The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, gently.

  Sniffing, Marguerite stared out into the darkness. ‘I had a blazing row with Eddy. He’s drunk as a lord. I have to leave him alone when he gets like this. He won’t listen to reason.’

  ‘I did try and warn you.’

  She looked away and shrugged, her face streaked with the traces of her own tears. ‘People aren’t always who you think they are.’

  ‘And does that apply to your husband…’ Pyke waited for a moment and added, ‘Or me?’

  The tip of her tongue brushed against her bottom lip. ‘Why didn’t you come with me to France all those years ago?’

  Pyke stared at her and sighed, not sure what to say. ‘It would never have worked out, Maggie.’

  She smiled at his use of her old name. ‘Perhaps.’ She took a step towards him and stopped. ‘The fact I won’t ever leave Eddy doesn’t mean I don’t desire other men.’

  Pyke felt his throat tighten. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  This time she didn’t answer but took another step towards him. He could smell her, a sharp tangy scent that reminded him of lemons. ‘Eddy and I haven’t shared a bed in three years.’

  Pyke looked around for a hackney coachman. ‘I’m going home to my wife.’

  A look of disappointment, even bewilderment, registered on her face, and then she gathered up her shawl and started to walk back towards the portico.

  ‘Why did you insist to your husband that you wanted to live at Cranborne Park?’ he called out after her.

  But she continued on her way as though he hadn’t spoken or she hadn’t heard him.

  TWELVE

  It was late, well after ten o’clock, by the time the carriage pulled up in front of the cottage shared by Freddie Sutton and his family. The coachman hadn’t wanted to venture into Spitalfields and had been persuaded only by the offer of a guinea. Pyke instructed the coachman to wait and banged on the front door. When there was no reply, he repeated the act, but still no one answered. It had started to rain and in the night sky the yellow moon, suddenly visible though a mass of low clouds, shone like a gargoyle. Pyke walked around to the window and peered into the room. In the neighbouring cottage he could hear a man and a woman arguing. There were no candles burning in the room and it was difficult to see anything through the broken, smeared pane. He tapped lightly on the window but nothing and no one stirred inside. A dog barked, and in the bushes he heard something move, but then it went silent.

  Walking back to the front door, he knocked again, only louder this time, and then tried the handle, to see whether it was unlocked. The door swung open and he called out Sutton’s name. Still no one answered. Treading carefully, he stepped into the room and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he didn’t have to see anything to know what had happened. The smell was enough. On certain occasions, as a Bow Street Runner, he had visited the underground slaughterhouses in the vicinity of Smithfield and the sweet, putrid stench of fresh blood and ripe flesh had imprinted itself on his memory. Taking a box of matches from his pocket, he took one and struck it against the wall. The match exploded, temporarily filling the room with light. That was when he saw them, Freddie Sutton and his wife, propped up against an overturned ale barrel. Their throats had been cut and the floor around them had turned crimson with their blood. Pyke tried to cover his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, but too late. He felt the revulsion build in his stomach and then rise up to his throat until he could taste it in the back of his throat. The match died in his hand but not before he saw blood glistening on the toes of his leather boots. He retched but nothing came up.

  Another match confirmed what he had just seen. Freddie Sutton and his wife had been murdered, their throats slit with a sharp knife. Their bodies were warm too, indicating they hadn’t been long dead.

  That was when he heard the noise. At first he had thought it was a rat scurrying over the floor or possibly a small dog or cat. It came from under the table, and when Pyke bent down, the tip of the match still burning in his hand, and peered under the tablecloth, the little girl gasped and backed away, her eyes wide with fear. Crab-walking back to the wall, she stared at him, her lips ever so slightly parted, assessing him as a cat might regard a much larger dog.

  ‘Here.’ Pyke knelt down and held out his hand. ‘It’s Milly, isn’t it?’

  Her pale, liquid eyes widened further, as though trying to make sense of what was happening, and then she nodded.

  ‘Do you remember me from earlier today?’

  She remained rooted to the spot, her unblinking eyes never leaving his, even for a second. Had she seen what had taken place? Did she know that her parents were dead?

  ‘Milly, I want you to come with me. Can you do that?’ He extended his hand out a little farther. One thing was certain. He couldn’t leave her there.

  But she didn’t budge.

  ‘Did a man come and visit earlier this evening?’ As he said it, he wondered whether she could understand him.

  The match had died but he could see that her expression was blank.

  ‘Here, girl, give me your hand.’ He was practically under the table with her, their hands almost touching.

  ‘Did you steal those two keys from a chain attached to my pocket earlier today?’ His missing keys seemed trivial by comparison but he still needed to ask her the question.

  She gave her head an indignant shake.

  ‘Did you see what happened in here?’ He lowered his voice to a whisper.

  Her stare glazed over but her eyes remained fixed on him.

  ‘Here, Milly.’ He took her hand and pulled her gently towards him. She didn’t try to resist.

  ‘I don’t know what Emily’ll say,’ Jo fretted, as Pyke emerged from the room next to the nursery where he’d just tucked Milly up in bed. Milly still hadn’t spoken a word to him, but when he’d said goodnight and made to leave the room, she’d whimpered in a way that suggested an attachment had already been formed. The poor little girl had shivered in his arms throughout the entire journey back to the hall. Pyke had woken Jo up, to explain the girl’s presence in the room next to Felix’s, but Emily wasn’t expected back from Birmingham for a couple of days. Gently Pyke closed the door and turned to Jo.

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ he said, quietly. What he wanted to say was, What other choice did I have? Her parents were murdered. Their throats had been slit. I saw them with my own eyes. Their blood is on my boots. But even though he knew Jo well, and liked her, he didn’t think it appropriate to share his thoughts with her. He looked away and tried to swallow. His throat felt dry and scratchy.

  Once Jo had returned to her room, Pyke crept into the nursery and watched Felix sleep for a while. He liked to do this, if work had kept him late and he hadn’t seen his son for a while. After a few minutes, Felix stirred, rolled over and looked up. ‘Father?’ He sounded alarmed.

  Pyke told him not to worry and to go back to sleep. He had always wanted a sister or brother for Felix but somehow it had never happened. Now when Felix woke up, there would be a girl, a few years older than him, in the room next door. Briefly Pyke wondered how the lad would react to this development, whether he would welcome it or not.

  Leaning down, Pyke kissed him on the head.

  He thought about telling the boy that he loved him but the words wouldn’t come.

  There were three police constables and a sergeant, from H Division in Stepney, all wearing their dark blue, swallow-tailed coats, matching trousers and black stovepipe hats. The sergeant, a ferret-faced man, cleanly shaven with pimples on his chin, took charge of the situation, banging on the door of the cottage with the end of his truncheon and, when no one answered, gingerly opening the door with his hand. The other policemen followed him, leaving Pyke to bring up the rear. The sergeant, who had treated his revelation about corpses with weary scepticism, turned to him, arms folded, as if to affirm the rightness of his initial suspicions.

  ‘No
bodies here, sir.’

  Disbelieving, Pyke looked down at the spot where he had seen Freddie Sutton and his wife the night before. The sergeant was right. The bodies had been moved.

  ‘But you can see the blood,’ Pyke said, bending down to indicate where the marks were. The floorboards had been scrubbed clean but some of the blood had seeped into the wood, staining it a darker colour.

  ‘It could’ve been blood.’ The sergeant looked around the room and sniffed. ‘Could’ve been any number of things.’

  Pyke wanted to grab his lapels and shake him. ‘Two people were killed here last night. Freddie Sutton and his wife. I saw them. Their throats had been cut. I want to know what you’re going to do.’

  ‘Anyone else see the bodies?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me again what you were doing in the neighbourhood last night, sir.’

  Pyke removed one of his boots and held up the toe to the sergeant’s face. ‘That’s their dried blood. I trod in it by accident.’

  The sergeant glanced at it, unimpressed. ‘I’ll make a file of your claim. Leave me your name and address and I’ll get back in touch.’

  Struggling to control his anger, Pyke pushed his way past the other constables and stepped outside. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Two people were murdered last night. Did any of you see anything?’

  He heard a few gasps and some frightened looks and then one by one they turned their backs and walked away, until he was left staring at a black-and-white dog that wagged its tail and barked at him.

  But Pyke’s morning didn’t improve when he finally turned up at the bank. In fact what awaited him there left him dazed and disoriented.

  William Blackwood met him in the banking hall, his expression pale and sombre. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  For a moment Pyke thought Blackwood was talking about the two murders and he was about to shoo his partner away when he realised he had to be talking about something else.

  ‘What news?’ The skin tightened across his face.

  ‘The whole of the city’s talking about it.’

  ‘Talking about what?’

  ‘Edward James Morris threw himself off the viewing promenade at the Colosseum last night. He’s dead, Pyke. Morris is dead. He killed himself.’

  Pyke had to steady himself on his partner’s shoulder. It felt as if he’d been hit over the head with a cudgel.

  Morris, dead. The words wouldn’t cohere with images in his head. He could hear the old man’s voice booming in his ear; and if he closed his eyes, Pyke could still see his grinning, big-boned face.

  ‘Of course, this will have implications with regard both to our investments in the Grand Northern and the loan you recently agreed with the company.’ Blackwood stared at him without blinking.

  Pyke grabbed Blackwood by the throat and pinned him to the wall. ‘A good man has died. Can’t you leave it at that for the moment?’

  But as soon as he’d thought about it, Pyke knew that Blackwood was right. He let him go and wiped his hand on his coat sleeve. There was the small matter of ten thousand pounds. And the missing key.

  Suddenly Pyke felt nauseous, searing panic seizing his entire body until he could hardly breathe. The key, the loan, Morris. A pattern was emerging and it didn’t look good for him.

  ‘Go and get your key to the safe and meet me downstairs in the vault,’ he shouted at his apparently bewildered partner.

  Five minutes later, Blackwood joined him in the vault, holding his key. ‘Where’s yours?’ he asked, frowning.

  But Pyke’s heart was beating too fast to take any notice of what his partner was saying. He took the key and inserted it into the safe’s door, twisting it a full rotation until the lock had opened.

  Pulling open the heavy iron door, he quickly scanned the contents of the safe and felt his tension ease a little. It didn’t appear that anything had been disturbed. But he still wanted to check the documents he’d placed there the previous afternoon. He’d put them at the back of the safe and he had to reach in almost with his entire arm. Behind him, his partner was holding aloft the lantern, curious to know what Pyke was looking for. As far as Pyke was aware, Blackwood knew nothing about the ten-thousand-pound loan he had made privately to Morris. Kneeling down, he peered into the safe, his heart quickening. The documents, including the contracts and the deeds to Cranborne Park, were not where he’d left them.

  A solitary drop of sweat leaked from his armpit and snaked its way down his side, as it dawned on him what was happening.

  Pyke searched some more but the documents weren’t there. Someone had taken them.

  When he staggered to his feet, his head was spinning. He blinked, closed his eyes and tried to focus. If the documents were missing, and the ten thousand pounds he’d lent Morris couldn’t be traced, he would be liable for the full amount of the loan. The thought terrified as much as it enraged him. He could stand to lose everything.

  ‘Who else has been down here since yesterday afternoon? ’ His voice teetered on the precipice of rage.

  ‘No one, as far as I know.’

  ‘Have you been here?’ Pyke stared at him; there was no one else who had a key.

  Blackwood sensed something was wrong but didn’t appear to know what it was. ‘I brought the money taken by the cashiers down here as usual…’

  ‘I put some documents in here yesterday at close of business. They’re now gone. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I hope you’re not insinuating I had anything to do with it,’ Blackwood replied in a rush.

  ‘There are only two keys that open this safe. Yours, and one that was stolen from me yesterday.’

  Sweat had broken out around Blackwood’s temples.

  ‘Yesterday I made a private loan to Morris of ten thousand pounds.’

  Blackwood looked at him, open mouthed. Finally the seriousness of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. ‘I take it there was a witness.’

  ‘Nash.’

  ‘Then you’ve covered yourself, haven’t you? We can always recover the money from Morris’s estate.’

  Pyke nodded but he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that lurked in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Of course, if Nash doesn’t verify your story then we might have a very serious problem,’ Blackwood added.

  Pyke’s punch landed squarely on Blackwood’s nose, knocking him backwards, blood spurting freely from his nostrils. ‘Why wouldn’t Nash verify it?’ Pyke lifted him up by his collar. It was like picking up a skeleton. ‘I said, the documents were stolen. Didn’t you hear me?’

  Blood glistened on the end of Blackwood’s nose. He was too nonplussed to speak but his eyes burned like hot coals behind glass, as though he couldn’t quite put a name to the humiliation he felt.

  The entrance to Moor’s Yard was blocked by two policemen and when Pyke tried to push past them, the taller of the two men held out his arm and told him that no one was allowed to enter the yard. Other people wanted to know why both ends of the yard had been blocked and what the policemen had found there. The mere sight of the police made Pyke even more jumpy than he’d been before. He tried to explain that he had important business with one of the residents, business that couldn’t possibly wait.

  ‘You ain’t going in there, squire,’ the policeman said, squinting at him.

  A small crowd had gathered on the pavement around him, forcing passers-by on to the road. The midday bells of St Martin’s began to chime. Pyke couldn’t wait. The worry was eating him up. He had to find Nash. Seeing his chance, he shoved the other officer to one side and broke into a run. Behind, he heard shouts and cheers but he didn’t look back. He ran along the narrow alley until it opened up into a yard. Nash lodged at number eight, above the farrier, an apartment on the first floor that overlooked the horse pond. But there were more policemen in the yard and, alerted by the shouts of their colleagues, th
ey were ready for him.

  ‘Nash. I need to talk to Jem Nash. He lives at number eight.’

  A few of them exchanged looks.

  ‘What is it?’ Panic iced Pyke’s stomach.

  ‘I don’t think you want to see him, the state he’s in, sir.’ The policeman was blocking the doorway leading up to Nash’s apartment.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Pyke felt his throat tighten.

  ‘Dead?’ The policeman laughed. ‘If you can survive without a head, then I’d like to know how.’

  Pyke’s legs buckled.

  The policeman nodded. ‘That’s right, cully. When word starts to spread, as it will, there’ll be panic on the streets.’

  With a sudden movement, Pyke shoved past him and bolted up the stairs ignoring the shouts of the policemen behind him. At the top of the stairs, he pushed open the door to Nash’s apartment and stepped inside. He didn’t get beyond the entrance hall. Nash’s body lay there on the floor, still dressed in the outfit he’d worn to the ball. The air smelled cloying. The stump where Jem Nash’s head had been was bloody and raw. Pyke tried to get a better look at the body, but policemen had chased up the stairs and dragged him out of the apartment.

  Were there burn marks on the body? That was what he wanted to know. And was the head there? Had the killer taken the head?

  It took six of them to drag him down the stairs. One of them tried to arrest him for disturbing the peace. Outside it had started to rain but Pyke hardly noticed it. Everything he’d done, everything he’d achieved, everything he’d earned since he’d taken over at the bank, was hanging by a thread. He thought about the old crone, the dead navvies, Freddie Sutton and his wife, and now Morris and Nash. Were they all part of the same thing? All that blood spilt and for what?

  The policemen left him alone. Doubling up, he spat bile on to his boots. He could still see Freddie Sutton’s dried blood on them.

  He would find out who had done this and make them pay. Someone, somewhere, would pay dearly for what had happened. Staring up at the rain, he repeated these words like a mantra.