The Revenge of Captain Paine

by Andrew Pepper

  Pyke didn’t know for a fact that Morris hadn’t killed himself, but he was intrigued that Bellows seemed so keen to rule out foul play.

  ‘Whether Morris jumped of his own volition or was pushed,’ Bellows muttered, ‘you surely don’t deny he fell two hundred feet from the viewing platform to the ground beneath him and that this fall caused his death?’ Everyone looked at the corpse that lay in front of them on the tables.

  Day cleared his throat and told the inquest that Morris had almost certainly died from injuries sustained from the fall. But from his examination of the body there was one anomaly that he couldn’t fully explain. Morris’s backbone and pelvis had been shattered in many places, indicating that this part of the body had borne the brunt of the initial impact, but there was also a contusion and a partial fracturing of the skull. These injuries were most likely sustained as a result of the fall, Day explained, but he hadn’t yet determined how they were consistent with those sustained in his lower back area.

  What if he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object first and then thrown over the railings? Pyke asked.

  This drew a howl of derision from Bellows. There was no physical evidence to suggest foul play, he said, and all the circumstantial evidence pointed towards suicide. With some skill, Pyke had to admit, Bellows laid out the various pieces of information at his disposal and called upon the assembled witnesses to corroborate them. In doing so, he gradually built up a picture of what had happened prior to Morris’s death. At a quarter to midnight, Jake Bolter had come across Morris up on the viewing platform. According to Bolter, Morris had been incoherently drunk, and when Bolter had tried to help him, he had pushed him away, repeatedly referring to himself as a ‘dirty monster’.

  ‘I like the grog as much as the next man but Mr Morris, God rest his soul, was in the gun and obstropulous. That’s the truth. I’ll take an Alfred David if I have to.’ Bolter then coughed up a lump of black phlegm in his handkerchief and gave it to the dog. The mastiff greedily licked it off the handkerchief and those jurors who had seen this winced with horror.

  Jake Bolter, Pyke had already concluded, was there to corroborate Bellows’ ironclad belief that Morris had taken his own life. It was time to disbar him as a witness. Pyke nudged the wooden box towards the mastiff and waited until the animal noticed him and growled. At this point, he kicked the box over and watched as the long-tailed rat scurried from beneath it directly in front of the mastiff’s giant paws. The effect was instantaneous. Letting out an excited yelp, the creature went for the fast-moving rat, a sudden movement that wrenched the lead from Bolter’s grip. So focused was the dog on the scuttling vermin that it didn’t look to see where it was going: the result of which was chaos on a level that even Pyke couldn’t have imagined. The lumbering beast tore through, rather than past, the chief magistrate, upending him from his chair and sending him sprawling gracelessly on to the floor. The dog also ploughed through the entire row of jurors sitting along one side of the table, and in its efforts to catch up with the escaping rat, it banged against one of the table legs, which had the effect of destabilising the table to such an extent that Morris’s corpse rolled from its precarious resting place on to the floor. The jurors’ screams fell on deaf ears, as far as the mastiff was concerned, for the snarling animal, realising the rat was darting back across the floor in the direction it had just come from, suddenly doubled back on itself and collided head-on with Bellows, who had just picked himself up off the floor. At first it was difficult to tell who had come off in a worse state, Bellows or the dog, but when Pyke next looked, the resourceful beast had somehow managed to ensnare the wriggling vermin in its mouth and was shaking its head and gnashing its jaws to kill it. By this point Bolter had recovered sufficiently to try to bring the situation back under control, but his clumsy efforts to restrain the dog had the opposite effect, and as the animal tried to shake off his attentions the half-dead rat flew from its mouth and struck one of the jurors squarely in the face. His screams, Pyke guessed, could be heard on the Surrey side of the Thames.

  Once some semblance of calm had returned to the proceedings and everyone had returned to their seats, Bellows turned on Bolter, who had pacified his dog and recovered the leash, and spluttered, ‘Get that ugly stinking creature out of my sight this instant.’

  ‘But if I tie him up downstairs someone’ll bilk him for certain. This here is a rum burgher.’

  ‘Get that beast out of here now,’ Bellows yelled, his face turning a violent shade of crimson.

  Interrupting, Pyke said they could probably do without Bolter’s testimony. After all, he added, was a man like Bolter really the best person to comment on the deceased’s state of mind?

  That drew some chuckles from the jurors and the blood rose in Bolter’s neck. He yanked on the leash and the dog growled and, this time, bared its teeth.

  As Bolter trudged disconsolately out of the room, with his mastiff, he gave Pyke a sour grimace. Even Bellows, who had calmed down considerably, appeared sorry that he was going.

  Pyke had won the first skirmish but Bellows was in no mood to concede the battle to him.

  As Bellows went on to explain, Morris had last been seen alive, on the viewing promenade, by a pot-boy from the Crown and Anchor tavern in Camden Town, who had been charged with clearing-up duties, just after midnight. The caretaker of the Colosseum stood up and testified that he had ‘personally’ toured the platform at half-past midnight and hadn’t seen Morris, or anyone else, there. He told the jurors that when he had locked the building up at half-past one, Morris was nowhere to be seen. He had discovered Morris’s body only the following morning, when he’d opened up the building. The caretaker explained that he didn’t know exactly when Morris had fallen to his death, and Bellows speculated that Morris must have hidden himself in the building and jumped later, when no one was around.

  ‘If, indeed, he jumped,’ Pyke interjected, ‘rather than was pushed. As far as I’m aware, the jurors haven’t yet reached their verdict.’

  Bellows muttered an apology and tried to assure the jurors that he hadn’t intended to influence them.

  ‘Placing a pistol to their heads might have been more subtle,’ Pyke replied.

  Bellows chose to ignore that comment.

  Day, the coroner, had then posed the question that had been at the forefront of everyone’s mind. Was it likely or even possible that Morris had been of a suicidal frame of mind?

  On this note, Bellows tried to convince the jurors that, by all accounts, Morris had been upset about something.

  ‘But the one person who might have upheld this claim has now left this meeting,’ Pyke said, ‘so clearly this assertion should be struck from the record.’

  ‘Morris was as drunk as a sailor. I hope you don’t dispute that,’ Bellows retorted bitterly.

  ‘And that’s supposed to confirm his suicidal state of mind? If that were so, every man and woman downstairs enjoying a drink might very soon be expected to throw themselves into the Thames.’

  That drew a further ripple of nervous laughter.

  Pyke didn’t doubt that Morris was both severely drunk and perhaps deeply troubled by something that had happened to him. But he didn’t believe Morris was suicidal. In his experience, men like Morris killed themselves for two reasons: acute money worries or intolerable inner turmoil, neither of which seemed to apply to Morris. Still, he couldn’t help but think about the large sum of money Morris had borrowed from Blackwood’s and about his inebriated rant to Bolter: if true, what had Morris meant when he’d described himself as a ‘dirty monster’?

  The last witness to give evidence was Bellows himself. Apparently he had spoken to Marguerite Morris - ‘the deceased’s wife’ - to break the news to her, and he proceeded to offer a description of their conversation. He explained that, for obvious reasons, she had been too upset to attend the inquest in person but that she had talked openly and freely with him. The jurors were told that, on the night of the ball, Marguerite had argued wi
th Morris about his drunkenness - this much chimed with what she’d told Pyke - and had left the Colosseum at half-past ten. Servants at Cranborne Park confirmed that Marguerite had arrived back there just before midnight. The chief magistrate went on to point out that Marguerite had clearly loved her husband very much and said that she had described him as a virtuous, good-natured man who was nonetheless prone to bouts of depression and secretiveness. To his credit, Bellows didn’t claim Marguerite had described her husband as suicidal but he also said she hadn’t ruled it out as a cause of death.

  All in all, he made a very convincing witness.

  Drawing the inquest to a close, Daniel Day asked whether anyone else had something to add that might have a bearing on the jury’s decision.

  Pyke coughed. ‘What happened to Morris’s watch?’ He waved the piece of paper that listed the items retrieved from the dead body. The watch hadn’t been listed. ‘I saw it in his pocket a few hours before he died. The watch must have been worth hundreds. Its case was encrusted with diamonds. It was a family heirloom. He was never without it.’

  Bellows looked at Day and the Colosseum’s caretaker. ‘Did either of you come across a gold watch?’

  Day just shrugged but the caretaker rose to his feet and stammered, ‘I hope you ain’t accusing me of bilking it, sir.’

  Bellows told him to calm down and that no one was accusing him of anything. He shot Pyke an angry stare. ‘An antique watch has gone missing,’ Bellows added, this time to the jurors, ‘but I don’t think we need to concern ourselves about it. You have sufficient evidence to reach a verdict on the cause of death.’

  ‘Why are you so concerned to rule Morris’s death as a suicide, Bellows?’ This time Pyke stood up, to directly confront him. ‘What is it that you’re trying to prove or trying to hide?’

  ‘Your belligerent tone and sharp tongue will land you in serious trouble, if you’re not careful.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you’re even here in the first place.’ Pyke pointed at his chest. ‘Morris’s death has got nothing to do with you or your office.’

  ‘You’ve flouted my authority once and, to my intense dismay, seem to have gotten away with it. Do it again and I’ll see you’re locked up for a year without trial. Don’t think I can’t do it, either.’

  ‘I think you’re a fraud and a liar and I also think you’ve unfairly used your office to sway the outcome of this meeting.’

  Bellows sprang to his feet and gesticulated angrily. ‘Someone arrest this man.’ Of course, there were none of his officers, and no policemen, in the room, and no one reacted to his demand. When he realised that he’d made himself seem vaguely ridiculous, he went an even deeper shade of crimson and ordered the jury to arrive at a verdict without further delay.

  It took them just a few minutes to reach their decision. It was unanimously agreed that Morris had committed suicide by jumping to his death on the second night of November from the Colosseum’s viewing promenade. His voice still trembling from Pyke’s insult, Bellows then congratulated them for their eminently sensible verdict.

  If that had been the end of it, the meeting would have been deeply depressing, but as the jurors stood up and stretched their legs, the door was flung open and a panting, red-faced Abraham Gore stumbled into the room and muttered, ‘Am I too late? Please tell me I’m not too late.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Bellows muttered, clearly recognising Gore and not relishing the intrusion, even though the meeting had, for him, reached a favourable conclusion.

  ‘I’m here to throw my shilling’s worth into the pot. I knew the deceased, Edward James Morris, for more than thirty years,’ Gore spluttered at the jurors, still recovering from ascending the stairs too rapidly, ‘and I can lay my hands on my heart and swear to you that he would never, ever have taken his own life.’

  ‘This is the eminent banker and industrialist Abraham Gore,’ Pyke told the jurors. A few of them recognised the name and seemed stricken by the dilemma he’d presented them with.

  ‘I’m afraid the evidence has already been heard and a verdict, a most reasonable verdict, agreed. You, sir, should learn to be more punctual.’ Bellows glanced nervously at the jurors, some of whom had sat back down, and licked his lips.

  ‘Has this imbecile presided over a verdict of death by suicide?’ Gore asked Pyke, shaking his head.

  Pyke nodded. ‘I tried to warn the jurors about the folly of delivering such a verdict but they wouldn’t listen to me.’

  ‘More like they were too cowed by this bully to reach a more considered decision. No, my evidence will be heard. My good friend of thirty years would never have taken his own life.’ Gore turned on the jurors. ‘Which can mean only one thing. He was murdered. Do you hear me? Murdered.’

  ‘You might have connections far beyond the reaches of this meeting, sir, but here at least they count for little. The jurors reached a verdict and that decision has to stand.’

  ‘Balderdash,’ Gore said, training his stare on the chief magistrate. ‘Complete and utter balderdash.’

  ‘I’ll ask you one final time to refrain from insulting me and the jurors, sir. After that, even a reputation such as yours cannot save you.’ Sweating profusely, Bellows had lost all his former poise.

  Gore looked around the room. ‘Who’s the coroner? Let me make an appeal to the coroner.’

  Timidly Day coughed and raised his hand.

  ‘Will you reconsider, sir? I’m sorry I was late but my carriage was held up on the Strand.’ Gore took another step into the room. ‘Good God, man, don’t you understand the terrible stain you’re placing on my friend’s reputation? Only cowards and Bedlamites kill themselves.’

  ‘A verdict of suicide perfectly suits Morris’s killer or killers,’ Pyke added, quickly. ‘It means his death won’t be investigated and their crime will go unpunished. Is that what you want on your consciences?’ He looked at each juror in turn; some of them had visibly whitened.

  ‘I will not stand for this talk,’ Bellows screamed, cowing the jurors still further. ‘A decision has been reached. I am the only arbiter of the law here and if I am happy that procedures have been adhered to and the law upheld, then that, sirs, should be the end of the matter.’ Red eyed and hands trembling, he turned on Gore and pointed at him. ‘And if you, sir, should dare to challenge my authority one more time, then I will have no choice but to hold you in contempt, and issue a warrant for your arrest, which I promise you will be served.’

  Outside, Gore pulled Pyke to one side and took his arm. ‘I’m so sorry I was late. I feel I’ve let my friend down terribly. I know you did what you could, Pyke. I also know for a fact that Eddy would never have taken his own life. I’m aware this verdict makes an official investigation unlikely, if not impossible. But I’m also told that you’ve had certain experience in this area and I was wondering whether I could employ your services to try and determine what really happened to him. I know you’re probably far too busy to even think about committing to such an undertaking but I also know Eddy thought a great deal of you and, it goes without saying, I would remunerate you handsomely for your services, whether you found Eddy’s killer or killers or not.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Pyke said, having considered the proposal for a short while. He looked up at the giant herring gulls circling above him, no doubt drawn by the leftover scraps to be had at the nearby fish market, and felt a biting anger that rose up from the pit of his stomach until he could taste it at the back of his throat.

  On the wall opposite someone had daubed the words ‘Captain Paine’ in red paint, and when Gore noticed it and saw how fresh the paint was he shook his head, muttering, ‘I don’t suppose you heard about the latest outrage? One of the warehouses belonging to our subcontractors, near Kilsby, was attacked and set on fire. The brigand calling himself Captain Paine claimed responsibility. They lost everything.’ He shook his head sadly and shrugged.

  Pyke returned the expression, not sure what to say. On the other side of
the street, he noticed Bolter and the dog lurking with intent.

  Gore patted him gently on the arm and said that if there was anything he could do to help, anything at all, Pyke had only to ask. His shoulders hunched, Gore trudged along the narrow street to his waiting carriage.

  ‘Can I have a quick word, Pyke?’ The coroner, Day, had sidled up next to him and was smiling awkwardly. ‘I believe the chap who was found beheaded in his apartment in Moor’s Yard was a friend of yours.’

  ‘Jem Nash. He was my assistant at Blackwood’s.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bolter and Bellows reconcile. ‘Actually there was something unusual I wanted to ask you.’

  Day squinted suspiciously at him. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Have you inspected the body yet?’

  ‘Cursorily,’ Day said, clearly embarrassed by something.

  ‘But you’d know if the corpse had been marked with red welts?’ Pyke paused for a moment. ‘The kind you might get if someone pressed a hot cigar into your flesh.’

  This drew a sharp frown from the coroner. ‘I don’t recall seeing any such marks.’ He hesitated and gave Pyke an awkward stare. ‘Listen, Pyke, as you might know, I was to have conducted the inquest into his death later today, even though there doesn’t appear to be much doubt as to what actually caused it.’

  Across the street, the giant mastiff tugged on Bolter’s leash, having seen something intriguing farther down the hill towards the river.

  ‘Nash’s body was taken to the Turk’s Head in Holborn. But his death has attracted so much print and interest . . .’

  ‘What happened?’ The skin tightened across Pyke’s face.

  ‘Resurrectionists broke in late last night and stole his corpse. I’m afraid there’ll be no inquest after all.’

  ‘You know for certain it was the resurrectionists?’ Pyke asked, shaking his head. He knew there was a trade in dead bodies and that unscrupulous surgeons sometimes paid as much as ten guineas for a fresh corpse.