Lovel.He himself had much to tell and more to invent.Could he but manage it discreetly, he might assure his fortune with the Whigs and get to his feet at last.God knew it was time, for the household in the Billingsgate attic was pretty threadbare.His busy brain had worked happily on the plan.
He would be the innocent, cursed from childhood with undesired companions, who would suddenly awaken in horror to the guilt of things he had not understood.There would be a welcome for a well-informed penitent....
But he must move slowly and at his own time....And now he was being himself hustled into the dock, perhaps soon to the gallows.
For the afternoon before he had been sent for by Godfrey and most searchingly examined.He had thought himself the spy, when all the while he had been the spied upon.The accursed Justice knew everything.He knew a dozen episodes each enough to hang a poor man.He knew of Mr.Lovel's dealings with the Jesuits Walsh and Phayre, and of a certain little hovel in Battersea whose annals were not for the public ear.Above all, he knew of the great Jesuit consult in April at the Duke of York's house.That would have mattered little--indeed the revelation of it was part of Mr.
Lovel's plans--but he knew Mr.Lovel s precise connection with it, and had damning evidence to boot.The spy shivered when he remembered the scene in Hartshorn Lane.He had blundered and stuttered and confessed his alarm by his confusion, while the Justice recited what he had fondly believed was known only to the Almighty and some few whose mortal interest it was to be silent....He had been amazed that he had not been there and then committed to Newgate.He had not gone home that night, but wandered the streets and slept cold under a Mairylebone hedge.At first he had thought of flight, but the recollection of his household detained him.He would not go under.One pompous fool alone stood between him and safety--perhaps fortune.Long before morning he had resolved that Godfrey should die.
He had expected a difficult task, but lo! it was unbelievably easy.About ten o'clock that day he had found Sir Edmund in the Strand.He walked hurriedly as if on urgent business, and Lovel had followed him up through Covent Garden, across the Oxford road, and into the Marylebone fields.
There the magistrate's pace had slackened, and he had loitered like a truant schoolboy among the furze and briars.His stoop had deepened, his head was sunk on his breast, his hands twined behind him.
Now was the chance for the murderer lurking in the brambles.It would be easy to slip behind and give him the sword-point.But Mr.Lovel tarried.It may have been compunction, but more likely it was fear.It was also curiosity, for the magistrate's face, as he passed Lovel's hiding-place, was distraught and melancholy.Here was another man with bitter thoughts --perhaps with a deadly secret.For a moment the spy felt a certain kinship.
Whatever the reason he let the morning go by.About two in the afternoon Godfrey left the fields and struck westward by a bridle-path that led through the Paddington Woods to the marshes north of Kensington.He walked slowly, but with an apparent purpose.Lovel stopped for a moment at the White House, a dirty little hedge tavern, to swallow a mouthful of ale, and tell a convincing lie to John Rawson, the innkeeper, in case it should come in handy some day.Then occurred a diversion.Young Mr.Forset's harriers swept past, a dozen riders attended by a ragged foot following.They checked by the path, and in the confusion of the halt Godfrey seemed to vanish.It was not till close on Paddington village that Mr.Lovel picked him up again.He was waiting for the darkness, for he knew that he could never do what he purposed in cold daylight.He hoped that the magistrate would make for Kensington, for that was a lonely path.
But Sir Edmund seemed to be possessed of a freakish devil.No sooner was he in Paddington than, after buying a glass of milk from a milk-woman, he set off citywards again by the Oxford road.Here there were many people, foot travellers and coaches, and Mr.Lovel began to fear for his chance.But at Tyburn Godfrey struck into the fields and presently was in the narrow lane called St.Martin's Hedges, which led to Charing Cross.Now was the occasion.The dusk was falling, and a light mist was creeping up from Westminster.Lovel quickened his steps, for the magistrate was striding at a round pace.Then came mischance.First one, then another of the Marylebone cow-keepers blocked the lane with their driven beasts.The place became as public as Bartholomew's Fair.Before he knew it he was at Charing Cross.
He was now in a foul temper.He cursed his weakness in the morning, when fate had given him every opportunity.He was in despair too.His case was hopeless unless he struck soon.If Godfrey returned to Hartshorn Lane he himself would be in Newgate on the morrow....Fortunately the strange man did not seem to want to go home.He moved east along the Strand, Lovel a dozen yards behind him.
Out from the dark Savoy entry ran a woman, screaming, and with her hair flying.She seized on Godfrey and clutched his knees.There was a bloody fray inside, in which her husband fought against odds.The watch was not to be found.Would he, the great magistrate, intervene? The very sight of his famous face would quell riot.
Sir Edmund looked up and down the street, pinched his chin and peered down the precipitous Savoy causeway.Whatever the burden on his soul he did not forget his duty.
"Show me," he said, and followed her into the gloom.
