The Devil's Acre

by Matthew Plampin

  The Colt barouche cut across two lines of traffic, sweeping up to the pavement. Sam wiped at the window with his glove, clearing a small rectangular block in the film of condensation that covered it. They were on the edge of Leicester Square, a region of the city which he knew well. During the Great Exhibition two years previously he was to be found there on an almost daily basis; it housed several of London’s largest and most popular shooting galleries, and was thus the prime spot to give practical demonstrations of a gun-maker’s wares. The building he was looking out at now, however, was an unfamiliar one. They’d come to halt before a set of smart double doors, flanked by glowing gas-lamps and sheltered beneath a striped awning that was fast filling with rainwater. An ornately engraved brass plaque identified this as the entrance to the Hotel de Provence – the designated meeting place.

  Sam glanced across at Mr Lowry, who was sorting papers in the barouche’s shadowy confines with his customary air of keen efficiency. The gun-maker was pretty satisfied with this young fellow – yet more testimony, he thought, of my skill when it comes to selecting my people. The London secretary was possessed of a cool, understated cleverness, and was already quite committed to the Colt Company. He was prime manager material, in short, the sort who might be given a serious post a few years down the line. Of course, there was still a fair bit of shaping and schooling to be done before then.

  ‘Now you stay sharp in there, Mr Lowry,’ Sam told him as he prepared to exit, raising his voice over the steady drumming of rain against the carriage roof. ‘I don’t know quite what to expect from this fellow, but I’ve yet to encounter a politician who ain’t a slippery shark. You be sure to make a damn close record of what’s said, for our future reference. And I needn’t tell you that if he so much as hints at what befell our Mr Quill and his mick last night, you’re to deny everything.’

  ‘Naturally, Colonel.’

  Hopping out across an overflowing gutter, Sam rushed up to the hotel’s doors and pushed his way through. Someone took his coat and hat and directed him towards the restaurant. It was a long, warm saloon, overlooking the illuminated frontages of the various exhibition rooms and billiard halls that fringed Leicester Square. Lively conversation buzzed all around, much of it in French; Sam recalled that the southern part of Soho was home to a great many citizens of France, displaced by the revolutionary upheavals in their own country. An effort had been made to create what he supposed was an authentically Parisian atmosphere, which meant plenty of polished brass and plush crimson upholstery, well-groomed, supercilious waiters with tiny moustaches, and large paintings of idyllic country scenes across the walls. A number of the diners caught sight of Sam; heads turned, and that familiar ripple of recognition ran through the room.

  The Honourable Lawrence Street, MP, was waiting at a table at the rear of the room, that weird white-blond hair of his shining against the restaurant’s biscuit-coloured wallpaper. The little man was working his way through a newspaper with a cold, systematic air, a pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose. As Sam approached he folded it away and stood – awkwardly puppet-like as before – to shake the gun-maker’s hand.

  ‘And who is this?’ he inquired, eyeing Mr Lowry with some suspicion.

  ‘My private secretary,’ Sam replied, ‘one of the Colt Company’s Englishmen. I hope you don’t object.’

  Street made no comment. He removed his glasses and tucked them inside his waistcoat.

  A yellow rectangle appeared in the corner of Sam’s sight; the Colt barouche was cruising past the restaurant’s wide windows, its mustard panels glittering in the wet evening.

  ‘That is quite a vehicle, Colonel,’ the Honourable Member remarked as he sat back down, gesturing towards the other chairs set around his table. ‘It would be a lie to say that I’d seen a finer one this year.’

  ‘I spend more time in that there carriage than I do in my bed, Mr Street,’ Sam said, signalling for a waiter. ‘An uninterrupted ride across this city is an out-and-out impossibility, what with the omnibuses and the hackney cabs and all the goddamn livestock, so I feel it’s best to be comfortable while I wait. Now, would you kindly tell why you wished to see me?’

  ‘Straight to the business at hand, as always.’ Street compressed his lips into a tight smile. ‘Very well. A couple of matters recommend themselves to your attention. Firstly, I feel it is my duty to inform you that your enemies, alarmed by the great leaps of progress recently made within your factory, have begun to organise themselves.’

  Sam sat up. ‘Not that bastard Bob Adams?’

  Street paused thoughtfully for a second, as if making a mental note. ‘No, Lady Cecilia Wardell. You remember her from the reception at the American embassy? She has gathered several supporters around her, Evangelicals I’ve heard, and aims to cause you whatever difficulty she can.’

  The gun-maker snorted dismissively. A waiter had arrived at his side. ‘What’s it to be, then, Mr Street? Champagne, ain’t it, with you Bulls?’

  ‘My thanks, Colonel, but I require nothing.’

  Sam ordered bourbon for himself. After the waiter had retreated, he asked to know what the other matter was.

  The Honourable Member made a small adjustment to his shirt-cuffs. ‘I have heard, Colonel, that you are a great believer in the power of endorsement by a famous name. It has come to my attention that a prominent foreign celebrity is in London – someone whom I believe it would benefit you to befriend.’

  Now this was more interesting. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A freedom-fighter in the true American mould,’ Street said, delaying the disclosure for a few seconds – attempting, in his low-key way, to build a bit of anticipation. ‘Lajos Kossuth, the rightful regent-president of Hungary.’

  The gun-maker made no effort to hide his disappointment. Was this meeting to be a complete waste of his time? ‘Well, how about that,’ he muttered, pushing back his chair and crossing his arms.

  Street was unconcerned by this reaction. A flicker of insight passed across his features. ‘You know him already.’

  Sam sneered up at the ceiling. ‘I met Mr Kossuth in the Turkish town of Vidin, Mr Street, shortly after he’d been obliged to flee his homeland and the vengeance of the Austrian Emperor. I was travelling around Europe at the time, acquiring patents and the like, when it came to me that I might find a customer in the Sultan. That gaudy little parrot turned me away – a decision he’ll live to regret. Anyways, I had a week or two to spare, there was talk of trouble on the Hungarian border, I had some guns to shift, so I decided to head on over and see what was what. One day I happened to find myself in the same place as the renowned Lajos Kossuth. Naturally I paid him a call.’

  Street was wearing that tight smile again. ‘You wander the world a good deal, do you, Colonel?’

  ‘Such is the lot of the gun merchant. Conflict don’t come to him, most of the time, so he must go to it – sniff it out as best he can.’ The whiskey arrived in a cut-crystal decanter, accompanied by a single squat glass. Sam reached for it and poured his first drink. ‘At any rate, I quickly came to realise that Mr Kossuth and I could do no business together. All he had to offer in exchange for my arms was some fine ideals and a good deal of long-winded speechifying. This is often the trouble with revolutionaries and freedom-fighters, Mr Street, in my experience. They just ain’t a decent prospect for custom.’

  The Honourable Member nodded. ‘Well, poor Mr Kossuth is still rather impecunious, I’m afraid. I’ve heard that he is obliged to reside at present in a barrack house in Clerkenwell, in fact, as the guest of a chapter of Chartists.’ This was said with a measure of both pity and disgust, as if it was akin to setting your bed in a sewer. ‘Nevertheless, Colonel, I feel that it could be useful for you to give him a private tour of your factory.’

  Sam fixed this queer little man with a long, careful look. Had Street been making promises to the Hungarian exile? Was Kossuth perhaps under the impression that discounted or even free weapons would be offered to him by the
Colt Company, so that he could arm his scattered cohorts and reestablish his vanquished republic? This was something that would have to be set straight right away.

  ‘Much as I respect Mr Kossuth and his struggles,’ the gun-maker said slowly, ‘I must point out that such tours are only worthwhile when there’s a chance of a goddamn sale as a result of it.’

  Street set his hands together on the tabletop with the air of someone about to embark upon an explanation. ‘I take it, Colonel, that you are aware of the ever-increasing belligerence between Russia and Turkey, and the bullying conduct of Russian diplomats in Constantinople?’

  Sam indicated that he was. His interest in the grievances that lay behind this deepening dispute was limited – something to do with the supposed entitlement of Orthodox Christians living within the Ottoman Empire to Russian protection. It all sounded entirely contrived to him, a mere excuse for a bit of the sabre-rattling of which these ancient empires were so very fond. He was keeping a close watch on it, though. From where he stood, it was a pretty promising situation.

  ‘Great Britain has taken against Tsar Nicholas,’ the Honourable Member continued, ‘as he is unquestionably the aggressor, and every Briton shares an instinctive loathing of oppression of all kinds.’

  For a moment, Sam considered saying a few words about the British and oppression, but managed to hold his tongue.

  ‘Lajos Kossuth, also, is a notable victim of Russian antagonism. It was the Tsar’s alliance with the Emperor of Austria, and the assistance of his massive armies, that enabled the easy rout of Mr Kossuth and the dismantling of his young republic. The regent-president remains a famous and popular man. If he were to visit your pistol works, the press would be certain to attend, and in significant numbers. A great many Englishmen would read of your support for him. It would serve as an effective demonstration of the Anglo-Saxon bond we discussed at Buchanan’s.’ Street met Sam’s eye. ‘In addition, you would find that Mr Kossuth has allies of real influence. Being seen to show sympathy for his plight would send out a clear message to these people. It would show them that they can trust you – that you are their kind of fellow.’

  Sam knocked back his drink. Something else was going on here, for certain; the Colt Company was being used for some deeper purpose. He looked over at Mr Lowry. The secretary was studying Mr Street with subtle distrust. Street was working a scheme – they both saw it. But whatever the Honourable Member might be plotting, Sam got the sense that the success of his factory was part of the plan. It was worth playing along for now.

  ‘Very well, Mr Street,’ Sam said, reaching for the whiskey, ‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

  6

  ‘He’s a pretty slick son of a bitch, ain’t he, that Lawrence Street. Lajos Kossuth – Lord Almighty, that would never have occurred to me. Not in a thousand years.’

  The Colonel picked up the cut-crystal decanter he’d removed from the restaurant, took another swig straight from the neck and then went back to loading the Navy revolver that hung from his right hand. The pint or so of whiskey that he’d already imbibed was making this rather difficult, however; Edward had already been obliged to chase several dropped bullets across the sand-scattered floorboards.

  The secretary was sitting beside his employer, smoking a penny cigar. They were in Marchant’s Shooting Gallery, on the opposite side of Leicester Square to the Hotel de Provence. It was a rough-edged establishment, a whitewashed vault with a gun-rack at one end and an assortment of lime-lit targets at the other. A split log had been laid out about twenty yards from the targets to mark the firing line. All of the customers were male, mostly of the sort you’d expect to find clustered around a cock-fight – battered hats, loud chequered trousers and well-patched jackets were present in abundance. There was some money mixed in there too, though, a conspicuous minority of dissolute-looking gentlemen taking an evening away from Society. Rifles were the near-universal choice of weapon. Due to the effects of liquor and a general lack of expertise, the fire across the gallery was intermittent and less than accurate; but several spirited contests were underway nevertheless, with cash changing hands and victors crowing in triumph.

  Colonel Colt, with his revolver, his crystal whiskey decanter and his outlandish, fur-lined attire, was attracting the usual amount of attention. He’d been unimpressed by Marchant’s at first, declaring it a poor example of its kind and discoursing at some length on the inferiority of the guns on offer. But now, settled on the periphery with his belly full of strong liquor, a wad of tobacco in his cheek and a presentation case of pistols open on his lap, he looked about as comfortable and content as Edward had ever seen him.

  They’d left the hotel about half an hour earlier. A waiter had pursued them outside, attempting to reclaim the purloined decanter from the Colonel’s grasp; tucking a banknote in the fellow’s waistcoat and waving him away, Colt had run an eye around the coloured lights of the square, soon settling upon Marchant’s. The mustard-coloured barouche had drawn up beside them. Opening the door and leaning inside, the Colonel had retrieved a box of Navys from the small stock that was kept on board and headed over to the shooting gallery. Following close behind, Edward had imagined that he wished to fire off a few shots with one of his inventions to dispel the aggravation he’d doubtlessly accumulated during his conversation with the inexplicable Mr Street – who’d remained seated at his table, unfolding his newspaper and returning his glasses to his nose almost before they’d risen from their chairs.

  The secretary knew that he had witnessed something important in the Hotel de Provence. This Mr Street seemed to be going out of his way to further the interests of the Colt factory. There could be no doubt that hidden forces were working towards the achievement of their own ends. He’d decided that he would learn more.

  ‘Who would’ve thought it, though,’ Colt drawled, picking up the Navy once more and taking a bullet between thumb and forefinger. ‘Kossuth, a committed opponent of tyranny, held up as a hero by the British!’

  ‘Excuse me, Colonel?’

  The gun-maker laughed nastily. ‘You forget that you’re talking with an American here, Mr Lowry! We can still recall fighting our way out from under your tyranny, my young friend.’ He looked around the gallery with jolly ferocity. ‘Why, not ten years ago I myself was occupied with designing weapons – undersea mines of extraordinary power – expressly to keep our American harbours safe from the threat of your goddamn ships.’

  Edward picked a shred of tobacco from his lip, curbing a smile. This seemed a pretty blatant refutation of the so-called ‘Anglo-Saxon bond’ mentioned by Street in the Hotel de Provence – and which the Colonel had taken to inserting into his correspondence with British military figures and politicians at every opportunity. The Colt mind was clearly broad enough to encompass the odd contradiction.

  Finally managing to slot the last bullet into his pistol, the Colonel worked the loading lever and then set the hammer against one of the cylinder pins. Lifting the revolver up to examine it, chewing slowly on his plug, his meaty face assumed a look of almost reverential appreciation. ‘This arm here,’ he declared, ‘is so much finer than the wretched Adams I held in the office of that idiot Paget as to make any comparison downright odious.’

  The shining blue and brass Navy was starting to draw notice, as was surely Colt’s intention. Slowly, he turned his head and released a long spurt of tobacco juice onto the range’s sandy floor.

  ‘Mr Kossuth is not admired by everyone, Colonel,’ Edward volunteered. ‘His boldness in attacking emperors and tsars in his public addresses has made him many new enemies in the palaces of Europe. Louis Napoleon wouldn’t let him so much as set foot in France – and over here, during his last visit a couple of years ago, the few government men who extended a friendly hand found none other than Queen Victoria herself seeking their removal from office.’

  ‘Queen Victoria herself, eh?’ the Colonel mused. He took another drink, smacking his lips; and then casually spat out his plug, sending
the little brown projectile sailing away into a far corner. ‘Perhaps that right there is Lawrence Street’s design, Mr Lowry. Colt revolvers may be out of poor old Kossuth’s reach, but the spectacle of this fearless republican touring my factory – just taking a friendly interest – might be enough to make your Victoria sit up on her goddamn throne and have a hard think about how long her soldiers can really afford to be without my arms.’

  Edward coughed hard on his cigar, somewhat startled by this easy talk of rattling the monarch. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the Colonel’s concise strategic summary, and was pleased to have been included in his confidential deliberations. Beneath Colt’s coarse, colourful exterior lay a canny businessman – one who would consider a situation in depth, seeking the advantage. But what could Mr Street possibly be looking to gain from all this? Why would he, a member of Her Majesty’s Parliament, want it to seem that there was an understanding between Colonel Colt and the Hungarian revolutionary? Who was this person?

  Before he could frame another query, the Colonel picked up the Navy by the barrel and offered him the stock. Distracted by his ruminations, the secretary accepted it without comment. The weight – and the pistol felt heavy indeed – made him realise what had happened. He looked at his employer enquiringly, but the gun-maker was already up on his feet, hands cupped around his mouth.

  ‘Mr Marchant!’ Colt yelled above the chatter and the gunfire. ‘Where the hell are you? Mar-chant!’

  Seconds later, a squat man with a velvet eye-patch was standing before the American, regarding him dubiously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘D’you know who I am?’

  The man – Mr Marchant – nodded. ‘I ‘ad a suspicion, sir, and upon ‘earing you speak I would say that you’re the Yankee what’s set up a pistol factory down by the river.’