The Redemption of Sir Edward Denham - A Return to Sanditon Novella

Eleven

En route to Folkestone

The channel crossing had gone smoothly enough, thought Edward. He had parted ways with Carlisle at the docks in Dunkerque as they met the morning tide. A space on a merchant vessel that had been ready to depart was procured, and he was summarily dispatched.

Last evening had been a close call. They had made it back to their lodgings and had packed as speedily as they could manage. The ledger that Carlisle had found had been quickly scanned and the information contained therein, when pieced together with the bills of sale, had painted a damning picture. The little season was shortly to commence, and the ton were filing back into the capital in time for the opening of parliament. Influential figures would begin their social rounds starting with the opening ball of the season, held by the Duke and Duchess of Richmond. Such dignitaries as Lord Liverpool and the famed hero of Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington regularly attended these events, as did other Lords and Ladies belonging to the beau monde. The incriminating evidence they had found pointed to an attack of some sort, designed to cause maximum disruption to the government.

Carlisle had entrusted the ledger and the accompanying bills to Edward with the strict instruction that he make his way post-haste to England and deliver them into the hands of Hargreaves, the Marquess of Berwick. With luck, Edward hoped to learn of his whereabouts upon arrival in London. He may be persona non grata, but his title still held a little sway – he hoped. Carlisle, meanwhile, was to travel back to Lille to liaise with Dujardin.

Edward stood on deck as the ship made its slow approach into the port of Folkestone. There were a few things that didn't add up. Where was the black powder? They knew that a large quantity of the stuff had been procured by the reformists in France. Yet, there was no evidence that they had any connections to a warehouse or similar on this side of the channel, and how would they get that amount of controlled substance through without alerting HM Customs? It was far too much to be easily concealed, and what possible reason could someone have for transporting such a quantity? Weapons manufacture seemed ever most probable. Also, Carlisle had mentioned that there had been a seventh man in the Auberge ledger. A Monsieur Roger Armitage. Not a typically continental name. The Armitage fellow had left on the same day as their search. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he had been resident at the same inn as a select group of fellow Englishmen and not be somehow connected. Whilst he tracked down his influential Marquess, it may also be worth his while to make some discreet enquiries about a man named Armitage.

The ship docked at midday, and immediately the deck became a hive of activity. Edward made his way down the gangplank and, for the first time in almost six years, stepped onto English soil. He smiled wryly to himself as he realised that there was not a single soul who knew he was here, and even if they did, they would wish him back to the continent on the very next boat.

The sights and sounds of the port of Folkestone overwhelmed but embraced its weary travellers. France had been an escape and a sanctuary, but there was no place quite like England for making a man realise his need to belong. In a pensive mood, Edward made his way to the closest inn. Here he hoped to secure passage to London. As he navigated the inn's bustling clientele to reach the harried barkeep, he caught a snippet of conversation that gave him pause.

"The cargo? You said it'd be 'ere by now. Wot's the hold-up? Did Armitage say anything 'bout a delay?" The first speaker enquired.

"It'll land in the next week, Pratt, I told ya." A rough, raspy voice answered impatiently. "It'll be offloaded here and then go by riverboat down to the sheds at Wapping."

"Well I don't like it, that's wot. Too much time 'anging around. Them custom's officers are already snooping, they is," the first man, Pratt, replied, disgruntled.

At that moment, Edward heard the scuffing of chairs on the stone-clad floor and to prevent himself from being caught eavesdropping, he moved quickly to the bar. Glancing back, he spotted two rough-looking men making their way through the crowd to the door.

Ordering a pint of ale, Edward wandered closer to the window and looked out through the grime-streaked glass. He could still see the men in the distance, further down towards the wharf, but their demeanour was unhurried. Hmm, he thought, they won't be going anywhere for a while. It may pay to send a message to Hargreaves and wait. Perhaps with a bit of luck, he may catch sight of the elusive cargo before it departed by riverboat. Decision made, he returned to the bar and inquired not about a carriage, but a room instead.

A short time later, Edward was settled into a small room, scratching a note to the infamous Hargreaves. Having no idea of the man's residence, he had no option but to address the letter to the Home Office. With luck, the missive would arrive and be forwarded without delay. Once satisfied, Edward ensured the message was despatched on the mail coach which left shortly after noon, before beginning his search for Pratt and company.

Two days later, a letter arrived at the august offices of His Majesties Home Office that was indeed handled with due diligence and urgency. The Rt Hon Christopher Ellis pondered his best course of action. His superior, Jack Hargreaves, the esteemed Marquess of Berwick, currently resident at his London townhouse, could be a surly chap. He was at present enjoying the delights of his recent nuptials and Kit grimaced at the thought, as he made his way in-person to interrupt the man's honeymoon.