‘Is that such a loss?’
She shrugged. ‘I speak fluent French and can read Plato’s Republic in Greek and yet some women still get up and leave when I walk into a room.’ As she turned to go, her arm brushed against his sleeve and he smelled her; an earthy, intoxicating scent that took him back to his adolescence. ‘Do you know something, Pyke?’ she added, under her breath. ‘I might have been unfaithful to my husband but I’ll never leave him.’
Downstairs the ball was in full swing; the mini-orchestra were playing a piece by Mozart and the supper room had just been opened.
After helping himself to some food, Pyke looked around the room and his glance fell upon a slobbering, tawny-coloured mastiff straining at its leash. It was unusual, to say the least, that such an animal should be allowed into the building, especially at a formal function, and the dog’s owner didn’t seem ill dressed for the occasion in his cutaway coat, tan breeches and elastic-sided leather boots. There was something familiar about the man but it was the squat, muscular mastiff which first jogged Pyke’s memory.
Both man and beast had been with Marguerite at the graveside in the grounds of Morris’s estate.
And while he held the dog tightly on its leash, the man was amiably chatting with Abraham Gore.
‘It’s good to see you, Pyke,’ Gore said, shaking Pyke’s hand with a warmness he found disarming. Then he turned to his companion and said, ‘Do forgive me, sir, but I’ve forgotten your name…’ He winced with embarrassment but the man didn’t seem to mind. ‘Jake Bolter,’ he said, making a mock bow, ‘and this here is Copper, a proper rum dog. Say hello to the nice gentl’man, Copper.’
The animal was an enormous creature with a square head, a short muzzle, a light fawn coat and a black mask around the eyes and nose. As it growled, a string of drool fell from its jaws, but it remained at Bolter’s side.
Bolter was horribly disfigured, to the extent that it was hard to tell what age he might be or what he might have looked like before he was burnt. Instead of eyebrows, he had two slight dents above his bulging eyes, and what remained of the skin around his cheeks was raw and blistered, a thatch of scar tissue with the rough-hewn texture of pork rind.
‘Mr Bolter was just educating me in the proper usage of cant,’ Gore said, winking at Pyke. ‘He’s an ex-soldier, you see. He was just telling me his story. Actually it’s rather tragic. His one real aim in life was to kill someone in the heat of battle. He claims he was something of a sharpshooter with the rifle. But he sustained a serious leg injury and even though his eyesight was perfectly fine they decided to give him an honourable discharge.’
Bolter grinned idiotically. ‘I’m a hearty old cock. Mr Gore is quite correct — I did yearn to serve in His Majesty’s infantry and get the chance to shoot some infidels — but I ain’t never allowed injuries to damage my prospects.’ His snuff-blackened nostrils flared with pride.
‘Indeed,’ Gore said dubiously, staring down at the mastiff. ‘Where was it you said you worked?’
‘Prosser’s school for stray and homeless children in Tooting,’ he said, proudly. ‘I ain’t shot the cat once since I started there.’
‘Very good, very good,’ Gore said, as though he were talking to a pet. ‘And if I may be so bold, what is shooting the cat?’
‘Vomiting through drunkenness,’ Pyke said.
They both looked at him, surprised, but it was Gore who said, ‘You understand this cant?’
Pyke glanced across at Bolter. ‘If I heard someone referring to this man as a freebooter, I’d know what they were talking about.’
Bolter absorbed the insult silently. ‘Then you’ll also know that to “pike” means to run away.’
Pyke looked down at the mastiff, wondering again why it had been allowed into the Colosseum.
‘See? That’s stopped the cull’s blubber, ain’t it?’ Bolter said, more to the dog than Gore.
Gore seemed unhappy about the sudden air of tension and tried to laugh. ‘I find it all delightful and very inventive. If I wanted to indicate I was hungry, I’d say my guts are beginning to think my throat’s been cut. Is that right?’
‘And if you were cheating a friend,’ Pyke said, trying to catch Gore’s stare, ‘you’d be gulling him.’
Gore turned to Bolter. ‘It was really delightful to make your acquaintance, sir. But perhaps you could leave us for a moment?’
Bolter cleared his throat and bowed his head. ‘Of course, cock. My cup is dry and I need some grog to meller the red lane.’ He nodded at Pyke and said, ‘Gemmen,’ before leading the mastiff away.
‘It’s quite beyond me why our gracious host would permit such a ghastly creature to join the celebrations,’ Gore said, shaking his head, leaving Pyke to wonder whether he was referring to Bolter or the dog. ‘But it’s good to see you again, Pyke. In fact, there was something I wanted to tell you, but from the look on your face I’d say you have something to say to me first.’
Pyke looked into his genial face. ‘I travelled with Morris to Cambridge and on to Huntingdon.’
‘I know. I hope you don’t mind. Edward told me about the trouble and, of course, I read about it in the newspapers. Terrible business.’
‘What’s terrible? The fact the townsmen acted like lawless vigilantes? Or that a handful of navvies were forced to jump from a bridge into the Ouse and probably didn’t survive?’
‘All loss of life is unfortunate but disregard for the law in this age is unacceptable, too.’
‘In this age or any age?’
‘The law and the market are the bedrocks of our civilisation. The law governs our actions and the market allocates resources. If either one fails, the whole of society fails. It may be a simple view of the world but it’s one I ascribe to.’
An uneasy silence hung between them.
‘But the problems facing the Grand Northern in Huntingdon will directly benefit the Birmingham railway, won’t they?’
Gore seemed puzzled. ‘I’m not sure I follow your logic.’
‘If the Grand Northern terminates at Cambridge, as now seems possible, it’ll leave your railway with a monopoly on passenger and freight traffic between London and all points north.’
Gore stared at him for a moment, trying to comprehend what he’d just suggested. ‘And you think I might have had something to do with the trouble in Huntingdon?’
‘I’m looking into everyone who may or may not be involved.’
That seemed to placate him a little. ‘If this business is permitted to go unchecked, it’ll undermine the Birmingham railway just as surely as the Grand Northern.’ He waited for a moment, unsure what to say next.
‘But the violence in Huntingdon didn’t just happen. The navvies were deliberately provoked and the townsmen were waiting for them to attack.’
‘Then I deplore what happened and would encourage you to take whatever action you can to bring the culprits to book.’
‘And if I need your co-operation in this task, you’ll give it to me?’ Pyke asked.
‘If the law’s been flouted, and it would seem from your assessment of the situation that it has, then I’ll do everything in my power to help bring the malefactors to punishment. Remember, Edward is one of my oldest friends and, while we might represent competing interests, I would never do anything to compromise our friendship. I hope you understand that.’
While Pyke assessed Gore’s response in his mind, the older man added, ‘I’m not saying I support these radicals. That would be obtuse. If you’ll excuse me for saying so, I think their ideas pose a real threat to the stability of our country, but if they protest within the law, I am content to give them their dues.’
‘As the Tolpuddle six recently found out, the law isn’t as impartial as you seem to imagine.’
Gore nodded, acknowledging the point. ‘You seem like an educated man. Perhaps you’ve heard of an artist called Hieronymous Bosch.’
‘Indeed I have.’
‘You know his work?’ Gore asked, seemingly
delighted by this prospect. ‘I think the two of us have more in common than we’d like to admit. Self-made men with a liking for gloomy art.’
Pyke couldn’t help but smile. There was something infectious about Gore’s good-natured enthusiasm. ‘Were you thinking about a particular painting?’
‘ The Ship of Fools. Perhaps you know it?’
Nodding, Pyke said that he was aware of the painting.
‘It’s how I see this alliance between the radicals and the working man. Everyone trapped on a rudderless boat, no work ethic, no hope, just drifting slowly, inexorably, into oblivion.’
‘I thought it better described the experience of being a shareholder,’ Pyke replied. ‘Stupid, greedy people, condemned by their own self-delusion to chase after something that’ll always lie beyond their grubby reaches.’
But then Gore surprised him. Instead of taking offence, he broke into a hearty laugh and slapped Pyke on the back. ‘That’s a good one.’ He continued to laugh. ‘I like it. I like it a lot.’
Pyke waited until his smile had disappeared before he said, ‘At the risk of causing offence, perhaps I should ask you a more direct question.’
Gore took out a handkerchief and started to mop his face. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of fellow who cares whether he causes offence or not.’ He stopped what he was doing and looked up at Pyke. ‘But to pre-empt what might be an awkward moment, can I just repeat what I said earlier. Edward is my friend.’
‘I didn’t think there were any friends in business,’ Pyke said, warming to the older man, in spite of his suspicions.
‘I’m a simple man with a simple philosophy of life. I do what I do because it will hopefully make me richer but I also hope that my activities will benefit others. Take the railway, as an example. I expect to profit from the venture, of course, but so will the proprietors who have risked their savings and who will, I hope, see a favourable return on their investment. And if they benefit, so too will the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker who depend on their custom. And let us not forget the navvies who get paid for the work they perform and who spend their wages in the public house, thereby benefiting the landlord. And most important of all is the railway itself. A safe, fast and reliable mode of travel; even the flintiest of hearts would be hard pressed to deny the general utility of such an enterprise.’
‘My wife certainly wouldn’t agree with those sentiments,’ Pyke said, still trying to determine what he thought about Gore and whether his last comment had been disloyal to Emily.
‘But you, as a businessman, can appreciate them?’
Pyke shrugged but said nothing.
‘I’m pleased we’ve had this conversation, Pyke. I’ve admired what you’ve done at Blackwood’s for a while now and I felt we got off on the wrong foot yesterday.’ He held up his hand. ‘I didn’t take offence but you seemed to imply that my defence of the right to free speech was somehow calculated.’
‘I didn’t mean to cause offence,’ Pyke said, choosing his words carefully. ‘But it’s rare to find someone in your position willing to defend everyone ’s right to the freedom of speech.’
Gore bowed his head, accepting the explanation. ‘I don’t know exactly why but I felt it necessary to prove myself to you. I’m a man with a few political connections and I put them to good use today.’ His eyes were shining and his lips moist. ‘Your uncle’s legal problems have been taken care of.’
This was the last thing that Pyke expected him to say and for a moment he was too stunned to respond. ‘Just like that?’ was all he managed in the end.
‘I had a few sharp words with the magistrate in question…’
‘Bellows?’
Nodding, Gore broke into a smile; clearly the memory of this exchange gratified him. ‘A nasty piece of work, I’ll grant you, but with a few political connections, in spite of his pompous, self-aggrandising ways. The request to drop the matter, which I presented to him, was signed by Russell, the Home Secretary.’ Gore began to chuckle. ‘In fact, it wasn’t really a request. The chief magistrate huffed and puffed for a while but in the end he knew he was a beaten man. It would seem he’s desperate to ingratiate himself with men like Russell: men who will decide whether he assumes charge of the bench of the Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey when the Right Honourable Charles Lord Tenterden retires at the end of this year.’
‘I’m still not sure why you felt the need to do it,’ Pyke stammered, trying to work it out for himself, ‘but I’m certainly grateful to you.’
‘I did it because I like you, Pyke. I see a little of myself in you. And I didn’t want you to think badly of me. I wanted you to know I put my money where my mouth is. Who knows? One day you might be in a position to return the favour.’ He smiled kindly at him and added, ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I should pay my respects to the host and hostess.’
As Gore moved off to join Morris, Pyke thought about their encounter and what, if anything, it told him about the man’s real character.
But that was not Pyke’s final interaction with Gore that night. A little later in the evening, requiring a place to urinate, Pyke followed a well-worn path to a row of huts at the rear of the building. His tug on one of the doors was perhaps stronger than it needed to be, because the flimsy lock gave way, and he found himself staring at Gore, breeches around his ankles, ruddy cheeked, straddling one of the young serving girls from behind. Gore’s hips wiggled in an ungainly fashion as he thrust himself at the woman’s arse, her face bowed towards the stinking cess pool beneath them. Her eyes were shut and barely registered the interruption. But Gore looked up, saw who it was and offered Pyke a subtle wink, before carrying on with his business as though nothing had happened. Pyke closed the door and left them to their respective fates.
He found Bolter by the table of food in the supper room, feeding a boiled egg to his dog.
‘How do you know the hosts?’
Bolter licked his fingers and patted the mastiff on its head. ‘Is that any business of yours?’
‘You’re an acquaintance of the wife rather than the husband.’
Bolter seemed surprised Pyke knew this but his face remained composed. ‘She’s a generous lady. Mr Prosser’s school couldn’t do without her and the like.’
Pyke nodded, a moment’s silence passing between them. ‘How did you get your burns?’
Bolter’s eyes narrowed. He tugged the mastiff’s leash and muttered, ‘Copper here needs the necessary house. You’ll have to excuse me.’
Pyke was thinking about going after him when he noticed Jem Nash slip into the room through a door used by the servants. He smoothed his hair back using the palms of his hands and helped himself to some food from the table. Marguerite walked through the same door a few moments later, arranging her hair. She looked flushed, the colour rising in her cheeks.
Pyke joined his assistant at the table and, for a while, they watched Marguerite in silence.
‘She’s quite a specimen, isn’t she?’
‘Who?’ Nash looked at him, frowning.
‘Morris’s wife.’
Nash sniffed. ‘A bit old for me.’ But he seemed flustered, and Pyke wondered whether something had taken place between him and Marguerite.
‘I knew her when we were both much younger.’
A shimmer of interest passed over Nash’s otherwise dull stare.
‘Back then she was just plain old Maggie Shaw, except there was nothing plain or old about her.’
‘Did you fuck her?’
Pyke looked at his assistant and smiled. ‘Straight to the point, eh?’
‘I can see why you might have wanted to…’ Nash paused, as though not sure what else to say.
‘But?’
‘But nothing.’
Pyke didn’t believe Nash held grudges but wondered whether he was still secretly rankled by their encounter in the banking hall. ‘I was young and selfish. I used her, in a way I’m not proud of. But I found out she was a cold fish, too.’
&n
bsp; Nash regarded him sceptically. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Just be careful, Jem. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Be careful of what?’
Pyke was about to answer him when he reached down to touch his chain and keys and discovered they were missing.
Nash must have seen his expression change because he asked what the matter was. ‘Someone’s palmed my keys.’
‘What keys?’
‘The key to the bank vault and…’ Pyke hesitated and kicked himself. He couldn’t possibly explain the worth of the other. Nor could he ever replace it.
‘Are you certain someone took it?’
‘As opposed to me losing it?’
Nash shrugged. ‘If someone was going to try and break into our vault, they’d need at least five different keys.’
Pyke nodded and felt himself start to relax. Nash was right. But still, the idea that someone had picked his pocket upset him. He thought about the ravens. The tiny key that Emily had given him in the condemned cell at Newgate all those years ago was part of the same thing. Somehow not having it made Pyke feel exposed, vulnerable. He tried to think who might have stolen it. He’d had the keys when he arrived back in London, that was for certain. The old gypsy perhaps? Then he remembered what Freddie Sutton had said about his young daughter. A real magpie. The same little girl who had hugged his leg
…
‘Say goodnight to Morris for me,’ Pyke said, already moving towards the rotunda, wondering whether Sutton’s daughter had really palmed his keys.
‘Do you want me to check on the vault?’ Nash called out.
Turning around, he shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary. But thanks for the offer.’
Outside, Pyke strode down the steps from the Doric portico, looking for a hackney coachman. He saw Marguerite standing with her back to him, staring out into the park.
‘Maggie?’
She spun around with a start and tried to hide the fact that she’d been crying. Her arms were covered with gooseflesh.
The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2 Page 15
