The secretary was sitting cross-legged on a patch of grass near the eastern end of Rotten Row. It was a warm Saturday afternoon and the fashionable crowd was out in force. Sumptuous equipages cruised to and fro, liveried footmen propped up on every available surface; thoroughbred horses pranced across the Row’s fine gravel, shaking their plaited manes, the raucous hoots of their riders scattering birds from the trees.
Edward was not comfortable here. This corner of Hyde Park was given over to the most vapid indolence – it was a lounger’s spot, of the sort that would suit James Colt and the Harum-Scarum Club. His cousin Arthur, the soldier whose example he’d trotted out so readily in the meeting with Lord Paget, had suggested they meet there, and Edward hadn’t wanted to complicate matters or test Arthur’s knowledge of the capital by putting forward an alternative. After a quarter-hour on his patch of grass he’d begun to understand the motivation behind Arthur’s choice. There was a sprinkling of military men among the riders and pedestrians in the environs of the Row, resplendent in officers’ coatees; and all seemed to be engaged in conversation with admiring young ladies.
Arthur was now ten minutes late, and as usual Edward had a good deal of pressing Colt work to do. Annoyance began to build within him at this wasted time – but he checked it, correcting himself. His cousin had been back from Africa on leave now for almost three weeks and they hadn’t yet seen each other. Arthur had written to him a few days before, explaining that he would be in London that afternoon on Army business and proposing that they have a few words afterwards. Edward had sent a note of agreement by the next post.
The British Munitions Gazette caught his eye, the close columns of type flanking a technical diagram of a new French rifle. Edward picked it up and started to look through it for a second time. It was possible that he’d missed a page.
Someone pinched the back of the magazine’s spine, tugging it from his grasp. Arthur was crouching down before him in his scarlet infantry jacket, a faintly condescending grin on his face.
‘By God, Eddie, it’s true,’ he said with a chuckle, glancing at the Gazette before casting it aside. ‘You really are a bloody gun man.’
Arthur was twenty-one, four years younger than Edward. They looked alike, having the same nose and brow, but Arthur was a larger, stronger version; his legs were a couple of inches longer, his arms thicker, his face half a hand wider and adorned with neat military moustaches. A fundamental dissimilarity of character had always kept a certain distance between them. Edward thought Arthur boisterous and simple-minded, and was unable to understand his passion for field sports, gambling and boxing; whereas Arthur thought Edward bookish and distant, and too wedded to life in London. An affectionate contact was maintained, and letters exchanged on a reasonably regular basis, but they would always be relations rather than proper friends.
Edward studied Arthur’s uniform. He’d been promoted; more than that, he’d received a commission. ‘And you are a subaltern, Art,’ he remarked, noticing the hoarseness that lingered in his voice. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Heavens, Eddie, are you all right?’
There was concern on his cousin’s tanned features. He looked well, it had to be said, a little weathered perhaps but full of robust good health – not how you might picture a man who’d been on campaign for the past eighteen months.
‘I am fine,’ he replied, forcing a hollow smile. ‘Rather tired.’
Arthur sat down opposite him. ‘What the deuce happened to your neck?’
Edward tried to pull up his collar. ‘A tussle in the street. I survived, as you can see.’
‘Did they rob you?’
‘I don’t really wish to discuss it.’
Arthur hesitated. ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘how about this position of yours – working for the Yankee gun-maker? Mother says that you’re set to become the first Lowry millionaire.’
Edward shook his head. ‘If only that were true. At present we –’ He stopped. He wasn’t about to share his doubts about James Colt’s continued mismanagement with his guileless cousin. ‘It is tiresome, Art, to be quite frank. You must tell me of your promotion. Now that is a feat, to make the jump from the ranks. You must be pleased.’
Fortunately, Arthur was more than happy with this change in topic. It transpired that he’d initially been given a battlefield commission after one of his company’s lieutenants had succumbed to a stomach wound, but had served with such valour and application that his colonel had decided to make the rank permanent.
‘Is that why you are in London?’ Edward asked. ‘For formal approval by a brigadier or somesuch?’
‘No, Eddie, no.’ His cousin was smiling, a little bashfully. ‘That was to confirm my transfer.’
It had only taken four days of leave, Arthur revealed, for him to grow utterly bored with the pace of civilian life. He’d soon learnt from incendiary newspaper editorials and fervent street-corner demagogues that something major was brewing in the East. Hungry for more adventure, the newly minted officer had decided that he wasn’t going to journey back to the end of Africa to sit around uselessly with the 73rd and had requested a transfer to the 44th East Essex. This had been granted just an hour previously; Cousin Arthur, it seemed, was considered a catch for any regiment. Whatever was to happen as a result of this ongoing trouble with Russia, he was now likely to be a part of it.
Edward coiled his fingers around a few long shoots of grass and ripped them up, feeling the dull tearing of roots in the earth beneath him. ‘Does your mother know of this?’
‘Yes.’ Arthur’s smile fell. He shifted about, fiddling with one of his jacket’s gilded buttons. ‘She does not approve.’
Edward’s Aunt Ruth, a widow like his own mother, was of a pronounced nervous disposition. She’d almost been broken apart by the wait for news while her only son had been fighting at the Cape; it was easy to imagine what this latest development might be doing to her. ‘Well, she has just got you home from one war,’ he said. ‘I doubt she understands why she must lose you straight away to another. Christ Almighty, Art, I’m not sure I understand.’
Arthur slapped a hand against his knee in boyish exasperation. ‘Hell’s bells, Eddie, it is so exciting, don’t you see? It is the most noble thing a man can do, and truly glorious to be a part of!’
Edward leaned towards his cousin. ‘My dear fellow, this business with Russia is a very different proposition to battling savages armed with spears and a few stolen muskets. We are faced with the prospect of a full-scale war against an ancient and mighty empire – with vast numbers of cannon, and gunboats, and –’
‘That’s precisely why I must be there! It will be positively stupendous. Every fighting man prays that such a war will come in his lifetime. It is a real chance to show your mettle – to distinguish yourself in the service of the Queen. I tell you, Eddie, if the British Army is sent to Turkey’s assistance I’ll come back a blasted captain.’ Seeing the doubt in his cousin’s face, Arthur grew defensive. ‘And anyway, old chap, I would’ve thought that you’d be stoked up for it as well. Your American fellow has a bloody great factory, don’t he? How the deuce is he going to shift all those pistols without any battles for them to be used in?
Edward paused, his brow furrowing, unable to summon a satisfactory reply. What Arthur said was completely true. The Colonel often held forth about the great opportunities to be had in times of conflict, and urged for war whenever he could. We’re a part of all this, the secretary thought – complicit, somehow, in the looming hostilities. That men like Arthur were so keen to rush off to fight, that they cheered every ineluctable step towards bloodshed, was in the best interests of the Colt Company. It seemed as if a vast machine had been started up and the British nation was being pulled slowly into it – being pounded, sliced and reshaped – and the gun-makers were among those working this machine’s controls. Edward stared down at the torn blades of grass that he still held in his palm, gripped suddenly by a dark, conflicted feeling. He said nothing.
Seeing that he’d prevailed, Arthur became conciliatory. ‘I say, you couldn’t by any chance see your way to sending me a brace of your Yankee six-shooters, could you? I could tout it for you around the barracks, fire it at the range – become a sort of walking advertisement. I might even be able to get my new colonel to put in a good word at Division, to help you get your contracts and all that.’
‘Of course,’ Edward answered absently, brushing the grass from his palm, his brow still creased. ‘That’s a fine idea.’
Arthur got to his feet, well pleased. He straightened his undress cap and looked off towards Hyde Park Corner. ‘Let’s go across the road to Tattersall’s. Word is they’ve an early running card for the Derby. I’m under orders to catch a train out to Chelmsford this evening – and if I can show up at the officers’ mess of the 44th with a few quality tips to pass around it could make me some quick pals.’
The soldier offered Edward a hand, pulling him upright with such force that he almost overbalanced. The Navy revolver shifted inside his jacket; he grabbed at it, just managing to stop the weapon thudding out into the open.
After his garrotting in the Devil’s Acre, Edward had found walking down any but the widest and best-lit thoroughfares a disturbing ordeal. Sleep, also, had become elusive, and his hands had begun to tremble so much sometimes that he could barely keep hold of his pen. Eventually, desperate to regain his steadiness, he’d lifted the Navy from its drawer, loaded it with cartridges and caps taken from a small supply he’d found in the office and secured it within his waistcoat, under his left arm. The hard weight of it – the certain knowledge that he could fend off any attack launched at him – had been immediately reassuring. For a couple of days he’d almost longed for such an attack, in the hope that it would purge his tortured recollections of what had happened in the Devil’s Acre. None came, however, and he was left peering around him like a hunted man, his fingers starting towards the pistol at the slightest unfamiliar sound.
Arthur was watching him with curious amusement. He’d noticed something strange about his cousin’s posture, perhaps even that a heavy object was concealed inside his clothes. Edward took out his cigar case, hoping that this would serve as a distraction.
‘Here, Art, try one of these,’ he said. ‘Finest Havana, from this place over on Oxford Street.’
The young lieutenant accepted readily; and once the cigar was alight he sauntered over to the colonnades of Tattersall’s horse repository, forgetting everything but that rumour of an early card for the Derby. Relieved, Edward followed, buttoning up his jacket. For some reason, he felt a powerful need to keep the revolver hidden.
The note was waiting in the factory office when he returned there at around seven o’clock. He will not leave, it read, and his snores and curses have disturbed my efforts to secure a sale on more than one occasion. He must be removed immediately, MrLowry, or I will be forced to inform Mr Colt. It was signed by Charles Dennett, the agent who ran the sales office over in Spring Gardens. Edward was exhausted and wanted only to go home to his bed; but this, he recognised irritably, would have to be attended to first. Screwing the note into a ball and throwing it aside, he headed straight back out through the door.
The afternoon had been spent among the stalls of Tattersall’s, listening to Arthur’s recollections from the Kaffir War; of marches along rocky ridges aglow with gladioli; of field funerals in wild mountain forts; of the greased bodies of the savage foe gleaming as they darted forward through the brush. The fighting itself – bayonet work mostly, it seemed – was spoken of with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. It was plain that Arthur felt he had a knack for it, and wanted to put this to the test for a second time. Fired up by Tattersall’s complimentary sherry, the young officer had predicted that if Great Britain did declare war with Russia, and his cousin came through on his promise of Yankee revolvers, then Lieutenant Arthur Lowry would soon be dropping Russia’s best men like they were nothing more than game-birds. Hearing all this had only further unsettled Edward’s mind. He’d merely nodded along, saying little himself.
Spring Gardens, a quiet street of small, exclusive-looking premises, was just behind the southern side of Charing Cross. The Colt outlet stood about halfway down, with Col. S. Colt: Repeating Firearms stencilled in bold gold and black letters upon its wide plate-glass window. Edward had been here several times before, both alone and with the Colonel. He’d enjoyed the luxury of the place, and the sense that he, as a notable Colt employee, had some kind of special status within. There was no pleasure to be taken in this particular visit, however; the secretary pushed his way inside, thinking that he would get it over with as quickly as possible.
A diagonal block of evening sunlight slanted in through the front window, projecting Colt in reverse across the patterned tiles of the floor. The rest of the shop was sunk in an expensive, velvet-trimmed gloom, a black marble counter separating potential customers from the long rank of display cases that lined the back wall. Every variety of Colt pistol was contained within these cases, from iron-and-brass presentation models of the earliest Connecticut Dragoons to plain, service-issue Navys straight from the Pimlico manufactory. This was where the private sales of the Colonel’s firearms were made – where curious Englishmen with a few pounds to spare could purchase themselves a Colt revolver. In truth, though, the sales office shifted a negligible quantity of weapons. Its principal value, as the Colonel had stated numerous times, was promotional. It was the place where a well-connected gentleman with a casual interest in weaponry and its advances could simply saunter in for a look – and perhaps leave with a specimen that he might show around his club, or produce for the amusement of a party of august dinner guests.
The sales agent, Mr Dennett, was a small, fine-featured creature with an oily sheen to his skin. His voice was shrill, with a New York accent anglicised somewhat by a number of years’ residence in London. He turned to Edward in an accusatory manner, all but twitching with agitation.
‘At last, thank God – get him out, Mr Lowry, this minute! There’s an evening crowd that comes in between half-seven and nine, don’t y’know, and he must be gone by then – long gone!’
Making the appropriate assurances, Edward walked around the counter to the door that led to the rear room. It was sparsely furnished, in contrast to the front, with pistol cases and ammunition crates piled upon bare floorboards. The Colt Company’s English press agent lay behind a desk in its far corner. His long legs stuck out across the floor at right angles, as if he’d been frozen in the act of running and pushed onto his side. He’d removed his jacket and waistcoat at some point to serve as a pillow but both were now bunched up against the wall, caked with dust. He was snoring softly; the clammy, boozy smell of unwashed drunkard hung in the air.
‘Richards,’ Edward said, taking a couple of steps towards him, ‘wake up.’
Nothing happened. Edward repeated the press agent’s name more loudly, this time eliciting a drawn-out groan. Richards pulled up his legs and rolled over. He was cradling an empty bottle of spirit in his arms. A charred cigar-end, cracked and crumbling apart, was stuck to his chin.
‘Mabel would have no more,’ he croaked, keeping his eyes firmly shut.
Mabel, Edward knew, was the unfortunate Mrs Richards. Every so often she’d grow so tired of her husband’s exploits that she’d shut him out of their home up in Marylebone. For some mysterious reason Richards possessed a key to the sales office; and in these times of domestic ruction the shop occasionally served the press agent as a convenient sanctuary.
There were new, unfamiliar voices out in the front. Edward looked over his shoulder. A pair of plump, middle-aged gentlemen were approaching the marble counter, making a jovial enquiry. Dennett went to remove a pistol from a display case, casting a nervous glance in the secretary’s direction as he did so.
They had to leave. A chair lay on its back in the middle of the room. Edward stood it up and then bent down to take hold of the press agent.
The noise was lou
d and very close, wood glancing against wood; the impact jarred along Edward’s flank. The stock of his Navy had struck against the desk. Richards’s eyes flickered open, the pupils sliding to the side. He looked up at Edward. The pistol was clearly visible inside the secretary’s jacket.
‘Why, Mr Lowry,’ he murmured, ‘you appear to be armed.’
Ignoring him, Edward heaved Richards off the floor and into the chair; the bottle dropped from his embrace and span away under the desk. The press agent’s hat and boots were standing on the desktop. Edward passed them to him, plucking the cigar from his chin and then retrieving his jacket and waistcoat.
‘A most sensible precaution in this city,’ Richards continued, ‘as I believe you’ve already discovered, what with that ghastly garrotting of yours. Samuel presented me with a firearm of my own after the Great Exhibition.’ He paused to fumble with a boot. ‘And I’d be carrying the thing right now if a pressing financial circumstance hadn’t compelled me to part with it.’
Edward took a steadying breath. Richards was still rather the worse for drink. It had plainly been an epic debauch that had deposited the fellow in Spring Gardens. They could not wait for him to tie his boots; it could take hours. Grabbing one of his spindly arms, the secretary pulled him up from the chair and led him swiftly through the front of the sales office. Dennett’s potential customers – both well-heeled clergymen, Edward noticed – were holding up revolvers as if eager to put them to use. They fixed the passing Colt men with suspicious stares, visibly alarmed by Richards’s stained shirt, disordered hair and vagrant’s pallor. The sales agent, meanwhile, closed his eyes as if reciting a short prayer for patience.
‘Good day to you, Mr Dennett!’ Richards called as he was rushed out into the street. ‘An exceedingly good day to you, sir!’
The Devil's Acre Page 20
