‘Stop,’ Henderson shouted to the boys over his shoulder. ‘Are you all right, son?’
Fry extracted himself from Pearson’s grip and shakily hauled himself to safety. ‘Aye, sir,’ he said.
‘Look.’ Fisher rose to his feet, objecting, as if trying to make a point in court. He had, earlier in his career, trained at the bar.
Henderson wasn’t listening. He fetched a full swipe, landing Fisher in the stomach and knocking him over. ‘Jesus. I came here to make a deal. I hesitate to call you gentlemen. You are lucky I don’t smash your skull, sir, and finish you. I’m not sure who you are used to dealing with, but, whoever they are, I pity them.’
Grant’s eyes opened as he came into consciousness. There was a dark bruise purpling his face and his expression was hard. He looked an entirely different man, no trace of the Charming Charlie he generally presented to the world. He stared at Hayward as if accusing him of not controlling the situation adequately.
‘There are three of us,’ he said bluntly.
Pearson stepped forward, as if to announce himself a fourth, and Henderson raised the cane a little higher. He had the measure of them now. They were used to dealing with men who were not able to defend themselves against the will of their betters. They were bullies who used their station to get whatever they wanted. Henderson, however, had spotted a crack. Between this world and the West End, there was a weak spot.
‘Here are the terms I will offer, gentlemen. I have returned Will Simmons’s effects and I will double his stake money. In addition, I will keep half the jewels. You can take my offer or leave it. I might have come to more accommodating terms, but you just tried to bloody throttle me, so damn you.’
‘We triple our money,’ Grant growled. ‘That was the deal with Simmons and it’s the deal with you.’
‘Not when you try to murder the bearer of the goods. You’re lucky I’m offering you anything.’ Henderson turned to the only member of the Old Street Bridge Club he could name. ‘Mr Fisher?’
Fisher nodded cursorily, casting a sideways glance at Hayward, who had named him.
‘I shall conclude this deal with you then, sir, at your residence. Where shall I call?’
Fisher objected vigorously. ‘We conduct our business here.’ His voice was raised.
Henderson smirked. His instinct was good. This East End hideaway was a secret. ‘If you think I shall come here again then you take me for a bigger fool than I have ever been in my life.’
‘You cannot dictate—’ Hayward started.
‘I can, sir, and I do. Should you object to these terms and seek me out, you will forfeit your share and get nothing. If you pursue me after I have made payment, I shall look in more detail into why you conduct your business here and where in polite society each of you resides. And then I shall see to it that polite society hears of your place of business on Mallow Street. That’s the three of you, do you hear? I’ll track you down and name you, I swear it.’
‘Blackmail,’ Hayward blustered. ‘Damn blackmail.’
Henderson delivered a devastating grin. ‘Just be glad I don’t throttle you with that cord, sir. I am sorely tempted. Better blackmail, I’ll warrant, than that. I don’t know who you are accustomed to dealing with, but, frankly, you take an unfair advantage and I shall have some of it back. Have you a wife, sir? And will she relish hearing about this little exchange? Well, behave honourably and it will never come out. You will still make a profit, gentlemen. Those are my terms.’
Grant made to rise in furious objection, but he got no further than his knees before Henderson fetched him a blow to the side of the head that sent him reeling.
‘I mean it,’ the captain said firmly. ‘I’ll dishonour you so soundly no house in London will receive you or your families.’
Fisher and Hayward stayed stock-still and in shock. No one had ever threatened the Old Street Bridge Club.
‘Can you walk?’ the captain asked Fry.
The boy nodded. His shoulder was in agony and he’d be limping, but he could move to get away.
‘Go down,’ Henderson instructed him. ‘Wait by the door.’
As they listened to Richard’s unsteady footsteps descending, Henderson leaned in. ‘If you follow us, I’ll hound you. Do you hear me? It’s a good deal less trouble just to let go of the likes of me. And if you attack either Richard or me tonight, you’ll never get your money. As it is, you’ll have your share and the jewels inside a couple of days, Mr Fisher. Think on that and be done with us.’
He could not tell as he backed out of the door if the gentlemen concurred. Respectability was an excellent weapon, he thought. In a way, Maria had taught him that – she was a skilled practitioner at using etiquette to her advantage. As the captain swung out of the front door, he barrelled Richard down the nearest alleyway, away from any vestige of light. The route back to the water was a decent walk and the boy was badly injured. Back on the highway, they’d be vulnerable. At the other end of what was effectively a dark tunnel, there was a carriage on the main road running east to west, with two coachmen bundled in dark greatcoats. Henderson peered around the corner. One of the footmen was holding a whip and the other a cosh. The carriage was of good quality, but old. A lamp hung on a long hook and a family crest adorned the door – white and red plumage around a helmet. It had to belong to the gentlemen, he realised, or at least one of them. Henderson squinted to read the name in the low light. Hayward. Fisher and Hayward. Now he had two of them. One of the footmen stamped his feet. It was getting cold. Henderson sneaked back up the alley just as it began to drizzle. Fry was leaning against the wall.
‘Here.’ He put out his arm so that Richard could lean on it. In the darkness, the boy’s heart was hammering – he could feel it. Tiny drops of cold rain sat on Richard’s hair like a dusting of icing sugar. ‘Are you all right?’
Fry nodded.
‘Well.’ The captain motioned. ‘We can’t go past the coach, and the highway feels too obvious, for I would hate to meet our friends again – either the gentlemen or the chap you knifed earlier. So we need to go this way.’ He jerked his head into the darkness beyond the inn. ‘It’s a case of cutting down the backstreets. For a while at least.’
Walking the whole way was out of the question. Between the dangerous pockets lay long, empty roads. The river was safer, but as late as this and as far out it might be difficult to find a boatman. Still, they had to try.
From above, in the direction of the Bridge Club, a muffled cry rang out – a desperate yelp of pain. Without saying a word, they both knew it was Sam Pearson.
‘At least he’ll keep them busy,’ the captain murmured as he led the boy down Mallow Street.
Across the road, a lonely voice singing an army song emanated from the Rose. Richard thought of his family home, the house silent on a night such as this, everyone safe in bed, their sheets starched, a glass of milk on the night stand.
‘We’ll get to the river and pick up a skiff.’ Henderson took the boy’s arm, setting the pace. As the two of them rounded the corner, a church to the east sounded its bell. Henderson’s face was shrouded in darkness, but Fry caught his expression as they passed through a slice of moonlight. He was focussed, absolutely intent on escape.
26
Covent Garden
Maria settled into a leather chair in the bookshop. She felt almost disloyal, but it was interesting to peruse the titles of, well, other publishers. Murray’s list, while undoubtedly the most impressive, was not comprehensive. Blackwood’s, for example, brought out some wonderful books. She told herself that Murray wouldn’t mind – and, to calm herself, she breathed in deeply. The smell of an English bookshop was a comfort – dense paper, the occasional waft of vellum and the thick scent of leather bindings, the gold tooling glowing from the shelves like a magical totem. There was no library in Georgiana’s mansion. Maria had discovered a few old books laid about the drawing room, nothing more. As yet, she had not had an opportunity to peruse them, for Georgiana talked
endlessly about her brother, enquiring about the details of his death again and again. Maria was finding it troublesome to explain Thomas’s short illness over and over. It was distressing and, when it came to it, there was a limited amount she could say. His temperature had soared. She had nursed him, but he had died.
In addition, Georgiana had not housed Maria in the room to which she and Thomas had been accustomed, with a married bed, nor indeed in either of the other two vacant guest rooms with an aspect. Instead, she billeted her widowed sister-in-law in dreary smaller accommodation to the rear of the house with a slim single bedstead and a thin fireplace. Maria had no real objection, except to wonder quite what Georgiana meant by it. Such a placement could not possibly be good for the spirits. In the event, she was glad to have business to see to and, hence, reason to go out. When Maria announced she must write some notes and make some appointments, Georgiana treated it as if each letter on the page were the harbinger of a suspicious assignation. When Maria lingered on the sofa after breakfast, she suggested an outing to church.
‘How very French,’ she said when Maria proposed a trip to the Dulwich Gallery instead. In her grief, the girl had come to despise not only pleasure, but anything normal. ‘Don’t you cry for him, Maria? I haven’t seen you weep,’ she said.
Maria thought of those days in Chile, breathless and panting when, finally alone she not only cried, but howled. She had been unable to stand, instead sinking to the floor. It had felt animal. Visceral.
Georgiana dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I cry every day, you see,’ she sniffed. ‘In his memory.’
Maria had almost been relieved when the time had come to join Lady Dundas and set out for Covent Garden to replace her baggage.
Now, her aunt having refused to join her in a trip to a bookshop, Maria lingered in the calm of Mr Thin’s excellent establishment off Regent Street. There, she relished the quiet and the calm. Quite apart from a decent pile of books, she also set aside a stack of the Edinburgh Review to save for the outward voyage. Her sojourn at her sister-in-law’s house at least made her appreciate the places that she was welcome.
‘Always a pleasure, Mrs Graham.’ Mr Thin encouraged his illustrious customer. ‘But I need not attempt to sell you anything. You know your mind. Catching up, eh?’
Mr Thin stocked back copies of all the reviews for just this purpose. Anyone who’d been abroad might easily miss a year or two of scientific debate and politics. Thin’s was stocked to have a fellow up to speed in no time, or a lady, for that matter.
‘Such interesting articles,’ he promised, leaving her to leaf through some diverting scientific journals that she had already agreed to purchase.
Maria reached down with her gloved hand and pulled a copy from the bottom of the satisfyingly large pile. There must be a dozen quite besides the political news-sheets. After she had read and reread them, the magazines would be set upon by the English community in Rio when she landed. News of home always came at a premium. Beside her, a skeleton clock on the mantel whirred and a gentleman checking his pocket watch glanced at the books she had set aside, reading the titles. His eyes lingered on the unusual lady who had requested such august tomes.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Mr Thin enquired, emerging from the storeroom.
‘I’m only checking the time, Mr Thin,’ the gentleman admitted, doffing his hat with one hand as he clicked closed the watch’s face. ‘It’s a wonderful timepiece.’
This was exactly why Mr Thin had invested in the clock. The hypnotic movement of the spokes and spirals drew customers. Gentlemen arrived to set their pocket watches by Thin’s timepiece every week, and each week some of them were tempted by the latest releases or volumes of seasonal interest, which the wily old bookseller placed within perusing distance, as if at random.
Mrs Graham looked up from the Edinburgh Review.
‘I’ll take all of these as well.’ She patted a pile to her right. ‘A Latin primer and also a Greek, please. In addition, I’m looking for material relating to botanical gardens – tropical ones. Her Imperial Highness is establishing such a concern in Rio de Janeiro and requires detailed information. Succulents are of special interest. And orchids.’
Mr Thin’s mind whirred, as if powered by a mechanism not dissimilar to the one on his mantelpiece. The old bookseller was a living compendium of every book that had ever passed through his highly experienced hands. This was one of the reasons Maria loved to visit his tightly packed emporium. She adored Mr Thin fetching her things. Occasionally she had found a gem of a book as a result of the old man’s encyclopaedic knowledge.
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I have something. It may, however, be somewhat out of date. I’ll bring it up and you can decide if it’s suitable. There is a directory of orchids with some wonderful illustrations too. I’ll search that out as well, shall I?’
He turned to go down to the cellar. The gentleman, having set his watch, and finding this state of affairs beyond him, nodded politely and left. Maria flexed her ankles and flicked through the Review. In moments of quiet reflection such as these, James Henderson came to mind. She remained furious with him, and cross at herself that she continued to consider him. But there it was. Any small matter might provoke it – an article about plantation ownership or a costermonger offering leg of lamb as she passed by with her aunt. She had not expected it.
Dragging her attention back to the present, she watched the women striding past Mr Thin’s carefully stacked windows and, far more diverting than dusty books, finding themselves attracted like magnets towards the milliner’s next door.
When Thin comes up, I’ll ask him for another two, she decided. A history of Spain and something on the subject of zoology. With the Empress’s letter to the bank, there was no need to stint – new books were a necessity to do the job well, rather than a luxury, and the princess may still be young, but whatever Maria purchased would be useful in time. Mrs Graham settled into her seat and opened the Review again, endeavouring to find something that had no connection whatever with Captain James Henderson.
She was deeply engrossed in an article on Mr Plunket’s speech about Ireland when the shop door opened and a girl swept in. She was wearing a dress the colour of bluebells. Maria caught a flash of it out of the corner of her eye. The colour was lovely – hadn’t Augustus said something complimentary about blue? This induced her to glance further, upwards, in the direction of the girl’s face. Then that face smiled, the girl touched Maria’s glove and Mrs Graham jumped to her feet. It was unjust, but she could not help cursing Captain Henderson. Here he was, called to mind again.
‘Why, Miss Bagdorf,’ she exclaimed.
There was no forgetting Miss Bagdorf’s elegant features, which were framed in such an expression of delight that it was clear that, for her, the memory of dinner at the plantation in Trinidad was unencumbered by dubiety. She was clearly delighted to see Maria.
‘Mrs Graham.’ Ramona clasped Maria’s hand firmly, the clean scent of blackberries swirling around her. ‘How nice to run into you.’
In London, Ramona’s Danish accent seemed more pronounced than it had been in the tropics, but she was just as beautiful. Perhaps more so, Maria mused. The girl had retained something of the vivid equatorial air. Against the backdrop of shelf upon shelf of leather covers, she stood like a vision, her blonde curls cascading beneath the brim of her hat like a golden exotic plant.
‘I had no idea you would be in Europe so soon, my dear,’ Maria said.
‘Neither did I.’ Ramona grinned. ‘But the letter Thys and I were waiting for when you came to visit arrived only two days after you departed. I made my journey on the Jury shortly after you left. I was sorry that it didn’t fit together more seamlessly. It would have been preferable to travel with you aboard the Bittersweet, of course.’
Maria blushed. Ramona’s presence would have changed matters. The inappropriate intimacy of dinner on deck, for a start. ‘So you packed quickly in the end.’ She remembered the girl’s nonchal
ance at Henderson’ suggestion for her speedy departure.
Ramona shrugged. ‘I had help, of course, but packing is so tiresome, don’t you agree? I occasionally wonder how many dresses one can actually wear,’ she whispered, as if the matter were a scandal. ‘All the fuss. Dressing and dressing and dressing endlessly. As my aunt is an invalid, however, I am spared the greater part of such troubles. We do not eat a formal dinner and I expect I shall venture out rarely.’
The door opened once more and a footman entered, carrying two boxes parcelled with brown paper and string.
‘Dawson is looking after me,’ Ramona smiled brightly. ‘Aunt Birgette insisted that I should not go shopping by myself. So English.’
Dawson bowed and Maria noticed the stern expression on the man’s face. The girl’s life here must be quite different after riding across the tropical hills discovering native customs, being the mistress of her own home, and given her head by a tolerant brother. She felt a flood of sympathy for Ramona’s confinement.
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, London is one of my favourite cities,’ Ramona declared, quite unperturbed. ‘If I end up living in Europe, I hope I live here.’
‘Do you still ride in the park, Miss Bagdorf? I recall you said you’d learned while you were here as a child.’
Ramona shook her head. ‘No. Not this trip. Not yet.’
‘And how is your aunt’s health?’ Maria enquired.
‘She isn’t at all well,’ the girl admitted. ‘That is why I have come today. I hoped to find something to read to her. She can sit up in bed but would find it difficult to manage a book on her own. It will take her some time to recover, I expect. It’s always nice to listen to a story while you’re convalescing, don’t you think? Like being a child again.’
On Starlit Seas Page 29