I directed Richard Birnie, a Bow Street magistrate, to take charge, and left him with my officers to watch for the conspirators. Thistlewood’s men soon arrived and, at seven-thirty that night, Birnie ordered the arrests.
A fight ensued and Thistlewood escaped. Several of the top conspirators were apprehended, but our spy Mason Wallington mysteriously disappeared. While making the arrests, Richard Smithers was run through by Thistlewood, and I was frantic at the possibility we had lost another good man. We arrested Thistlewood the next day, and eleven other conspirators were apprehended within days. Then, to my shock, Barry Doddard, a young officer from a neighboring magistrate, named Mason Wallington as the twelfth and only major conspirator to elude capture.
Upon hearing Doddard’s accusations, I immediately wrote Lord Mallory informing him of the mistake. Mallory replied that Wallington had long been suspected of dissident actions and was believed to be in league with Thistlewood. I simply couldn't believe this. Wallington had a reputation as a devoted Englishman and spurned the tactics employed by the Spenceans.
I informed Mallory of this, but he countered that Wallington had openly criticized the government and had even quoted Thistlewood’s philosophies concerning the lower classes and the rights of women. I couldn’t accept this, but Lord Sidmouth intervened, ordering me to desist. Wallington was a wanted criminal and if he was found, Sidmouth ordered me to turn Wallington over to him.
I considered paying a visit to Thistlewood in Coldbath Fields Prison, but realized my visit would be reported to Sidmouth. Besides, Thistlewood was reported to have said that he had hoped it was me he killed instead of Smithers. I had no recourse but to obey Lord Sidmouth's orders. At the age of thirty-six, Mason Wallington became a fugitive.
Frederick lowered the document and John pointed to the envelope farthest from him. “Now that one.”
Frederick picked up the second envelope and removed the letter. He cleared his throat and began again.
July, 1824
Four years have passed since Mason Wallington was branded a traitor. Despite Sidmouth's orders that I forget the matter, my conscience demands I act. Whether guilt or innocence is the result of my findings, I shall, as always, record all matters true and faithfully. I begin with Wallington’s superior, Lord Niles Mallory.
Frederick looked at John, the short letter finished.
"Wallington has a daughter," John said. “She has been a victim of the lie too—" A heavy cough cut him off.
“John!” Frederick leapt to his feet and filled the glass on the nightstand with water from the pitcher.
Frederick slipped an arm beneath his back and lifted him forward until his mouth met the lip of the glass. John took several small sips. He breathed deeply, nodded he was finished, and Frederick settled him back onto the pillow.
Frederick set the glass on the nightstand. “Rest. We will finish later.”
John grasped his friend’s hand. “The girl has a right to the truth. I cannot go to my peace knowing I leave her in turmoil.” John closed his eyes, remembering the day she had come to him. He couldn’t escape her questions or the pain in her eyes when he turned her away without answers. He looked at Frederick. “See that she gets the letters.” His voice weakened. “Swear.” He tightened his grip on Frederick’s hand in one final squeeze. “Swear.”
“I swear,” Frederick promised, and John lay back on his pillow and slept.
CHAPTER TWO
Edinburgh, Scotland
The criminal was alive and well. Yet, the one man who could have exposed him was dead. Phoebe stared at the clipping of the obituary notice printed in the Times five days ago. The knowledge of his death settled around her as black as the darkness surrounding her carriage. The lantern flickered with the sway of the carriage as she slid her gaze over the paragraph that extolled Bow Street Sheriff John Stafford’s criminal expertise, and past the mention of his involvement in The Cato Street Conspiracy. A man’s life reduced to two paragraphs. For the hundredth time since she'd first read the obituary, she settled her gaze on the final line.
September 1837, John Stafford died in his London home.
Phoebe refolded the clipping, set it on her lap, and pulled another document from her reticule. She ran her fingers along the age-yellowed edges of the only letter her father had written to her mother, the letter she had shown John Stafford when she'd visited him in his home five years ago. She unfolded the foolscap and, with a deep breath, began reading. Her lips moved in tandem with the words she'd long ago memorized.
May 20, 1820
My Dearest Amelia,