Nash stared at him, aghast. ‘How did you know?’
‘Gore liked Morris. Even though they were rivals and despite the fact that he had no compunction about killing insignificant people, poor people, Gore had never wanted to actually kill Morris. Of course, he could have called the police there and then and handed you to them on a plate. But Gore saw an opportunity, didn’t he? He recognised you. He realised you worked for me. He had Bolter hide the body. Then he sat you down and proceeded to get everything he wanted out of you. I’m guessing he approved of your plan to steal the loan papers from the vault: anything to weaken my grip on the bank. But he must have asked for something else; he must have wanted something else. That’s when I thought about your five per cent stake in the bank. In the case of your death, your shares were meant to come back to me. I assumed you were dead. I assumed the five per cent stake would revert to my ownership. Gore made an offer for a third share of the bank and told me he’d be happy if I retained a fifty-one per cent controlling interest in it. In reality he had your five per cent in his pocket as well. I wouldn’t have known this at the time but you’d already agreed to sell him your shares, hadn’t you? And together with William’s holdings, it would have given Gore a controlling interest in the bank and allowed him to steal it from under my nose.’ Pyke looked around him and shrugged. ‘All Bolter had to do was stay behind, with or without the caretaker’s knowledge, and make Morris’s death look like a suicide. If Morris’s death had been proven to be murder, the spotlight might have fallen on Gore’s sharp business practices. No, suicide was the best verdict all around. The best for you; the best for Gore. But I just have one more question that I need you to answer.’ Pyke knelt down on the carpet and whispered in Nash’s ear, ‘Why did you send the deeds to Morris’s estate to his widow?’
‘Because Gore asked me to.’
‘Just like that?’
Nash shrugged. ‘The papers didn’t mean anything to me.’
Pyke thought about it for a moment. What did it prove? On its own, nothing. But it did raise another, altogether more disturbing prospect. What if Gore was involved with Marguerite?
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Nash looked around for a possible escape route but there was nowhere for him to go.
Pyke pointed down at the Turkey carpet. ‘There’s a wheelbarrow waiting outside and a skiff moored by the Arundel stairs. I’m going to wrap you up in the carpet, haul you outside to the barrow and wheel you down to the skiff. Of course by then you’ll be dead and none of this will matter.’
Nash started to smile. ‘That’s a joke, right?’
Removing his knife, Pyke shook his head. ‘You should know by now I never joke when it comes to killing someone.’
‘You can’t help me?’ Nash’s pleading expression made Pyke hate him even more. ‘Not even for old time’s sake? Please . . .’ He tried to leap up from his chair and push past Pyke but didn’t make it up off his feet.
It took him less than five minutes to cart the large barrow down the narrow lane to the waiting skiff and another few minutes to lift the carpet, which he’d tied up with rope and weighed down with stones, into the boat. The chilly night air smelled of rotten fish and raw sewage. Leaving the barrow at the top of the stairs, Pyke used the sculls to push himself away from the bank and began to row, each stroke taking him farther towards the middle of the river and giving him a clearer view of the lattice of wharfs and warehouses that lined the bank. Despite its stench, Pyke had always loved the dirty brown Thames. He had always loved walking along the cramped, muddy lanes that led down to the river and suddenly coming on it and being assailed by its vastness, the flotsam and jetsam of humanity, water and sky merging into one, the buildings made to look insignificant in its wake. But on this occasion, Pyke wasn’t thinking about the grubby majesty of the river or how small and quiet the city looked from such a vantage point. Rather he steered the skiff out into the part of the river where the tide was strongest, picked up one end of the carpet, lifted it over the edge of the boat and pushed from the other end. Weighed down by the stones, it sank without a trace, just a few bubbles rippling the surface, and then everything went quiet. Pyke started to row back towards the bank, thinking only about Felix and whether he had already met a similar fate.
‘My dear boy, you look terrible.’ Godfrey gave him an awkward hug. ‘Aren’t they feeding you properly?’ They were standing in the entrance hall at Hambledon, the hack-chaise that his uncle had arrived in disappearing along the driveway. Royce appeared and took Godfrey’s coat. Pyke told him to bring a bottle of claret to the drawing room and led his uncle past the old chapel, which he had converted into a billiards room, explaining that Royce hadn’t spoken a word to him since he’d dismissed all but four of the servants a few days earlier.
‘I hope you didn’t get rid of the cook. As I said, you could do with being fed a little.’
‘The cook, Royce, Jennings to drive the carriage, and Jo.’ Pyke pushed open the door and looked at the piano, for a moment expecting Emily to be there playing, her face fixed in concentration and her body moving to the rhythm of the piece. Godfrey followed him into the room and they both gravitated towards the fire burning in the grate.
‘Dare I even ask? Is there any news?’
Pyke shook his head.
There were a hundred men combing the streets of the city looking for any sign of his son - and he’d put up a reward of ten thousand pounds - but no one had seen or heard a thing.
‘Royce thinks I’ve acted callously towards people, some of whom worked here for more than twenty years.’
Godfrey stared down at the fire. ‘Well, the old place certainly seems a lot quieter.’ Realising what he’d said, he added, quickly, ‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m so sorry, dear boy. I just meant...’
Pyke waved away the apology. ‘I’m sure he thinks I’ve pissed on everything he holds dear.’
‘Perhaps you’ll regret the hastiness of your actions later, once this is finished and Felix is returned to you, and you’ll reconsider . . .’ Pyke gave his uncle a hard stare and he reddened and stammered, ‘Then again, perhaps you won’t.’
‘Sometimes I think about taking a torch to this whole building and watching it go up in flames.’
Godfrey shuffled awkwardly in front of the fire. ‘I’ve come from the city. The situation is still dire . . .’
‘And you think it’s my fault?’
‘I didn’t say that, dear boy . . .’
‘But?’
‘Some people have lost everything. Their life savings. Ordinary people with wives and families.’
‘I just want my son. Gore knows where he is, what’s happened to him. When they give me Gore, I’ll let them do what they want.’
‘But they can’t hold out for much longer. Melbourne’s being crucified in the press for not doing anything to help.’
‘And if Cumberland gets the tiniest sniff that his claim to the throne might be a legitimate one, things will get much, much worse.’
Godfrey turned to face him, his expression almost pleading. ‘And would anarchy on the streets and the whiff of revolution in the air be enough?’
‘Enough in what sense?’
‘Would it be enough to compensate you for what you’ve lost?’ Godfrey patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘You’re grieving, my dear boy, and that’s understandable. You’ve suffered a terrible, terrible loss. But is it right or fair that you make everyone else suffer with you?’
‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’
‘The handbills you asked me to distribute,’ Godfrey said, shaking his head. ‘This isn’t about continuing Emily’s legacy. She might have dreamed about bringing down this government but her ambitions always exceeded mere punishment and retribution. For her, it was about trying to build a fairer, more humane world. I look at what you’re doing now and it’s hard not to think this is about vengeance, pure and simple.’
‘If the prime minister wants to step in and save the day for a
ll those who’ve lost their fortunes, he knows what he needs to do first.’
‘But he’s not going to do it,’ Godfrey said, exasperated. ‘Don’t you see that, dear boy? Gore’s one of them. They won’t give him up to a commoner like you. It’s just not in their nature.’
‘Then their nature will have to change.’
Royce appeared, carrying a bottle of claret and two glasses on a silver tray. There was a letter on the tray, too, and when Pyke asked why Royce hadn’t brought it to him before, Royce told him that the staff, such as they were, were so overworked that little things, inevitably, would be overlooked. Pyke took the tray, handed it to Godfrey and slapped the butler in the face. ‘The next time you don’t bring me a letter the moment it’s delivered, I’ll kill you.’
Godfrey didn’t say a word. He handed Pyke the letter, put the tray down on top of the piano and poured two large glasses of wine.
Pyke took the envelope, inspected it and then tore it open. Briefly he read the note, his expression giving nothing away.
‘Well?’ Godfrey asked, his lips moist with claret. ‘Is it good news?’
‘Not if you’re Abraham Gore.’
That got his uncle’s attention.
‘Gore has given himself up to Melbourne. The note says he’ll be delivered here, to me, tomorrow morning.’
‘So you’ve won, my boy? You’ve done it. You’ve got what you wanted.’ Godfrey sounded almost jovial.
‘I know what I want,’ Pyke said, staring out of the window, ‘and I know it can never happen.’ He turned back to his uncle. ‘That’s the hardest thing to come to terms with.’
THIRTY-THREE
Pyke walked the final half-mile up the drive towards the elegant Palladian house because he didn’t want to give Marguerite the chance to prepare for his arrival. In spite of Gore’s assurances, his stomach was knotted and he was so tired from the exertions of the previous week that he almost had to crawl on his hand and knees the final few yards to the front steps.
He found Felix sitting on Marguerite’s lap on a sofa in the drawing room. She was reading him a story. For a moment he watched from the threshold. If he hadn’t known otherwise, the scene could have been one of domestic bliss. A log fire burned in the grate and his son seemed enthralled by the story she was reading for him. With his rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, Felix appeared to be in good health, and while she read, Marguerite stroked his hair with obvious affection. She wore a simple dress and her long blonde curls tumbled down around her glowing face, radiating a contentedness Pyke hadn’t seen in her before.
It was Felix who noticed him standing in the doorway first and he bolted off her lap before she could stop him. ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ he screamed excitedly, as Pyke gathered him up into his arms and gave him a hug. His skin smelled of soap and his breath of chocolate. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he whispered in the boy’s ear.
‘Mrs Maggie promised that you and Mummy would come back and get me soon,’ Felix said, once Pyke had put him down.
‘And has Mrs Maggie treated you well?’ he asked, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye.
‘We’ve been walking every day and I’ve learned all these new words and we’ve been reading this story ...’
Pyke bent over and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Perhaps you could leave us alone for a few minutes.’
Felix looked up at Pyke, sighed and then glanced over at Marguerite. ‘If I have to.’
When they were alone, Pyke remained where he was; not trusting himself to get any closer to her.
‘I was told you were dead. I can’t believe it. I’m so happy you’re alive,’ she cried, approaching and trying to embrace him, her face flushed with a look of relief that Pyke didn’t find altogether convincing.
‘Is that so?’ He pushed her away.
‘I was told you’d be killed . . .’
‘By whom?’
She again tried to embrace him but he pushed her away once more. For a short while they looked at one another, not speaking.
‘He’s a beautiful boy,’ she said, after a few moments, adjusting her petticoats and sitting down.
Pyke looked into her face. ‘What are you doing, Maggie?’
‘I live here.’
‘With my son?’
She was staring at the fire, one side of her face lit up by the flames. ‘Gore told me you were dead. Emily, too. He offered me Felix. Either I took him, Gore said, or he would spend the rest of his childhood in Prosser’s asylum.’
‘Yes, he told me about your cosy arrangement. He gave you my son and the deeds to this place and by way of exchange you gave Gore Morris’s shares in the Grand Northern Railway.’ Pyke could feel the heat on his skin, his anger not yet tempered by relief.
‘You make it sound so grubby.’ But she still refused to look up at him.
‘An apparently orphaned child for five thousand shares: how exactly does it sound to you?’
Maggie’s face became thoughtful, her eyes staring into space. ‘He looks so much like James. You know he’s the age James was when he died. But they’re such different personalities. James was rambunctious. Felix is far more circumspect, or perhaps cautious would be a better word, but he’s got such a sharp mind.’
‘And the other boy? The one you buried in the garden. Was he different again?’
She raised her eyes to meet his. ‘James said the two of you had spied on me from the edge of the field that day.’
‘James?’
‘Did I really say James?’ She laughed, as though the matter were inconsequential. ‘I meant Felix, of course.’
Pyke shook his head. ‘You need help, Maggie.’
That seemed to draw her out of herself. ‘I need help? Is it wrong to want to give a destitute child a loving home?’
‘A child who I’d guess looks just like your dead son, plucked from the workhouse by Jake Bolter?’ There had been a resemblance to Felix, too.
‘Our son, Pyke. Remember he was your child, too.’
Pyke watched her carefully and said, ‘You took him away from me. I never even knew he existed. As far as I’m concerned, Maggie, I’ve only ever had one son.’
A moment’s silence passed between them. She looked away, frowning. ‘How did you know the boy looked like James?’
When Pyke didn’t say anything, she thought about it and stumbled on the answer herself. ‘Oh God, you didn’t desecrate his grave, did you?’ Not trying to hide her disgust.
‘Emily and Felix had just been kidnapped. For a while, I thought you might have been responsible.’
‘Me? I didn’t even know they’d been taken from you. I was just told you’d died in some terrible accident. You and Emily.’
‘And you didn’t think to investigate what Gore told you?’ Pyke shook his head. ‘You didn’t make enquiries about the funeral?’
‘I tried, but Gore told me I should concentrate on taking care of your son. He said that was what you would have wanted.’
‘And you lapped it up like a kitten in front of a fresh saucer of milk.’
Insulted, Marguerite sprang to her feet and stepped towards him. ‘Is that what you really think of me? Is that how little you know me?’
‘I don’t know you in the slightest. But I never really did, even when we were both younger.’
Her indignation cooled. ‘You have to believe me, Pyke. I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t know Emily and Felix had been taken from you.’ She hesitated, colour rising in her neck. ‘Your wife must be beside herself with worry ...’
Pyke held up his hand. ‘I’m not going to play along with your little games.’
‘What games?’
‘Emily’s dead. But you knew that. You knew she’d been shot and killed by one of Gore’s assassins.’
Her gasp of astonishment may have sounded convincing to some but he wasn’t taken in by it. ‘But Gore had already warned you I was alive, hadn’t he? Warned you I’d come here looking for my son and told you Emily was dead.’
Marguerite stared down at her feet. The tips of her ears had turned crimson.
‘You knew but you didn’t leave. Why?’
When she looked at him, her eyes were cool and clear. ‘Because I didn’t want to steal your son from you.’
That, finally, broke him. ‘I’ve been in that house for fucking days now, sick with worry, not knowing whether my son was dead or alive, and all the while he was here with you, and you knew this and still did nothing . . .’ Saliva flew from his mouth and he had to suppress an urge to punch her face.
‘No, that’s not true.’ She stood and tried to grab his arm, his shoulder, anything she could hold on to.
He threw her to the ground. ‘I don’t ever want to see you again. If you ever try to contact us, me or my son, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever do.’
Sobbing on the floor, she screamed, ‘It’s not finished for me. That’s why I insisted Eddy buy this house. So I could be near to you.’
‘Goodbye, Maggie.’
Felix appeared at the door and looked at them. He had been roused by their raised voices and was alarmed.
‘Come on, Felix, we’re going.’ Perhaps too hard, he tried to grab his son’s wrist.
Felix pulled his hand away and ran towards Marguerite, who gathered him up into her arms.
Pyke saw the wild look in her eyes and stepped towards her. ‘Put him down and we’ll talk. Please, Maggie. Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘Like fall in love with you?’
He took another step towards them. Felix tried to wriggle free but her grip around his waist tightened. ‘That was a lifetime ago, Maggie. We married other people, our lives have moved on ...’
‘You might have moved on ...’
‘Maggie. Give me my son.’
‘Our son died.’ She retreated from him, towards the fire, her arms wrapped firmly around Felix, who was struggling to free himself.
The Revenge of Captain Paine Page 46