The Revenge of Captain Paine

by Andrew Pepper

  Having made a leash from one of the horse’s reins, Pyke coiled it around the dog’s neck and held on to the other end. Copper tugged hard on his new leash and Pyke allowed the eager mastiff to lead him through the hospital’s wrought-iron gates and up some stone steps into the main building. The entrance hall was a frenzy of activity; clearly the volley of rifle shots had sent the porters, nurses and patients into a panic, and some were trying to evacuate the building using a rear entrance. In the mayhem, no one even seemed to notice a man and a dog, both smeared in blood, running across the hall, the dog leading the way to the main staircase, taking the steps two at a time, perhaps following his master’s scent.

  Holding on to the lead, Pyke followed Copper up a further flight of stairs and along a long, narrow passageway as far as a closed door, where the mastiff hesitated and sniffed, its tail wagging from side to side. It let out an excited bark, and from the other side Pyke heard Jake Bolter say, ‘Is that you, Copper?’ When the door swung open, Copper pushed ahead of him but Pyke had his pistol ready and swung it around to face Bolter, who’d been shot in the shoulder and stomach and sat propped up against a wall in a small, bare room that reminded Pyke of a prison cell. Pieces of smashed glass lay all around the wounded man. Copper bounded across to greet his master, while Pyke kept the pistol trained on him and kicked the rifle Bolter had used to shoot Emily out of the ex-soldier’s reach.

  ‘Who sent you here to kill my wife?’

  Bolter had lost a lot of blood and could barely summon enough strength to pat the dog on its head. ‘I was meant to get the pair of you, then collect any letters you’d brought with you. I hadn’t counted on there being other folk with rifles. You outfoxed me there.’ He tried to smile.

  ‘Who gave you the orders?’

  ‘A soldier never gives up the name of his superior officer.’

  Pyke stood over him and rammed the pistol into his face. ‘My wife was pregnant when you killed her.’

  That seemed to cause Bolter a little distress. ‘I didn’t have nothing against her but I wouldn’t have shed any tears over you.’

  ‘Just like you didn’t have anything in particular against Johnny Evans and Freddie Sutton?’

  ‘You care about those cullies?’

  ‘So you don’t deny killing them?’

  ‘I did the Suttons but Johnny was Trotter’s work. Reckoned cutting off the head would spook the folk in Huntingdon as much as the threat of the navvies.’ For a moment he shut his eyes and Pyke thought he might have passed away.

  But a lick from the mastiff brought him around, and when Bolter next looked up at him, Pyke had trained the pistol on the dog. ‘Tell me who gave you your orders or I’ll kill your dog.’

  ‘You wouldn’t hurt a poor, dumb animal, would you, sir?’

  Pyke took aim and fired. The shot tore through one of the dog’s legs and the beast flopped to the floor, yelping.

  Bolter looked at him, uncomprehending. ‘You shot my Copper,’ he whispered, the life ebbing from him.

  ‘If you don’t tell me who sent you here to kill my wife, I’ll aim the next one at his head.’

  On the floor, the terrified mutt whimpered and yelped.

  ‘Well?’ Pyke removed the other pistol from his belt, raised the barrel and coiled his finger around the trigger.

  ‘Please don’t kill my Copper,’ Bolter whispered.

  Pyke knelt over him. ‘Tell me who sent you.’

  Bolter slumped forward and murmured, ‘Gore.’

  ‘And my son. Where’s my child?’

  ‘Your child?’

  ‘Has Gore got my son?’

  Bolter took his last breath and died, Copper’s attempts to crawl towards his master and bring him back to life coming to nothing. The mastiff tried in vain to haul itself up on to its three good legs but it didn’t have enough strength. Like its master, it had lost too much blood. Pyke went to try to pick the dog up but it was too heavy for him to carry on his own. He found a trolley in the passageway and with Townsend’s help, he managed to haul the shivering beast up on to it. Pushing the trolley back along the passageway towards the staircase, Pyke reached down and patted Copper on the head. The dog whimpered by way of response.

  It took them a half-hour to find a surgeon and another ten minutes for Pyke and two of the men to carry the dying animal from the trolley and down two flights of stairs as far as the operating room. When the man realised what he was being asked to do, he put down his scalpel, removed his gown and said he wouldn’t demean his profession by operating on a dog. Pyke offered him fifty pounds if the mastiff survived and the surgeon hurriedly ushered them out of the room to begin his work.

  It rained on the morning of Emily’s funeral. It rained the day before and it rained the following day, too. The northerly wind that had brought snow with it was replaced by a brisk westerly breeze that warmed things up but swept in wave after wave of thick, dark clouds. The water dripped from branches and gathered in stagnant pools; it turned the already sodden ground into a boggy mush and it drained into rivers and canals until their banks were on the verge of bursting. But still it continued to fall, relentlessly, from skies as black as gunmetal, and though it eased a little when Pyke and three of the servants carried Emily’s coffin from the hall on their shoulders, when it came to lowering it down into the freshly dug grave, the skies opened once again and soaked the small congregation of servants.

  Pyke hadn’t announced the funeral in any of the newspapers, nor invited any of the radicals to attend it. He was determined that she would be buried not as Captain Paine but simply as Emily. He didn’t want her death to be turned into a political event.

  Some, like Jo, who had known Emily for many years, wept inconsolably; others stared down into the grave, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Pyke stood on his own, at the front of the group, with Godfrey just behind him, lost in his grief, hardly noticing the rainwater as it dripped down his cheeks and neck. He could still taste her in his mouth; he could still smell her on his clothes; his skin was still stained with her blood. There was no formal service and no vicar presided over the short ceremony. No one gave a eulogy or said a few words. To the sound of Jo’s sobs, Pyke stared at nothing, thought nothing and felt nothing. In the end, the rain drove everyone back to the hall, where the gloom masked a general air of anxiety, none of the servants knowing what would happen to the hall or their posts. Pyke remained at Emily’s graveside, thinking about his wife and the child that had died in her womb. Thinking it was his fault. That was the worst part. Thinking, knowing he could have done more.

  ‘You’ll catch a terrible chill out here, m’boy. Won’t you come inside with me and dry off, have a whisky?’

  Pyke turned to his uncle and said, ‘I need to find my son.’

  ‘Of course.’ Godfrey nodded. ‘Is there anything at all I can do?’

  ‘I want you to go and visit a man called Fitzroy Tilling. I’ll give you the address. Tell him I need an audience with Peel and the prime minister, Viscount Melbourne, the day after tomorrow. Make it clear that if I don’t get what I’ve asked for, I’ll make public information that will threaten the orderly succession of Princess Victoria to the throne and raise the spectre of a Cumberland monarchy. Oh, and insist that Sir John Conroy is forced to attend the meeting, as well.’

  Godfrey stared at him, seemingly not knowing what to say or even where to start. ‘You have the letters?’

  ‘One day I’ll tell you the whole story.’

  His uncle nodded. It would have to be enough for the moment. Wet and dejected, he turned and began to trudge back towards the hall.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The venue chosen for the hastily arranged meeting was Lansdowne House, as coincidence would have it a Palladian mansion on the south side of Berkeley Square, just a few doors from the house that Pyke had rented. The third Marquess of Lansdowne was the Lord President of the Council in Melbourne’s cabinet, and Pyke had heard that the marquess sometimes hosted cabinet meetings in his stately ho
me. Pyke viewed the arrivals from his window, and it was only when Peel and Conroy had been deposited at the front steps by their respective carriages that he made the short journey across the square and presented himself at the door. He was ushered into the entrance hall, an elegant room with a marble floor, a carved ceiling and columns leading to the stairs. Having left his coat with the butler, who he then followed into the drawing room, he was announced to Melbourne, Peel and Conroy, who sat in grim-faced silence. Fitzroy Tilling hovered unobtrusively by the door.

  ‘What in God’s name is this all about, Pyke ...’ Peel stood up to confront him, his eyes blazing with indignation.

  Viscount Melbourne had a high forehead partly covered with curly greying hair that extended seamlessly down his long, angular face into bushy sideburns, a beak-like nose and a cleft chin. His demeanour seemed dour and melancholic, as though he wanted neither to be there in the room nor, indeed, to be prime minister, and contrasted with Peel’s brusque energy.

  Conroy sat to one side and said nothing. His face didn’t move when he saw Pyke, nor did his expression give anything away.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Pyke said, ignoring Peel’s question and choosing to stand rather than sit down in the armchair they had prepared for him, ‘I know you’re busy and I won’t keep you any longer than I have to.’

  But they had all come. That was the most important thing. It showed they took his threat seriously.

  Pyke took out both letters and held them up. Still Conroy’s expression remained opaque. ‘These are copies of letters written by the Duchess of Kent to Sir John Conroy.’ With a theatrical flourish he pointed at the comptroller. ‘I’ll read these, if I may.’ Pausing to clear his throat, Pyke presented the evidence that damned Conroy and, by association, the young princess.

  After he had finished both letters and returned them to his pocket, Pyke looked up. Peel and the prime minister had gone very still. The two politicians exchanged a nervous look.

  ‘So?’ Conroy smoothed back his silver hair and coiled the end of his moustache. ‘It doesn’t prove anything. There’s not one scrap of hard evidence that says I’m the girl’s father.’

  ‘You don’t deny the letter was written by the duchess, then?’

  The comptroller stared at the mantelpiece, not dignifying Pyke with a response.

  Pyke glanced over at Tilling. ‘Two days ago my wife was assassinated by a man called Jake Bolter at Smithfield.’ He saw the shock register on Tilling’s face. ‘One of the assassin’s aims was to secure the safe return of the letters I just read out to you. The other was to kill my wife and me.’

  The ransom demand Pyke had received apparently from the Duke of Cumberland had in fact been sent by Sir John Conroy, doubtless with the blessing of both Bellows and Gore. Conroy had waited for Cumberland to depart for Berlin before finally dispatching the note so that Pyke would have no way of finding out from the duke himself whether he really had kidnapped Emily or Felix. As someone with many contacts in royal circles, he had clearly been able to procure Cumberland’s seal, and by implicating the duke, Conroy had saved himself from Pyke’s wrath in the immediate aftermath of the kidnapping. If all had gone to plan, Conroy would have got his letters back and Pyke would now be dead. Unfortunately for the comptroller neither of these things had come to pass.

  The prime minister’s frown deepened. ‘Why in God’s name would anyone want to kill your wife?’

  ‘Because, Prime Minister, she was the radical figure otherwise known as Captain Paine, and her money was being used to try and unionise the navvies working to build the Birmingham railway.’

  Peel swapped a brief glance with Tilling. It told Pyke that he had already been told about this development. But Melbourne seemed utterly flummoxed and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve lost me. How is any of this related to the letters you just read out?’

  Pyke apologised for the confusion and said it would maybe be best if he explained everything in full. Melbourne nodded in agreement. Pyke walked over to the fireplace and tried to clear his mind. He still didn’t have the complete picture and he had to be careful about what he said about Peel’s involvement, how much he wanted to implicate the Tory leader. But he knew enough to be able to guess the rest. He waited until he had their full attention before he started.

  ‘About ten months ago, Abraham Gore, the chairman of the Birmingham railway, first came upon rumours that radicals planned to try and persuade the navvies employed to build his railway, and also the Grand Northern, to take their union oaths. Fearing that this would absolutely retard the progress of his railway, Gore decided to act and, in doing so, pursue measures that would both thwart the radicals’ plans and damage the prospects of the Grand Northern. But Gore had to tread very carefully. As someone who was well respected in the business world and a close friend of Edward James Morris, the chairman of the Grand Northern, he needed to shield himself from all repercussions that might arise from his actions. In other words, what he needed was someone to blame if things blew up in his face: someone who was violently opposed to the progress of the Grand Northern for his own reasons. This man was Sir Horsley Rockingham, a Huntingdon landowner who’d campaigned against the Grand Northern from the moment he had first heard that it would pass across his land. From the outset, it had been Gore’s intention to set up Rockingham to take the blame, if and when his action against the navvies in Huntingdon threatened to unravel out of control. To do this, Gore needed a go-between; someone he could rely on to cajole and prod Rockingham in the “right” direction. He selected someone by the name of Jake Bolter, an ex-soldier who had once served in the same regiment that Rockingham was affiliated to and who had been willing to trade his loyalty to his regiment for large sums of money. In the meantime, Bolter requisitioned the help of a ruffian called Jimmy Trotter, someone he’d met in his former lodging house and a man with even fewer moral scruples than himself.’

  Pyke didn’t tell them about his own association with Abraham Gore and Gore’s attempts to implicate Rockingham in his eyes. The anonymous letter alerting him to the landowner’s presence in the capital was part of this strategy. That and having Bolter meet Rockingham and show him around. Pyke thought about Gore’s unswerving insistence that Morris would never have taken his own life and his suggestion that Bolter may have had something to do with Morris’s death, and wondered what he should make of these claims in the light of what he’d discovered about Gore.

  ‘About the same time, the letters I’ve just read to you were stolen from Conroy’s safe and the comptroller here went to see his good friend, Sir Henry Bellows, in a state of what I can only assume was blind panic. You’ve seen for yourselves the significance of what was taken. I’m sure Conroy was quick to impress this point upon Bellows. And I’m guessing he asked the chief magistrate to assign his best men to the task of recovering the letters. But Bellows would have known right away that he couldn’t assign any of his own officers to this task. The work was too dirty and he needed to use people who couldn’t be traced back to him. So he turned to his good friend Abraham Gore. I know for a fact that Gore and Bellows had already liaised about ways of stamping out radical activity, and the chief magistrate was about to spearhead a crackdown against Julian Jackman and the Wat Tyler Brigade here in London. Gore had already “bought” the chief magistrate’s favour by alerting him to plans to move the terminus of the Birmingham railway from Camden to Euston before anyone knew of it, thereby allowing Bellows to buy up properties in the area at a fraction of what they’d eventually be worth.’

  Pyke paused for a moment and thought about the performance that Gore had put on for him at the coroner’s inquest. All to throw suspicion elsewhere and maintain Pyke’s trust, at least until Gore gained control of Blackwood’s bank. It was impressive in its own way.

  ‘So Gore employed Jake Bolter and by association Jimmy Trotter to hunt for the stolen letters and told them what he heard from Bellows and hence the comptroller here. That the chief suspect was a kitchen hand who’d wo
rked at Kensington Palace called Kate Sutton and her betrothed, Johnny Evans. Bolter and Trotter found Johnny easily enough and exhaustive interrogation - Trotter burnt Johnny’s flesh with the end of a lighted cigar - revealed that Johnny had given the letters to Kate for safe keeping. But rightly fearing for her life, Kate went into hiding, and Bolter and Trotter were both unable to find where she had gone. Bolter even interrogated her parents in their Spitalfields home, to no avail. When he realised they couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he slit their throats and let them bleed to death.’ Pyke glanced up at the prime minister, who visibly winced at this particular detail.

  ‘Perhaps Johnny died as a result of the torture, perhaps they killed him because he was no longer of any use to them. I don’t know. But needing to dispose of his body, they stumbled on the idea of taking it with them to Huntingdon and dumping it there. After all, who would think of looking for a penniless London actor in the middle of the countryside? But just to make sure, they hacked off the man’s head and then, rather than bury the headless corpse in a field, they decided to throw it into a river near Huntingdon. Their aim was to further frighten and unsettle the men and women of the town. Remember, they also wanted these same men to violently defend their home against the navvies if and when the navvies could be provoked into attacking it. They did this very successfully. The navvies were routed in the ensuing violence and, in the process, the radicals were driven out of the town and the progress of the Grand Northern Railway arrested. More recently, it should be added, Gore has been using his influence to make sure that the Grand Northern terminates at Cambridge, thereby affording his own railway line a monopoly on all traffic between London and the industrial heartlands of the Midlands and the North. At its most basic, this whole thing was devised by Abraham Gore to break his railway’s closest competitor and destroy all attempts to unionise the railway’s workforce. A few days ago I saw the radical leader, Julian Jackman. He had been crucified, as a warning to others. My wife, who was also Captain Paine, was shot dead in Smithfield and died in my arms.’