Page 14 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
I n Sebastian’s experience, a man’s enemies could often tell you more about him than either his friends or his family. And Mallory, Lord Quinton-Thomas, was definitely one of Lord Preston’s enemies. He was also one of the few truly Radical noblemen sitting in the House of Lords. Of an old but not particularly distinguished or wealthy Hampshire family, he was in his forties now, determinedly single, and notorious for his blunt, outspoken opposition to the Society for the Suppression of Vice.
“Farnsworth wasn’t just a member,” said Quinton-Thomas when Sebastian met with him later in a public house across the street from Westminster. “He was the driving force behind much of what they did.”
A big bear of a man with full cheeks, a ruddy complexion, and fiery auburn hair, Quinton-Thomas had written a stream of articles attacking the Society and criticizing the various ambitious plans for the establishment of a centralized, uniformed London police force.
“He wasn’t as visible in the Society as the likes of Wilberforce or Bowles,” said the Baron, hunching forward to wrap both hands around the tankard of ale that rested on the battered old table between them, “but he sits—or I suppose I should say sat —on the Society’s General Committee. They have three subcommittees, you know. The first is essentially dedicated to making the poor hate Sundays by digging up old Jacobean laws against doing anything on the Lord’s Day besides going to church or sitting inside your house in gloomy silence. If you’re rich, you can go on picnics or promenade in Hyde Park or whatever. But God forbid one of the self-anointed saints should be offended on their way to church by the sight of the poor playing skittles, or buying meat, or maybe getting a badly needed haircut because they work hard the other six days of the week and Sunday is the only day they have off.”
Quinton-Thomas took a long, deep drink of his ale, and Sebastian signaled the barmaid for two more tankards.
“And the second subcommittee?”
“Ah,” said the Baron, setting aside his empty tankard. “That’s dedicated to eradicating what they consider blasphemous or lewd books. Of course, they don’t touch the kind of elite bookstores that sell leather-bound copies of the Marquis de Sade to the ton. Much easier to go after some poor hawker with a cartful of cheap romances that might—just might—inflame the imaginations or corrupt the impressionable minds of young schoolgirls. That subcommittee doesn’t like circulating libraries, either, and woe betide the street balladeer who dares sing some flash song about a highwayman or a drunken whore in their saintly presence. But it’s the third subcommittee that was truly dear to Lord Preston’s own heart.”
“What’s that one?”
“Theoretically, they go after pickpockets, thieves, whores, and beggars. But in practice they tend to focus more than anything on whores and beggars. They have this idea that all sin and crime can be traced back either to the foolish, kind souls who allow themselves to be tricked into misplaced philanthropy or to lewd women tempting innocent young men into debauchery.”
Sebastian took a slow sip of his beer. “You’re suggesting it can’t?”
Quinton-Thomas leaned back in his chair as he laughed, then hunched forward again and winked. “One has to wonder how these men spent their youths, aye?”
“Why exactly is giving to beggars misplaced philanthropy?”
“Ah, that’s because these worthy souls have convinced themselves that all beggars are frauds. So you see, they aren’t actually sick or blind or missing a limb here and there, or starving because they can’t get work. And if you accept that premise, it naturally follows that indiscriminate almsgiving is a sin because it contributes to sloth and corruption.”
“How?”
“Because if people didn’t give money to beggars, they would quit trying to beg and start working.”
“At what jobs?”
Quinton-Thomas waved one meaty hand through the air. “Oh, somewhere. If you ask me, I think the good members of the Society hate beggars largely because they’re a constant reminder of some of the less admirable things Britain has done that they don’t want to be reminded of—everything from the slave trade and Ireland to the Highland Clearances and Enclosure Acts. And now we have a couple hundred thousand ragged ex-soldiers and sailors turned loose with no money and no way to earn it—not to mention the widows and orphans of the men who’ll never come home. It’s a hell of a lot easier to haul all the beggars off to gaol than to confront—or even admit to—the problems that created them in the first place.”
Sebastian took a slow sip of his ale. “I can see how being a victim of that kind of a crusade might inspire someone to want to kill Farnsworth. But I have a hard time imagining a beggar or a thief—or a prostitute—bashing in Farnsworth’s head and then hanging him upside down, rather than stealing his purse and watch and running.”
The Baron set down his tankard with a heavy thump. “Are you saying he still had his watch and purse on him?”
“He did.”
“Well, hell.” Quinton-Thomas leaned back in his seat again. “There goes my theory. I was thinking it musta been Half-Hanged Harry who got him.”
“Half-Hanged Harry?”
Quinton-Thomas chuckled. “Half-Hanged Harry McGregor. He was a notorious horse thief who operated on the outskirts of the city around the end of the last century. But no one would bring charges against him until Lord Preston stepped forward and supported two of the man’s victims in prosecuting him. The scoundrel was duly found guilty, sentenced to death, and strung up on the gallows. But while it doesn’t happen often, occasionally when they cut down a hanged man, they discover that somehow or another he’s still alive.”
“And this Half-Hanged Harry survived? I was under the impression that in such cases the poor bastard is typically hanged again on the next execution day.”
“Typically, yes. But ole King George must’ve been in an unusually benevolent mood when McGregor’s case came up for royal review because His Majesty took pity on the miscreant and commuted his sentence to transportation for fourteen years. Not even for life.”
“And now he’s back?”
The Baron nodded. “I heard just last week that Lord Preston was going around complaining that the fellow was following him.”
“Interesting. So where would I find this Half-Hanged Harry?”
Quinton-Thomas took a deep drink and swiped the back of one hand across his lips. “Well, I believe he was originally from Lambeth. But as to whether he’s returned to his old haunts, I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea what Lord Preston might have been doing in Swallow Street last Saturday evening?”
“Not a clue. Seems a queer place for him to take a walk after dinner, although I suppose he could have gone there to meet someone he was supporting in a prosecution. He didn’t only work through the Society, you know. I’ve heard he sometimes financed prosecutions all by himself. And since he took a percentage of the reward a successful prosecutor received from the Crown, he usually came out ahead.”
“Clever.”
Quinton-Thomas met his gaze, and Sebastian saw that all trace of amusement had vanished from those troubled hazel eyes. “That’s one word for it. The cost of just one of those prosecutions would feed half a dozen poor families for the better part of a year. But that would require Lord Preston and that damnable society to admit that people might—just might—not be poor by choice. And once they did that, they’d lose their excuse for bullying everyone they disapprove of. If you ask me, that’s what it’s really all about: punishing anyone who’s different from them. Punishing the people they hate.”