‘I think it’s something different,’ he told Crichton. ‘Something new. And if we’re not careful, the first we’ll know about it is when it sinks one of our ships. Let’s hope that when Lord Aberdeen’s successor is appointed, he appoints a new First Lord: one who’s prepared to listen to reason.’
‘Perhaps, but I wouldn’t count on it. Sir James was able to deflect most of the criticisms of the way the campaign was handled in the Baltic on to Napier, so no one’s calling for his resignation. And if the new prime minister is a Whig, like Sir James…’
‘Lord Derby’s the leader of the opposition, and he’s a Tory.’
‘Yes, but he’ll probably have to form another coalition government, in which case he may just keep Graham on at the Admiralty. I know you don’t like Sir James, but it’s not as if he’s done a bad job there, all in all. It’s the usual horse-trading: Derby’s offered Palmerston the post of Secretary of State for War—’
‘Pam Secretary for War!’ Killigrew snorted derisively. ‘He’d be good at that.’
‘Indeed. And Palmerston’s accepted, on condition that the Earl of Clarendon stays on at the Foreign Office.’
‘But Clarendon detests Derby! He’d never serve in his cabinet.’
‘Exactly. It seems as though Palmerston’s making mischief as usual.’
‘Pam never makes mischief for its own sake, though. He must have an ulterior motive…’ Killigrew pondered a moment. ‘If the Tories were unable to pull together a coalition, the Queen would have to turn to him and ask him to be prime minister.’
‘Little Vicky ask Pam to become PM?’ Crichton laughed. ‘It’ll never happen. She’s never forgiven him for the time he tried to tumble one of her ladies-in-waiting at Buck House. Besides, if Derby turns down the job, there are plenty of others she can invite to form a government: Lord Lansdowne, the Duke of Hartcliffe, even Clarendon himself.’ Crichton gazed across to where all the carriages but two had gone from the lane outside the churchyard. One was his own; the other was Sergeant Dunwoody’s hansom.
‘My constant shadow, now,’ Killigrew explained, following Crichton’s gaze. ‘A plain-clothes sergeant of the Detective Branch at Scotland Yard.’
‘Damnable nincompoops! They’re wasting their time watching you, when we all know that the real culprits are halfway back to Russia by now.’
‘Perhaps; but I’m rather hoping the fellow who forged the letter from this Sophronia Ponsonby turns out to be British.’
‘British!’
‘Think about it: if you were Colonel Nekrasoff, operating in what is effectively enemy territory, what would you do: bring a team of criminals with you with enough skills to meet every eventuality, or simply employ someone from the local labour market?’
Crichton nodded thoughtfully. ‘Petty Officer Molineaux’s always saying we have the best criminals in the world… perhaps he can suggest some names!’
Killigrew smiled. ‘The thought had occurred to me.’
‘Now… you won’t do anything rash, will you, Killigrew? The fleet doesn’t sail until April. Once you’ve cleared your name, it will be another matter entirely. We’ll have a new prime minister by then. In the meantime, I’ll drag my heels about finding someone to replace you on board the Ramillies. Do yourself a favour and play it by the book for once.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way,’ lied Killigrew. ‘As for the police, they’ll find it difficult to keep tabs on me once I’m back on board the Ramillies.’
Crichton coloured. ‘Ah. Yes, I was just coming to that. I’ve been asked to give you this.’ He reached inside his coat and pulled out a letter bearing the Admiralty crest, with Killigrew’s name written on it.
Bewildered, the commander tore it open to scan the lines within. The orders were curt and to the point: Killigrew was to be signed off the Ramillies’ books and to report to HMS Excellent – the training ship permanently moored in Portsmouth Harbour – for a six-month course of instruction in diving.
‘I don’t understand,’ stammered Killigrew. ‘The fleet sails in two months…’
‘They don’t intend that you should sail with it,’ Crichton explained grimly. ‘The police don’t want you leaving the country, and it seems someone at the Admiralty is more than happy to oblige.’
Killigrew crumpled the letter in his fist. ‘My country’s at war, and they want me kicking my heels in Portsmouth?’ he snarled furiously.
‘I’m damnably sorry, Killigrew. I’ve already sent a strongly worded letter of complaint to the Admiralty, but I doubt it will do any good.’
‘Do I have any choice in the matter?’
‘Well, they can’t force you to attend the diving course. But it’s that or going back on the half-pay list. And if you do that, they’ll see to it you stay there for a long, long time.’
The commander nodded. ‘For the rest of my career.’
After Crichton had taken his leave, he turned to Strachan.
‘Thank you. For coming, I mean. You didn’t have to. You didn’t even know her.’
‘I know you, don’t I?’ sniffed Strachan. ‘At times like this, it’s the living that need sympathy, not the dead. I just wish there were some words of condolence I could offer you. Something that could make sense of what happened. To lose one fiancée to a killer is bad enough, but to lose two…’
Killigrew nodded. It was as if Fate had seen fit to play some kind of cruel, twisted joke on him, and he wanted to react by making some bad joke in turn, to show he was not hurt; but he was hurt, hurt worse than he thought possible, and no joke would come.
Sensing Killigrew wanted a moment to himself, Strachan moved away, leaving his friend to watch the gravediggers cover the coffin with earth. They eyed him uncertainly. ‘You, er… you want us to bide a bit, sir?’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘No, no. You’ve got your work to do.’
They resumed shovelling the earth in. It was difficult to think of her lying in that ornate oak box, cold and lifeless, never more to breathe or to laugh, or to cry, or to dance, or make love…
Araminta was dead.
But Killigrew had no more tears left to cry.
At length, he turned away from the grave. Strachan waited by the lych-gate. The two of them started walking down the lane, the young Scotsman leaning heavily on his cane, while Sergeant Dunwoody’s hansom followed them at a discreet distance… as if a lone hansom following two men down an empty country lane could be described as ‘discreet’ by any stretch of the imagination.
‘So, how are you?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Fine… jings, I forgot to tell you! I’m a fully qualified surgeon now.’
‘Congratulations! You know, if you applied for a posting as a ship’s surgeon, you’d be a shoo-in…’
Strachan shook his head. ‘I’m studying for my MD now. My seafaring days are behind me.’
‘I’m sorry to hear you say that. You’d’ve made a damned fine ship’s surgeon.’
‘It’s kind of you to say that, but…’ Strachan tapped the side of his wooden foot with his cane.
‘I’m sure that needn’t be any impediment to a naval career. Besides, from the sound of things, the surgeons at Scutari need all the help they can get.’
‘I’m sure Miss Nightingale and her associates will manage to get by without me.’ Strachan glanced over his shoulder at the hansom. ‘That must get very trying.’
‘You’d be surprised how quickly you get used to it. Sergeant Dunwoody isn’t such a bad fellow; he’s just doing his job.’ Killigrew managed a wan smile. ‘And it isn’t everyone who gets his own personal police escort! After what happened on Monday, I feel I need it.’
‘Those Russians must be halfway back to St Petersburg by now.’
‘I hope so,’ agreed Killigrew. ‘And yet…’
‘What?’ Strachan gave his friend a penetrating glance. ‘Oh, so it’s revenge you’re after, is it? You know what the Chinese say: “Before setting out for revenge, first dig two graves”.’
Killigrew bared his teeth in a savage grin that sent a shudder down Strachan’s spine. ‘They’ll need to dig a lot more than two graves before I’m through.’
‘And you think killing Russians will bring her back?’
‘No. But it can’t end here. I need justice, Strachan, and if God doesn’t approve I’ll seek help elsewhere. “Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.”’
‘The Aeneid?’ asked Strachan. When Killigrew started quoting Latin tags, it was usually Virgil.
The commander nodded. ‘“If I cannot move the gods, I’ll stir up hell!”’
* * *
There were a number of brass name-plates beside the doorway of the building on an alley just off Lothbury in the City, but none of them drew attention to the office where Molineaux headed on the first Saturday in March. Although a place of business, it was not the sort of business that felt a need to draw attention to itself, for it had built up its reputation – for what that was worth – by word of mouth, and was disinclined to come by custom in any other fashion. While the nature of the business transacted by this concern was not in itself illegal, it had much to do with illegality and seemed to abide by the same rules of secrecy that governed much of the criminal world.
Molineaux had to make his way up several flights of narrow, crooked and unlit stairs to reach the office he sought. Captain Crichton had given him two days’ leave so he could visit his family in London and attend to some business that the captain considered a duty of naval service, even though he knew the Admiralty would not see it that way. Crichton had even gone so far as to offer to pay him a day’s wages out of his own pocket, which generous offer Molineaux had politely but firmly declined. Getting Killigrew’s head out of the hangman’s noose might be for the good of the service in Crichton’s eyes, but for the petty officer it was an act of obligation towards a friend and, as such, an obligation he was more than happy to attend to, even if it meant revisiting some places he had never meant to return to.
Since he was officially on leave he was in his civilian togs, rather nattily dressed in railway-stripe trousers, a plaid waistcoat, an olive-coloured Doncaster coat and a Bollinger hat: a rig he could not have afforded on a petty officer’s wages if he had not developed a profitable sideline in commercial endorsements in the wake of his brief celebrity as one of the heroes of the Venturer disaster in the Arctic.
There was only one door at the very top of the stairs, and since there was no name-plate on that either, he decided to knock in case he had got the wrong address.
‘Come in!’ a voice called from the other side. Recognising the voice, Molineaux opened the door with more confidence.
He found himself in a garret office with mismatched and battered furniture, the low, sloping ceilings and dormer windows indicating there was nothing above but the roof. The only person in the office was a man in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and although both he and Molineaux were black, a stranger seeing the two men together would have been hard-pressed to discern that they were brothers. Although barely two years separated their births, Calvin Henson was more than a head taller than his brother – both Calvin and Luther had mocked Wesley as the runt of the litter when they had been children – and his face was more open whereas there was a vulpine quality to Molineaux’s features. Indeed, apart from the colour of their skin, the only other physical trait they seemed to have in common was a pair of broad shoulders; whereas Molineaux had gained his in years of pushing at capstan bars, Henson had been born with his, although he had taken pains to maintain them with regular physical exercise. Not all his working life was spent behind a desk; as an assistant to an inquiry agent, he spent a good deal of time tracking down men who had welshed on debts, and since his quarry were rarely pleased to see him, it behove him to be physically fit enough to defend himself from their less-than-tender ministrations.
‘Hullo, Wes.’ Calvin smiled, although there was not much warmth in the smile. To Luther and Calvin, Wes had always been the black sheep of the family, first by turning to crime and then by running away to sea and leaving them to look after their mother in her old age. Not that she seemed to need much looking after, in Molineaux’s opinion. Despite this, her love for all three of her sons was bestowed equally, even if she could only demonstrate it through nagging and clips round the ear hole.
‘Cal,’ Molineaux returned with a curt nod.
‘What brings you here? Someone owe you some money? Or are you worried that your Lulu might be dabbing it up with some other coves when you’re at sea?’ Henson’s tone was slightly mocking; he knew perfectly well that Molineaux’s girlfriend was a singer at a penny gaff and kept herself on what could only be described as immoral earnings when her lover was away. Molineaux knew it too, and accepted it: he was not exactly faithful to her when he was overseas.
‘I need information.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘The “Where can I find Deadly Nightshade?” sort of information.’
‘Oh! Well, that sort of information ain’t hard to come by. It’s practically common knowledge. I may not even charge you for it.’
‘You’re too kind,’ sneered Molineaux.
‘But first you got to tell me why you want to know. Don’t tell me you’re going back to your old ways?’
Molineaux shook his head. ‘You read the papers?’
By way of reply, Henson picked up the folded copy of The People’s Banner at his elbow and held it up for Molineaux to see.
‘Then you’ll know that Mr Killigrew’s being measured for a hempen cravat.’
Henson nodded.
‘Yur, well, I don’t believe he done it. But the only way we’re going to convince a jury is if we can prove the letter found in Miss Maltravers’ hand was a fakement. And that means finding the screever. Now, if it was Russian spies what done it, then you can be sure they’ll have hired the best damn screever in London to do them a bang-up job.’
‘That’d be Jem the Penman.’
‘Right. Where do I find him?’
‘You think if I knew that, I’d be sitting here? Have you got any notion how many coves we get in here who’ve been defrauded of hundreds of pounds by Jem the Penman?’
‘That’s why I’ve got to see Deadly. She’ll know. I don’t need to hang around the Rat’s Castle no more to know there ain’t a cross farthing earned in the Big Huey that she don’t get a tol from.’
‘Rat’s Castle ain’t there no more, Wes. They knocked it down when they built New Oxford Street.’
‘Yur, so I heard. That’s why I’m asking you where I can find her.’ Henson chuckled. ‘She’s moved up in the world since you were around, Wes. Runs a conish buttocking ken in St James’s these days.’ He gave Molineaux the address.
‘Thanks, Cal. I owe you one.’
‘Just watch yourself in there, Wes. They may have velvet drapes on the windows and champagne behind the bar, but the bullies what runs it are as tough as ever.’
Leaving the office, Molineaux cut down Old Jewry to Cheapside, which bustled as always with city gents in chimney-pot hats and frock-coats, ignoring the ragged beggars pleading for alms, ladies in shawls and bonnets and with baskets over their arms inspecting the wares of the barrows of the costermongers, flunkeys running to and fro with messages, and a man and a woman playing a hurdy-gurdy and a violin respectively while a child solicited donations from the disinterested passers-by.
Molineaux could see a Chelsea and Shoreditch ’bus had just passed. The traffic was slow enough for him to have caught it had he been of a mind to run after it, but it was past noon, so he bought a pork pie from a hot-pie shop and ate it in the street while he waited for the next one.
He bought a cup from a coffee stall to wash his dinner down with, flirting with the pretty young woman who served him. While he was sipping his coffee, the shouts of a newspaper boy caught his ear above the cries of the costermongers.
‘Hextra! Hextra! Read all abaht it! Rooshian Hemperor hops the twig!’<
br />
Molineaux bought a copy of The Times, but by the time he got his change another omnibus had drawn up to collect a passenger, so he folded the newspaper under one arm and swung himself on board just as it set off once more, and settled down in one of the seats. He paid the conductor his thruppence and unfolded the newspaper. Tsar Nicholas had succumbed to pneumonia the previous day, and would be succeeded by his eldest son, the Tsarevich Alexander.
‘Does that mean the war’s over?’ asked a mechanic, reading over his shoulder.
Molineaux snorted derisively. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’
He leafed through the rest of the pages while the omnibus carried him along the Strand, before he hopped off at Regent Street and cut down Charles II Street to St James’s Square. The address his brother had given him was a fine Georgian town house, five storeys high and almost certainly knocked through into the adjoining houses on either side. Molineaux pulled the doorbell and presently it was answered by a burly-looking fellow whose broken nose and cauliflower ear belied the respectability of his butler’s uniform.
He took in the colour of Molineaux’s skin with a disdainful sneer. ‘The tradesmen’s entrance is round the back.’
Molineaux leaned in close to whisper in the butler’s ear. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, cully,’ he murmured, and brought a hand up to grab the man’s scrotum through the fabric of his trousers. ‘I ain’t no bleedin’ tradesman!’
The butler gave a strangled gasp and backed into the hallway. He reached inside his coat, but Molineaux caught him by the wrist and twisted his arm up into the small of his back. Clasping him firmly in a half-nelson, he marched him across the hall and through the door on the far side. The room beyond was a saloon, with velvet-covered furniture and crystal chandeliers. At that time of day it was empty but for a man polishing glasses behind the bar, but the emptiness only served to emphasise the stench of stale tobacco and sweat lingering from the previous night.
Molineaux slammed the butler against the bar and pinioned him there. The barman put down his glass and tea towel to reach under the bar, but Molineaux felt inside the butler’s coat and pulled out his revolver, levelling it straight between the barman’s eyes.
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 8