The Devil's Acre

by Matthew Plampin

  ‘Such incredible faith you have in us, Samuel,’ said Richards, his voice a sly drone. He was sitting on Sam’s side of the carriage, and now leaned closer towards him. There was a cut across the bridge of his large, bony nose, and he smelt oddly of candied pears, a sickly, chemical odour. God alone knew what he’d been up to. ‘I only hope that we can all be shown to warrant it.’

  Sam caught something in the press agent’s tone. He narrowed his eyes. ‘If that there’s a reference to Mr Lowry,’ he said bluntly, ‘then you can damn well stow it. Three months now he’s been following me around, Alfie, watching me conduct my business. The boy has a decent brain on him and he knows what’s what. He’s good for whatever I want of him, y’hear?’

  Richards demurred at once, sitting back and raising his palms.

  Lowry himself was grinning. ‘I thank you for your confidence, Colonel,’ he said, ‘and will do all I can to justify it. May I ask what calls you to America so suddenly?’

  The carriage swung away from the park, starting down a shadowy avenue of tall buildings. Street bustle rushed around the smart vehicle like a flow of dirty water, threatening almost to carry it on down into the drain of the Westminster rookery. They slid by an omnibus, a loud yellow advertisement for shaving soap blaring across Sam’s window. Above the hats of the multifarious crowd he glimpsed the ancient gothic flank of the Abbey, its buttresses like the ribs of some skeletal leviathan; and beyond this the seething Parliament site, swathed in sunlit clouds of dust and steam. The gun-maker rubbed his aching belly some more and recounted the tale of the dyke to his employees.

  ‘It must be owned that my returning home is something of a risk,’ he admitted, ‘but I’m afraid that nothing less than the survival of my Hartford factory is at stake. Without that dyke it could flood. Can you imagine what a goddamn flood would do to a gun works?’ He paused, letting this terrible notion hang in the air for a few seconds. ‘Besides, I reckon that things ain’t really going to pick up round here for a little while. Not by the end of the summer, even. While I’m gone my boys will perfect the machinery and the engine – and when I return we’ll be ready to take this government of yours for all she’s damn well got.’

  They turned hard to the right, pushing Sam against the carriage’s side. Through the floor he could feel the vehicle’s mechanisms straining and creaking. It grew lighter; he saw they were heading into the Victoria Street clearances, skirting the northern edge of the rookery. Many hundreds of rotten old buildings had been torn down to make way for the new road, the city authorities carving a great track through the district, no doubt envisaging not only a modern thoroughfare but a profusion of neat structures to line it. It was a noble project in Sam’s estimation, and a truly improving one, giving the sense that this was a city on the move, ready to purge its filthier regions and enter a better age. Thus far, however, no reconstruction work had taken place. Indeed, much of the earthy, rubble-strewn ground had lain fallow for so long that grasses and even a few small, shabby trees had appeared.

  ‘My expectation,’ Sam pronounced as they traversed the relative quiet of this little wasteland, ‘is that the two of you will refrain from your sniping and bickering for this short duration and watch over my interests with the correct level of vigilance.’

  Richards and Lowry looked at each other. ‘Do you mean to say, Colonel,’ asked the secretary, ‘that you are leaving us in charge?’

  ‘Not exactly. A caretaker has been appointed, but he’s going to need your help. That I can guarantee.’

  There was more unspoken communication between the two Bulls. Sam saw that behind their spiky exchanges lay a deeper sense of alliance – whether they were fully aware of it or not.

  ‘It’s James Colt, my younger brother,’ the gun-maker said matter-of-factly, not waiting for the inevitable question, ‘a fellow well versed in both the law and the diplomatic arts.’ This was a laughably generous description. It rather annoyed Sam to be obliged to give it. ‘He’s familiar with our situation here – I wrote him a full report only last week – and he’ll have the authority to make whatever decisions are to be made.’

  This was the real gamble of Sam’s trip back to America. Jamie was a man of few accomplishments, his frequent failures thrown into stark relief by Sam’s massive and ongoing rise. As usual, he needed money as a matter of urgency, and this time had enlisted their elderly father to help him appeal for a chance in the Colt Company. Such begging letters from his family were a troublesome feature of Sam’s life, and long experience had taught him that it was usually easier to give in than resist. His brother wasn’t stupid, despite his many other flaws, and Sam had convinced himself that a short trial period in charge of the London works might actually do the rascal good. And after all, he had the right name. The factory belonged to the Colt Company; it felt right somehow to leave a Colt at its helm.

  Richards looked doubtful. He was familiar with Jamie’s scandalous past – the debts, the womanising, the duelling wounds – and although hardly in a position to judge, he was plainly in two minds about serving under such a person. Lowry was glancing from his employer to his colleague, a trace of uncertainty on that clear, clever face of his. Sam guessed that he’d heard something of John and was getting his Colt brothers confused. The gun-maker could not concern himself with any of this. They would overcome their discomfiture or they would depart the Company. It was as simple as that. Moving forward, a hand still hard against his querulous belly, Sam fixed his secretary with a level stare.

  ‘I have an especially important instruction for you, Mr Lowry. As acting manager, James will be opening all my correspondence – all correspondence, that is, of English or American origin.’ He pointed a finger at Lowry. ‘Listen well to this, my boy: anything issuing from the rest of Europe you are to forward directly on to me in Connecticut. Is that clear? Directly to Connecticut.’

  Lowry nodded: he understood. This was a reliable young fellow. Sam sat back, chewing on his plug. A row of Cubitt’s identical houses were scrolling past outside, like the repeating scenery in a mechanical panorama. They were almost at the factory. His delicate stomach forgotten, he rose to his feet and lurched awkwardly across the carriage, compelling Lowry and Richards to retract their legs. He brought down the window with both hands and stuck out his head. The corner of Bessborough Place and Ponsonby Street was filled with people. Several carts and a couple of cabs had stopped in the road; out on the river a steamboat was lingering, its paddles working backwards, the passengers gathered at the rail.

  Everyone was looking up at the roof of Sam’s factory. A party of workmen was clambering over the tiles, light-footed as mountain goats, pots of whitewash dangling from their hands. Across the roof, angled towards the Vauxhall Bridge Road and the city beyond, was now emblazoned the gleaming legend Col. Colt’s Patent Firearms, each letter twice the height of a man. Sam leaned further out of the window, telling the coachman to bring them to a halt so that he could take it in properly.

  Someone whistled sharply; the gun-maker looked around to see almost all of his American staff, standing a little apart from the throng. There was Ben Quill, with his Irishman as always, who had performed the miracle of getting that dud engine to power the machinery; Walter Noone, who had ended Adams’s cowardly attacks with quick discretion; Gage Stickney, who along with his overseers had fashioned a workforce from the most unpromising of materials. Sam felt pride, and a deep satisfaction. The British government can dither all it likes, he thought – regardless of what the Bulls do or don’t do, with men and premises such as these my London venture cannot help but be a success. Lawrence Street might have his schemes, but Sam Colt would not be bound by these. Why the devil should he be? He was not Street’s creature. There were plenty of other routes open to an enterprising gun-maker.

  The Americans started to call out his name, prompting others to turn towards the mustard-coloured carriage and slowly join in the chorus. Sam had an idea. Acknowledging the gathering cheers with a brief wave, he ducked b
ack inside, prompting more personal rearrangement by the press agent and secretary. He drew the first London Colt from his jacket and told Lowry to fetch him percussion caps and cartridges from one of the presentation boxes that were stowed on board. The pistol was loaded in well under a minute. Sam then put on his hat, opened the carriage door and climbed out onto the metal step.

  They were ready for him this time and let out a great roar; the steamboat wallowing on the Thames added to the acclamation, sounding a long blast from its horn. The shouts grew louder still as Sam lifted the Navy revolver triumphantly aloft and fired off all six shots into the summer sky.

  PART TWO

  Crocodile Court

  1

  Edward examined the letter again, angling it in the dusty sunlight that seeped in through the office’s single circular window. A dense lattice of black pen-strokes had been scribbled over the original post-mark with the plain intention of eradicating it, but he fancied that he could make out something beneath: a taloned foot, and a feather or two perhaps, such as might belong to an imperial eagle, rendered with the elaborate detail of an official stamp. He compared the two addresses upon it. The first, that of the Colt sales office in Liege, was written in an immaculate hand, angular and somehow alien. This had been crossed out by the same pen which had defaced the post-mark, and a redirection inscribed in next to it with a good deal less precision. Beside the great blot in the upper right-hand corner was a crisp new mark from Liege’s central post office.

  It was obvious enough what had occurred. The letter had arrived in Liege and been forwarded on by the sales agent there, who’d been unaware of Colonel Colt’s sudden departure for Connecticut. This did not explain, however, why such important missives – and this one was certainly important – were being sent to Belgium, which was by any measure a minor outpost of the Colt empire. The Colonel had been in London for several months prior to his return to America. Word of his factory by the Thames had spread far and wide. Anyone of note who sought to do business with him would surely know to send their letters there. And why on earth had the Belgian agent gone to such strange lengths to disguise the letter’s place of origin?

  There was a knock on the office door, three raps in quick succession. Edward sat up and bade the person enter. It was Mr Alvord, one of the overseers from the machine floor, a sullen, puffy-looking fellow who never made the slightest effort to conceal his dislike for the secretary. He reported in a bored voice that there was a blond-whiskered Englishman standing out on the stairs, asking for their manager. Edward nodded; it had to be Lawrence Street. He knew that the Colonel had been trying to reach Street in the days before he left for Hartford, but without success. Now, a full two weeks after Colt had gone, it seemed that the Honourable Member had finally set aside the time to grace them with a visit.

  James Colt, of course, was nowhere to be found. It had quickly become clear that this would be the standard state of affairs. The Colonel’s younger brother had visited the factory but once so far, on the day of his arrival in the metropolis. An unfortunate coincidence had brought an irate delegation to the gates on that very same day, demanding the removal of the spectacular advertisement painted upon the factory roof. This party was headed by Lady Cecilia War-dell, who was proving herself a committed and resourceful opponent of Colt. For this particular mission she’d enlisted none other than Thomas Cubitt, the great building-master of Pimlico, who’d stood sternly at her side as she’d asked to speak with the Colonel. James – or Jamie, as he’d introduced himself to them all – had gone out to meet them enthusiastically enough, seeming to think his new managerial responsibilities a bit of a jest or a novel game, smilingly confident that he could talk the Company out of this spot of difficulty and preserve his brother’s slogan.

  They had beaten him down with a speed that had been embarrassing to behold. Edward had remained in the factory, yet could still clearly hear the black-clad Cubitt – who resembled the more forbidding kind of Methodist minister in both appearance and manner – bellowing that the Colt Company was reducing the tone of his district to that of the lowest commercial lanes of Piccadilly. Jamie had slunk back inside, tugging uncomfortably at his collar and blowing out his cheeks, and told Stickney to get some men up on the roof with buckets of pitch as soon as possible. He’d left shortly afterwards and not returned.

  Edward looked at Alvord again. The overseer was staring past him, out of the window, his thoughts elsewhere. ‘You’d better show him up then, Mr Alvord. I’ll see if I can help.’

  As the office door closed, a little more loudly than was necessary, Edward considered the mysterious letter for a final time. His instructions were plain. Everything from Europe or beyond was to be forwarded, unopened, to the Colonel at Hartford. Its origin and its contents were really none of his concern. Decisive, impatient footsteps sounded out in the corridor, approaching where he sat; he brushed the letter into a drawer and set about collecting himself for an audience with Mr Street.

  The calculating political operator of the Hotel de Provence was not in evidence that morning. Street’s eyes were starting forth in his head, seeming almost to press against the lenses of his eye-glasses, and those fine blond whiskers bordered a complexion bleached by anxious anger. Edward rose from his chair and bowed, welcoming the Honourable Member to the factory. Ignoring him completely, Street paced from one side of the sparsely furnished room to the other, each hard fall of his fine city shoes shaking an issue of dust from the unvarnished floorboards. Then he stopped, studying his left thumbnail with a critical air.

  ‘Where in blazes is he then, this younger brother?’

  Edward swallowed. ‘Sir, I –’

  ‘Does he have any notion of what is occurring today?’ Street interrupted. ‘Of what is at stake? The manager of these works is needed immediately, do you hear me, to attend a meeting of the utmost importance.’ He glared at Edward as if he bore personal responsibility for James Colt’s absence. ‘Do you even know where he is?’

  ‘I do not, Mr Street. However, if you would care to –’

  Street’s features struggled to express his incredulity at this answer. ‘Do you really not have any idea? Are such things not your duty, sir? At this essential moment, your chief has truly gone missing?’

  As Edward was composing a suitably humble reply, the sound of reedy voices joined in Christian song rose up from outside the factory. It was the indomitable Lady Wardell and her followers, gathered at the gates on Ponsonby Street – an almost daily presence since their victory over the roof slogan. The choking miasma given off by the Thames in high summer made such demonstration something of a trial, but while a small number did wilt away, the main body of the group seemed to welcome this call on their stamina and their righteous resolve. In the last couple of days they’d also taken to distributing printed tracts to the Colt workers – which by evening could be seen heaped in grubby drifts along the lanes surrounding the works.

  ‘Dear God,’ exclaimed Street irritably, taking off his top hat and dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief, ‘does that blessed woman never rest?’

  ‘They are later today than usual, Mr Street,’ Edward said. ‘Lady Wardell normally makes sure that she is here for the arrival of the early shift.’

  Street returned the hat to his head; the protesters’ routine was of no interest to him. He came over to the front of the desk. Fresh perspiration was already breaking out across his brow. His eye-glasses magnified the pupils behind and threw them slightly off-centre, making it difficult to meet his gaze.

  ‘Can you tell me anything of use at all?’

  ‘Mr Colt is a resident at Mivart’s Hotel, in Berkeley Square. You might try for him there.’

  Street suddenly squeezed up his face into a bitter frown, as if he had tasted something very sour. The effect was oddly infantile; Edward thought that he might be about to stamp his foot. ‘It is a trumpery affair, do you hear me? A damned trumpery affair.’ The Honourable Member turned away, heading for the door, raging o
n as he went. ‘That the Colonel should have permitted such laxity to overtake his works is quite beyond my ability to understand. This place is at a deuced low ebb – it can not be allowed to continue.’

  Edward stood alone in the empty office, the door swinging open, listening to the distant singing and the sound of Lawrence Street marching back along the corridor and starting noisily down the stairs. Now that, he thought, could not have gone much more badly. He failed to see what else he could have done, however. It wasn’t as if he’d urged the Colonel to go back to see to his dyke, or was in any way responsible for the appointment of his idle scapegrace of a brother as the caretaker manager. The secretary closed his eyes for a second. Samuel Colt was an unpredictable, unfathomable master. This was plainly the price of his genius in other areas. Edward knew that impatience or resentment would not help his prospects; the most sensible thing he could do was attend to his other tasks to the best of his ability. He remembered the letter in the drawer, and decided that he would send it right away, from the post office on the Vauxhall Bridge Road.

  It was not until he was reaching for his hat that Edward gave proper consideration to what might actually have occasioned Street’s ill-tempered visit. He’d taken care to keep up with the newspapers and knew all about the recent escalation in the East. Russia had invaded the Danubian principalities; armies were clashing, men being killed. The British Cabinet remained hopelessly split over the best way to react to the mounting crisis; Aberdeen was hesitant, Palmerston belligerent, and the rest divided more or less equally between them. These two things, the arrival of the strange letter and the visit from Palmerston’s man, both seemed to relate to this, but precisely how Edward could not fathom. Pondering it, he headed towards the staircase.