by Rob Griffith
“Sorry, James, but if your family don’t like her what can you do?”
“Ignore them.”
“And be disinherited?” Surely he was not serious. His family’s estate was not large but he could never hope to live on his army pay.
“If it comes to that,” he said, with the same determination as when he spoke of war.
“Is she worth it?”
“Yes, and I think you feel the same about Dominique.”
“It doesn’t matter what I feel. There are two armies, a navy and an ocean between us.”
“That’s why you’ll be joining the Alien Office. They’ll send you to France.”
“Maybe. But if they do I’ll surely have more important things to do that jumping into bed with Dominique again. It’s hard to think of a less certain basis for a romance,” I said, the merest thought of her long slim body torturing my soul.
“You’re assuming that she doesn’t feel the same way about you.”
“There wasn’t a lot of time to talk about feelings, we were too busy being shot at.”
“Stop thinking with your head, or your breeches come to that, and believe in your heart.”
“You have been reading too much poetry!”
“Or having too much port. I think it is time we called it a night, old friend,” said Hawkshawe. It was late, most of the other diners had long since left.
“Thank you, James. For dinner, and everything.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said. There was a brief embarrassed silence between us, as is often the case when conversation between men touches on sentiment. We both coughed and stood, draining our glasses, and then retrieving our hats and cloaks.
It may have been the wine, the late hour or our mutual pleasure in the light banter we excelled at that made James and I miss the two dark shadows that followed us. We left the Cocoa-Tree and turned the corner into St James’ Street, past the entrance to St James’ Palace. Thin clouds masked the moon and only the small pools of golden light from the street lanterns lit our way. Two whores stood under one. They were provocatively dressed with most of their bosoms on show but given their age they would have done more business in the shadows. Two gentlemen stood in the light of another lamp. Well, one stood, albeit unsteadily, and another vomited in the gutter. Everything was as it should be for a late night in St James’. The only gentlemen on the street were drunk, and the only women were there in a professional capacity.
A cab stopped behind us for the drunkard and his companion and I glanced back as one of them tried to slur out the address they wished to be conveyed to. It was then that I saw them, out of the corner of my eye; two men about fifty yards behind us. Their gait was too steady and purposeful to be fellow revellers. Their build too stocky and their clothes too plain to be gentlemen. I didn’t stare but turned again to look ahead, I didn’t even alter my pace.
“Trouble,” I said, quietly. Hawkshawe didn’t look around but I could sense that he, like I, was suddenly tense.
“How many?” he asked, in a whisper.
“Two.”
“There is usually a Charlie in Piccadilly this time of night.”
I didn’t share Hawkshawe’s faith in the broken down old soldiers typically employed as night watchmen by the parish. A runner from Bow Street would have been preferable but in my experience they are always to be found when they are not needed, and never when they are. We kept our pace the same until Hawkshawe exclaimed loudly that a certain hat in the window of Locks was a monstrosity and we both stopped to examine it. Our two shadows did not walk past us but found something equally interesting in the window of Berry’s, the wine merchant.
Hawkshawe and I continued on towards his rooms in Dover Street, where we would part. The light from the bow window of White’s spilled across the road, illuminating a small hand cart filled with horse manure and a boy no older than ten leaning on his shovel, the red glow from his pipe pulsing as he inhaled. I looked behind us, knowing that I shouldn’t. They were still there. I did not relish the thought of continuing on to Golden Square alone and began to think of a way to lose the two thieves, for that is what I assumed we were dealing with. James, however, decided to take a slightly more direct approach to the problem.
“Follow my lead,” he said, and promptly doubled up and pretended to retch over the steps of Brooks’. I loudly berated him for not being able to take his lush and made a show of steadying him. Hawkshawe had chosen to perform his act in the penumbra between two lamps. If the pads wanted to make a move then we had given them their chance. They took it.
I heard steps behind me and balled both fists. James gripped his cane and performed a particularly realistic retch. We both had our backs turned and the prigs would have their cudgels out to knock us senseless, I had a momentary pang of doubt that they could be armed. When you can hang a thief for stealing many of them don’t balk at murder and carry a pair of barkers.
James turned first, his cane whistling through the air to where he expected his attacker to be. His instincts had not been dulled in the two years since Egypt, nor by the copious amount of wine we had consumed that night. His cane shattered as it broke across the side of one of the thieves’ heads. The brute just shook his head and kept on coming. My own attack was no more successful. I put all the power of my turn behind the fist that connected with the stomach of my target. My only reward was a slight gasp of fetid breath and the fact that I must have spoiled his aim. His cudgel crunched into my shoulder a moment later.
James was on the ground with a bloody nose but was rolling to his feet as his attacker came at him again. I couldn’t concern myself with my friend until I had dealt with my own problem. My left arm was deadened by the blow to the shoulder but my right snapped out and my fist connected with the chin of my assailant. His head jerked back but I think I harmed my hand more than his jaw. He swung his cudgel again but I managed to dodge it. He wasn’t expecting that and was off balance for a vital second. I grabbed hold of his coat and twirled him around until his back connected with the wall and I followed through with a knee to the groin. At last I appeared to do some damage and he doubled over and grunted. I risked a quick glance at James who now had his man on the floor and then paid for my concern. My man charged at me like a bull, still doubled over, and pushed me down some steps to a cellar entrance. We rolled and tumbled down the steps until we ended up in a heap at the bottom. I was not lucky enough to come out on top and he took advantage of my momentary stunning to pummel my face with a rain of blows, which he punctuated with a message.
“Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett,” he said as his left fist made the acquaintance of my right eye, “wants their,” he continued as his right fist knocked a tooth out, “money back,” he finished as his left broke my nose. I might have known, I thought. The fact that these weren’t just two footpads but lackeys of Oldfield and Bennett finally got me annoyed. I brought both my hands up and hit the bastard’s ears. He screamed and put his hands to his head. I heaved him off me and grabbed hold of his head and smashed it into the cobbles. He slumped senseless and I struggled to my feet, kicking him until he stopped groaning, but then stamped on his hand for good measure.
I walked unsteadily back up the steps, blood pouring from my various wounds. James had faired little better but his attacker was running down the street. Hawkshawe leant against a lamppost with both hands and spat blood onto the stones at his feet.
“They weren’t thieves, were they?” he asked.
“No, they were Oldfield and Bennett’s men,” I said. I picked up our hats and handed him his.
“I thought so, thieves would have run sooner,” he said.
“Sorry, James.”
“Forget it, Ben, but you’ll forgive me if I urge you to pay them off before anyone else gets hurt. They are not men to be crossed.”
“I’ll go and see father in the morning,” I said, and I would.
“It’s for the best. You’ll be free of your past then.”
“Maybe,” I
admitted. I would be free of my past but not from my future, and there was trouble enough ahead, as you will find out.
“You’re bleeding,” James said.
“It’s just my nose, I think.” I reached up and gently felt the battered organ.
“No, not there. Your side,” he said, pointing.
He was right. I put my hand inside my waistcoat and it came back sticky with blood. My wound from France had opened, probably in the fall down the steps. I think I shocked even the doxies who had come to stand and watch the fight with my inventive use of expletives. James let me vent my spleen, although judging from the amount of blood it was doing a good job of venting itself without my swearing. He took my arm and led me to a cab that had also stopped to watch the sport. The small crowd went back to their various occupations and James rapped on the roof of the cab and asked to be taken to Golden Square.
I was becoming used to Lucy’s maid screaming when she opened the door to me. We must have been quite a sight, James and I; our clothes were torn, our faces bruised and bloody. We staggered into the hall and the household erupted into panic. The boot boy was sent for a physician and the footman led us into the salon. The maid ran up stairs to fetch her mistress. I heard Lucy cursing before she came into the room. She stood in the doorway, the candles from the hall giving her an angelic halo.
“Benjamin Blackthorne you’re a damn fool. Were you caught with someone’s wife again? Were you so drunk you fell into the gutter where you belong? Or did some questionable acquaintance from your past demand payment of a debt?” she stormed from the doorway and I was fully expecting her to add to my injuries when she stopped and went white as a sheet. Her hand went to her mouth.
“Mr Hawkshawe, have you also been injured?”
“It is nothing, Miss Blackthorne. I assure you that I am quite well,” Hawkshawe said, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “Certainly I am all the better for seeing you. Do not concern yourself, it was a trifling matter and Ben will pay the men off in the morning.”
Lucy took her hand away, glanced at me and then gave further orders to the servants.
“Johnson, get Mr Hawkshawe a brandy. Becky, see where that damn boy has got to with the doctor,” she said. Then she turned to me, still white, but now it was with a cold fury I had never seen in her before.
“Ben, you may do what you wish with your sorry excuse of an existence but when your sins start to harm others better than you it is time to stop. Either you arrange your affairs into something approaching respectability or you will no longer be welcome in this house.”
So Hawkshawe got his brandy and I got a lecture. It was nothing less than I deserved of course. My sister has a habit of being right. It was time to stop. Some people can drift through life with no particular aim. They can amuse themselves with the mundane, with balls, hunting, salons and the theatre. I cannot. Boredom always makes me seek the darker side of life, to seek risk and danger. The tiny thrill of winning a game of cards outweighs any guilt about the debts of the many hands lost. The numbing affect of another bottle masks the dullness of conventional existence. Flirting with a married woman brings with it the danger of discovery. Everyone was right; I was suited to the life of a confidential agent. Not because I had courage, I didn’t even have the courage to face myself in the mornings. Not because I was a good liar, although I lied to myself all the time. The reason that I would knock on Henry Brooke’s door the next day, after having first visited my father and then Oldfield and Bennett, should by now be obvious to you, dear reader. Going back to France as a spy and embroiling myself in a life of treachery, danger and quite probably death was the only way of keeping myself out of trouble, and of seeing Dominique again.
Oh, and by the way, James married Lucy two years later.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was early evening but a forbidding sky as black as my mood and heavy rain made the street dark and deserted. I turned off Jermyn Street into Bury Street and approached the plain black door that led down to The Fortuna Club, hidden as it was in the cellars beneath a row of shops. I’d already spotted the orderly man, he was huddling in a doorway just around the corner smoking a pipe. His job was to keep an eye out for constables and give warning to the porter. I didn’t think there was much risk of a raid. The constables would have been content to stay dry and count their hush money.
The porter stood at the door. His bearing and scarred face marked him for an old soldier. He wore a long cloak, its collar turned up and his hat pulled down tight against the rain. I nodded to him. He raised an eyebrow and opened the door. I entered, removing my dripping coat and hat, handing them to an usher who then picked up a lantern and led me down the dark narrow staircase. I wondered if I would come back up those stairs alive or wrapped in a blanket ready to be dumped in the river.
The noise and the smell of the club became louder and stronger. I would like to be dramatic and say the smell was that of desperation but really it was brandy, gin and tobacco. The noise was the clink of glasses, cries of triumph from the winners and groans of despair from the losers. The groans drowned out the cries. The ceiling was low, the walls bare. The furniture was battered and stained, as were many of the customers. It made Henri’s place look like a palace. Whereas gambling was tolerated in Paris, in London it took place in the shadows and the depths. Club proprietors had to pay the justices and constables to remain open. Those that fell into arrears were raided and closed.
I signalled to a waiter to bring me a brandy and stood at the back of the room. I’d had a busy day and needed a restorative before completing my final task. Something to steady the nerves and steel my resolve. I’d visited Mr Brooke at the Alien Office and accepted his offer of employment. He’d been surprised I’d come around so quickly, until he noticed the bruises on my face and then he’d looked as though he regretted the offer but he did not retract it. After that I’d called on my father once more. The apology I gave him cost me a lot but cost him seventy guineas. The wad of notes and coins were in my pocket and would soon be given to Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett, thus paying off my final debt.
I took out my watch, it was nearly nine. I looked around the room and marked out the employees of the house, those that would likely impede me if I needed to make a hasty exit. The crowpees of course were easy to spot, sat at each table dealing the cards and handing over the dice. The director stood at the back of the room, like me, and kept an eye on the tables. Every now and then he would catch the eye of another member of staff, giving some signal or other. From watching him I spotted the puffs, those paid to play with the house’s money to encourage others to place bets. Both had the look of inveterate gamblers who had sunk so low as to have to play with another’s money and invite others to share their fate. A flasher flitted from table to table declaring how often the bank had been stripped, giving false hope to those foolish enough to listen. The dunner, a brute of a man that you wouldn’t want to argue with, waited to recover any monies owed to the establishment. I knew this because I recognised him as one of our assailants from the night before. We locked eyes and he started towards me but a restraining hand from the captain stopped him. The captain’s job was to calm any customer who grew peevish for losing. If he failed to calm him then the captain might resort to violence but usually the mere threat would be enough to get the hapless punter reaching into his pocket before having to suffer the more brutal attentions of the dunner.
The customers were drawn from every level of society, at least all those levels with money. There were gentlemen of course, but in a house like the Fortuna not of the very best sort. The merchants tended to be fatter and more careful with their coin as they had to earn it for themselves but still they couldn’t resist the thrill of the games or they wouldn’t have been there. The girls were there hoping to pick up trade helping winners celebrate or consoling the losers. The shopkeepers, clerks and servants were the most desperate as they had the least to lose. You could tell those really dedicated gamblers by the large leather
guards around the wrists, worn so their cuffs would not get dirty as they leant on the tables. The tables were mostly faro or hazzard and all were busy. The captain caught my eye and nodded towards a door in the far wall. The dunner wove his way through the crowd until he was between me and the exit. I didn’t fancy renewing our acquaintance and so made my way to the door indicated by the captain and went through to the quiet of the corridor beyond.
A guard barred the way and motioned me to raise my arms while he patted my pockets, looking for weapons. He was the other assailant that had attacked James and I. I winced as his hands went over a badly bruised rib and he took great delight in patting the spot a little harder. I did not make even a verbal retort. I knew I had taken a big risk going to the club. This was their turf and making trouble would just make things worse for me. I just wanted to pay my debt and leave, hopefully in one piece. The guard didn’t find anything. Eventually he stood aside, looking disappointed, and walked on to knock on the door at the end of the corridor. I didn’t wait for an answer but went straight in.
Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett were both reading, seated either side of a lit fire. The room was very warm. Even though it was raining outside, it was still June and not cold. In contrast to the squalor of the club the proprietor’s room was furnished richly and wouldn’t have disgraced a country house. The walls were panelled, the furniture well polished, and a collection of porcelain figurines was arranged neatly on some shelves.
“Ah, Mr Blackthorne. So nice of you to visit,” said Mr Oldfield. Of the two he was the taller. Slim and elegant, he was dressed well but not flamboyantly. His hair was grey and pulled tightly back in a queue. He could have been a country parson. He placed his book on a table, stood and offered his hand. I didn’t take it.
“Come now,” he said. “Let us at least maintain the pretence of civility.” When I didn’t move there was a glimpse of annoyance in his countenance. His face may have betrayed his age and his eyes looked a watery and faded blue but he put the fear of God into me despite the outward appearance of respectability. There was something cruel about him, like a child who would pull the wings from flies or flick hot ash at a dog.