‘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.’
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.
They shook hands and took a table in the damp, crowded coffee house. The smell of wet clothes and foul breath filled the room, and the windows had steamed up so that it was impossible to see the alley. Tilling ordered two mugs of coffee.
‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Pyke asked. ‘Am I to be taken away to the Tower and pressed?’
‘I’d heard you’d moved up in the world but I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your irrepressible sense of humour.’
‘Just as I’m glad to see you haven’t yet wearied of serving a selfish and capricious master.’
‘That kind of talk might really earn you a session on the press,’ Tilling said, with a chuckle. ‘But you’re correct to assume I’m here at the behest of Sir Robert.’
‘I can quite understand a man like Peel not wanting to dirty his hands but it means yours must be filthy by comparison.’
That drew a sharp stare. ‘You seem to think the worst of Peel when he has nothing but kind words about you.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘He was under no obligation to inform you of what I’m about to tell you. My visit is a product of his desire to assist you.’
‘Forgive me if I don’t fall on my knees and kiss your feet. I’ve had his help before and I almost ended up with my neck in a noose.’
‘If you’d prefer, I can always leave ...’
Pyke patted him on the arm. ‘I was only joking. I’m pleased to see you, of course.’
‘I can see that in your eyes.’ Tilling wiped his forehead and smiled.
‘So what have you come to tell me?’
‘It’s come to our attention there’s soon to be a very significant crackdown against the radicals in London. Particularly, we’re told, those belonging to an organisation called the Wat Tyler Brigade.’
‘And Peel wanted me to know this?’
Tilling nodded once. His forehead was beaded with sweat. He wiped it again with a handkerchief. The serving girl returned with their coffees and Tilling paid her.
‘Do you mind telling me why?’
‘Why do you think?’ Tilling said, quickly. ‘I’m told your wife has close links with the aforementioned group.’
‘Peel sent me on a wild-goose chase to try and prove Julian Jackman is none other than Captain Paine.’ Pyke picked up his coffee and warmed his hands. ‘I take it you know who Jackman is.’
‘Why do you imagine it was a wild-goose chase?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘If Jackman was as much of a threat as Peel made out, why’s your master now passing me information that will help him to evade capture?’
‘Because he didn’t want your wife caught up in the middle of something nasty,’ Tilling said, his irritation showing for the first time.
‘Who says it’s going to get nasty?’
Tilling buried his head in his mug of coffee.
‘Let me put it another way. Who’s in charge of the crackdown?’
This time Tilling looked directly at him, his stare dark and intense. ‘If I tell you, I want your assurance it will go no farther. Is that understood?’
Pyke nodded.
‘Bow Street.’
‘You mean Bellows?’ Pyke felt his heart beat a little quicker.
‘If you like.’
Pyke turned this revelation over in his mind. ‘You’re saying Peel has no interest in the matter, one way or the other?’
<
br /> Tilling looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘He has no affinity for the radicals and no love for the chief magistrate, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then what does he want?’ When Tilling didn’t answer him, Pyke added, ‘If I said the name Abraham Gore, how would you respond?’
For a moment Pyke thought he saw the faintest of smiles on Tilling’s face but then it was gone. ‘I’d say, Abraham who?’
‘And if I asked you why the hell Peel made the journey to Huntingdon to inspect the headless corpse for himself, and why he didn’t tell me about it, what would you say?’
Tilling’s face hardened. ‘I don’t understand, Pyke. What exactly are you accusing Peel of having done?’
That night, when Pyke’s carriage drew up outside Hambledon, he saw they had a visitor. Judging by the enormous four-wheeled brougham that sat in the driveway, all lacquered and shiny, attended to by liveried footmen, five as far as Pyke could tell, their visitor was an important one. It was only later, as the brougham was leaving, that he noticed the royal crest. Running up the steps to the portico to evade the storm, he handed Royce his coat at the door and made his way through the vast mausoleum of a house to the drawing room, his heels clipping against the wooden floors and echoing through the full height of the building. From the end of one of the passageways, he heard the soothing sound of the piano and recognised Emily’s distinctive playing style, at once aggressive and melodious. When Pyke finally stepped into the warm, well-lit room, Emily looked up at him, startled, from behind the piano and stopped playing. Meanwhile the King’s brother, Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, who had been warming himself in front of the roaring log fire, strode across the room to greet him.
The duke was a few inches taller than Pyke and unlike either of his older brothers, podgy William or porter-guzzling, elephantine George, he carried almost no excess fat. In his tailored military-style tailcoat, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, he cut a commanding figure, and despite the battle scars on his face, he wore his age well. His full brow, Gallic nose, white hair and preened moustache made him seem distinguished, even perhaps noble, rather than the overbearing, reactionary bully and bigot that he was, in reality.
‘Excellent to see you again, Pyke,’ Cumberland said, pumping his hand, as though they were old friends. Apart from their very brief encounter in Westminster’s New Palace Yard, the last time Pyke had seen the duke had been in the witness box at his own trial six years earlier when Pyke had humiliated him in front of the packed courtroom.
Pyke waited until Cumberland’s smile had faded and asked him what he wanted, though in actuality he already knew. Earlier his uncle had confirmed that the tiny coat of arms on the head of the cravat pin retrieved from one of the men who had tried to attack him in his shop belonged to the 15th Hussars, the duke’s own regiment.
Ignoring the question, the duke reminded Pyke and Emily that he’d been a good friend of Emily’s ‘dear, departed father’ and proceeded to tell them about his ‘wonderful’ memories both of the house and the ‘indomitable’ Lord Edmonton. Pyke listened with gritted teeth and briefly entertained the notion of telling him about the time he’d pushed a pillow against Edmonton’s face and held it there until the garrulous aristocrat had passed away.
‘Tradition,’ the duke continued extravagantly, ‘the passing on of a family’s home and ancestry from one generation to the next, is the bedrock of our nation.’ He paused, perhaps looking for the framed portraits that had once hung on the wall but which Pyke had used for firewood.
‘Yes, with the current pace of reform,’ Pyke said, ‘we’re in danger of losing touch with our past.’
The duke observed him cautiously. ‘Indeed, I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘I was thinking only the other day that the ancient practice of hanging, drawing and quartering for those found guilty of treason should be revived.’
Cumberland looked anxiously at Emily and asked whether he might have a quick word with her husband alone. Emily made her excuses, wished him a safe trip back to the city and shot Pyke a quizzical stare as she left. When they were alone, the duke put down the sherry glass he’d been give by Royce and twisted the ends of his moustache.
‘By way of response to your remark, sir,’ he started, his voice tighter and colder, ‘I agree that all acts of treason should be punished by the full weight of the law. If, that is, treason can be proved.’
‘So, in your thinking, when does plotting against the King, or indeed the princess, become a legitimate act?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, if we were to take your situation as an example. Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that the future of the Protestant ascendancy in these islands and the British Empire throughout the world could only be ensured by the succession to the throne of a firm, capable and above all experienced ruler, might it not be acceptable to make this prospect a reality?’
Cumberland regarded him sceptically. ‘One cannot select kings and queens. Only God has that right.’
‘And yet what if one discovered that someone else’s claims to the throne weren’t as strong as most believed?’
‘If that could ever be proven, it would change the situation considerably.’
This time Pyke stared directly at him. ‘Do you think the young princess’s claims on the throne are weak?’
‘She is my older brother’s child. Therefore her claim is a legitimate one.’
‘Of course,’ Pyke said, racking his brains for additional ways to draw the duke out of himself.
‘But perhaps that is a question I should ask you.’
‘What?’
‘Whether or not the young princess’s claims on the throne are weak.’
‘Why ask me?’
Cumberland allowed himself a thin smile. ‘Perhaps I should be a little more bold. I think it would be fair to suggest that, until now, we haven’t enjoyed the most cordial of relations. But I don’t want to dwell on the past . . .’
‘How big of you,’ Pyke interrupted.
The duke shot him a fierce scowl. ‘It might also be true that you have held me in contempt and that, in the past at least, this feeling has been reciprocated on my part. But, and it’s an important but, we are both men of the world, are we not, and we don’t have to accept this state of affairs as preordained. You strike me as a practical sort of a chap, one not weighed down too greatly by wearisome morals, and as such I thought we might be able to come to an accommodation based on the laws of the marketplace. That is to say, you have something I might want and would be prepared to pay more than the going rate to secure.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re referring to.’ Pyke waited for a moment and stepped a little closer to the duke. ‘But I did want to tell you about the thuggish actions of two men who needlessly attacked a defenceless old man, my uncle no less, in his place of business, almost giving him a heart seizure.’
Cumberland licked his lips but said nothing.
‘One of these men wore a tiepin bearing the coat of arms of the Fifteenth Hussars. Your old regiment, I believe.’
The duke could have denied all knowledge of it but wanted to remain in Pyke’s favour. In the end, he reddened and stammered, ‘A most unfortunate business, that was. It should never have happened.’
‘But it did, didn’t it?’
‘I heard your uncle was recovering admirably. You’ll pass on my best wishes to him, I hope.’
‘For what they’re worth.’
For a moment, Cumberland appeared on the verge of apoplexy, being addressed in this manner by a commoner, but he managed to contain his outrage. ‘As I said, you’re a flexible fellow. And I could guarantee to top any offer that you might be made.’
Pyke walked round the piano in the direction of the door and yawned. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, sir. I’ve had a long day and I’m dead on my feet.’
The duke met him halfway across the room. ‘In a few
days I have to return to my beloved wife and child in Berlin. Until then I can be reached at my house on Kew Green.’
‘And if I decide not to contact you?’
‘Then you’ll lose out on the chance to greatly add to your already considerable wealth.’
‘Perhaps I will, but then again perhaps I won’t.’ Pyke yawned again, this time not holding his hand up to his mouth.
Cumberland tried to hide his revulsion, not very well. ‘You have a couple of days. Use them wisely.’
Emily was waiting for him in her bedroom. She’d changed into her nightdress and was sitting up on the bed. Her hair was parted in the centre and had been swept back off her face; her pale skin glistened in the candlelight and there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
‘What did that old goat want?’
Pyke went across to the window and watched as the duke’s carriage disappeared up the drive. It was a long story and he didn’t feel like going into it. The less Emily knew, the safer it would be for her.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’ she said, an edge to her tone.
He turned around. ‘As you’ve been so forthcoming about what Jackman and the Wat Tyler Brigade have been planning?’
Her body stiffened with barely repressed anger. ‘Why does it always come back to that?’
‘I had it confirmed today that a senior judicial figure is about to lead a crackdown against the Wat Tyler Brigade. I was told it could get nasty.’
‘By whom?’
‘It would seem they’ve frightened some very influential people. You don’t do that by twiddling your thumbs.’
Emily let out a long, heavy sigh. ‘I said I’d tell you about everything in a couple of days.’
‘And what if by then it’s too late?’
‘Too late for what?’
This time Pyke didn’t know how to answer her question. They sat on the bed, each contemplating the other’s silence.
‘Do you remember the first time we kissed?’ Emily asked, eventually, at the same time brushing her hair.
‘It was in the cloakroom at the Theatre Royal during a performance of The Barber of Seville.’
The Revenge of Captain Paine Page 30