Murray’s lips curled upwards. Such an enterprise would surely please the ladies as well as the gentlemen. So many books appealed to only one gender, but this was of more general interest and books with a wider audience sold more copies. ‘What a good idea,’ he said. ‘You must see how you get along.’
Maria sighed contentedly and sipped a tiny glass of liqueur. The cut crystal caught the candlelight and magnified it. Already there was part of her that knew she would miss this side of London. After a difficult afternoon, this felt like home again.
‘Who was that fellow?’ Murray enquired, cutting into her thoughts.
‘Which fellow?’ Maria put down the thin-stemmed crystal, with a cold shadow stealing over her.
‘The fellow who dropped you at Georgiana Graham’s? I was not snooping, but my dear, I was so glad to have news of your arrival. My man said he was a tall chap with a pale-green cravat.’
Mrs Graham breathed more easily. In London people noticed everything, but, that being the case, she was glad Murray hadn’t brought up Henderson’s unseemly intrusion the other day. She was not entirely sure she would be able to remain bluff about her feelings.
‘Augustus Calcott?’ She smiled. ‘He is a painter – rather a good painter, I think. I have seen some of his work in oils. His sister and I are acquainted.’
‘We must encourage him to have you sit.’ Murray smiled. ‘A portrait would be a good idea.’
Maria’s eyes danced. ‘I’ve asked him about the matter of a miniature. I should like to have one of my father, though the likeness will be difficult to capture. I have described Papa from memory and Augustus has kindly said he will make it a priority in his studio, so I can take it with me when I return to South America.’
‘A miniature?’ Murray had never known Maria to care for such fripperies. ‘I understood you did not like much in the way of paraphernalia.’
Maria’s colour heightened. In the past she had, indeed, disdained these items – comforts of home. She had always thought them vanity. And yet, it would seem it was time to own a portrait – only a small one. Maria had not forgotten her lonely walk in Bristol and the feeling of being groundless. Augustus had arranged a visit to his sister’s dressmaker, where a feast of satins was promised, including evening gloves and pumps and maybe even a headdress.
‘A bronze and gold extravaganza,’ Calcott had mused, as they rode towards London. ‘You will suit regal tones,’ he smiled. ‘A bright ostrich feather in your hair, most certainly. And dark-brown velvet for the gown. The colour of choc-olate, perhaps.’
Maria had blushed. Calcott could not have known that, to her, chocolate meant Henderson.
In any case, that afternoon, while listening endlessly to Georgiana eulogise her brother, Mrs Graham had resolved if not to change her ways, then to slightly alter them. She was to be based in Rio at court, so it was entirely fitting that she should enhance her wardrobe and carry mementos. She was considering an entire box of books, only for herself, and perhaps two evening outfits – the brown that Calcott suggested and another in blue to replace the dress that had been stolen.
‘Oh yes. Blue,’ Augustus had pronounced. ‘It is a tremendous colour.’
‘You seem . . .’ Murray hesitated, searching for the right way to express the changes in Maria Graham that had occurred, as far as he was aware, in the hot-blooded Latin American provinces. Seldom did words elude him. They wouldn’t dare. But tonight he could not quite put his finger on it. ‘Well, well, in any case, I’m glad that you’re happy.’ London’s most prominent publisher finished his drink.
Maria smiled and demonstrated a previously undiscovered touch of the Mona Lisa. She missed Thomas, of course, but she had discovered that life and London went on.
The publisher motioned for his glass to be topped up. Murray wondered if this Augustus Calcott fellow was of more than merely artistic interest. Now, that would be something. Imagine if Maria Graham were to fall in love again. How affirming. He must speak to his wife on the matter and look into Mr Calcott’s portfolio.
‘Once I’m settled,’ Maria said, ‘I must go to the Royal Society. I have some samples and sketches to give them.’
‘I shall see to it that the first copies of your editions are sent to Sir Humphry,’ Murray promised. ‘Might you not consider talking at a meeting? I could look into it. Such an undertaking would fire interest in your new publications. If you have time.’
Maria, however, appeared distracted. She was gazing into the grate. ‘Do you think that I suit chocolate?’ she said quietly.
At once, her attention was miles away. Thousands of miles. Aboard a ship. Love was a long river, and difficult to outrun. The last nights, lodged at the inn, she had dreamed of James Henderson, but in her gruesome imaginings he was dead, like Thomas and her father. She had raised a brass plaque to Henderson’s memory in the church on the main square in Natal. It was too strange. The dreams hovered on the fringes of her mind. They pulled her in between bursts of real life. They seeped between the cracks in her anger.
‘Chocolate? Whatever do you mean?’ Murray laughed.
‘Oh. Nothing.’ Maria’s attention dropped back into his lap like a ball. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘we were going to further discuss these experiments Basil Hall has been undertaking, were we not? Where is that astronomy fellow, Mr Pond?’ Maria looked around. ‘Mr Pond.’ She accosted a small but well-dressed man with a receding hairline. ‘You must come and assist us in our scientific endeavours. Have you read about these experiments of Mr Hall’s? Please, do join us.’
Pond peered.
‘Mrs Graham,’ he said, ‘I have heard that in Chile you measured an earthquake. That is of far more interest than Basil’s calculations. Pray, tell me how you did so.’
Murray cut in. ‘Mrs Graham shall be presenting that at the Society, I’m sure, sir.’
Maria glowed. She widened her shoulders. ‘Now, now,’ she said, ‘we can surely trust Mr Pond. His expertise in difficult calculations will be invaluable. And, I admit, it was tricky.’
Murray gave way. Pond sat by the fire, his cuffs wilting in the heat as a lavender haze rose from his linen. Maria leaned in conspiratorially. She must put James Henderson out of her mind. ‘I’ll tell you, Mr Pond, on condition that you will help me confirm the calculation.’
Pond nodded and Maria waited only an instant, just until the men were not quite sure that she was going to speak. Murray looked as if he might tip out of his seat.
‘Well, here is how I did it . . .’ she said.
*
Richard Fry’s first thought when he pitched up at St Magnus the Martyr was that he ought to procure a lamp for the captain. Between the darkness and the thin fog curling off the water, he could scarcely make out the church’s facade, which was a grubby shade of white punctuated by round windows. The black rounds looked like empty sockets from which unnatural eyes had been prised. Was it fashioned to look like a ship, he wondered. Perhaps.
Fry’s instinct was to investigate the lie of the land, but he had been instructed to wait for Henderson, so instead he hovered, observing that the area was more down at heel than he had expected. The smell took him by surprise. The river wound round the dock like putrid entrails spilling from a corpse. The rank air was riddled with damp, the low, mildewed buildings rotting and all of them, save the church, as good as invisible against the dingy backdrop of the East End. The slim byways, however, were busy. Black shadows flitted from one alleyway to another, creeping like silent, jagged ghouls.
The place felt indescribably heavy, like a huge black manacle locked onto the side of the river. It came to him that poverty in Bristol was lighter. There might be no easy way out of the slums, but back home at least a fellow had some kind of chance. Here, the residents did not appear to live in these black houses as much as infest them. It certainly did not feel like the location of a business run by gentlemen. Richard shuddered. Henderson would not be far behind, the boy assured himself as he squatted against the wall.
In five minutes, three gentlemen came off a skiff with a lamp strung high. They disembarked with a sense of extraordinary purpose and strode into the darkness, two of them holding fierce-looking cudgels. Thin shadows lying in wait moved in a wave towards such a promising shore. Fry noticed four boys, feral and stalking like predatory birds, ready at any moment to pounce. As the gentlemen rounded a corner, the flock followed. Fry was glad of his disguise, and that he did not have a light after all.
When Henderson finally arrived, there were no ripples in the night. The captain disembarked so quickly, the boat hardly stopped. Henderson’s rough edges played to his advantage here. With his two-day beard he cut the air of a fellow who, though not from this place, could fight his way through it. As the captain slipped towards St Magnus the Martyr, the skiff’s lantern receded along the river. Henderson touched Fry’s arm but made no other sign that he recognised him. The boy fell into step, a few paces behind.
Straight up towards Eastgate, hostelries poured their customers onto the highway on a tide of purl and gin. Here was the raucous laughter of women interspersed with the cries of youngsters left to fend for themselves. The men slowed their pace. Two girls begged a ha’penny from the captain, who waved them off with an appropriate hint of leering cruelty. An eager-eyed child fell in beside Fry.
‘Wotcha following him for?’ he hissed. ‘He got somefink?’
‘Get off or I’ll bash ya,’ Fry promised, in his best low-life drawl.
‘I was only askin’,’ the boy exclaimed.
A flash of Fry’s eyes worked as well as drawing a blade, and the boy backed away.
Unlike Regent Street and Oxford Street, there were no names carved into the walls by which to navigate – it was unlikely that many of the locals could read. Still, it put a stranger at a grave disadvantage. As the men crept away from the river, the air felt cleaner – or, Fry pondered, perhaps he was getting used to the stench. At least his stomach was no longer turning.
At Old Street, the captain stopped. The road was wide, with buildings on both sides, most of them shrouded in darkness as the rash of public houses dissipated, the night’s ominous smooth blackness reinstated. The low moon made it feel like a mythical highway. There wasn’t anyone around and it was easy to imagine that Old Street might go for miles, leading out of the city, an endless road to God knows where. Henderson squinted as a solitary figure approached from the opposite direction.
‘Is this Old Street, friend?’ the captain asked.
‘Aye. Who’re you looking for?’
The captain pulled his pipe from his pocket, establishing himself as a fellow who was ready for a civil chat. He needed information, and the best way to get it was to dally. The man was dirty in appearance but not the poorest wretch they’d encountered, nor the drunkest. He probably worked on the docks.
‘I don’t know who I’m after,’ Henderson admitted. ‘Is Mallow Street close by?’
The fellow laughed, and the sound scooped into the thick night air, removing something. ‘Up there, stranger.’ He pointed to the left, openly staring at the captain like a hungry dog. ‘Keep going.’
‘You heard of the Rose?’
‘Yeah.’ The man’s voice was deceptively bluff. ‘It’s the ticket.’
‘I was told to have a drink there by a friend.’
‘You do everything your friends say, you’ll land yourself in trouble.’
Fry crept against the wall, out of the moonlight’s reach. Henderson’s manner was relaxed as he stood smoking. By the light of the moon, the captain’s skin looked almost translucent. He might, Fry supposed, be taken for a ghost. The fellow in the street had no such concerns. His interest was in this world, not the next, and he had clearly surmised that Henderson might be of value. ‘Who did you say you’re looking for?’ he asked again.
‘I don’t know. Friend of a friend. An importer. I don’t have a name.’
‘Round here? That sort got offices at the dockside, mate. Your luck’s out, I reckon.’
Henderson laid the silence on the ground between them, like a tomcat offering a mouse.
‘If you’re looking to import something, perhaps I can help you,’ the man tried.
‘How might that be?’
‘I know some people. Who’s this friend of yours, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Will Simmons.’
‘Never heard of him.’
If the man didn’t recognise Will’s name, there was probably no more information to be had. The captain turned, but the fellow wasn’t done. He caught the sleeve of Henderson’s coat, determined not to let an opportunity turn into Mallow Street and be lost for ever. ‘And what is it you’re after?’
Fry reached for his knife.
‘A word with a friend of a friend is all.’ The statement had finality. Henderson jolted back his arm and continued to walk away.
The man had scented money, though, and if he couldn’t have it by guile, he’d have it by force. As he got ready to punch, the captain spotted the movement out of the corner of his eye. He dodged the first blow and managed to lay his hand on his knife, but the stranger was fast. The fellow moved in with a sharp kick to the shins.
‘Give me your cash. You got money, ain’t you?’ The man’s voice was aggressive, but there was an undertone of anguish. ‘You gotta have a wad if you’re looking for an importer. At night as well.’
‘I’ve got nothing but a blade for you, friend, and I’ll slip it in your skin if you don’t stand off.’ The captain’s voice was flat as a stone and just as hard.
The stranger didn’t move until suddenly he seemed to make a decision, his desperation outweighing his good sense as he lunged.
Without hesitation, the captain struck out like a piston, stabbing the stranger in the shoulder with such force that his blade stuck and he ended up simply abandoning it in the other man’s flesh. Like an enraged bull, the man bellowed, fired up by the injury.
‘Fuck you,’ he spat and, ignoring the wound, he started beating Henderson with his uninjured fist.
Henderson dodged, punching twice and catching the fellow on the nose so that blood spurted down his shirt, but the man didn’t give up. He landed two solid punches to Henderson’s chest, which winded him.
‘Shit,’ Fry breathed from the shadows, thinking this had gone far enough as he fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the flick knife. This was just what he’d been practicing on deck. He opened the blade and ran forward, a shadow scuttling out of the blackness.
Henderson tried to wave him off, but Fry launched the knife just as he had been shown on the Bittersweet. It hit its true mark on the man’s torso. The fellow stopped in his tracks. Grasping his chest, he fell to his knees, blood seeping between his fingers.
‘There.’ Fry grinned, taking the opportunity to stroll into the scene of the affray and retrieve his blade, as if this was only target practice. But the injured man was not done. As the boy turned to form a nonchalant comment, the stranger lashed out a final time. He had a weapon concealed – a razor. In pain, he drew it from his boot. The captain grabbed Fry and pulled him out of the way. If the man had hit true, the deadly edge would have caught the boy in the base of his spine.
‘I’ll not lose another one,’ Henderson said under his breath. ‘You stay out of the way unless I call on you, do you hear? You’re on captain’s orders.’
Fry nodded. His fingers were quivering, but he managed to snatch the razor from the fellow’s hand and stow it in his pocket. The man fell back, an untidy pool of blood blackening the dirt. The stranger’s eyes were no longer hard, or even anguished. He simply stared between long, slow blinks, waiting to see if they would finish him.
‘Mallow Street,’ Henderson directed, peering off to the left.
Fry kept his eyes on the wounded man. ‘Is it kinder . . .?’ He was shaken now.
Henderson shook his head. ‘It’s murder, is what it is. At least this way he stands a chance.’ He pulled the boy further up the street towards the turn-off, l
eaving the man to his fate.
Mallow Street was not so wide as the highway. While Old Street was bathed in cold white moonlight, the Rose cast a glow over the bottom of the road. The indistinguishable babble of voices that emanated from the inn was comforting. Fry glanced over his shoulder, but the dying dock worker was out of sight. His stomach fluttered. He had been in fights before, but he’d never killed anyone. Men were hanged for murder. He felt sick. Henderson stared at the boy, checking his fitness for duty. Putting one hand solidly on Fry’s shoulder, he motioned him towards a shuttered window.
‘Wait here,’ the captain said.
‘I won’t let you down.’ Richard’s voice was a dim echo of when he’d sworn on the Bittersweet – a blustering youth in search of adventure.
‘I’ll sort you out when I get back.’ Henderson opened the door.
This wasn’t working out quite the way either of them had expected.
*
Inside, the Rose was well kept. In addition to purl and porter, there were casks of brandy stacked alongside the inevitable bottles of cheap gin, which was the drink of choice in this locality. Henderson was glad his entrance did not cause much notice. Later, if the stranger died in the street, there would be questions. Only one or two of the men had turned, and more of the women. One girl, he noticed, was sewing her tattered hem by the fire. In the candlelight he checked his coat for the spatter of blood, but he appeared to have got away without marking himself with evidence of the affray. With luck, he’d be able to do his business quickly and get Fry back to the ship. Henderson turned his attention to the matter in hand. A handy-looking fellow, no more than forty, and wearing a bright-yellow waistcoat, was filling jugs of purl behind the bar as he smoked a cheroot.
He nodded. ‘Stranger, what can I get you?’
Henderson indicated that a tankard of purl would be welcome. He handed over a coin and took a deep draught. ‘I’m looking for a friend of Will Simmons,’ he enquired.
The man removed the cheroot from his lips and contemplated this statement. ‘Will Simmons? Nah. Not ’eard of ’im,’ he pronounced. ‘Does he live round here?’
On Starlit Seas Page 27