Chapter 9: Blanchards Revisited

The Bristol-London Express Barge Company's vessel Princess Caroline deposited me at Westminster Steps at eight the next morning. As I walked from the Steps to Horse Guards I recalled doing the same when Patrick Jane and I had returned from Bristol after failing to stop the sailing of the Western Star. That was less than two years ago, although the event now seemed a lifetime away.

For the next two months I sat at my desk in an office at Horse Guards dutifully filling in returns, making out requisitions, and carrying out the hundred and one administrative jobs in which government employees spend a great deal of their days engaged. Time moved slowly after my return to the office. Many of those people whom the Bureau kept under surveillance were visiting Bath during the season, and much of the office staff had decamped to that city.
Even so the atmosphere around the Bureau indicated great changes were in prospect. Most of the recommendations made by Colonel Slade, from suggestions put forward by Zinnia Teazle, had been implemented. As for those two worthies; I had a suspicion that they had become better acquainted now my sister had taken herself off to Italy and Zinnia had returned to the office. Indeed Colonel Slade and Zinnia had travelled to Bath together, and were reported attending balls, concerts, and dinners, as a couple.

I became the happiest man in the kingdom when the Season finished in Bath and Caroline returned to Ashford House. Matilde and Molly March came back to Queen Street, and the various members of the Bureau reappeared in their offices.
By all accounts Matilde had caused quite a stir in Bath. Assorted dowager duchesses and countesses had perused her through their pinz nez and had found her 'exquisite', 'beguiling', 'looked to be of good breeding stock', etc. Caroline expected the sons of those powerful matriarchs to be beating a path to the door of 18 Queen Street, although Matilde herself remained somewhat blasé about her popularity. "I was merely something different; a female frog eater, who those spotty boys came to gawk at." She did admit to being drawn to one or two young men, but would not tell me who. I expect Caroline and Molly knew but they preserved a silent front when I asked questions.

Caroline had been entranced by Matilde. "I can quite understand how she charmed you into her bed. Any red blooded male would have been ensnared by her, and you, my love, have a deal of red hot blood."
We had not long concluded an energetic coupling when she made this pronouncement, and I supposed she had firm evidence for her opinion.
Time away from Caroline and our son became a prolonged purgatory, and every Friday, when not on weekend duty, I would ride down to Bearsted after finishing work. I employed the same system of transportation as had Rob Crawshay when he first rode to Ashford House. I hired a horse in London, cantered non-stop to Swanley then rented a fresh mount to ride on to Bearsted. By this method I could travel from Queen Street to Ashford House in a little under five hours – Rob, being an excellent horseman, could complete the journey in three and a half hours.

"What do you make of this, Jack?" Colonel Slade's question caught me day dreaming, thinking of the approaching weekend with Caroline, and I looked up at him blankly. He had placed a sheet of paper on my desk, and now impatiently stabbed his finger on the document. "This letter, man. "
I read the letter slowly. The handwriting was cramped, with badly formed letters, and was difficult to decipher.
'My dear Sir
You may remember me as a pupil with you at Winchester, forty years ago, and as a fellow Wykehamist I take the liberty of writing to you now. I know you hold an important post in government and hope you pass this letter on to the relevant authorities. I have some information pertaining to the safety and security of His Majesty's subjects, and will give the person sent to interview me face to face all the facts applicable. I am unwilling to travel to England, or to put to paper those facts, but I can assure you it is in the interest of our country that note is taken of my missive.
I remain, Sir, your most Obt. servant
Timothy Whyte-Taylor
7 Rue de la Steenpoort
Brussels.'
"Obviously a crank, wouldn't you say Colonel?" I looked in vain for the identity of the addressee on the sheet of paper. "Who was the letter sent to?"
"Judging from the inter departmental stamps on the file the letter passed from the Home Office to John Stafford in Bow Street, who then sent it on to us. John Stafford is not a man who would bother with cranks, so there must be something to it." Slade replied.
He picked up the letter and absentmindedly tapped it against his teeth as he pondered. "Go and talk to Stafford at Bow Street. He may have other information pertaining to this letter. He may even know to whom it was addressed."

John Stafford was nothing like I expected. The Bow Street Runners were renowned throughout London, not only as thief takers but also dedicated sniffers out of sedition, plots against Sovereign or State, and anything else that might disturb the Peace of the Nation. Stafford commanded the Runners, and had a network of informers in the metropolis of London, and in most of the large cities of the land, including those manufacturing towns of the North where radicalism was alive and well.
I expected a sly, shifty looking sort of fellow, probably long nosed and beetle browed, but instead met a well set up, beaming, jovial looking man.
I introduced myself, and he stood up and came from his desk to pump my hand in a vigorous handshake.
"My dear fellow, Colonel Slade often sings your praises, and I'm honoured to meet the famous Major Greenaway at last." He indicated a comfortable looking leather chair. "Sit down, my dear chap. May I offer you a Madeira? I usually imbibe a glass at this time of the day; doing so aids both my digestive and cognitive tracts." He laughed, and his chubby cheeks wobbled. However, for all of his bonhomie Stafford soon got to the point of the meeting as we sipped our glasses of Madeira.
"Timothy Whyte-Taylor sent information regarding the French to London throughout our several wars with that pernicious nation. He is an unsung hero, and if Whyte-Taylor is concerned by something it behoves us to listen."
"He lived in France throughout the twenty years we were at war? " Incredulity flavoured my question.
"He lived, as he still does, in Brussels. He went out to the Low Countries over thirty years ago and married a Walloon ... a Papist as they all are ... then soon afterwards went native, short of converting to the Church of Rome of course. By all accounts his wife, his late wife as she died five years ago, was something of a beauty. They fell in love at first sight, although he is not particularly well-formed either of face or physique." Stafford took a sip of wine. "Whyte-Taylor is an accomplished artist, and during his sketching of French officers, in readiness for a painting of them in oils, he would gain military information by his adroit questioning. The cunning fellow was never suspected of being a spy."

He drained his glass and refilled it before realising he had not invited me to another glass. "Excuse my ill manners, Major. Shall you... ?" He indicated the decanter of wine in his hand. I had yet to finish my wine, and shook my head. Stafford placed the decanter in a cupboard, and after takung a swallow of Madeira continued with his story. "Whyte-Taylor prefers to be addressed as 'Professor', although he has no academic claim to the title. He is an apothecary, rather a good one by all accounts, and a follower of Doctor John Dee. Which could explain why alchemy is closer to his heart than apothecary. His neighbours think him a seer, and kept their mouths shut whenever questioned about him by the authorities. The French thought him Dutch, the Dutch thought him a Walloon, and the Walloons thought he was French ... he speaks all three language with fluency."
"Wouldn't his surname give some clue as to his nationality?"
Stafford laughed. "Indeed it would have, my dear fellow, but Timothy took his wife's name after their marriage ... Pompidou, or some such I believe."
I should have realised an English spy in a French speaking area would have used a local alias, and I tried to nullify my stupid question with one more pertinent. "To whom was the letter addressed?"
"To The Home Secretary himself ... Lord Sidmouth." Stafford put down his empty glass. "Whyte-Taylor was a senior boy at Winchester College when The Viscount Sidmouth, plain Henry Addington as he was in those days, arrived as a blubbing, sobbing, snotty nosed boy of eight. Henry became Timothy's 'bull boy' ... a sort of personal attendant ... who cleaned his boots, ironed his trousers, and ran errands and the like. Young boys fresh from the nursery are like catnip to a tom cat for those repressed males in colleges, but as Henry was under Timothy's protection he escaped most of the sodomy and humiliation the sprigs of nobility are forced to accept at those institutes of learning."
I was offered, and refused, another glass of Madeira, and as John Stafford saw me out of his office he said. "I expect we shall cooperate more often when all the changes currently underway are completed."
I must have looked at him uncomprehendingly because he went on to explain his remark. "Your department will soon be moving to new accommodation, as will mine. There is already some interchange of intelligence and personnel between Colonel Slade and myself, in fact I have the services of a first rate fellow, a Lieutenant Patrick Jane, on loan at the moment from Colonel Slade. I shall look forward to working more closely with you in the future, Major."
He shook my hand, and I left the building wondering what lay in store for the Bureau – and to where Patrick Jane had been dispatched. He had only spent three weeks in Bath before being recalled to London, and nothing had been seen or heard from him since.

Back at the office I related what Stafford had told me to Colonel Slade.
"Hmm, well if the Home Secretary is involved, and Stafford thinks it worth following up, you had best to travel to Brussels and discover what bee the fellow has in his bonnet. When can you leave?"
I thought for a moment. "Straight away if need be. I'm part way through the report on the group of suspected Fenians in Fleetwood, but I will finish that today."
We agreed I would set out for Brussels on the 5th of August. Colonel Slade allowed me some latitude as to when I returned to London, which would depend on the importance and relevance of the information revealed by Whyte-Taylor. The Colonel also gave permission to break my journey at Chateau Blanchard, being on the route from Calais to Brussels.
He called out after me as I left his office. "Try not to get shot this time, Jack!"