Edward was brooding over this up in the factory office one afternoon when an unexpected visitor, a civilian, was shown in. He’d presented himself at the Bessborough Place gate and asked to see the Colonel. It was immediately obvious that this caller was American. Dressed in an approximation of Colt’s own vivid style, he was a slight, vigorous-looking man of about fifty with a wry grin fixed permanently upon his face. The secretary rose from his chair and introduced himself, explaining that the Colonel was over in the proving room addressing a problem with a batch of ready-made cartridges. The visitor merely nodded in response, saying nothing, sauntering around the office with absolute self-assurance. He settled himself in front of the circular window, letting out a long sigh of contentment as he gazed over at the Thames. Edward was considering sitting down again and perhaps making a start on the day’s correspondence when there was a thumping, creaking commotion out in the hallway, as if the factory block was being torn down from the inside.
‘Here he comes,’ chuckled the man by the window. ‘Here’s ol’ Sam.’
The office door cracked open, whipping back against its frame, and the Colonel sprang through. At the sight of each other, the two burst into wild laughter, lunging forward into a back-slapping embrace.
‘Why, Tommy boy,’ Colt cried, ‘when the hell did you get here?’ Releasing his friend, he strode around the desk, elbowing Edward aside so that he could take a whiskey bottle and two short glasses from one of the lower drawers.
‘’Bout three hours ago,’ Tommy replied. ‘I came straight over. Quite an empire you’ve built for yourself, Samuel – even down to your little John Bull butler here.’
Colt laughed again, none too pleasantly, and ordered Edward from the room. The secretary made to retrieve the correspondence, so that he could work on it elsewhere, only to be shooed away. ‘You can go. You’re done for the day, Mr Lowry.’
‘But Colonel, it’s only four o’clock, and we have to –’
An impatient finger was pointed at the door. ‘Just go, damn it!’
Edward walked from the factory into the winter dusk, smarting with humiliation. Somehow, despite his continued professionalism, Colt seemed to sense the change brought about in him by Caroline’s plight – the change in his feelings towards the Colt Company – and was growing ever cooler towards him as a result. For a while, Edward had been worried that he actually suspected something. There had been that conversation in the carriage, just before the meeting with Lord Palmerston, when he’d brushed terrifyingly close to the truth; but it had never been pursued, convincing Edward that it had been simple chance, or perceptiveness even, rather than prior knowledge. Indeed, since the New Year and the escalation of business, Colt had shown little interest in his secretary at all.
Richards was over in the staff reading room, a dingy nook that was tucked around the back of the blueing department and shared its scorched, fishy smell. He was seated at a rectangular table in the centre of the room, working his way through a pile of newspapers and trade publications by the light of an old oil lamp, squinting through the smoke that curled from his crooked cigar.
‘Our Mr Adams won’t give in easily,’ he remarked as Edward entered, jotting down a note on a piece of paper. ‘The blighter’s rumoured to be readying for another run at the Board of Ordnance. He wants to beat us to the government’s business, Lowry! The old battle is waging once again, and I must take up my pen to retaliate.’
Edward sat opposite him, listening to this without interest. ‘The Colonel has discharged me for the day, Richards,’ he said. ‘He has a visitor – a confidential visitor, it would seem.’
Richards lay down the newspaper and stretched back in his chair. ‘Ah yes, Mr Hart Seymour.’
‘You know of him.’ Edward was not surprised.
The press agent angled his head and expelled a small exclamation point of smoke. ‘My dear chap, Thomas Hart Seymour is one of Sam Colt’s tightest allies. They made a deal a few years back that became positively famous in certain circles. Sam’s ready cash helped Hart Seymour to the governorship of Connecticut – and in return, mere days after taking office, he gave Colonel Colt his rank.’
‘But surely it was a military appointment – a promotion?’
Richards wagged his finger chidingly. ‘Now that’s an assumption, Mr Lowry, ain’t it? Has Sam ever said he was a soldier?’
‘I suppose he has not.’
‘You suppose right, my friend. No, it was that spry little cove up in the office who turned plain old Mr Colt into a colonel. They love their sinecures and special preferments over in America, y’know, as much as any of our City of London grandees. Some kind of militia act was used to pass it through, I think; Sam was made Hart Seymour’s aide-decamp, but it was a purely ceremonial position. He’s never donned a uniform in his life. Never had so much as a single shot fired at him.’ Richards tapped some ash on the floor. ‘It’s all just snake-oil, Mr Lowry, as our Yankee friends might say. A spot of gammon and spinnage to shift more guns – to make Sam stand out from his competitors. Masterful, if you think about it – brilliant in its sheer simplicity.’
Edward was in no mood to admire their employer. ‘What is he doing here now then, this Mr Hart Seymour? Is he governor no longer?’
Richards shook his head. ‘He threw his weight behind that hopeless booby Franklin Pierce in the presidential contest of fifty-two, and is en route to his reward. Mr Hart Seymour has been appointed the new American Minister to the Court of His Imperial Majesty Tsar Nicholas of Russia.’ The press agent looked at Edward meaningfully. ‘Should think there’ll be a few fellows over in Whitehall who’ll want a word with him before he carries on his way.’
‘Indeed,’ said Edward, climbing to his feet, thinking that he would head for Red Lion Square. Caroline usually gave up her search as it got dark and might already be back there – assuming that she hadn’t found Amy and taken flight.
‘You seem a little fraught, old boy,’ Richards observed, returning his attention to his newspapers. ‘Is everything well?’
Edward gave a noncommittal reply, feeling a headache coming on, and walked out to the yard. As he buttoned up his winter coat, he noticed Noone and his men over by the Ponsonby Street gate, bunched around a match, lighting cigars and cursing the cold. They wore greatcoats over their uniforms; they were clearly about to resume their hunt for the Colonel’s enemies. Edward’s headache worsened at once; he ground his teeth so hard that they seemed to shift in his jaw. He considered marching over and demanding that they leave Caroline well alone – making them understand that she was a victim of Rea, not one of his accomplices. But of course he did nothing. He knew that if he were to talk to Noone, or make some amateurish attempt to follow him, it would direct the watchman straight to Red Lion Square and bring about the certain destruction of them both. The Americans were focusing their search on the Westminster rookery, as far as he could tell. Caroline, also, was looking out for them, and was disguised by the new clothes he had bought her. There was no reason for him to be unduly concerned; but he still felt a twist of panic as they went through the gate and made for the city.
Edward glared at the factory’s gas-lit windows and the taut machine-belts whirring away within, slowly regaining his calm. He saw that he’d been granted an unforeseen opportunity. The works would be running for nearly three more hours; Noone’s men were busy elsewhere. The yard was empty. After a couple of seconds’ further reflection, he stepped back into the warehouse, removed a screwdriver from a shelf just inside the proving room and then walked around the side of the building until he came to the cellar door.
A new padlock had been fitted, a special reinforced kind that couldn’t be removed in the manner Caroline had described. Undeterred, Edward put the screwdriver in his pocket and paced eastwards along the back wall. Turning the corner at its end, he came across a rusting iron grate, sunk into the cobbles to admit some natural light into the cellar. He removed his hat and set it on the ground, glancing about to check he was
n’t being watched before crouching down and gripping the grate with both hands. It was about twenty inches long and heavy, but it lifted out easily enough, the old metal rasping against stone. Beneath was a black rectangle of complete darkness. Edward struck a match and lowered it in, craning his neck to see what he could. A few feet in front of the match’s wavering flame was the wooden end of a pistol crate.
Laying down flat on the cold cobbles, he lit a second match and held it out at arm’s length, stretching inside the cellar as far as possible. Now he could see a great number of these crates, more even than Caroline had estimated – and far, far too many to be the remainders of that initial American batch, as he’d suspected. Murmuring an apology to her, he tried to determine the number, but the match burned away before he’d counted half of them.
There was laughter outside the factory as a couple of foundry men came out on an errand. Edward replaced the grate and got to his feet, flipping his top hat back on so quickly that the inside edge rapped hard against his skull. He stood quite still for a minute until the voices went away, staring at the warehouse wall. It was easy enough to see how it was being done. The Colonel’s unique system of production isolated the various manufacturing stages. Things could be arranged so that only a few key people in the finishing shops knew exactly how many guns were being made. The contents of the stock room, those guns that had been proved in the Tower of London and entered into the records of the British Government, didn’t give anything close to a true account of the Pimlico factory’s output – or its potential profits. This was what Stickney and his comrades had realised, and drawing notice to it, however indirectly, had earned them a swift and merciless dismissal.
There were hundreds upon hundreds of illicit guns down there, thousands of pounds’ worth. What could the Colonel possibly have in mind for them? Caroline had suggested that he might be sending them back to America, but Edward wasn’t convinced. There was a pistol works in Hartford, after all, every bit as advanced as this one, and with a more experienced staff. No, these guns were destined for another customer. Edward attempted to recall every meeting he had attended with the Colonel – every conversation he had overheard and every letter he had posted – but he could not think who on earth this might be.
He made for the Ponsonby Street gate at a brisk trot, wondering how soon he could arrange to see Mr Bannan. This was something he would want to hear about.
2
The child was screaming, a raw, gulping sound drawn up from the gut, made through angry displeasure rather than distress. Thrown against her mother’s shoulder, facing backwards, she wailed dejectedly at the passing stalls, clawing at the heavy woollen scarf that had been wrapped around the lower part of her face – presumably as some sort of disguise. Caroline, watching the street from a doorway, could scarcely believe it. She stepped out into the crowds, weaving around an elderly man lugging a side of beef on his back, taking care to keep the infant’s flushed little face in her sight.
In late January, Newgate meat market was just about bearable. The cold kept the smells down, and it was too early for the flies; come the spring they would thicken the air to the point where you almost had to fight your way through it. Caroline had deliberately left this market until last. The sheer quantity of dead flesh assembled in the alleys of West Smithfield had always made her green about the gills. She shivered to look upon the rows of sheep’s heads, laid out like so many battered clogs; the flayed cat-like creatures that she supposed were hares (but which might easily have been cats), swinging from wire gibbets; the livers, kidneys and other unnameable things heaped onto tin trays, glazed with congealing blood. Walking through it all at some speed, she’d tried to move her gaze from person to person, avoiding what lay on the stalls as much as possible.
The child recognised Caroline as she drew near, her screwed-up eyes popping wide open. Sucking in a howl, she pointed with a grubby finger and blurted out a surprised half-word. Caroline stroked her cheek, wiping away a tear, and then loosened the scarf a little. The woman carrying her glanced back to see what had stopped the child’s cries. Upon seeing Caroline she came to an abrupt halt.
‘Caro?’ she said disbelievingly.
Amy was as fatigued as ever, even thinner perhaps, and laden down like a pack-mule. There was a large basket on her arm and a knotted shawl slung over her shoulder. Both were full to bursting with food: strings of sausages, a cheese, several bottles and grocer’s parcels, apples and onions.
‘Good gracious, girl,’ said Caroline, taking her sister’s arm and pulling her into the narrow space between two of the meat stalls. ‘Looks like you’re buying for a bloomin’ army.’
Amy set her basket on the frozen mud underfoot. ‘We – we thought you’d fled, Caro, weeks ago. We thought you was long gone.’
It was a bright, breezy morning; a strong gust drove down the lane, making the dangling racks of knives and cleavers jangle together. ‘Where you been, Amy?’ Caroline asked. ‘I searched for you all over. Every market in London.’
‘Back in the Acre,’ she replied, her voice little more than a mutter. Their eyes met as Amy lowered Katie to the ground; her daughter waddled straight for Caroline, hugging at her skirts. ‘Mart thought it best to be where we knew. Jack’s found us a place – an old dairy, close to that theatre of his.’ She rubbed at her upper arms. ‘Not that he goes in there no more.’
‘Your Mart lied to me,’ Caroline said as she heaved up the child, ‘and to you too. There was no debt. He got me mixed up in something awful – in an Irish plot to shoot down a lord. A bloody lord, Amy. If it’d come out, if the peelers had linked me to it, they’d have seen me hang. Even now, Colt has his men hunting for me across the city. All ‘cause of your bloody Mart.’
It was clear that Amy already knew about her husband’s deceptions – that she’d known for some time, and any anger she’d felt had long since burned itself out. A change had come over her since they’d last met. Her crushing grief for Michael had been put away; not forgotten, but removed from the front of her mind. In its place was a dull composure, as if certain hard decisions had been made from which she would not waver. Caroline noticed the faint shadow of a bruise at the top of her jaw, just below the ear, and a new streak of grey in the single lock of hair that hung limply across her face.
‘He’s sorry about everything, Caro,’ she said uncomfortably, ‘truly he is. They – they just really need them guns.’
Caroline could hardly believe what she’d heard. ‘What d’you mean? Surely they ain’t still after this lord?’
‘There’s a new plan. Pat Slattery’s come up with another way.’
‘Oh no, Amy.’ Caroline felt herself sag with dismay. ‘Ain’t you free from that villain yet?’
Katie wriggled impatiently, so Caroline started to jig her up and down; the child made a gurgling sound and patted at the light blue ribbon tied around her aunt’s bonnet.
Amy caught her breath with a slight quiver, her head dipping. ‘Something’s happened between them and Mart. Only Jack seems to have any liking for him any more. But they still need him for this plan of theirs.’ She wiped an eye with her shawl. ‘I think they might hurt us if he don’t do what they want. Hurt Katie.’
As she bounced the grinning infant on her hip, Caroline began to feel sick, a cold sweat breaking out across her body. This was far worse than she’d feared. She gestured towards the basket. ‘That’s for them, ain’t it? You’re all holed up in this dairy – and they’ve got you running out to buy their vittles.’
‘They made us a deal. If we do everything they ask and they get all the guns they need, then they’ll let us go. They won’t try to follow us or nothing.’
Caroline leaned in close to her sister, lowering her voice to an exasperated hiss. ‘Amy, who knows what might happen before then! Colt’s men are out hunting for us all. Walter Noone, their leader, is a killer – a butcher of the red men over in America, and more besides. Slattery can’t be trusted not to do something foolish. He likes
to think himself a cunning schemer, but you and I know the truth of it. We’ve got to get out now.’ She adjusted her hold on the child and looked along the lane. ‘I’ve a friend who’ll help.’
Amy stayed quiet for a few seconds, considering this; then she touched the fabric of Caroline’s shawl, seeming to notice her smart new clothes for the first time. ‘This is a gentleman friend, I suppose,’ she said. ‘The fellow from the factory. The secretary.’
‘That’s him. Mr Lowry.’
Amy’s fingers lingered on Caroline’s elbow, cupping it; her brow furrowed with concern. ‘What are you doing, Caro?’
Her meaning was plain enough. Caroline shook her head. ‘It ain’t like that. He’s a decent man – a kind man. He cares for me.’
Amy tried to smile at this, but she was sceptical. Caroline coloured, ashamed, feeling as if she’d been caught out somehow. Her elder sister either thought that she’d sold herself, that she was little better than a whore; or that she was using an infatuated man like the lowest kind of fortune-seeker, tapping him for cash, letting him take the risk of hiding her and then skipping out through his door as soon as the right moment presented itself. It had to be admitted that there was some truth in both judgements. Caroline’s affair with Edward Lowry was a sweet and cherished thing, but it had been brought about only by some very singular circumstances. She was determined that a change in these circumstances would cause it to end – that she’d leave him with sadness but no hesitation. It would be difficult but she’d do it.
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