositing Becky and Zinnia at Bloomsbury Square, and as I let myself in I noticed the butler Worcester, obviously only now made aware of my arrival, struggling to button up his waistcoat as he hurried along the passage from the kitchen.
"Your pardon, Sir. We did not expect you home until later this evening. I took the liberty of granting the staff leave of absence until seven, as the two French ladies will not be returning home until eight, or so the elderly French gentleman told me. Missus Bridges is sound asleep in her room, but I can wake her if you require some refreshment?" His face bore a worried expression: whether due to him being anxious as to my reaction at finding him unprepared for my return or fearful of having to wake Mrs Bridges I leave to your judgement.
"No, there is no reason to wake her, and in fact you may continue with whatever you were doing prior to my arrival. I shall dine out this evening, and will return at a similar time as Miss Matilde and her companion."
His show of relief was palpable. Servants live in fear of being dismissed out of hand. They have no home, other than that of their place of employment, and if summarily dismissed would have great difficulty in obtaining another position, and accommodation.
I saw the pale face of the housemaid, Jane Gieves, looking out from the kitchen doorway. She had been engaged at the same time as Worcester, replacing Woodrow and Abigail Allen, who had been murdered while I was away in St Helena. I had avenged their deaths but was still heart sick at their loss. Jane was certainly plain, but I wondered if she and Worcester had been making the beast with two backs whilst the house was quiet and empty. However, whatever they got up to during their free time was none of my business, unless the even tenor of the running of my household became disrupted.
A few weeks later I learned Worcester was teaching Jane Gieves her letters, and felt ashamed that my first thoughts, regarding their activity in the deserted kitchen, were of a prurient nature.

The cuisine at Boodles came highly recommended by Krish Armityge. He had rooms in a well-appointed town house in Adams Street, but his cook, the sister of my own Mrs Bridges, had to leave his employ to look after her daughter. Krish was reluctant to fill the position as he hoped for her eventual return, consequently he had developed quite a gourmet's appreciation of the food on offer in the clubs and eating houses of London.
I was not too surprised to find him in the dining room when I arrived, and in fact I was hoping to see him as we had scarcely spoken two words to each other since my return to England. He invited me to join him at table, and we ate a fine meal of roast mutton. After the table had been cleared we sat and talked and drank. Krish had purchased a bottle of claret, although I would have preferred a flagon of strong ale. I asked him why he had decided to leave the Bureau and return full time to Saint Bartholomew's hospital. He gazed into his wine for several moments before speaking.
"You may recall about a year ago Colonel Slade dispatched me to Manchester?"
I shook my head. "No, I don't remember..." but it then came back to me." ... Of course, when Patrick Jane and I went dashing off to Bristol, and then later I went to St Helena."
Krish nodded. "I was to gain information concerning the Hampden Club which had recently been formed in the town by a gentleman named Joseph Johnstone, a follower of Major John Cartwright." He could see the names meant nothing to me. "Major Cartwright is a radical, and a long-time supporter of parliamentary reform and male universal suffrage, and has been since the middle of the last century. He published a stinging critique of HM Government's treatment of the American Colonists in seventeen seventy six, fully supporting their demands of no taxation without representation. More recently he has formed a radical club, named for the parliamentarian who opposed the imposition of the Ship Tax, which many think set the fuse that ignited the civil war between King and Parliament." Krish paused to take a drink from his glass before continuing. "These Hampden Clubs are springing up in many northern industrial towns, and the bureau has been set the task of investigating the members, especially those responsible for the administration of the clubs. The men who join these clubs are suspected to be not only radicals, whom the state only barely condones, but also of being republicans, which is not only anathema to the rich landowners who sit the Houses of Parliament but also to the Royal Family. However, I found the members to be honest, decent, hardworking artisans, with a strong held belief that all men should be permitted to decide for themselves who should be allowed to govern their country, and I did not detect a shred of republicanism amongst them."
He took a long drink of his wine. "Brigadier Stanhope accused me of not being aggressive enough in my investigations, implying my 'non- English birth 'made me more susceptible to the lure of republicanism than someone born in England. I asked him if he suspected me of being a traitor to the King, and he had to huff and puff to deny he had inferred any such thing. He said the point he had intended making was those born in the colonies have a history of republicanism, and therefore may be more insouciant to those who have been contaminated." Krish chuckled at that fatuous idea, but I doubt if he had though it so amusing at the time.
"I put it to the brigadier his assumption, concerning the political beliefs of non-English born subjects of his Majesty, would make those born in England, as were all the members of the Manchester club, less likely to espouse republicanism than the person he had sent to examine them. I then tendered my resignation from the bureau and left."
"I fear Brigadier Stanhope's years of espionage in Spain, with the attendant anxiety of being discovered by the French, severely affected his mental capacity," I said. "Anyway he has now been retired, and you could re-join the bureau." I finished my glass of claret, and looked for a waiter to bring a fresh bottle.

Krish stared into his glass, looking thoughtful, before drinking half the contents. "It was not only Stanhope's ridiculous statement which caused me to resign. I worked at times in the Infirmary in Manchester and saw the deprivation suffered by the workers in the mills and factories. They are little better than slaves, housed in appalling conditions, and paid in company tokens which are redeemable only in the company's provision shops. They are worked to death, sometimes literally. Men, women, and children, some less than eight years old, work in those hell holes known as factories and mills for twelve hours at a time. The noise is deafening, the fumes and dust are injurious to their health, and the machinery kills and injures scores of workers each day.
I saw some of the wounds suffered: limbs severed, eyes blinded, skin scalded and burnt. The owners of those factories and mills wouldn't keep their horses and hounds in such conditions, and in fact many regard their workers as less than human." He finished the wine in his glass. "I decided to do something for the working people of London, who suffer as much as those in Manchester. I now work six days a week at Bart's, and in fact I am due to perform surgery tomorrow, early in the morning, so will bid you a good night."
"I intend to write to Caroline this evening so I too will call it a night."
We left the club and walked along Pall Mall together until reaching Charing Cross, where I turned right down Whitehall and Krish continued along the Strand to Adams Street. As we walked I told him of Becky's imminent departure for the continent, accompanying the Shelleys, but I did not mention she was going to join Lord Byron. Krish would have been appalled to hear such news for he had a soft spot for my sister.

Back at Queen Street I found Matilde and her companion Violette had arrived home from the Club Francaise at 8pm and had since retired; I was surprised to see the time was past midnight. I made my way to what I euphemistically referred to as the library, although there were few volumes to give the room that distinction. I sat at the desk in the corner and wrote to Caroline, explaining why I would be unable to travel to Kent for at least a week. I will not burden you with the endearments written, telling her of my love, and how I would demonstrate my love when we next met. They were far too personal, and definitely far too risqué for the eyes of respectable readers. I finished and sealed the letter, leaving it on the table in the hall for Worcester to arrange for a galloper to take to Ashford House in the morning.
And so to bed.