Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  ‘Why should the priest benefit when he’s done nothing,’ Charlie spat.

  ‘It’s not Sean who would benefit,’ James said, looking to John for some support. John turned away, as if he had had enough of the argument, but James could not let it end like this. ‘Sean would get the money to the people who need it. This is dirty money and we should try to do some good with it or we’re no better than Harcourt or Caine.’ There was no response from either of them as they went on counting, and James wondered if they had even heard what he had said. ‘Where are the letters?’ he asked.

  John fished in his coat and took out three bundles of letters, each tied in a differently coloured ribbon. He smiled and threw them to him. ‘I didn’t want to waste time going through the letters by candlelight, but these were the only letters in the safe. I guess that since your friend was concerned enough to lock them away, then they must be what you were looking for.’

  ‘I would appreciate it if no one in future referred to Harcourt as my friend,’ James said as he took the bundles of letters over to the writing desk, all too aware that the atmosphere between them had changed. It saddened him that it should happen now, just when everything seemed to be going so well, and he consciously fought the darkening in his own mood, knowing that they couldn’t afford to be diverted from the plan now.

  As he shuffled through the packages of letters, the shock hit him almost physically. The third bundle was smaller than the rest, three letters only and he recognised the handwriting the moment he saw it. Putting them to one side he took a deep breath and then another before looking at the letter again; there was no doubt in his mind. Taking out the first from the bundle, he read the opening paragraph; it was enough. James felt sick in the pit of his stomach and sensed his mood become sourer.

  He refolded the letter and replaced it with the others, retying the ribbon before secreting the bundle under his jacket and holding it in place with his arm. He swallowed what remained of the whisky in his glass and exhaled more loudly than he had intended. ‘What’s wrong now?’ Charlie asked. He sounded annoyed rather than interested.

  ‘Nothing,’ James replied, as he made for the door. ‘I’ll return in a moment.’

  There was a writing slope on the table in James’ bedroom. He put the letters in the bottom compartment and locked it, putting the small brass key on the silver chain around his neck. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took a while to compose himself.

  When he returned to the dining room, James made straight for the whisky decanter. It was nearly empty, he noticed. He topped up his glass before returning to the other two bundles of letters. He was more composed now; more dedicated to his purpose. Opening the first of the letters in the top bundle, he scanned its contents before rebinding the papers in the ribbon. He followed the same process with the other package before taking a pen and writing in the top left-hand corner of the first letter in each bundle. His writing was precise and deliberate, as he printed the names of the senders on both packages.

  ‘Are they the ones you wanted?’ John asked.

  ‘Yes,’ James replied, without looking up. ‘Now I must return them as quickly as possible. The women who placed themselves in Harcourt’s power and committed their feelings in these letters are sure to be at the ball this evening.’ James turned to John, despairing of any meaningful communication with Charlie. ‘I intend to free them from his hold at once.’

  ‘It’s too risky,’ John said. ‘You’ve been out tonight already. Let me take them.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be admitted to the ball and even if you got in, you wouldn’t know the women concerned and nor would they speak with you. I must go. No one will expect me to show my face, besides they still believe I am in London.’

  ‘Then I will come with you,’ John said. ‘I can wait outside and at least watch your back.’

  ‘Very well, if you are sure you can be parted from the money for a while.’

  ‘Don’t let the money come between us,’ John said, looking first to James and then at Charlie, but Charlie was too busy with the money to take notice.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  James found himself unable to take part in any meaningful conversation with John on the way to the Assembly Rooms, his mind was too busy with the letters. He had wanted to save the women from Harcourt’s blackmail and at least in that he had been successful. When the letters were returned Harcourt would have no hold over them and James knew, or at least hoped now, that they would turn on him.

  He knew the women only by name, but the fact that he knew their names spoke volumes for their position and power. If they acted as he believed they might, then their influence could be turned against Harcourt; and if society shunned him he would find it difficult to worm his way back into acceptance now that he was virtually penniless. He found himself pondering on the power that lay in those letters, and felt guilty for wondering if that power could be used to advantage.

  By the time that they reached the Assembly Rooms the festivities were at their height. James made straight for the ballroom. The brightness of the room, lit by five enormous crystal chandeliers, festooned with tier after tier of candles, was dazzling. It was difficult to think in the throng of a hundred conversations competing with the music which drifted down from the musicians in the gallery, high above his head. Yet in the chaos of sound he felt the plan becoming clearer in his mind.

  He knew where to look for those he was seeking. Every one at the ball knew their place and understood, without instruction, with whom they could, or could not speak, or dance. The places in which they stood, and the company they sought out, was dictated by the unseen power of social gravity, its laws unwritten yet fully understood. The higher orders moved with ease to preordained positions by one or other of the three ornate marble fireplaces in the room. Those who knew them well enough to converse would position themselves within earshot, whilst the majority patrolled the opposite side of the room, like ships in search of a friendly harbour, or they stood or sat in company always with acquaintances of their own class.

  James found Richard and Charlotte in the Octagon Room. The shock was clear on their faces when they saw him approaching and Richard spluttered rather than spoke as James greeted them. ‘Say nothing,’ he said, nodding to Charlotte as he drew Richard to one side. ‘You told me one of your patients was being blackmailed by Harcourt,’ James whispered. Richard nodded, his face showing no emotion. ‘I have letters to Harcourt from two women and I will return them this evening. I have written their names on the packages.’

  He handed the letters to Richard, who looked quickly at the names before returning them. James watched him closely, waiting for a reaction, but none came. ‘Is one of these the woman you referred to?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mayhew, the wife of the banker,’ Richard said, tapping one of the letters, ‘but how did you get them?’

  ‘It does not matter how I came by them. Do you know if she is acquainted with the other lady?’

  ‘I cannot be certain, but I would think so,’ Richard said.

  ‘Very well then; you introduce me to Mrs Mayhew and I will have her introduce me to Lady Nayland. You must say nothing to Charlotte of this.’ James turned; the annoyance was already clear on Charlotte’s face, her agitation plain in the motion of her fan. She was not used to being excluded and made no secret of the fact.

  ‘My apologies on Charlotte’s behalf,’ Richard said. ‘She has not been herself of late. She seems detached, as though her mind were always somewhere else. I thought the ball would please her, but it seems not.’

  ‘You need make no apology,’ James said, ‘but she must know nothing of what we are doing.’

  ‘Of course,’ Richard replied. He returned to Charlotte and took her arm, guiding her to the door of the ballroom. James could hear nothing of their conversation, but he watched as Charlotte’s irritation grew more obvious.

  When the next dance ended, Richard walked over and led him through the dispersing dancers and to a party standing at one of the
central fireplaces. When he introduced him to Mrs Mayhew James heard the mutterings; saw the disapproving looks exchanged amongst the party.

  James passed his card to the woman. Next to his name he had written, ‘I have your letters.’ She looked at the card and placed it in her purse before turning to her husband. ‘You know Dr Wetherby of course, my dear,’ she said, ‘but I don’t believe you are acquainted with Mr Daunton, the solicitor. I had promised him a dance.’

  She took his arm, and he led her onto the floor. Their faces, he knew, were smiling masks, hiding the words they exchanged whenever the dance brought them within whispering distance. ‘I have your letters to Harcourt,’ he said.

  ‘What is your price?’ Mrs Mayhew asked.

  ‘There is no price other than your discretion, but I would ask a favour.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, her anger showing through her smile.

  ‘Write to the newspapers expressing concern at the growing levels of crime in the city and point to Avon Street as its source; speak about it to politicians, to the Watch Committee, question the integrity of the police at every opportunity and bring pressure to bear on the chief constable. Make corruption within the constabulary in Avon Street a topic of conversation at every social function you attend.’

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked. ‘It seems little enough in return for the favour you have done me.’

  ‘You and your family and friends have great influence in Bath and while this may seem a trifle to you, it will help a great many people.’ His feigned smile was forgotten for a moment as he looked her square in the eyes, all deference gone from his expression. ‘I am depending on your honour in doing what I ask.’

  Her smile was easier now. ‘It will be done, but can I do nothing more?’ she asked.

  James smiled. ‘Perhaps you could include Dr Wetherby and his wife occasionally in your social circle.’

  ‘That too shall be done,’ she said, as the dance drew to an end. ‘You are more of a gentleman than I anticipated, and you have my word.’

  Her introduction to Lady Nayland was enacted easily and as she turned to leave, Mrs Mayhew executed a perfect stumble as they had arranged and James passed the letters to her, unseen as far as he could tell. He asked the same two favours of Lady Nayland and when he was done she slipped the letters into her purse and smiled her thanks.

  Richard looked happier as they returned across the room. He smiled to Charlotte. ‘Mrs Mayhew has asked if we would care to join her party for a while?’ he said. Charlotte’s delighted agreement needed no words.

  ‘You must join them immediately,’ James said. ‘It may brighten Charlotte’s mood.’ He hesitated, waiting for her reaction, but she showed nothing but delight.

  ‘Incidentally, have you seen Harcourt?’ James asked. His question was to Richard, but his eyes were still on Charlotte. He thought he saw her smile diminish for a moment, but he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘No,’ Richard replied, ‘and I shall put distance between us if I do see him.’

  ‘Best join Mrs Mayhew,’ James said, ‘I have to leave now.’ He nodded to Charlotte and watched them walk together, arm in arm, across the ballroom. There was little sign of emotion on her face now, just a composed, cool demeanour and a look of fulfilled acceptance.

  When he was sure that Richard and Charlotte were oblivious to his presence, James stood for a while in the doorway to the ballroom, mingling, he hoped un-noticed, on the fringe of the people entering and leaving the room. He wanted to stay, to watch the reception that Harcourt would receive; to see society beginning to turn its back on the man, but he knew he must leave. By the time Charlotte had reached Mrs Mayhew’s party he knew she would have fully rationalised this sudden elevation in society. She would have no doubt that she was more than their match in both accomplishment and appearance.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  When they returned to the house, Charlie greeted them in the dining room – a glass in one hand and the decanter in the other. James noticed that the decanter had been refilled. Charlie raised his glass in a toast, but the statement was largely unintelligible, so badly slurred were his words.

  John took the decanter from him and poured a whisky for himself and one for James. ‘We’ve some catching up to do,’ he said. Charlie fell back into his chair as though the removal of the decanter from his hand had upset his equilibrium.

  James looked at the table and the neat piles of money. ‘I see you have shared it all out,’ he said to Charlie, ‘without feeling the need to discuss it with John or me.’

  ‘There’s a fair share for each of you expecting the priest,’ Charlie said, failing to even notice the mistake in his words. ‘My share’s put away safe. So if you want some for the priest give it him yourself, or steal it from John, and Belle, and Billy’s share.’

  ‘You’re drunk as a skunk, Charlie,’ John said. ‘Let’s not fall out over this.’

  ‘We are supposed to be friends,’ James said. ‘We decide together how the money is to be shared.’

  ‘You tell us and we agree,’ Charlie spluttered, ‘that’s what you mean. My opinion’s not worth anything.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ James said.

  ‘We have to do what thur gentleman tells us,’ Charlie slurred, and then muttered under his breath. ‘Smug bastard.’

  ‘Leave it,’ John said. ‘We can talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘That’s if he’s here in the morning,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s my house and I want you out of it. You’re not welcome.’

  ‘We will leave in the morning,’ James said.

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed, Charlie.’ John said.

  ‘Why don’t you go to hell,’ Charlie spat back. Then he tried to grin. ‘No not you, John, I didn’t mean you.’

  James looked towards John, expecting a reaction. He returned James’ glance, but his face was impassive and betrayed nothing.

  ‘Go to bed, Charlie,’ John said again. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘This is my house,’ Charlie replied, ‘and I take orders from no one in my own house.’

  As Mrs Hawker entered the room to clear away the dinner table, the three men fell into silence. Charlie tried to smile, but it came out more like a leer.

  ‘Charlie has asked us to leave and we will go in the morning,’ James said.

  ‘Not ‘er,’ Charlie said. ‘She can stay.’ He lurched to his feet and tried to take Mrs Hawker’s hand. She pushed him and he toppled back into his chair.

  ‘I’ll not stay where Master James is not welcome,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen you like this, Charlie … ’ her words petered out as though the emotions were too much for her. James put his arm around her shoulder and guided her out of the room, turning back only for a moment to look at John.

  ‘Get Mrs Hawker to her bed,’ John said. ‘I’ll sit with him.’

  James looked over towards Charlie. He had passed out in his chair.

  Chapter 29

  Frank Harcourt did not sleep that night. He sat instead for hours on the edge of his bed, staring at the empty safe, turning James Daunton’s visiting card over and over in his fingers. He knew the servants could never have kept up a lie to him during the interrogation he had put them through, reducing them both to tears, time and again. They hadn’t let anyone in, though they’d obviously been drinking. He could be sure that they knew nothing about the robbery.

  The thief must have got in and out through the window in the room next to his own bedroom, he thought. It had been left open yet the room hadn’t been used in months and the window was never opened in the winter. That’s how Daunton must have done it. He had climbed up the gutter-pipe and prised the window open.

  Frank wondered, though, how Daunton had opened the safe when the key never left his sight. How had he even known about the safe, unless he’d told him about it on one of their drinking sprees, though he couldn’t remember ever doing so. Perhaps Daunton had got hold of the key when he had been drunk one night and made an impr
ession of it? Or had he hired some cracksman who’d picked the lock? Maybe he had recruited someone in London, if he’d ever been in London? But how could two get in unnoticed? He had tested the gutter-pipe outside the window. It was loose. It would never have supported a man’s weight, let alone two, unless they had loosened it during their escape?

  Frank pulled savagely at his hair, willing his mind to clear. If it was Daunton, and he had had a partner, who was it? No one worked in Bath without Caine’s knowledge; unless of course it was with Caine’s knowledge? Caine knew about his safe. It was Caine who got the safe for him when they first set up their partnership. Maybe Caine had done it? He might have kept a key to the safe. Perhaps Caine had robbed him and left Daunton’s card to deceive him?

  The questions went around and around in his brain until each possible answer contradicted the other, until he trusted no one but himself. All his money was gone and had to be replaced somehow. Even the letters were gone; another source of income lost. That in itself was strange, he deliberated. It was as though the women at the ball had already known he no longer had the letters. Lady Nayland and Mrs Mayhew had both cut him dead; treated him like dirt, ignored him. And others had ignored him too, as though the whole of Bath society was suddenly turning against him.

  He had to focus his mind, concentrate on the future, stop his head aching; stop dwelling on what had happened. There was enough, he calculated, in his bank account to cover one or two small payments and he had a modest amount of cash and saleable trinkets in the secretary desk, sufficient for a few days’ expenditure, which was still there, untouched. Other than that he had only his clothes and some silver plate – he could sell them, but if he stooped that low then he was finished – all that he had worked for would be lost.

  He focussed his hatred on Daunton, as if that would clear his mind. He despised him and his class, now more than he ever had in the past, and he’d hated them well enough all his life. Yet he had to be accepted. How else could he demonstrate his superiority and show them up for the fools they were? He could not let them win and yet he could not win, if they excluded him from the game.