‘Who else would want it?’
Across the street a wiry greyhound trotted around the corner and came face to face with Copper. It froze to the spot and then tried to retreat, its hackles raised and its belly scraping the ground. Without any hesitation, Bolter let go of the leash and the mastiff tore after the terrified greyhound and caught up with it in a few bounds. It was over in a matter of seconds. The mastiff’s jaws clamped around the smaller dog’s throat and its body went limp. Blood on its mouth, the mastiff shook the greyhound like a rag doll and dropped it on to the ground. It then rejoined Bolter and the two of them ambled up the hill towards St Paul’s.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Day asked, looking down at the greyhound’s mangled carcass. ‘Do you really think Morris was murdered and Bellows tried to force the jurors to declare his death as a suicide?’
Later Pyke thought some more about Day’s question. Why had Bellows been so insistent that Morris had committed suicide? Or rather, why did it matter to him?
In the end he could think of just one answer.
It mattered because Morris hadn’t actually committed suicide.
Which, in turn, suggested that someone had instructed Bellows to cajole the jury; someone whose interests might be damaged by an investigation into Morris’s affairs.
Who had wanted Morris dead? And what had happened at the Colosseum after the guests had left?
FOURTEEN
Marguerite’s cheeks were streaked with tears and her breath carried the sour traces of claret. The fact she’d made no effort with her clothes, nor with her blonde hair, which fell untidily to her shoulders, made her seem unusually vulnerable. She had greeted Pyke on the steps of the house and had fallen into his arms, burrowing her head deep into his neck and clinging to him while she sobbed. This had lasted for what seemed like minutes, her whole frame shaking violently. Finally she peeled herself from him and stared up at him through cloudy eyes.
He could taste the salt of her tears on his lips.
They were alone in the drawing room, the same room they had taken tea in just a few days earlier. She walked over to the full-length Venetian window and watched as the afternoon skies darkened and rain began to fall. ‘It’s beautiful here, with this view of the garden.’
Pyke contemplated the view with her. ‘Is it why you persuaded Edward to buy the house?’
Marguerite didn’t answer. Instead she pressed her face right up against the steamy pane and sniffed.
‘You must have known I’d be your neighbour.’ Pyke took a step towards her.
Again Marguerite stared out of the window at the landscaped gardens. He reached out and wiped away a solitary tear that was rolling down her cheek. ‘Edward’s death was ruled as suicide.’
She nodded, as though she’d been expecting it. ‘But you don’t believe he killed himself, do you?’
‘Do you?’
‘In spite of what you might think, Pyke, I loved him. Maybe not . . .’ She hesitated, fresh tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
‘Maybe not?’ Briefly their eyes met but she looked away first.
‘But I wouldn’t have left him.’
Though Marguerite’s skin was mottled from her tears and her hair was ragged and unkempt, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever met.
‘Most people only saw his naturally gregarious side but Eddy was a troubled man in lots of ways.’
‘In what way was he troubled?’
‘What man could possibly live up to the ideals he set himself?’ she said, suddenly angry.
Pyke nodded. ‘I presume Edward left everything to you.’ As far as he knew there hadn’t been any children.
‘After we married, Eddy told me he’d changed his will.’ Marguerite wiped her eyes. ‘We didn’t discuss the matter again.’
‘Have you actually seen his will?’
‘He kept it with his lawyer.’
‘But there will be a copy of it in the house. In a safe perhaps?’
They were standing just a few feet from one another. He could smell her powerful, earthy scent.
‘There’s a safe in Eddy’s study.’
‘If you felt able to, we could have a look.’
This time Marguerite looked up at him. ‘Why are you so interested in the terms of his will?’
Pyke took a breath. ‘Did Edward mention that on the day he died he borrowed a large sum of money?’
‘From you?’
‘The bank.’
‘How much?’
Pyke shrugged.
Something changed in her expression. ‘And that’s why you’re here? To check on your investment?’
‘He walked out of our offices with a lot of money in a satchel. If it was stolen, it might begin to explain his state of mind.’
She nodded but didn’t speak for a few moments. ‘When I saw a carriage coming up the drive, I hoped it might be you. For some reason, yours was the shoulder I wanted to cry on.’
‘I’m sorry for my intrusion. I shouldn’t have come.’
‘Eddy’s barely been dead for a day and already vultures are circling above his carcass. I didn’t think you’d be one of them.’
Pyke could see the heat in her cheeks. ‘In spite of what you might think, I liked him and if someone did kill him, then I’ll find them.’
‘And then?’
‘Of all people, Maggie, you know what I am.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘And what I do.’
That evening at Hambledon, Pyke went to check on Milly after dinner. According to Jo, she still hadn’t eaten anything or spoken a word and had spurned all efforts to lure her out of the room.
Pyke closed the door behind him and set his lantern down on the table next to her bed. She was sitting across the bed, her back leaning against the wall, staring blankly out of the small window.
‘Milly?’
She didn’t look at him or even acknowledge his presence.
Tentatively Pyke perched himself at the end of the bed, but still she didn’t look at him. ‘Milly, I want to help you. I want to find the people who hurt your parents but to do that, I’ll need your help.’
Ignoring him, the little girl started to hum.
‘Can I bring you some food? Or something to drink perhaps? Lemonade? Ginger beer?’ As he said it, he wondered whether she’d ever tasted lemonade or ginger beer.
Gingerly Pyke reached out to touch her, if only to disturb her from her torpor, but she flinched and shuffled to the very far end of the bed, still humming quietly to herself.
In the neighbouring room, he noticed that Felix was still awake and went in to see him.
‘Why won’t that girl say anything?’ Felix asked, sitting up in his bed.
‘She’s still frightened. She saw some bad things, things no child should be forced to witness.’
‘What kind of things?’
Pyke reached down and touched his son’s forehead. ‘Nothing that need worry you, my boy.’ He knelt down beside the bed. ‘But I want you to be especially nice to her. Can you do that for me?’
‘I already asked if she wanted to play with my toys,’ Felix said, indignantly, as though Pyke had accused him of something he hadn’t done.
‘That’s very good, Felix, but you need to persevere. Talk to her. Try and get her to talk to you. We need to make her feel welcome.’
‘What should I talk to her about?’
‘Her name, what she likes to do, her parents . . .’
Felix screwed up his face. ‘Why’s she staying with us? Where are her parents?’
Pyke kissed him on the head and stood up. ‘It’s time to go to sleep now.’
‘Father?’
From the doorway, Pyke looked around and said, ‘What is it, Felix?’
‘She scares me. The way she looks at me ...’
Pyke put down the lantern and returned to Felix’s bedside. ‘We all need to learn how to overcome our fears.’
Felix stared up at him, wide eyed. ‘What are you afraid o
f, Father?’
Losing you, Pyke thought, as he asked whether Felix wanted the lantern to be left in the room.
‘We can’t have her stay with us indefinitely,’ Emily said, as they sat across from one another in the drawing room.
She had returned from the Midlands that afternoon sporting a large bruise on her forehead, the product of a violent scuffle that had broken out at the meeting she had been addressing, but when Pyke started to claim that she shouldn’t be attending such events, if her safety was at risk, she turned away from him and refused to discuss the matter further.
‘What other choice did I have? Her parents were murdered. Their throats had been cut. I saw them with my own eyes. Their blood is probably still on my boots.’ Pyke tried to swallow but his throat felt dry and scratchy.
‘Then you need to get the police involved. Have you even contacted the police?’
‘Did you contact the police over the fight that’s left you scarred and bruised?’
‘It was nothing. More an accident, really.’ But she wouldn’t meet his stare.
‘I went back to the home with the police the following day. The bodies had been removed.’
That got Emily’s attention. ‘By whom?’ When Pyke shrugged, she asked, ‘What were you doing there in the first place?’
‘I was trying to find their daughter - Milly’s sister - as a favour for Godfrey.’
‘What does Godfrey want with the daughter?’
‘She was going to take the stand in a libel trial that Godfrey was facing.’
‘Was?’
‘The case against him has been dismissed.’ Pyke saw her frown and added, ‘It’s a long story.’
Emily watched him, her expression inscrutable. ‘Milly’s scaring Felix and none of the servants know what to do. She won’t eat any food and they’re worried she might pass away.’
‘Would you prefer that I throw her out on to the streets?’
Emily sighed. ‘No, of course not . . .’
‘But?’
‘But I’m worried about you, Pyke.’ She came and sat next to him on the sofa and touched his face. ‘I’m worried you might have got yourself into something . . .’
‘I told you. I was trying to find the girl’s sister for Godfrey.’ He waited, not sure what else to say.
‘And you don’t have any idea who might have killed the parents or why?’
Pyke looked over at the fire blazing in the grate. Emily stroked his cheek, adding, ‘You just looked tired, that’s all. Is anything else wrong?’
Yawning, Pyke told her that everything was fine, even though it was obvious that everything was not fine. Why couldn’t he look her in the eye and admit that he could lose his entire fortune? That someone was conspiring against him? Why were these things so hard to admit even to someone he loved?
‘Sometimes I feel you don’t know how to talk to me, Pyke. I’m worried about you and the girl upstairs. I don’t know what to think but I’m guessing there’s more to this than you’re telling me.’
‘Just like there’s more to your bruise than you’re telling me.’ He waited until she was looking at him before adding, ‘You didn’t just get pushed over at a meeting. Someone attacked you, didn’t they?’
Emily laughed, though not particularly convincingly. ‘If someone had attacked me, do you really think I would have walked away from it with just a bruise to my forehead?’
Later that night, as they lay next to one another in bed, Pyke asked, ‘Have you heard about a sweater called Groat? He owns a whole terrace on Granby Street in the East End.’
In the darkness, a puzzled frown appeared on her face. ‘Why is it that just when I think you’ve lost the capacity to do it, you go ahead and surprise me?’
Morris’s funeral was an intimate affair held in the Church of St Edmund the King on Lombard Street, near the Grand Northern’s head office. After many clergymen in the city had politely refused to host the funeral on the grounds that Morris had taken his own life and thereby committed a mortal sin in the eyes of God, the vicar at St Edmund’s had taken pity on Marguerite and agreed to accommodate her wishes for a Christian funeral. It later transpired that Abraham Gore had made a large donation to the church’s coffers on the condition that they perform Morris’s funeral.
Most of the Grand Northern’s central committee attended the short service, as did all the clerks and under-clerks His assistant, Bledisloe, wept openly in the second row. Other than that, the congregation mostly comprised family and friends. Gore was there and so was Jake Bolter. His dog had been tied to the railings at the front of the church. Peel had come, too, and indicated that he wanted to talk at the end of the service. Earlier Pyke had seen Bolter chatting quietly with Marguerite and, again, he wondered about the basis of their friendship.
Pyke sat with Emily five or six rows back from the front of the gloomy church. He had made eye contact with Marguerite once, when they had first arrived, but he hadn’t tried to approach her.
As the service started, Emily whispered, ‘There’s something about her I still don’t trust but she’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Who?’
‘Marguerite. Morris’s widow.’
Pyke put on a non-committal face.
The vicar stepped up to the pulpit to give the eulogy. He spoke quietly and blandly for five minutes about God’s grace, hardly mentioning Morris once. It was Abraham Gore who finally decided enough was enough, striding down the aisle and relieving the stricken vicar of his place on the pulpit.
‘What my friend here meant to say was this is a sad, sad day for those of us who respected and loved dear Edward and at this very sad time our thoughts and prayers are with Marguerite, his beloved wife, whose gentle care and fierce support sustained Edward through good and bad times.’ He looked up at the congregation and took a few moments to gather his thoughts.
‘We stand on the precipice of a new era. This great city of ours is changing before our eyes. Within a generation, the broken city we inherited from our Georgian ancestors, with its fetid slums and gin-addled paupers, will be swept away for ever. And in its place will rise up a city of magnificent sweeping avenues, elegant buildings and open spaces for all to enjoy, a beacon for the entire civilised world, a veritable new Jerusalem. A city built in our image, reflecting our values: no longer a dark place where crime and disease are rife, infecting young and old alike, but a clean, enlightened city where men and women, inspired by their wonderful surroundings, can better strive to do God’s work and remake themselves in his image. Open your eyes. Look at the buildings, the squares, the circuses. Even as I speak, railways are cutting a welcome swath through the damp, derelict slums; verminous places abandoned both by God and our ancestors. Our dear, departed friend committed his life to such good works, and now, as we look back at his achievements, and give thanks for his life, we might all pause for a moment to reflect on his example.’
There were a few sobs from the hushed congregation. Pyke, however, was puzzled by the speech. He hadn’t considered Gore to be a religious man.
‘Edward James Morris stood, nearly alone, while lesser men - men of an artistic sensibility - rushed to attack what they perceived to be the destruction of what William Blake called our green and pleasant land by the dark satanic mills of commerce. Edward saw this posturing for what it is and was: empty rhetoric. While blind men of letters could see only the deadening impact of money, Edward believed in its virtue: what could be achieved if men were allowed to pursue their interests and freely participate in the market without interference from government. Could the railways, so dear to Edward’s heart and which are now spreading out across this great country of ours like arteries carrying blood to all parts of the body politic, have even been contemplated without this freedom? Could Edward have realised his dream of building a railway across our great land without this freedom? Could he have improved the lives of men currently toiling to build his railway without this freedom? Of course not.’ Gore bowed his head and st
epped down from the pulpit to murmurs of approval.
‘Could Abraham Gore have lined his own pockets to the tune he has done without this freedom?’ Emily whispered.
‘Of course not.’
Emily nudged him playfully in the ribs and they both shared a smile.
After the pall-bearers had carried the coffin up the aisle, followed by a procession of horsemen with black ribbons tied around their arms and feathermen carrying trays of black plumes, the rest of the congregation filed out of the building.
‘That was quite a eulogy,’ Pyke said to Abraham Gore on the steps of the church.
‘Thank you, Pyke. I’m most touched by your kind words.’ Gore bowed his head at Emily. ‘Mrs Blackwood.’
‘I’m afraid I found your eulogy rather self-congratulatory, ’ Emily said, pulling her woollen shawl around her shoulders. ‘I thought it revealed more about yourself and your own ambitions than about the deceased.’
Gore seemed amused rather than hurt. ‘And you knew Edward well?’
When Emily didn’t answer, Gore bowed his head again and turned to greet some of the other mourners. As they filed past him, Pyke whispered, ‘Why did you have to say that?’
Emily’s laugh was coruscating. ‘Don’t tell me you actually like the man now?’
Pyke didn’t answer her - he didn’t know whether he liked Gore or not, but he did believe that Gore was genuinely upset by Morris’s death. What else could have explained his laudable actions at the coroner’s meeting? They walked on in silence, neither wanting to cede ground.
It wasn’t difficult to spot Peel’s brougham. It was the largest and shiniest on the street and was attended to by four liveried footmen. Pyke asked Emily whether she’d wait for him in their carriage and went across to join Peel, who was standing on his own, watching someone in the crowd.
‘Why did you want me to go to Huntingdon?’
Peel regarded him with an amused look. ‘Straight to the point, eh? I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’
‘Someone tried to kill me. I think that gives me a right to be blunt.’ His sharp tone cut through Peel’s feigned bonhomie.
The Revenge of Captain Paine Page 19
