The Devil's Ribbon by D. E. Meredith Read Free Book Online Page B

of his flock. The chief wants a piece in
The Nation
by tomorrow. Says it’ll be vital to garner some sympathy here among the Quakers and anyone else who’ll listen to us.’
    ‘Carrot and stick, so to speak?’
    ‘Always. So, are you ready, Damien?’
    ‘Lead the way.’
    They quickly found the tavern, where the two men pushed their way through the grumbling crowd, a heaving morass of hate, as Damien McCarthy told them to be quiet and leapt onto a nearby table. And was it any wonder that these men were willing to listen? McCarthy with his Dublin education reminded the men gathered of another, Daniel O’Connell, who’d led the monster marches back in ’47, only this aristo boy was younger and far better-looking.
    ‘Men of Ireland. Listen to me. I’m here on behalf of the Irish National Brotherhood. The chief’s heard of your plight and is begging you’ll not be taking this lying down this time …’
    ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ said a voice in the crowd. ‘We just want work and to feed our families.’
    ‘We can’t survive without the mill,’ said another.
    ‘Our children will starve,’ said a third, desperation in his voice.
    ‘But not if you take the revolution to them,’ cried Damien. ‘This could be the beginning, lads. Just think on it. A free and liberated Ireland? Can you imagine such a thing? We’ll burst the factory gates wide open and take the jobs anyway. Hecker owes you that. Men have died on the mill working for what? Pennies? We need to quell men like Hecker and hit them where it hurts, on their own turf. So are you willing?’
    The men started to argue among themselves, but some of them were nodding, others cursing the hated mill owner, who’d boasted that he helped the Irish back in ’48. Claimed he’d given them free corn and sat on a charitable works’ committee. ‘What of it?’ said the younger men who had been babes at the time and could remember nothing akin to any kindness.
    Damien reached out to the men and reminded them of all they’d suffered at the hands of their English landowners. The bloody flux, swollen bellies, the stench of famine, fever, living on nothing but grass and berries for year on year, dead babies left to be nibbled by rats and mothers torn apart by dogs.
An Gorta Mór
– the time of famine.
    ‘Go home and talk to your womenfolk, but tomorrow, myself and Mr O’Rourke – that’s the gentleman scribbling at the table over there – will be back again first thing and we’ll bring guns, explosives, axes, cudgels.
Clan Shan Van Vocht
. If you are with us …’
    The room exploded; hands slammed on the tables, men thumped the walls with their fists, and only a few slipped out with their heads down, shuddering to the resounding cry of ‘Aye.’

FIVE

    HIGHGATE VILLAGE
    It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Hatton opened the door to a Scotland Yard hansom, expecting to see the diminutive Welshman, hopefully dressed in something more appropriate. It wasn’t unusual for Inspector Grey to do at least one costume change during the day. It was well known that Grey kept a rack of Savile Row suits and Jermyn Street shirts hung up in a store cupboard somewhere at Number 4 Whitehall, Scotland Yard.
    ‘I can express myself, or blend in as required,’ Grey once told Hatton. ‘One must be ready for anything and Mr Tescalini keeps my clothes just so. He’s a marvel, Professor. Every policeman should have one.’
    And Hatton was sure, after this morning’s eye-aching display of gregarious tartan, he would find Inspector Grey out of his tangerinebreeches and head to foot in woven sobriety. But to his surprise there was no Inspector Grey at all within the carriage, sartorially elegant or otherwise.
    ‘
Buongiorno
, Signor Hatton.
Andiamo
!’
    It had been six months since the Professor last laid eyes on Mr Tescalini. Had he got fatter since the performance at the Old Bailey? Hatton wasn’t sure, but Tescalini’s bulbous head – partly bald, partly