The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2

by Andrew Pepper

  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 taking 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 himself.

  ‘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.’

  ‘All institutions need to change with the times. But of course you’re quite right to suggest that any explicit involvement on our part in what you rather delightfully call the “slop” trade may indeed upset some of our more sensitive customers.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘Straight to the point, eh? I like you, Pyke. I like you a lot. You’re just the kind of man I could do business with.’

  Pyke waited but didn’t say anything. He still couldn’t work out what he thought of the banker, whether he liked him or not.

  ‘I’m offering to buy a third share of Blackwood’s.’ Gore paused for a moment, to check Pyke’s reaction. ‘In effect, my bank would underwrite a massive expansion of loan capital to a fledgling business in the east of the city. Of course, you would remain in overall charge of the bank. In addition to the increased profits we’d all share, the current partners at Blackwood’s could expect to receive remuneration of, let’s say, sixty thousand pounds for the stake that’s being relinquished.’

  Pyke studied Gore’s face, its features partially obscured by the smoky haze. ‘And how would this remuneration be divided between my partner and me?’

  ‘That would be up to you to determine,’ Gore said, a little puzzled by the question.

  ‘You miss my point. At present, I own a two-thirds stake in Blackwood’s and my partner owns the other third.’ He didn’t mention the five per cent stake that he’d given to Nash from his share. In light of the contract they’d drawn up prior to his death, Nash’s stake would automatically revert to him. ‘I’m asking how you’d envisage the shares in this new venture being allocated.’

  ‘Ah, I understand.’ Gore’s expression became serious. ‘Well, Gore’s would claim a third stake: after that, it would be up to you and your partner to work out how to allocate things between yourselves.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t object if I insisted on retaining a fifty-one per cent stake in the bank?’

  ‘Object? Not in the slightest, old chap,’ Gore said, easily. ‘In fact, I’d insist on it. I’d be investing in your expertise as much as the bricks and mortar of your bank. If you remained at the helm, I could rest assured that my investment was being soundly looked after.’
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  Pyke did a quick calculation. He could sell off fifteen per cent of the bank, retain overall control and earn twenty thousand pounds in the process. In the short term at least, the money would be very useful.

  ‘Sixty thousand for a third share of the bank? It’s a generous offer.’

  Gore chuckled lightly. ‘Remember we would receive a third of the profits. I’m not running a charity.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Gore asked.

  ‘Before I do anything, I’d need to discuss the offer with my partner,’ Pyke said, wondering what Blackwood might say about it.

  Gore nodded pleasantly. ‘I quite understand.’

  But did Pyke completely trust Gore and did he want him as a business partner?

  It had been easier, he thought, when people came at him with pistols and brickbats rather than handshakes and contracts. As a Bow Street Runner, he had trusted no one and used maximum force in every situation: he knew where he stood when someone pulled a knife on him. But the world of commerce was not nearly as clear cut. For a start, it wasn’t possible to work independently of others. Doing business necessarily involved delegating responsibilities, taking a chance and trusting those around you. As such it left him feeling constantly exposed.

  ‘At least think about my offer, Pyke,’ Gore said. ‘I think we could do great things together, given the chance.’

  Pyke thought about replying but managed to maintain his silence.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was raining by the time Pyke emerged from the bank the following afternoon. He passed through the alley and looked up and down Cornhill for his carriage, stepping back from the kerb and cursing a passing omnibus that splashed the bottom part of his trousers with a brownish slush of mud and horse dung. He was searching once more for his carriage when he heard someone behind him call out his name. Fitzroy Tilling was standing by the door of the New York Coffee House. Peel’s long-time private secretary wore a black frock-coat over a pale grey waistcoat, a white necktie and matching pale grey trousers. It had been a few years since Pyke had last seen him, and while his coal-black hair had thinned a little, he retained the same air of brooding intensity that Pyke remembered, the product of piercing bug-like eyes and a protruding forehead. Pyke had always liked Tilling and, in contrast to Peel, he had always found him to be open, fair minded and well read.