Page 68 of The Armor of Light
It was Nash, the dairyman, but Hornbeam did not say so. He touched the side of his nose in the common gesture of secrecy. ‘I’ll keep that to myself, if you’ll forgive me.’
‘As you wish. How can we use the information?’
‘I think it’s straightforward. I suspect the pamphlet is seditious to the extent of criminality. If so, Hiscock will be charged.’
Riddick nodded. ‘How do we handle it?’
‘We go to Hiscock’s house with the sheriff and search the place, and if he’s guilty we exercise our right, as justices, to give summary judgement.’
Riddick smiled. ‘Good.’
‘Go and see Phil Doye now. Tell him to meet us here tomorrow at first light. He’d better bring a constable.’
‘Very good.’ Riddick stood up.
‘Don’t tell Sheriff Doye what it’s about – we don’t want the news to leak out and give Hiscock a chance to burn the evidence before we get there. And anyway Doye doesn’t need a reason, it’s enough that two justices tell him the search is necessary.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘I’ll see you at dawn.’
‘Count on it.’ Riddick left.
Hornbeam sat looking into the fire. People like Spade and Canon Midwinter thought they were clever, but they were no match for Hornbeam. He would put a stop to their subversive activities.
It occurred to him that he was taking a risk. Alf Nash’s information could be wrong. Alternatively, Hiscock might have printed the pamphlets and hidden them, or given them to someone else for safekeeping. These were uncomfortable possibilities. If Hornbeam raided Hiscock’s house at dawn with the sheriff and a constable and found nothing incriminating, he would look foolish. Humiliation was the one thing he could not bear. He was a man of importance and merited deference. Unfortunately, risks were necessary sometimes. In his forty-odd years he had taken some dangerous chances, he reflected, but he had always come through – usually richer than before.
His wife, Linnie, opened the door and looked in. He had married her twenty-two years ago, and she was no longer suitable as his spouse. If he could have his time over he would make a better choice. She was not beautiful and she spoke like a low-born Londoner, which she was. She clung stubbornly to habits such as putting a large loaf of bread on the table and cutting slices as needed with a big knife. But getting rid of her would be too much trouble. Divorce was difficult, requiring a private Act of Parliament, and it was bad for aman’s reputation. Anyway, she ran the house efficiently, and on the infrequent occasions when he wanted sex she was always willing. And the servants liked her, which oiled the domestic wheels.
The servants did not like Hornbeam. They feared him, which he preferred.
She said: ‘Supper is ready, if you are.’
‘I’ll come right away,’ he said.
*
Simpson, the lugubrious footman, woke him early, saying: ‘A wet morning, sir. I’m sorry.’
I’m not sorry, Hornbeam said to himself, thinking of the grain stockpiled in his warehouse, making more money for him with every rainy day.
‘Mr Riddick is here, with the sheriff and Constable Davidson,’ said Simpson, as if announcing a tragic death. His tone never changed. He sounded disappointed even when saying that dinner was served.
Hornbeam drank the tea Simpson had brought and dressed quickly. Riddick was waiting in the hall. He was talking in a low voice to Sheriff Doye, a small, pompous man in a cheap wig. Doye carried a heavy stick with a large knob of polished granite for a handle, an object that could pass for a walking cane and also serve as a formidable weapon.
By the door stood the constable, Reg Davidson, a big-shouldered man who bore the scars of several fights: a broken nose, one half-closed eye, and the mark of a knife wound on the back of his neck. Hornbeam thought that if Davidson had not been a constable he would probably have made his living as a footpad, attacking and robbing incautious men carrying money after dark.
Rain dripped from the coats of all three men.
Hornbeam briefed them. ‘We’re going to Jeremiah Hiscock’s house in Main Street.’
‘The printing works,’ said Doye.
‘Exactly. I believe Doye is guilty of printing a pamphlet that is seditious and treasonable. If I’m right, he’ll hang. We’re going to arrest him and confiscate the printed matter. I expect him to protest loudly about his freedom of speech but offer no real resistance.’
‘His employees won’t be at work yet,’ said Davidson. ‘There’ll be no one there to give us a fight.’ He sounded disappointed.
Hornbeam led the way out of the house. The four men walked quickly along the High Street and down the slope of Main Street. The cathedral gargoyles were gushing rainwater copiously. The print shop was at the bottom end of the street, within sight of the river, which was high and flowing fast.
