Free Theft of Life by Imogen Robertson Page A

adventurers, which did them no good in the end. Sir Charles, however, only returned to England permanently five years ago. Before then he spent a great deal of time on his property in Jamaica. Now he is such an ornament of the city. Tireless as an Alderman, and he served as Lord Mayor two years ago.’
    ‘A paragon,’ Harriet said dryly. ‘I wonder what his slaves think of him.’ There was a dray unloading barrels outside the King’s Head and the shire horse in harness seemed nervous. Harriet kept an eye on him as she went by. Her own horse was fresh from the country and inclined to be skittish.
    ‘Oh, I believe they are all very fond of him,’ Bartholomew said comfortably. ‘They are better off with him than among the savages of Africa. He seldom has to buy new stock, as those born on the estate itself supply his needs for labour. It is a testament to his care of them and the generosity of his treatment. He is the model of what an owner should be.’
    The roadway narrowed as they passed by the spot where the gate in London Wall had once stood, and Harriet had no opportunity to reply. As they found themselves in Aldersgate itself and the roadway widened, she could loosen her grip on the reins. Harriet had heard of Sir Charles. He had become a model member of London society too, gracious and gregarious; friends with every man of influence, but though he had money and leisure, his address was modest, his reputation unsullied by talk of opera singers or married women, his clothing elegant but restrained. A paragon indeed, and now Harriet learned he was also very good to his slaves.
    ‘How is Sir Charles acquainted with Mrs Trimnell and her father?’ she asked.
    ‘Mr Trimnell owned a neighbouring plantation, and Mr Sawbridge was Sir Charles’s overseer for many years,’ Bartholomew said with a sort of lazy satisfaction. ‘And Sir Charles is most generous to his friends. He provides entertainments for them, such as the concert which I attended on Thursday evening, for instance. Such hospitality, and the best musicians, naturally. Mr Paxton was there and several others of similar distinction.’
    Harriet had met Mr Paxton at Graves’s house and thought him a very pleasant man, but was not musical enough to fully understand why he was a celebrity. Both Graves and Susan had simply told her he was of the first rank in his profession, and she believed them.
    ‘Today as well,’ the coroner went on, ‘I am sure all his guests will have the very best spot from which to view the balloon.’
    ‘Mr Trimnell was not at the entertainment on Thursday, however?’
    ‘Perhaps he is not a lover of music.’
    ‘Nor of balloons, I suppose. His wife attends: if he had been invited, would he not have been looked for and missed before this time?’
    Bartholomew shifted his position and folded his arms. ‘I could not say. As I told you, I have never met Mr Trimnell.’
    They drove on in silence a little further. The traffic had become very dense once more, and looking ahead Harriet thought it was probably the balloon-raising causing the crowd. There was some altercation on the corner of Aldersgate and Barbican itself. A large coach with coronets on the doors had become entangled with a hackney carriage and the drivers appeared to be in dispute. Harriet pulled up where she still might have a little room to manage an escape.
    ‘You know Sir Charles through your work as a coroner, I suppose, Mr Bartholomew?’
    He beamed. ‘No. Rather, Mrs Westerman, I owe my position as coroner to the patronage of Sir Charles. I was born on his estate, the son of a carpenter. Sir Charles took notice of me in my youth on his visits home, and paid for my schooling and saw me established in the law. I am deeply grateful to him. He has helped several men like me from humble backgrounds to better themselves.’
    Harriet resisted the impulse to remark that the coroner was lucky not to have been born to one of Sir Charles’s workers in Jamaica. The