The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘My dear boy, you look terrible.’ Godfrey gave him an awkward hug. ‘Aren’t they feeding you properly?’ They were standing in the entrance hall at Hambledon, the hack-chaise that his uncle had arrived in disappearing along the driveway. Royce appeared and took Godfrey’s coat. Pyke told him to bring a bottle of claret to the drawing room and led his uncle past the old chapel, which he had converted into a billiards room, explaining that Royce hadn’t spoken a word to him since he’d dismissed all but four of the servants a few days earlier.

  ‘I hope you didn’t get rid of the cook. As I said, you could do with being fed a little.’

  ‘The cook, Royce, Jennings to drive the carriage, and Jo.’ Pyke pushed open the door and looked at the piano, for a moment expecting Emily to be there playing, her face fixed in concentration and her body moving to the rhythm of the piece. Godfrey followed him into the room and they both gravitated towards the fire burning in the grate.

  ‘Dare I even ask? Is there any news?’

  Pyke shook his head.

  There were a hundred men combing the streets of the city looking for any sign of his son — and he’d put up a reward of ten thousand pounds — but no one had seen or heard a thing.

  ‘Royce thinks I’ve acted callously towards people, some of whom worked here for more than twenty years.’

  Godfrey stared down at the fire. ‘Well, the old place certainly seems a lot quieter.’ Realising what he’d said, he added, quickly, ‘I didn’t mean… I’m so sorry, dear boy. I just meant…’

  Pyke waved away the apology. ‘I’m sure he thinks I’ve pissed on everything he holds dear.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll regret the hastiness of your actions later, once this is finished and Felix is returned to you, and you’ll reconsider..’ Pyke gave his uncle a hard stare and he reddened and stammered, ‘Then again, perhaps you won’t.’

  ‘Sometimes I think about taking a torch to this whole building and watching it go up in flames.’

  Godfrey shuffled awkwardly in front of the fire. ‘I’ve come from the city. The situation is still dire…’

  ‘And you think it’s my fault?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, dear boy…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Some people have lost everything. Their life savings. Ordinary people with wives and families.’

  ‘I just want my son. Gore knows where he is, what’s happened to him. When they give me Gore, I’ll let them do what they want.’

  ‘But they can’t hold out for much longer. Melbourne’s being crucified in the press for not doing anything to help.’

  ‘And if Cumberland gets the tiniest sniff that his claim to the throne might be a legitimate one, things will get much, much worse.’

  Godfrey turned to face him, his expression almost pleading. ‘And would anarchy on the streets and the whiff of revolution in the air be enough?’

  ‘Enough in what sense?’

  ‘Would it be enough to compensate you for what you’ve lost?’ Godfrey patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘You’re grieving, my dear boy, and that’s understandable. You’ve suffered a terrible, terrible loss. But is it right or fair that you make everyone else suffer with you?’

  ‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

  ‘The handbills you asked me to distribute,’ Godfrey said, shaking his head. ‘This isn’t about continuing Emily’s legacy. She might have dreamed about bringing down this government but her ambitions always exceeded mere punishment and retribution. For her, it was about trying to build a fairer, more humane world. I look at what you’re doing now and it’s hard not to think this is about vengeance, pure and simple.’

  ‘If the prime minister wants to step in and save the day for all those who’ve lost their fortunes, he knows what he needs to do first.’

  ‘But he’s not going to do it,’ Godfrey said, exasperated. ‘Don’t you see that, dear boy? Gore’s one of them. They won’t give him up to a commoner like you. It’s just not in their nature.’

  ‘Then their nature will have to change.’

  Royce appeared, carrying a bottle of claret and two glasses on a silver tray. There was a letter on the tray, too, and when Pyke asked why Royce hadn’t brought it to him before, Royce told him that the staff, such as they were, were so overworked that little things, inevitably, would be overlooked. Pyke took the tray, handed it to Godfrey and slapped the butler in the face. ‘The next time you don’t bring me a letter the moment it’s delivered, I’ll kill you.’

  Godfrey didn’t say a word. He handed Pyke the letter, put the tray down on top of the piano and poured two large glasses of wine.

  Pyke took the envelope, inspected it and then tore it open. Briefly he read the note, his expression giving nothing away.

  ‘Well?’ Godfrey asked, his lips moist with claret. ‘Is it good news?’

  ‘Not if you’re Abraham Gore.’

  That got his uncle’s attention.

  ‘Gore has given himself up to Melbourne. The note says he’ll be delivered here, to me, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘So you’ve won, my boy? You’ve done it. You’ve got what you wanted.’ Godfrey sounded almost jovial.

  ‘I know what I want,’ Pyke said, staring out of the window, ‘and I know it can never happen.’ He turned back to his uncle. ‘That’s the hardest thing to come to terms with.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Pyke walked the final half-mile up the drive towards the elegant Palladian house because he didn’t want to give Marguerite the chance to prepare for his arrival. In spite of Gore’s assurances, his stomach was knotted and he was so tired from the exertions of the previous week that he almost had to crawl on his hand and knees the final few yards to the front steps.

  He found Felix sitting on Marguerite’s lap on a sofa in the drawing room. She was reading him a story. For a moment he watched from the threshold. If he hadn’t known otherwise, the scene could have been one of domestic bliss. A log fire burned in the grate and his son seemed enthralled by the story she was reading for him. With his rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, Felix appeared to be in good health, and while she read, Marguerite stroked his hair with obvious affection. She wore a simple dress and her long blonde curls tumbled down around her glowing face, radiating a contentedness Pyke hadn’t seen in her before.

  It was Felix who noticed him standing in the doorway first and he bolted off her lap before she could stop him. ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ he screamed excitedly, as Pyke gathered him up into his arms and gave him a hug. His skin smelled of soap and his breath of chocolate. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he whispered in the boy’s ear.

  ‘Mrs Maggie promised that you and Mummy would come back and get me soon,’ Felix said, once Pyke had put him down.

  ‘And has Mrs Maggie treated you well?’ he asked, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘We’ve been walking every day and I’ve learned all these new words and we’ve been reading this story…’

  Pyke bent over and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Perhaps you could leave us alone for a few minutes.’

  Felix looked up at Pyke, sighed and then glanced over at Marguerite. ‘If I have to.’

  When they were alone, Pyke remained where he was; not trusting himself to get any closer to her.

  ‘I was told you were dead. I can’t believe it. I’m so happy you’re alive,’ she cried, approaching and trying to embrace him, her face flushed with a look of relief that Pyke didn’t find altogether convincing.

  ‘Is that so?’ He pushed her away.

  ‘I was told you’d be killed…’

  ‘By whom?’

  She again tried to embrace him but he pushed her away once more. For a short while they looked at one another, not speaking.

  ‘He’s a beautiful boy,’ she said, after a few moments, adjusting her petticoats and sitting down.

  Pyke looked into her face. ‘What are you doing, Maggie?’

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘With my son?’

  She
was staring at the fire, one side of her face lit up by the flames. ‘Gore told me you were dead. Emily, too. He offered me Felix. Either I took him, Gore said, or he would spend the rest of his childhood in Prosser’s asylum.’

  ‘Yes, he told me about your cosy arrangement. He gave you my son and the deeds to this place and by way of exchange you gave Gore Morris’s shares in the Grand Northern Railway.’ Pyke could feel the heat on his skin, his anger not yet tempered by relief.

  ‘You make it sound so grubby.’ But she still refused to look up at him.

  ‘An apparently orphaned child for five thousand shares: how exactly does it sound to you?’

  Maggie’s face became thoughtful, her eyes staring into space. ‘He looks so much like James. You know he’s the age James was when he died. But they’re such different personalities. James was rambunctious. Felix is far more circumspect, or perhaps cautious would be a better word, but he’s got such a sharp mind.’

  ‘And the other boy? The one you buried in the garden. Was he different again?’

  She raised her eyes to meet his. ‘James said the two of you had spied on me from the edge of the field that day.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘Did I really say James?’ She laughed, as though the matter were inconsequential. ‘I meant Felix, of course.’

  Pyke shook his head. ‘You need help, Maggie.’

  That seemed to draw her out of herself. ‘ I need help? Is it wrong to want to give a destitute child a loving home?’

  ‘A child who I’d guess looks just like your dead son, plucked from the workhouse by Jake Bolter?’ There had been a resemblance to Felix, too.

  ‘ Our son, Pyke. Remember he was your child, too.’

  Pyke watched her carefully and said, ‘You took him away from me. I never even knew he existed. As far as I’m concerned, Maggie, I’ve only ever had one son.’

  A moment’s silence passed between them. She looked away, frowning. ‘How did you know the boy looked like James?’

  When Pyke didn’t say anything, she thought about it and stumbled on the answer herself. ‘Oh God, you didn’t desecrate his grave, did you?’ Not trying to hide her disgust.

  ‘Emily and Felix had just been kidnapped. For a while, I thought you might have been responsible.’

  ‘ Me? I didn’t even know they’d been taken from you. I was just told you’d died in some terrible accident. You and Emily.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to investigate what Gore told you?’ Pyke shook his head. ‘You didn’t make enquiries about the funeral?’

  ‘I tried, but Gore told me I should concentrate on taking care of your son. He said that was what you would have wanted.’

  ‘And you lapped it up like a kitten in front of a fresh saucer of milk.’

  Insulted, Marguerite sprang to her feet and stepped towards him. ‘Is that what you really think of me? Is that how little you know me?’

  ‘I don’t know you in the slightest. But I never really did, even when we were both younger.’

  Her indignation cooled. ‘You have to believe me, Pyke. I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t know Emily and Felix had been taken from you.’ She hesitated, colour rising in her neck. ‘Your wife must be beside herself with worry…’

  Pyke held up his hand. ‘I’m not going to play along with your little games.’

  ‘What games?’

  ‘Emily’s dead. But you knew that. You knew she’d been shot and killed by one of Gore’s assassins.’

  Her gasp of astonishment may have sounded convincing to some but he wasn’t taken in by it. ‘But Gore had already warned you I was alive, hadn’t he? Warned you I’d come here looking for my son and told you Emily was dead.’

  Marguerite stared down at her feet. The tips of her ears had turned crimson.

  ‘You knew but you didn’t leave. Why?’

  When she looked at him, her eyes were cool and clear. ‘Because I didn’t want to steal your son from you.’

  That, finally, broke him. ‘I’ve been in that house for fucking days now, sick with worry, not knowing whether my son was dead or alive, and all the while he was here with you, and you knew this and still did nothing…’ Saliva flew from his mouth and he had to suppress an urge to punch her face.

  ‘No, that’s not true.’ She stood and tried to grab his arm, his shoulder, anything she could hold on to.

  He threw her to the ground. ‘I don’t ever want to see you again. If you ever try to contact us, me or my son, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever do.’

  Sobbing on the floor, she screamed, ‘It’s not finished for me. That’s why I insisted Eddy buy this house. So I could be near to you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Maggie.’

  Felix appeared at the door and looked at them. He had been roused by their raised voices and was alarmed.

  ‘Come on, Felix, we’re going.’ Perhaps too hard, he tried to grab his son’s wrist.

  Felix pulled his hand away and ran towards Marguerite, who gathered him up into her arms.

  Pyke saw the wild look in her eyes and stepped towards her. ‘Put him down and we’ll talk. Please, Maggie. Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Like fall in love with you?’

  He took another step towards them. Felix tried to wriggle free but her grip around his waist tightened. ‘That was a lifetime ago, Maggie. We married other people, our lives have moved on…’

  ‘ You might have moved on…’

  ‘Maggie. Give me my son.’

  ‘Our son died.’ She retreated from him, towards the fire, her arms wrapped firmly around Felix, who was struggling to free himself.

  ‘Can’t you see, Maggie? You’re hurting him. You’re hurting the boy.’ Pyke took another step towards her.

  ‘That’s enough. Stay where you are, Pyke.’

  ‘Maggie, please. Think about Felix. Put him down and we can talk..’

  ‘I can’t be tricked that easily,’ she said, backing away, another step closer to the fire.

  ‘It’s not a trick. Put him down and we can talk. There’s nowhere left for you to go, Maggie.’

  Much later, Pyke would dwell on the moment when Marguerite had turned to the fire and wonder whether she had really thought about trying to harm his son. In the end, it didn’t matter because she turned back towards him and let Felix go, her cheeks stained with her tears. Felix rushed into his arms and Pyke gathered him up and walked out of the room without looking at, or saying another word to Marguerite, who had crumpled to the floor and was sobbing uncontrollably.

  That was the last time he saw her.

  As Pyke led Felix down the stone steps at the front of the house, holding his hand, he said, ‘I’ll never, ever let anyone take you or try and hurt you again.’

  ‘Mrs Maggie didn’t actually hurt me,’ Felix said, matter-of-factly.

  They walked on a little way in silence; ‘You know you’ve always wanted a dog,’ Pyke said, after a few hundred yards.

  Felix looked up at him and nodded. ‘Mummy said she’d ask you.’

  Pyke nodded, thinking about what Felix had just said. The boy didn’t know and he couldn’t bring himself to tell him. At least not yet. There was only so much the lad could take in a day.

  ‘Well, I might have found us a dog.’

  ‘A dog. We’ve got a dog.’ He trotted happily ahead. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Copper.’

  ‘Copper,’ Felix said, excitedly. ‘What kind of a dog is he?’

  ‘A mastiff. But you have to be very careful around him. He’s been very ill. And he only has three good legs.’ Pyke took Felix’s hand and, together, they started across the fields towards Hambledon.

  Using the narrow staircase next to the old housekeeper’s room, Pyke descended into the cellar and, with only a lantern to guide him, followed the passageway as far as it would take him; at its end, just beyond the wine vault that he had steadily depleted in the six years since he’d been living at the hall, he unbolted a door and carefully negoti
ated his way down another flight of stairs, right into the belly of the building. Until a year ago, he had never been down there and didn’t even know it existed. He had stumbled upon it by accident, while looking for a casket belonging to Emily’s mother; in a rare lucid moment, just before her death, she’d told Emily about its existence, but neither Pyke nor Emily had been able to locate it. It was eerily quiet. This silence was reinforced by Pyke’s insistence that the four remaining servants take a week’s paid holiday and leave him alone in the old hall; but it didn’t really matter because down here no one would hear a man scream. It felt odd, knowing that it was just Felix, Copper and him in the building: Felix, who was asleep in his room, and Copper, who was stretched out by the fire in the drawing room. Just the three of them, if he didn’t count Sir Henry Bellows and Abraham Gore. Pyke followed a dark, winding corridor as far as it would take him and paused by the spot where he had left two pails of water and a tall stack of bricks earlier in the day. Unbolting another door, he pulled it open, the rusty hinges groaning as he did so. Putting the lantern down on the stone floor, he stepped into the room and saw the two of them, Gore and Bellows, tied up and gagged, on the other side of the wall that he had started to build and which already came up to his waist. Staring over the wall at the two men was like looking at hogs in a pen. The light had disturbed Gore and he squinted at Pyke, tugged at the bindings around his wrists and tried to speak through his gag. Bellows, who had been there almost a week, was slumped, unmoving, in the corner. The spartan room stank of the chief magistrate’s faeces, so much so that Pyke had nearly retched when he’d gone down there earlier in the day. Now, though, he had been expecting the stench and it didn’t affect him in the same way. It took him a while to climb through the narrow gap between the top of the wall and the ceiling and once he was inside the room, he removed Gore’s gag and prodded Bellows with his boot to see whether he was still alive. Returning to the other side of the wall, he started to mix some cement with water on a mason’s board. After a moment he heard Gore croak, ‘For God’s sake, man, can’t you see he’s dying? He needs food and water now.’