Into Thin Eire

  Table of Contents

  Into Thin Eire (John Pickett Mysteries)

  INTO THIN EIRE | Another John Pickett Mystery | Sheri Cobb South

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  Read all the John Pickett Mysteries:

  Pickpocket’s Apprentice: A John Pickett Novella

  In Milady’s Chamber

  A Dead Bore

  Family Plot

  Dinner Most Deadly

  Waiting Game: Another John Pickett Novella

  Too Hot to Handel

  For Deader or Worse

  Mystery Loves Company

  Peril by Post

  Other Regency Novels by

  Sheri Cobb South:

  The Weaver Takes a Wife

  Brighton Honeymoon

  (Weaver #2)

  French Leave

  (Weaver #3)

  The Desperate Duke

  (Weaver #4)

  Of Paupers and Peers

  Baroness in Buckskin

  Miss Darby’s Duenna

  Visit Sheri Cobb South’s website HERE!

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  INTO THIN EIRE

  Another John Pickett Mystery

  Sheri Cobb South

  INTO THIN EIRE

  © 2019 by Sheri Cobb South. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  1

  In Which John Pickett

  Receives an Offer He Can’t Refuse

  “Magistrate wants you.”

  To John Pickett, met with this greeting as he entered the Bow Street Public Office one Monday morning in July, it was amazing that those three simple words still had the power to send a swarm of butterflies cavorting about in his stomach, even after almost six years of service with the Bow Street force.

  “Told me to send you in as soon as you arrived,” continued Dixon, the senior principal officer at more than twice Pickett’s age of five-and-twenty. He jerked a callused thumb in the direction of Patrick Colquhoun’s office.

  “Yes—thank you—I’ll go to him at once,” Pickett stammered, uncomfortably aware of half a dozen stares aimed in his direction, from Mr. Dixon’s mild blue gaze to the unconcealed curiosity of two members of the Foot Patrol, looking up from their perusal of the latest issue of the Hue and Cry. Even the knowing smirk of Harry Carson, Horse Patrol man and the bane of Pickett’s existence, was absent on this occasion.

  It wasn’t that Pickett was afraid of Mr. Colquhoun—at least, not any longer, although the scrawny fourteen-year-old who had once been hauled before the bench for pinching an apple from a costermonger in Covent Garden certainly had been. No, his only fear these days (at least, his only fear where the magistrate was concerned) was that of being a disappointment, of proving himself to be unworthy of the interest Mr. Colquhoun had taken in him. To his knowledge, he hadn’t done anything deserving of censure since the botched business in the Lake District a month earlier—and Mr. Colquhoun had been adamant in absolving him of any blame in that. A furtive glance at the large clock mounted on the wall behind the bench assured him that he wasn’t late. What, then—?

  No answer came to him in the short time it took him to reach the door of the magistrate’s office. Pickett took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and rapped on the doorframe, then, upon being instructed by a voice from inside to come in, pushed the door open.

  Mr. Colquhoun stood there, an energetic Scotsman some sixty-four years of age, with thick white hair and brilliant blue eyes. But he was not alone. A man was with him, a middle-aged man whose receding hair was nevertheless fashionably cropped and curled, and who wore the blue and buff colors favored by the Whig party in general and the Prince of Wales in particular. And gold braid. So much gold braid. Whoever this man was, he was someone very important. Which means that whatever it is I’ve done, Pickett thought miserably, it must have been something very bad.

  He turned to address the magistrate with a silent question in his eyes. Mr. Colquhoun, usually not shy about letting his feelings be known, was singularly uncommunicative on this occasion. In fact, if Pickett had not known better, he would have sworn the magistrate was as dazed as he was himself. “I—er—Mr. Dixon said you wanted me, sir.”

  “Aye, come in and shut the door.”

  Pickett obeyed, and Mr. Colquhoun gestured toward his visitor. “This is Lord Fortescue, Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the Prince of Wales.”

  Pickett never would have presumed to offer his hand to such a personage, but upon seeing the personage extend a hand in his direction, he took it.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pickett. I confess, I had expected to see someone rather older.”

  “Oh?” was all Pickett could manage. The inevitable reference to his age paled beside the implication that anyone so highly placed in the prince’s household might have any expectations regarding him at all.

  “Word of your recent heroics has reached the ears of His Royal Highness,” continued the prince’s emissary.

  “My—my recent—”

  “In the Lake District,” the man explained. “And although His Royal Highness recognizes that much of what happened there will never be made known to the public, he wishes me to express his gratitude for your actions on behalf of king and country.”

  “As to that, your lordship, it wasn’t exactly—” Upon seeing the magistrate fix a warning look upon him, Pickett faltered into silence.

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure your humility does you credit,” the prince’s man said, dismissing Pickett’s objections with an impatient wave of his hand. “But now to the purpose of my visit. As you may be aware, the king’s health in recent years has not been good.”

  And that, Pickett thought, was an understatement if ever he’d heard one. George III’s periodic bouts of madness were surely the worst-kept secret in the kingdom, and had been since before Pickett was born. Among the more lurid tales were accounts of the king’s chasing the novelist Fanny Burney about Kew Gardens in an attempt to kiss her, or trying to shake hands with a tree in the firm belief that it was the King of Prussia.

  “The question of a Regency is, I fear, no longer a matter of ‘if,’ but of ‘when’,” Lord Fortescue continued.

  “Oh?” Pickett asked, not sure what any of this had to do with his “heroics”—he could think of a better word for them—in the Lake District.

  “But the political views of His Royal Highness are poles apart from his father’s. There are those who do not want to see the prince take the reins of government a day sooner than he must.”

  “Er, no, I suppose not,” Pickett said, seeing some response was called for.

  “Just so, Mr. Pickett. It is even possible that some radical might be tempted to, let us say, remove the threat, thinking His Majesty’s second son, the Duke of York, might be easier to manage.”

  “Oh?” Pickett asked again.

  “That being the case, His Royal Highness believes it might be wise to retain the services of a personal bodyguard. Not merely an escort when he goes out, as Bow Street’s own Mr. Townsend used to do, but a man on the premises around the clock. That, Mr. Pickett, is where you come in.”

  “Me?” Pickett echoed intelligently.

  “I am authorized to offer you a position as pers
onal bodyguard to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, at a salary of five hundred pounds per annum.”

  His jaw dropped, and Pickett, suddenly aware of his gaping mouth, shut it with an effort, cleared his throat, and opened it again. “You—you want me to—to—” The very idea was so absurd that he could hardly find words with which to express it.

  “Perhaps I was not clear,” his lordship demurred hastily. “The offer does not come from me, but from His Royal Highness. In addition to the salary I have named, you will also have rooms at Carlton House for yourself and your wife—Mr. Colquhoun told me before you arrived that you were recently married, is that correct?—and I believe a knighthood at some future date is not beyond the realm of possibility, although I can of course make no promises; such things are not in His Royal Highness’s purview, unless and until he becomes Regent.”

  Pickett could only stare at him. “I—I—I—”

  The prince’s emissary, eyeing Pickett’s brown serge coat with disfavor, bethought himself of one caveat. “Mind you, His Royal Highness is not called the First Gentleman of Europe for nothing. He holds himself, and all those around him, to a certain standard of appearance, and you would be no exception. He has taken it upon himself to design new uniforms for the 10th Hussar regiment, and already has plans in mind for the costume of his personal bodyguard as well.”

  “As it happens,” put in Mr. Colquhoun, seeing his most junior Runner at a loss, “Mr. Pickett will be leaving London early tomorrow morning. Perhaps you might discuss the matter with him in more detail after he returns, by which time he may have thought of questions he wishes to put to you.”

  “Of course,” agreed the visitor, who in truth was having some difficulty reconciling the accounts of bravery and heroism which had reached the prince’s ears with the rather gauche and inarticulate young man who stood before him.

  “Well, John,” Mr. Colquhoun said, after seeing his exalted visitor off the premises and returning to his office, where Pickett still stood as if turned to stone, “it appears you’ll soon be leaving us.”

  “You—you knew about this, sir?” Pickett turned to regard the magistrate much as a drowning man might regard a lifeline thrown from a passing ship.

  Mr. Colquhoun shook his head. “Not until just before you did.”

  “He said it was because of that business in the Lake District, but it wasn’t at all like he seems to think! I can’t take such a position under false pretenses.”

  “I’m sure your scruples do you credit, John, but it seems to me that the Crown—or, in this case, the man who may very soon be its representative—is unlikely to be particular about how a treasonous plot is stopped, just so long as it is stopped.”

  “Then—then you think I should accept.”

  The magistrate’s bushy white eyebrows drew together across the bridge of his nose. “Some might say you’d be a fool to refuse! You’re unlikely to get another such opportunity.”

  “I—I had no thought of leaving Bow Street, sir. I owe you a debt of gratitude—”

  “Which was paid in full long ago.” Seeing his young protégé was not convinced, he added, “Make no mistake, John. You have a position here for as long as you want it. I should be genuinely sorry to see you go, but I’m not so selfish that I could keep you here against your own best interests.”

  “Did you hear what he said? About a knighthood, I mean. That would make Julia—”

  “Lady Pickett,” concluded the magistrate, nodding. “But let me point out that she would not be the one charged with the task of protecting the prince’s royal person. Nor, for that matter, does she seem to have any objections to being plain ‘Mrs. John Pickett.’ I don’t say her wishes shouldn’t be considered, for her life would change as much as yours as a result of your joining the prince’s household. But if you’re thinking to accept the offer for such a reason as that, I should caution you against it. After all, the man said himself that he can make no promises.”

  Pickett sighed. “No, sir. Thank you for buying me a little time, anyway.” A hint of a smile went some way toward dispelling his dazed expression. “Should I go into hiding for the next fortnight, while I’m supposedly out of London?”

  “There’ll be no need for that,” the magistrate assured him, picking up a creased sheet of paper that lay on his desk and handing it to Pickett. “I spoke no less than the truth when I said you’d be leaving London in the morning. This came in the morning post, requesting two Runners—yourself and one other, the second man left to my own choosing—to be sent to Dunbury on a matter of some delicacy.”

  “ ‘A matter of some delicacy,’ ” Pickett echoed bitterly. “Just once, I’d like someone to say what he wants.”

  “At least he signed his name.” Clearly, the magistrate, too, was thinking of the anonymous summons that had brought Pickett to the Lake District, also for an unspecified purpose. Sure enough, the letter was signed by one Edward Gaines Brockton, giving as his address the Cock and Boar in Dunbury.

  “Where is Dunbury?” Pickett asked, looking up from the letter. “And who do you intend to send with me?”

  “Dunbury is in the West Country. Somersetshire, to be exact—not far from your in-laws, in fact. As for your traveling companion, I was thinking of sending Mr. Carson.”

  “Harry?” The thought of Harry Carson as a traveling companion was enough to drive all thoughts of the Prince of Wales from Pickett’s brain, at least temporarily.

  The bushy eyebrows rose. “You have some objection?”

  “You must do as you think best, sir, but—but Harry’s in the Horse Patrol!”

  “Think, John,” chided his mentor. “If I do as this man asks and send another Runner with you, that’s two of the six—fully one-third of Bow Street’s principal officers at any given time, and forty percent at present, since I haven’t yet named a replacement for Mr. Foote. We’re already one man short, and may soon be two, if you decide to accept His Royal Highness’s offer.”

  By which observation Pickett could only assume that his mentor was considering Harry Carson as a candidate for principal officer. Still, he knew better than to ask; the promotion of men from the patrols to principal officer was left solely to the magistrate’s discretion, and Mr. Colquhoun would take issue—and rightfully so—with any suggestion that he should be accountable to any of the existing Runners, least of all the youngest of the lot, for the naming of their fellows.

  “Do you know anything against Mr. Carson that would disqualify him for the position?” asked Mr. Colquhoun, reading Pickett’s thoughts with reasonable accuracy as they flitted across his expressive countenance.

  “N-no,” Pickett conceded. He knew of nothing against Harry, except for the fact that he himself was all too often the butt of the fellow’s jokes.

  “Who would you suggest I send instead?” Mr. Colquhoun persisted.

  Since he had been invited, more or less, to voice an opinion, Pickett considered the matter. Mr. Dixon was fifty years old, and had been with Bow Street longer than Pickett had been alive, having joined the Foot Patrol in the days of no less a personage than Sir John Fielding. No one could doubt Dixon’s competence, and yet Pickett could not help feeling that, if Mr. Colquhoun were to send Dixon with him, it would be John Pickett who would end up assisting Mr. Dixon, rather than the other way ’round. Maxwell seemed like a good man, but Pickett didn’t know him well, as he had come to Bow Street only recently after being invalided out of the army. Griffin was currently working a case of his own, and Marshall was in Yorkshire on assignment.

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that I couldn’t work with Carson,” Pickett said at last, having failed to come up with a more acceptable alternative. He was forced to admit that it might have been a great deal worse: after all, he’d even managed to work with Mr. Foote, and he did Harry Carson the justice to own that Carson, at least, had no desire to see him hang for stealing an apple (among other things) in his misspent youth. Then again, perhaps Harry Carson was unaware of his inglorio
us past. Or maybe he simply hadn’t thought of it yet. Either way, there was only one response Pickett could make. “Whoever you may choose to send with me, sir, he will have my best efforts. So will you, come to that.”

  Mr. Colquhoun nodded in approval. “Somehow I expected no less from you.”

  “Er, I do have one question, though,” Pickett added hesitantly.

  “Do you, now? And what is that, Mr. Pickett?”

  “Well, sir, given that Carson in a member of the Horse Patrol, I don’t suppose—that is, you won’t expect me to—what I mean to say, sir—”

  Mr. Colquhoun listened to this disjointed speech with unholy glee for some minutes before putting Pickett out of his misery. “Never fear, Mr. Pickett, the two of you will be traveling by stage. I don’t expect you to make a two-day journey on horseback.”

  Pickett breathed a sigh of relief. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “I never did hold with cruelty to dumb animals—and the horse probably wouldn’t like it, either,” continued the magistrate, drawing a sheepish grin from Pickett. “Now, if you’ll fetch Mr. Carson, we’ll inform him of his new assignment before I send you home to pack your bags and inform your wife of your sudden rise in the world. I refer, of course, to His Royal Highness, not to a protracted visit to Dunbury in Mr. Carson’s company.”

  Pickett did as he was bidden, and a moment later Harry Carson burst upon the magistrate’s office, a handsome fellow a couple of years older than Pickett himself, clad in the blue coat and red waistcoat of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. “Yes, sir?” he asked Mr. Colquhoun. “Lord John said you wanted to see me?”

  Pickett refused to take the bait, but gave the magistrate a speaking look nevertheless. Mr. Colquhoun did not acknowledge this by so much as the flicker of an eyelid, but addressed himself instead to Carson. “A letter arrived in this morning’s post, requesting that I send Mr. Pickett along with another principal officer. As we are shorthanded at the moment, I had thought to send you instead. Tell me, what do you make of this?”

  He handed the letter to the man who was Pickett’s junior in everything but years. Carson studied it for a long moment before giving it back to the magistrate with a shrug. “I should say someone named Edward Gaines Brockton needs a couple of Runners in Dunbury, although I can’t imagine why one wouldn’t suffice. Besides that, there’s really not much to go on, is there?”