Pyke listened while Morris and Peel talked enthusiastically about the prospects for the mammoth venture Morris had been charged with overseeing: building a 186-mile railway line that linked the capital and York via the cathedral cities of Cambridge, Ely and Lincoln. But he was a little perplexed by their behaviour and didn’t fully understand the need exhibited by the great and the good to talk only in oblique terms about difficulties they faced. In the world of the tavern, if someone had a problem, they told you what it was and if you were the cause of it you could expect them to come at you with a knife or a pistol. Here Pyke could tell only from Morris’s slightly awkward manner that something was amiss. If someone had been eavesdropping on their conversation, they might have been forgiven for thinking that the railway’s progress so far had been wholly positive.
In fact, the railway’s problems had been well documented from the start. Disputes with landowners and an acrimonious fight for parliamentary approval had set the project back before a yard of track had been laid. More recently, progress had been hampered by various disagreements between subcontractors and suppliers, rows involving engineers and surveyors and disturbances involving crews of navvies. And rumours had now started to spread that the project’s costs had spiralled out of control and that the company would soon need to go back to Parliament and investors to plead for additional money.
Nonetheless, it was only when Pyke interrupted and asked them directly about the problems facing the railway that the mood in the room changed.
Morris shot him a sheepish look. ‘I knew that building a railway from London to York would be an arduous task but I thought everyone would pull together for the greater good. I didn’t think I’d have to fight tooth and claw every step of the way.’ He seemed relieved that he no longer had to pretend everything was fine.
‘But at present, am I right in assuming that your task has been made a great deal more difficult by the presence of radicals stirring up trouble among your workers?’ Peel asked him.
Morris nodded vehemently and Pyke thought, with sudden alarm, that it was as if they were putting on a performance for him.
‘Perhaps you’ve heard about the activities of this rogue everyone’s calling Captain Paine?’ This time Peel was addressing Pyke. ‘There are slogans bearing his name daubed across walls and gable-ends throughout the city.’
Pyke nodded but didn’t say anything. Four years earlier, agricultural riots had broken out across much of southern England, apparently led by a mysterious figure known as Captain Swing. They had been easily crushed but Captain Swing had never been arrested, leading many to conclude that he did not actually exist and had been created by radicals in order to give a focus to their struggles. So when Pyke had first read newspaper reports about this new figure - he presumed he was named after the revolutionary writer and pamphleteer - apparently now agitating among the urban poor, he had assumed it was simply the same trick. He hadn’t for a moment considered that Captain Paine might be a real figure or that someone of Peel’s stature and astuteness might be sufficiently worried about him to call a meeting.
‘Last year the coal-whippers went on strike demanding higher wages and a reduced working day. This month the tailors are going to strike. Next it’ll be the bakers, the shoemakers, the carpenters, the bricklayers, the brass-founders, the cabinet-makers. I’ve been led to believe this Captain Paine has been instrumental in promoting all of these causes and that he’s offering to support the strikers financially while they take their action. I’ve also been informed he’s taken an interest in the navvies and that he’s currently stirring up trouble among the men gathering in Huntingdon to begin work on the next section of the Grand Northern.’ Peel glanced over at Morris for support.
‘You believe he actually exists, then?’ Pyke regarded him sceptically.
‘Whether he exists or not, or whether he’s the same figure who led the agricultural riots a few years ago, isn’t the point. First, a workhouse in Bethnal Green was burnt to the ground. That was six months ago. Then a garment factory in Aldgate was broken into and ransacked. Finally last month - and this might concern you - a bank in Stepney that had lent some money to the so-called middlemen or sweaters working in the manufacturing of clothes and shoes was set alight with rags soaked with oil.’ Peel studied Pyke’s reaction carefully. ‘But in answer to your question, yes, I do believe there is a particular individual posing as Captain Paine. I think he’s personally wealthy or has a wealthy backer and that he’s willing to use this wealth to support all manner of subversion.’
‘Like encouraging people to join a union?’ Pyke asked, trying to remember whether he’d heard anything about the bank in Stepney.
Peel reddened. ‘I’m well aware the Combination Acts have been revoked.’
‘But you still consider that encouraging other people to join a union is a criminal act?’
‘No, I consider wanton damage to property to be a criminal act.’
‘Tell that to the Tolpuddle labourers.’
A short silence hung between them. ‘If you remember, it was Whig ministers and Whig magistrates who found them guilty, not my party.’
Ever since six Dorsetshire labourers had been transported to Australia two years earlier, having been found guilty of taking a pledge of loyalty to their union and thereby violating a law that had been brought in during the Napoleonic Wars to counter the threat of navy mutinies, huge pressure had been brought to bear on the government to quash their conviction.
‘In which case, perhaps you could tell me why a former Tory prime minister would seem to be so keen to repeat their mistakes.’
Peel stared into the distance, his expression inscrutable. ‘Notwithstanding the fact that I regard all radical activity to be unwelcome and detrimental to the long-term interests of this country, you could simply say that, in this particular case, I am merely assisting a friend.’ Peel gave Morris a nod.
‘You could say that but I wouldn’t believe it.’
‘That I wouldn’t help a friend?’ Peel seemed appalled by the insinuation but Pyke wondered how much of it was for Morris’s benefit.
‘Then go ahead and help him.’ Pyke relaxed in his chair. ‘But I still don’t see what all this has to do with me.’
Morris cleared his throat, trying to draw their attention to his presence. ‘Perhaps if I could say something, Sir Robert?’
‘Go ahead, but I told you, he’s stubborn and won’t be talked around.’
‘I was having dinner with Sir Robert last week,’ Morris said. ‘Your name came up in the conversation, Pyke. Sir Robert here is not an easy man to impress but he described you as a formidable figure. A fellow you’d want to have on your side, if it was humanly possible.’ In the gloomy room, candlelight glinted off his shiny forehead. ‘I have to travel up to Cambridge early next week and I’d very much like you to accompany me.’
Before Pyke had time to answer, Peel produced a copy of the Morning Chronicle and held up the front page. The headline required no further elaboration:
HEADLESS CORPSE DISCOVERED IN HUNTINGDON
‘I thought it might appeal to your sense of the macabre.’ Peel smiled weakly.
Like the rest of London, Pyke had read about the matter. A headless, decomposing body had been found floating in the Ouse just outside Huntingdon, but no one seemed to know who the dead man was or why he had been killed. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the story had caused a sensation among the metropolitan populace, and rumours had already started to spread that an axe-wielding lunatic sent by Satan had been let loose on the countryside.
Pyke regarded him with a tight expression. ‘So why is the leader of the opposition so concerned about a squalid murder that happened somewhere in the provinces? What is it you’re not telling me?’ From experience, he’d always found Peel a difficult man to read and this occasion was proving to be no exception.
‘Not telling you? God, man, I know even less about this business than the person who wrote this report.’ Peel held up the newspaper.
‘But as someone who always has the best interests of this country at heart, it worries me greatly that a headless corpse has been unearthed just a few miles from the spot where radical types, possibly led by this Captain Paine, are busy organising themselves.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why it’s any concern of yours,’ Pyke said. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, your administration only lasted for a hundred days before the electorate spoke.’
‘I thank you for the reminder.’
A moment of silence passed between them. ‘Even if your interest in this business is purely altruistic, Sir Robert, I fail to see how it has anything to do with me.’
Ignoring Pyke’s mocking tone, Peel looked over at Morris. ‘Perhaps you’ll leave us for a moment, Edward?’
When Morris had pulled the door closed behind him, Peel stood up and walked to the window of his office. Outside was a view of the buttresses and passageways leading to the New Palace yard. A year earlier, a fire had ripped through the Palace of Westminster and destroyed the chamber used by the Commons as well as St Stephen’s Chapel. The old House of Lords had survived the blaze and had now been colonised by the Commons, but the resulting pressure for space had meant that men as senior as Peel had been forced into accommodation far beneath their circumstances.
‘I have been led to believe that a radical from the East End of London called Julian Jackman might know something about this Captain Paine.’ His words were measured and his face composed. ‘I’d like you to confirm or disprove this claim.’
Pyke drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘And, short of killing my wife and framing me for the murder, how do you imagine that you’re going to persuade me to accept such a poisoned chalice?’
That, finally, shattered the Tory leader’s composure. Blood rose in his cheeks and, choked with indignation, he seemed unable to speak for a few moments. Six years earlier, Pyke’s mistress had been stabbed in her bed while he slept with her, and he had been tried and convicted of her murder. Pyke had initially suspected Peel’s involvement in the case and though his subsequent efforts to clear his name and find the killer had exonerated Peel of any blame, the accusation that the Tory leader could have orchestrated such an act still rankled.
Instead of exploding with anger, Peel became very quiet. ‘A few hundred years ago, that kind of remark to a man in my position might have earned you a jail cell in the Tower.’
‘Then I am fortunate to be living in more enlightened times.’
‘But your rudeness is prescient all the same,’ Peel said, returning from the window and taking his seat. ‘For in this instance I do have a stick to wield . . .’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s come to my attention that you might be using your office as banker to further certain illicit practices.’
Pyke’s jaw tightened. ‘I’m presuming you have a specific charge in mind?’
‘It is my understanding that money is brought to you by, how should I put it, less than salubrious figures, money I should add that has been acquired illegally, and that your generosity as a banker allows these figures to leave your premises with Bank of England notes that bear no trace of criminality.’
Pyke studied Peel’s expression and tried to assess whether he was bluffing or not. ‘I take it you can substantiate these claims?’
Peel’s eyes wrinkled at the corners. ‘Do I need to?’ He cleared this throat. ‘By that I mean, if the claims are entirely without validity, then you have nothing to worry about.’
Pyke waited and said nothing.
‘But if there is more than a speck of truth in them, the last thing you want is your premises raided and your reputation, such as it is, tarnished.’
Quickly, Pyke weighed up his options, or lack of them. Peel wasn’t someone to be underestimated and, if Pyke refused to help him, the Tory leader could make his life very difficult.
‘I’ll give you one name. You can deduce from it whether I’m to be taken seriously or not.’ Peel sat back in his chair and smiled. ‘Ned Villums.’
Pyke kept his stare blank. ‘Perhaps I can ask you a question, Sir Robert,’ he said, wondering who might have given Peel his information. ‘Why have I been singled out for this task?’
‘You’re a resourceful fellow.’
‘And it has nothing to do with the fact that my wife is acquainted with many of the radicals?’
‘Let’s just say you’re in the right place at the right time or the wrong place at the right time.’
Pyke bowed his head, not wanting the Tory leader to see the heat in his face. ‘So let me ask another question. Why do you suspect this Captain Paine is mixed up with the business of the headless corpse?’
‘I don’t suspect anything of the kind.’ Peel looked searchingly into his face. ‘But the possibility that there might be a connection makes me nervous.’ He held up a sealed envelope. ‘Give this to the magistrate in Huntingdon. It might help to open doors.’
‘If I accept the envelope, it doesn’t mean I’ve agreed to do what you want me to do.’
‘Take the damned thing and use it as bum fodder for all I care. But you’ll do what I’ve asked you to do because it’s in your own interest.’ Peel paused, his stare losing some of its intensity. ‘Just go to Cambridgeshire with Morris. Listen to him. Unlike me, he can offer you a positive inducement.’
‘And if I find out that Julian Jackman and Captain Paine are the same person, will these unsubstantiated claims against my bank . . . disappear?’
Peel’s brow was pricked with sweat. ‘You’re walking a fine tightrope, Pyke. Just do as you’re asked and let everything else work itself out.’
‘You’re not offering me any guarantees then?’
‘Guarantees?’ Peel’s laugh was without warmth. ‘You, of all people, should know there are no such things.’ But he followed it up with a flattering smile. ‘Remember, too, that we’re both on the same side this time.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘You’re one of us, now.’
Outside in the New Palace yard, Pyke didn’t notice the imposing figure of Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland and the King’s brother, striding towards him until they almost collided with each other. The duke, who sat in the Lords and had taken charge of the Tory Ultras (so called for their unwavering support of traditional values, the empire and the Protestant ascendancy), was deep in thought and looked up only at the last minute. He was a tall man dressed in military uniform and still bore the scars of battle on one side of his face. For a moment, Pyke didn’t think the duke would recognise him - he had once humiliated the man in a courtroom before hundreds of spectators - but as their stares met, the duke’s expression darkened and he pushed Pyke away, muttering, ‘God, what are you doing here?’
But the duke had brushed past him before Pyke had time to answer and strode into the yard shaking his head.
It was a cold, wet afternoon and the wind was gusting off the choppy waters of the Thames. ‘I have my carriage,’ Morris said, choosing not to remark on Pyke’s exchange with the King’s brother. ‘Perhaps I could offer you a ride back to Hambledon? As you might know, we’re practically neighbours. My wife fell in love with Cranborne Park and insisted we snap it up. It came on to the market and she was suddenly desperate to move to the countryside.’
Pyke smiled non-committally but the idea that Morris should have moved to within a few miles of Hambledon at the same time as wanting Pyke’s help in an unrelated matter seemed too coincidental.
They sat in silence as the carriage clattered out of the Palace yard and up Whitehall, finally crossing over on to St Martin’s Lane after waiting for a collision between a wagon transporting barrels of Truman’s ale and a costermonger’s barrow to be cleared away. The air was laced with the scent of hops and a few scavengers were on their hands and knees, lapping up the beer from the gutters.
‘Peel wouldn’t tell me how the two of you became acquainted,’ Morris said after a few moments.
‘Before I married, I was a Bow Street Runner.’ Pyke waited. �
�An incident that I’d rather not talk about brought me into contact with Peel, who was then the Home Secretary under the Duke of Wellington. Peel came to my rescue when his hand was forced, but he never warmed to me.’
Morris nodded awkwardly. ‘He can be a cold fish on occasions, I’ll grant you that. But when he’s among those he knows well, he’s a changed chap. He loves a bawdy tale as much as the next man.’
Pyke nodded blankly. They sat in silence for a while as they crawled their way up Charing Cross Road. In the past two years he had noticed an increase in the number of vehicles using the roads. Not just the drays, wagons and carts used to transport goods around the capital but also the brightly painted private carriages carrying well-fed men and women to and from their homes. There used to be a time when broughams and open-topped phaetons were the preserve of the very rich, but now it seemed that parvenus like him had decided en masse they couldn’t get by without owning their own carriage.
‘Do you miss it?’ Morris wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘Being a Bow Street Runner?’
‘Since the new police were set up, the job isn’t what it used to be,’ Pyke answered, still bridling from his encounter with Peel.
‘But do you miss the work?’
‘Sitting behind a desk hasn’t been kind to my waistline but four years at the bank have made me a lot richer than ten years as a Bow Street Runner.’
It was as close as he’d come to admitting that he did sometimes miss it. Exploiting people’s weaknesses and tilting events to suit his own circumstances were elements that applied just as well to banking as to policing, but it was hard not to remember the business of piecing together different scraps of information, pursuing suspects, questioning witnesses and forcing confessions out of people without some residual affection.
‘Good answer,’ Morris said, toying with his silk cravat. ‘But perhaps I could ask you another question?’
Pyke shrugged, wondering what kind of inducement Morris might offer him and whether it would offset the bitter aftertaste his encounter with Peel had left.
The Revenge of Captain Paine Page 2
