The 360-degree panorama replicated the view from the top of St Paul’s in painstaking detail and was an impressive feat in its own right. Apparently the artist, Thomas Homer, had spent weeks in a cabin above the dome at St Paul’s, sketching the view in preparation. But Pyke couldn’t work out why people would pay money to see a painting of a view that they could witness for themselves, just by scaling Wren’s mighty dome.
‘Look, over there you can see the market where my parents once plied their trade.’ Pyke turned around suddenly, surprised to see Marguerite next to him. She was pointing towards New Cut on the panorama. She stared at him with her cool eyes, her shimmering crêpe dress nearly filling up the cramped promenade with its puffed sleeves and flounced skirt.
‘As a child, I used to love the sight of that market at night, the candles and tallow dips twinkling among the fruit and vegetables.’ She wound her little finger around a coil of strawberry-blonde hair that had fallen on to her face. ‘But I can also remember the stink just as well. I like to think it taught me not to be nostalgic, to see things for what they are.’
They were standing at the end of the viewing promenade and beneath them was a sheer drop of a hundred feet on to the tented roof that hid the panorama from the guests on the ground floor.
‘You always did have a knack for stripping away other people’s pretensions.’
Marguerite joined him at the railing. ‘Your wife was angry at me for taking your son away from her yesterday, wasn’t she?’
‘I think she was surprised you were gone for as long as you were.’
‘And you? Were you angry with me, too?’ she asked, flirtatiously.
‘What do you want me to say, Maggie? That I lay awake last night thinking about you?’
‘You’re here, aren’t you? Without your wife, who I’m told is off somewhere trying to help the needy.’
‘She sends her apologies.’
‘And her best wishes?’ Marguerite asked, mocking.
‘Is it so wrong that she cares about more than her appearance and what clothes she wears?’
But instead of responding angrily, Marguerite chuckled. ‘Not all of us are cut out for sainthood. I would have thought you’d have appreciated that more than anyone. Just as I’m guessing you don’t really believe in her attempts to improve the lot of the working man.’
‘And why’s that?’ Pyke asked, gritting his teeth.
‘Because, like me, you’re a selfish bastard when it comes to it.’
‘When it comes to what?’
Marguerite smiled, apparently pleased that she’d rattled him.
Pyke looked around for some sign of Morris. ‘Did you know Edward’s more than halfway to being drunk?’
‘Yes, he’s upset about something.’
‘As in?’
‘Is that any of your business?’ she snapped at him. ‘Look,’ she added with a sigh, ‘it’s just difficult for Eddy to see the world as it really is; how ugly, cruel and deceptive people can be.’
‘You make it sound like a weakness.’ Pyke looked out at the panorama but could see the creaminess of her slender neck out of the corner of his eye.
‘My first years in Paris weren’t happy ones. I despised every man I slept with and I slept with a lot of men. Then I met Eddy. By then, my reputation, such as it was, was beyond salvation and I was past caring about it or myself. But Eddy didn’t seem worried in the slightest by what I’d done and what other people said about me behind my back. It didn’t matter to him because he only saw what he wanted to see. So you see, Pyke, I’m not suggesting his idealism is a weakness; just that I’d never known such unconditional acceptance, such gentleness and such goodness in a man.’
‘Then why doesn’t it sound like you’re paying him a compliment?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean. Unlike my younger self, I’ve come to value a good heart more than good looks.’
‘Then I hope it’s made you happy.’ Turning to face her, he felt a jolt of excitement in his stomach.
‘Can’t you see it? I’m delirious.’ Even as she said it, he could see the lines crease around her eyes.
Pyke was going to say something else but managed to bite his tongue. He gave her a nondescript shrug. ‘For someone who no longer cares about looks, you appear to be attracting rather a lot of them this evening.’
Marguerite allowed a smile to settle on her lips as she gazed out at the panorama. ‘You know as well as I do, this is a gathering of waifs and strays. Society types wouldn’t come to anything as vulgar as a ball to celebrate my birthday, even if Eddy is a very well-respected businessman and the cause is a charitable one.’ Her stare drifted back towards him. ‘People like you and I will never be invited into the private homes of Park Lane and Mayfair.’
‘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. ‘An
d 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 pr
ove 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.
The Revenge of Captain Paine Page 15
