The Revenge of Captain Paine

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘I can’t say. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m your husband, Emily. You’re my wife. We’re not leaving this place until you tell me.’

  ‘I want to tell you. And I will. I just need a few more days.’ Her tone was pleading now.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I want us to be a family again, Pyke. A proper family. But I need a few more days.’

  ‘And if I say no?’

  ‘We’re both keeping secrets here. Don’t try and colonise the high moral ground.’

  ‘What secrets am I keeping?’

  Emily took his hand and placed it on her heart. ‘Promise me you haven’t been to see Marguerite since Morris’s funeral.’

  Pyke faltered slightly but it was enough to sink him. He saw the disappointment in Emily’s eyes.

  The following morning, when Pyke arrived at the bank, Townsend was waiting for him outside his office. One of the porters had already lit a fire, so the room was warm, but when he looked out of the window to see whether the ravens had returned, the sill and roof were bare. Pyke turned to face Townsend, who was standing awkwardly by one of the chairs, waiting to be asked to sit. Pyke did so with a flourish of his arm and asked whether his former colleague had unearthed anything significant either about his partner, William Blackwood, or Jake Bolter. Townsend said that he’d followed Blackwood for a couple of days and hadn’t turned anything up.

  ‘And Bolter?’

  Townsend explained that when not occupied at Prosser’s asylum, Bolter had been accompanying an elderly gentleman around town. When Pyke asked where they had been and what they had done, Townsend shrugged and said they’d been to the old man’s club, to his bank, to some fairly ‘low’ taverns, and that was about it. Pyke told him to stick with it.

  A little later, still thinking about the missing loan papers, he had told one of his clerks to round up everyone who worked at the bank and took the unprecedented step of closing the doors while he addressed them all in the main hall. He made sure William Blackwood was present too. Having checked and rechecked all the possibilities regarding the theft of the documents from the vault, and repeatedly questioned the watchmen, who continued to insist they hadn’t seen anyone in the building on the night of the theft, he had come to the conclusion that it had to have been perpetrated by an insider, an employee, someone who worked at the bank, and while Blackwood remained his chief suspect, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that someone else was involved. To gain entry to the vault, four keys were needed; three were locked up in a cabinet in the banking hall, and hence could have been accessed by anyone, but only Pyke and William Blackwood had a copy of the other key, which meant either that Blackwood was involved or the perpetrator had used the key that someone, most likely the old gypsy, had stolen from him.

  In his address to the bank’s staff, he explained that there had been a serious breach of security and that no one was beyond suspicion. He said that some important documents had gone missing from the vault and until they had been found or returned everyone’s pay would be docked by five shillings a week. He explained that this wasn’t a punishment but rather a collective inducement to compel those who were harbouring information to come forward with it.

  ‘Someone has stolen what belongs to me,’ Pyke said, staring out at their glaring faces. No one wanted their pay to be docked. ‘I want the papers returned to me. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure this happens. I’ll make your lives miserable if I have to. I’ll hound each and every one of you until someone tells me something. Someone in this room knows what happened. And I’ll find you. Believe me, I’ll find you, and when I do I won’t be merciful.’

  Afterwards Pyke waited until the hall had cleared before tackling his partner on the stairs.

  Until now he hadn’t really thought what he might do if he couldn’t find either the loan documents or the missing ten thousand pounds, but as his partner’s resolve to address the matter through the law strengthened, he would have to take action. And there was no way he’d spend a single night in prison or pay a single penny of what he allegedly owed the bank from his own savings.

  ‘That was quite a speech,’ Blackwood said, apparently without a hint of mockery.

  ‘No one steals from me and gets away with it.’ Pyke kept his stare hard and firm. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’

  Blackwood bowed his head, revealing a shining pate. ‘I had a visit from Mr Groat this morning. It appears an entire row of houses on Granby Street that he uses as a factory was burned down last night. A painted message claimed Captain Paine was responsible.’ He must have seen Pyke’s expression because he added, ‘No one was hurt. It seems all of the occupants had been forewarned. But he doesn’t have insurance and, in the light of your rather obtuse decision to call in what we loaned him last week, he fell on his knees and begged for more time to meet his debts. I said I’d ask you.’

  ‘In what way was my decision obtuse?’

  ‘You approved the loans in the first place.’ Blackwood sighed. ‘He’s been a good customer. I think, in the light of this abominable attack, we should give him the time he’s asking for.’

  ‘You do, do you?’

  ‘Unlike some, he hasn’t missed a single payment.’

  ‘Tell him if he doesn’t pay back what he owes by the end of the week, I’ll pursue the matter in the courts.’

  ‘But it’s Thursday today.’ Blackwood seemed appalled.

  ‘Yes, so it is.’ Pyke waited, and added, ‘And for the time being I’m still in charge of this bank.’

  Blackwood licked his lips, his hand trembling a little. ‘On that matter, you should know that the lawyer Herries intends to issue a warrant for your arrest early next week, if suitable evidence corroborating the loan you made to Morris isn’t recovered.’

  Pyke clenched his jaw and reined in an urge to rip his partner’s head clean off his shoulders. There was no way that William Blackwood would dare to speak to him in such a manner unless he had a serious backer. Stepping into the gap between them, he watched Blackwood flinch, but rather than strike him, Pyke tapped him gently on the left cheek and whispered, ‘Then I still have a few days.’

  On the north side of Pall Mall the Travellers’ Club was housed in a grand building clad with dazzling stucco that resembled an Italian palazzo. There were two major-domos dressed in liveried uniform standing on guard, but Pyke managed to slip past them among a party of three well-fed older men. Inside, the lofty ceilings, intricate cornicing, walnut-panelled walls and marble floors testified to the wealth and standing of its members. If the Wat Tyler Brigade wanted to wipe out the Establishment in a stroke, Pyke mused, this was the place to target. Forget the Houses of Parliament or the King’s Palace. In the space of a few minutes he’d spotted Lord Auckland, the governor-general of India, and Palmerston, who was Foreign Secretary. It was the kind of place where the small matter of running the country was conducted between courses and in the smoking room over a couple of Cuban cigars.

  Pyke found Sir John Conroy sitting alone at a table that looked out on to Pall Mall. The table had been laid for two and he was expecting someone to join him because when Pyke came up behind him, the royal comptroller leapt to his feet and looked expectantly into his face. His disappointment was replaced by suspicion. Recognising Pyke from the Bow Street courtroom, Conroy returned to his chair and folded his arms, waiting for Pyke to leave him alone. He cut a tall, handsome figure in his dark blue frock-coat worn over a frilly white shirt and cravat, with his grey hair, smooth complexion and strong jaw, but his swashbuckling charm was in short supply. He warned Pyke to leave or he would call the major-domos.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,’ Pyke said, making himself comfortable in the chair opposite him.

  ‘And why’s that?’ Conroy tried to appear composed, but his eyes darted back and forth across the room.

  ‘Because then I wouldn’t be able to tell you about some letters that have come into my possession and that I’m considering t
aking to the Duke of Cumberland.’

  It had been a calculated gamble but almost at once Pyke knew he’d scored a direct hit. Conroy tried, too late, to feign indifference, but a momentary widening of his eyes and a slight puckering of his lip had told Pyke all he needed to know. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, smoothing the ends of his silver moustache.

  ‘No? Then you won’t mind if I take what I’ve got to Cumberland, then.’

  That drew a pained smile. ‘You don’t have to do that, sir. Perhaps we should talk about the matter like gentlemen.’

  ‘Gentlemen who beat up a defenceless old man in his shop and nearly give him a heart attack?’

  Conroy frowned, seemingly puzzled by Pyke’s remark. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You didn’t send two well-dressed coves to my uncle’s shop to forcibly retrieve your property?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Conroy ran his fingers through his silver hair. ‘Why should I want something from your uncle?’

  ‘Because Kate Sutton was, or rather is, the source of his information regarding the piece he wrote about you.’

  A look of recognition and panic flashed across Conroy’s face. ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘What do you see?’ Pyke thought about his uncle’s description of Conroy as a hothead and wondered whether the comptroller’s temper would get the better of him on this occasion.

  ‘Someone believed that that wretched creature had passed what she’d stolen from me on to your uncle for safe-keeping and paid him a visit.’ But Pyke could see he was far from happy with this idea.

  ‘So you’re not denying that Kate Sutton stole some letters from you or that you’ve been hunting her down, or rather you’ve employed others to do this job for you?’

  ‘I’m not admitting anything of the sort.’

  ‘But Kate Sutton did steal some letters from you.’ Pyke watched him from across the table. ‘I know this because, as I said, they’ve come into my possession.’

  The anger returned. ‘So she did give them to your uncle?’

  ‘The question is whether I should return them to you or sell them to Cumberland.’

  ‘Now why on earth would you want to do something like the latter?’ Conroy said, his composure returning.

  ‘Because I’m certain he’d be interested to learn about their content and, of course, willing to pay a significant sum of money ...’

  Conroy interrupted, as Pyke hoped he would. ‘If it’s a question of money, perhaps you and I can come to an accommodation.’ It was as good as an admission that the letters contained potentially explosive revelations.

  Pyke sat forward, his elbows resting on the linen tablecloth. It was time to turn the screw. ‘It’s very simple. I want you to own up to what you’ve done. To me, if not the law. I want you to tell me about your part in the murder and decapitation of a fourth-rate actor called Johnny who, as I’m you sure you know, was Kate Sutton’s betrothed. I also want to know how and why his body came to be dumped in a river outside Huntingdon, just as I want you to tell me about the nature of your association with Jimmy Trotter, Jake Bolter, Sir Henry Bellows and Sir Horsley Rockingham. Additionally, I’d like you to own up to your culpability in the deaths of Freddie Sutton and his wife in their Spitalfields home, and give me your word, for what little it’s worth, that if Kate Sutton is, by some miracle, still alive, she won’t be harmed by one of your ruffians.’

  For a moment Conroy looked as if he had been run over by a fast-moving mail coach.

  ‘I want the truth, Conroy. That’s all. Either I get it from you or I take what I have to the duke.’

  ‘I could have you thrown out of here for talking to me in such a manner.’ A little of the comptroller’s composure had returned.

  ‘Except you won’t, will you? Because we both know I’m holding all the good cards.’

  ‘You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘With Cumberland waiting in the wings, I can afford to be. I don’t think you can.’

  ‘And how do I know you have what you claim?’

  ‘You don’t. That’s the beauty of this arrangement.’

  ‘Then I’m hardly likely to take a risk and try to meet some of your rather puzzling demands.’

  Pyke leaned across the table and whispered, ‘In which case I’ll take it upon myself to further ruin your pathetic, sleazy little life.’ He paused to lick his lips. ‘And unlike my uncle, I’ll finish the job.’

  The blood started to rise in Conroy’s neck and very soon his entire face had turned bright scarlet. ‘You might dress like a gentleman, sir,’ he spluttered, ‘but your presence in an establishment such as this one puts me in mind of the barbarians massing at the gates of Rome.’

  ‘Except I’m now well and truly inside the gates and sitting comfortably at the top table.’ Pyke offered Conroy a patronising smile. He knew he was close to his aim of pushing him over the edge.

  ‘And yet I can smell the gutter on you from here.’

  ‘Are you sure that wouldn’t be your dubious morals?’ Pyke folded his arms and relaxed. ‘Tell me. What was it actually like, fucking the Duchess of Kent up the arse? Did she scream?’ He made sure he spoke in a loud enough voice so that those sitting at nearby tables heard him.

  Pyke watched with interest as Conroy struggled to control his fury, embarrassment and hatred.

  Standing up, Pyke was halfway across the dining room when Conroy caught up with him. The comptroller’s face was flushed and blotchy. He tried to grab Pyke’s sleeve but Pyke was waiting for him. Spinning around, he landed a clean blow on Conroy’s chin and heard the comptroller grunt as he fell backwards on to a table where two elderly military gentlemen were quietly dining. Trying to hold on to something, Conroy grabbed the linen tablecloth, and as he toppled on to the floor, he pulled the cloth off the table and two bowls of soup landed on top of him. The hot liquid stung his scalp and cheeks and caused him to scream from the pain.

  Pyke took a napkin from another table and wiped his hands before discarding it on the floor.

  He had reached the marble-floored entrance hall before he was confronted by two burly major-domos, sweating in their liveried outfits, their faces grim with determination as they blocked his path. Pyke took a deep breath and readied himself. He would fight his way out of the building, if need be.

  In the end, however, such action wasn’t necessary. He heard Gore’s voice before he saw him, and when he turned to face him, Gore had already come between him and the major-domos, assuring them that he would take care of the situation. Pyke saw him slip a few coins into their hands. That took some of the sting out of their desire to teach Pyke a lesson.

  ‘Perhaps you should attend to the disturbance in the dining room,’ Gore told them, ‘rather than bothering my good friend here.’

  ‘But . . .’ one of them started, before realising that he was talking back to a man of Gore’s standing.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Pyke allowed Gore to lead him into the smoking room, where red leather armchairs supported well-fed old men smoking cigars and sleeping off their lunches. ‘I don’t think we’ve seen a proper to-do in this establishment since it opened.’ Gore broke into a laugh. He seemed delighted by what had happened. ‘I was just entering the dining room when you stuck it to the other fellow. It was as if you’d hit him with a bag of hammers. By the way, who was he?’

  A turbid haze filled the room, drifting slowly upwards until it hovered just below the ceiling, while beneath their feet, a thick-pile carpet muffled their steps. No one looked up at them as they repaired to the corner of the room and a couple of empty armchairs.

  ‘Sir John Conroy.’

  Gore’s avuncular face broke into a smile. ‘Ah. The gentleman who caused all that trouble for your uncle. But I thought that business had been resolved?’

  ‘I thought so, too.’

  ‘I take it the matter is settled now,’ Gore said, still enjoying him
self.

  ‘In a manner.’

  ‘And that you didn’t object to my intervening to calm the situation down.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Pyke said, bowing his head. ‘It seems I’m indebted to you once again.’

  As Gore put on his spectacles, Pyke thought about this intervention and wondered again about the man’s motives and whether he was to be trusted or not.

  ‘Actually,’ Gore started, ‘I was hoping to run into you sooner rather than later, so this is very fortuitous.’ His expression assumed a serious air. ‘For a start, I was wondering whether you’d made any progress on the delicate matter we discussed at Morris’s funeral.’

  ‘You mean, finding his killer?’

  Nodding, Gore reached into his pocket and fished out two expensive-looking cigars. He offered one to Pyke, who declined, and then, reaching for the candle, he added, ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’ve nothing new to report, if that’s what you mean.’ Pyke didn’t yet trust Gore enough to tell him what he really suspected had happened.

  ‘But I don’t doubt you’re taking the challenge seriously. As today’s little fracas has proven, I can see you’re quite a tenacious chap, once you get the sniff of something.’ Gore tapped some ash into a silver ashtray.

  ‘I do what I can.’

  ‘You’re too modest, Pyke. I can see for myself what a success you’ve made of the bank.’ Gore blew out some smoke and said, ‘Actually that was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Blackwood’s?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gore said, nodding. ‘I have no idea how you’re going to react, but I have an offer to make you.’

  ‘What kind of an offer?’

  ‘A very lucrative one,’ Gore said, smiling. ‘Look, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that Gore’s is the largest private bank in the city. However, at present, we don’t have representation in the East End, where, I’m told by my advisers, significant money is to be made.’

  Pyke allowed himself a smile. ‘I didn’t think an institution as venerable as Gore’s would want to chase after the slop trade.’