the supervising magistrate of the Thames River Police Office. We are here on a criminal matter.’
The servant did not move. Harriott’s introduction placed him and Horton more effectively, but this servant apparently needed more evidence before heading in to speak to whatever internal
brain operated this place.
‘Are there any more details? It is a busy day for us, sir. There is an indigo sale. A great many brokers and dealers are within.’
‘Is that the cause of that infernal racket?’
‘Yes, sir. Are there any more details?’
‘There are none. Fetch Ferguson, and tell him John Harriott is here to see him. Hand him this note. Do not open it yourself.’
Harriott handed over an envelope, and the servant took it rather as if he had been handed an Eastern spider. He looked about to say something, but then thought better of it.
‘I’m afraid I shall have to leave you to wait here in the corridor, sir,’ he said, though his tone contained no apology. ‘All our rooms are taken up with the
Sale.’
‘We will wait. Now go.’
The man turned and left them. Harriott pointed at some old leather seats underneath a window which was frosted and seemed to look on some interior space rather than the world outside.
‘Let us sit and wait, Horton. We may be some time.’
Various people came and went and, as Harriott had predicted, the two of them were kept waiting. Every man Horton saw seemed to be engaged in the most important business on
God’s earth. Benjamin Johnson had been just one of these busy men. How could Horton possibly construct a personality for a dead man who had been just one among legions of scribbling,
scrabbling drones?
When somebody did arrive, he did not come from within the building. Horton saw him arriving through the gigantic street door: a man in a black frock coat with black breeches and white stockings,
an expensive but conservative wig on his head. He looked like William Pitt might have done had he aged beyond his early death: thin, pale, cold, more of an intelligence on legs than a person.
Horton took him for sixty years or more, and observed the stick on which he seemed to depend for balance – it was topped with a small and exquisitely done golden dog’s head.
‘Harriott?’ the pale man said to Horton, who shook his head.
‘No, sir. This is Mr Harriott.’
With some difficulty, Harriott was rising from his seat. A dark cloud had set upon his face. He seemed to have recognised the man.
‘Ah. Of course. Harriott, my name is Burroughs.’
‘I know who you are,’ replied Harriott. The newcomer blinked his pale blue eyes, while Horton took in his clothing, which was, on closer inspection, of supremely fine quality,
despite its very deliberate conservatism.
‘This is most irregular, sir,’ said Burroughs. ‘I am led to understand that you are the magistrate of the River Police. You have no jurisdiction in this place. None
whatsoever.’
‘And you, sir, I recall, are among other things the alderman for this ward?’
‘Indeed I am. Have we met?’
‘Several times. I see I made little impression.’
Burroughs ignored this.
‘You know, of course, that as alderman I also represent the magistracy and hold responsibility for criminal matters. The City preserves these responsibilities seriously.’
‘Indeed. The City polices itself very carefully indeed, I find.’
‘It has always been thus, sir.’
‘Word reached you quickly, Burroughs.’
Harriott’s disdain for the man ran through every sentence he spoke. Horton had seen this before. When the magistrate did not care for someone, he had no means to hide it.
‘I have been asked to attend your meeting here, as a representative of the City magistracy,’ said Burroughs.
‘Asked by whom?’ replied Harriott.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean, how did you learn of our presence so quickly? Who sent for you?’
‘Nobody
sent for me
, Harriott. I am not one to be
sent for
. The Company keeps its own gang
The servant did not move. Harriott’s introduction placed him and Horton more effectively, but this servant apparently needed more evidence before heading in to speak to whatever internal
brain operated this place.
‘Are there any more details? It is a busy day for us, sir. There is an indigo sale. A great many brokers and dealers are within.’
‘Is that the cause of that infernal racket?’
‘Yes, sir. Are there any more details?’
‘There are none. Fetch Ferguson, and tell him John Harriott is here to see him. Hand him this note. Do not open it yourself.’
Harriott handed over an envelope, and the servant took it rather as if he had been handed an Eastern spider. He looked about to say something, but then thought better of it.
‘I’m afraid I shall have to leave you to wait here in the corridor, sir,’ he said, though his tone contained no apology. ‘All our rooms are taken up with the
Sale.’
‘We will wait. Now go.’
The man turned and left them. Harriott pointed at some old leather seats underneath a window which was frosted and seemed to look on some interior space rather than the world outside.
‘Let us sit and wait, Horton. We may be some time.’
Various people came and went and, as Harriott had predicted, the two of them were kept waiting. Every man Horton saw seemed to be engaged in the most important business on
God’s earth. Benjamin Johnson had been just one of these busy men. How could Horton possibly construct a personality for a dead man who had been just one among legions of scribbling,
scrabbling drones?
When somebody did arrive, he did not come from within the building. Horton saw him arriving through the gigantic street door: a man in a black frock coat with black breeches and white stockings,
an expensive but conservative wig on his head. He looked like William Pitt might have done had he aged beyond his early death: thin, pale, cold, more of an intelligence on legs than a person.
Horton took him for sixty years or more, and observed the stick on which he seemed to depend for balance – it was topped with a small and exquisitely done golden dog’s head.
‘Harriott?’ the pale man said to Horton, who shook his head.
‘No, sir. This is Mr Harriott.’
With some difficulty, Harriott was rising from his seat. A dark cloud had set upon his face. He seemed to have recognised the man.
‘Ah. Of course. Harriott, my name is Burroughs.’
‘I know who you are,’ replied Harriott. The newcomer blinked his pale blue eyes, while Horton took in his clothing, which was, on closer inspection, of supremely fine quality,
despite its very deliberate conservatism.
‘This is most irregular, sir,’ said Burroughs. ‘I am led to understand that you are the magistrate of the River Police. You have no jurisdiction in this place. None
whatsoever.’
‘And you, sir, I recall, are among other things the alderman for this ward?’
‘Indeed I am. Have we met?’
‘Several times. I see I made little impression.’
Burroughs ignored this.
‘You know, of course, that as alderman I also represent the magistracy and hold responsibility for criminal matters. The City preserves these responsibilities seriously.’
‘Indeed. The City polices itself very carefully indeed, I find.’
‘It has always been thus, sir.’
‘Word reached you quickly, Burroughs.’
Harriott’s disdain for the man ran through every sentence he spoke. Horton had seen this before. When the magistrate did not care for someone, he had no means to hide it.
‘I have been asked to attend your meeting here, as a representative of the City magistracy,’ said Burroughs.
‘Asked by whom?’ replied Harriott.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean, how did you learn of our presence so quickly? Who sent for you?’
‘Nobody
sent for me
, Harriott. I am not one to be
sent for
. The Company keeps its own gang
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