Henderson shook his head. ‘No – just game and potatoes will be fine. And a pudding to follow. Something English.’
The waiter looked startled at the suggestion that Rules was an establishment that might indulge in the service of foreign food. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled, and headed for the kitchens.
‘So.’ Fry leaned over the table. ‘We have at least one of our gentlemen smugglers in our sights and we’ll find the others. Worst ways, we can employ the means my brother would – servants talk endlessly about their masters and their masters’ friends. The serving classes know far more about our lives than we know about theirs. You wouldn’t believe how much we’ve picked up – recipes, techniques – all by chatting to a housemaid. But, Captain, that’s only a portion of what I promised. There is, in addition, the matter of Mr Murray and the lady. You were hoping to raise the value of your stock with Mrs Graham, were you not?’
Henderson nodded silently. He had behaved unforgivably. The glimpses he had seen of polite London confirmed the gravity of his actions.
Fry continued. ‘So, in that case, you must first call on Mr Murray. In your own right. You want to write your treatise, don’t you? We must see to that and make no mention of Mrs Graham. Not a word. If Murray commissions your idea that itself will raise your stock. And after that, we’ll address ourselves to your suit.’
Henderson was suddenly unsure what his suit might be. Maria seemed beyond him now. Seeing her name printed in The Times, he had realised how great were her achievements. He had offered a mere promise to replace something concrete and most certainly worthwhile. He had been selfish, childish even. Still, as Fry said, there were other matters in hand before that need be considered.
‘We’ve got to get on with finding these fellows.’ The captain caught sight of a waiter approaching the table with a promising salver of meat and potatoes. Behind him, another man bore a bottle of claret.
Fry’s eyes gleamed as the food and drink was laid down. He accosted the waiter. ‘I’m looking for an old friend. A Scotsman named Grant. He eats here often, I believe. Lives on Tavistock Street. You wouldn’t know the number of his residence?’
The waiter shook his head. ‘Mr Grant. No, sir. But Tavistock Street is only round the corner beyond Covent Garden. I’d try there. His neighbours will know of him.’
Fry stuck his fork into a crisp potato. ‘I suppose they will,’ he mused. ‘Very good, we’ll give that a try.’
*
Fortified by claret and an excellent meal that culminated in a sticky, raisin-studded pudding the like of which was only available in England, Fry and Henderson burst onto London’s streets. English vittles were most satisfying. The captain resolved he must see that Big Al Thatcher was supplied to produce such delights.
It was early in the afternoon and Mr Grant had not chosen to dine at Rules. Watched eagerly by flocks of small boys loitering on the pavement, drays pulled by enormous carthorses delivered barrels of beer to public houses on the fringes of Soho.
‘Tavistock Street,’ Fry directed, and they turned towards Aldwych.
Henderson was happy to let the young gentleman have his head. Fry seemed capable of negotiating this side of London with ease – Maria’s world was like a spider’s web. The captain’s sense was that if you really knew your way in Piccadilly and Covent Garden, you could fashion the world to your specifications. In London, anything was possible.
In a haze of red wine, it was easy to block out the filthy streets that lay behind the veneer and to ignore the pickpockets and ne’er-do-wells hovering on the fringes, peering from behind Covent Garden’s colonnades as the men cut towards Grant’s residence. Tavistock Street was highly respectable and far grander than the back street where Henderson had been brought up. Here the buildings were wide and ran to four storeys, occupied by fashionable families of all stripes. At this time of the day, society was making its calls in many of the fashionable first-floor drawing rooms. So many carriages waited outside the more popular residences that the footmen jostled to smoke in peace as they attended the pleasure of their masters and mistresses. The horses kicked the cobbles, forming a veritable herd that left the road only open to one-way traffic.
‘Do you know, by any chance, which of these houses is occupied by Mr Grant?’ Fry enquired of a man who was brushing a horse’s mane.
The footman declared himself ignorant. ‘Never heard of him. Here, Rodney,’ he shouted along the row. ‘You ’eard of a Mr Grant?’
‘Scotch fellow,’ Fry added, helpfully.
Rodney peered from inside the next carriage. ‘No,’ he said, mystified. ‘Sorry.’
Further enquiries proved no more fruitful. Fry was pragmatic. ‘What we need is a house where no one is at home.’ He crossed the street to view the line of first floors. ‘That one.’ He pointed at number 34.
The windows were dark and, on the first floor, the drawing room was apparently unoccupied. A rap on the brass knocker was answered by a jolly-looking maid with an air of competence. The girl’s frame filled the open space so that neither Fry nor Henderson could see into the hallway behind. She bobbed a solid curtsey, emanating a scent of polishing wax and potato peelings.
‘I need some help.’ Fry’s smile was charming. ‘I’m looking for Charlie Grant. He lives along here. Man on his own. Scotch. Might you be able to help?’
The maid’s smile spread like soft butter and she glowed at the prospect of being of assistance. ‘Yes, sir. Mr Grant is at number 18. But he’ll be out, I expect. Perhaps with Mrs Hamilton at 25.’
Henderson laughed as the door closed and the men turned back onto the street. Society had a tiny orbit – inexplicable from the outside but, for those in the know, a very comfortable club. He wondered about the nature of Grant’s relationship with Mrs Hamilton. Fry strutted towards number 18.
‘Francis always says servants are the key. He befriended Menier’s bootboy. It proved the key to uncovering the French process.’
‘The bootboy knew his master’s chocolate recipe?’
‘No. But the bootboy knew two of the girls who worked in the manufactory. Servants see everything. All the comings and goings. All the secrets and the lies.’
At number 18 it seemed no one might answer, until a thin butler appeared in the doorway.
‘Is Mr Grant at home?’ Henderson asked, trying out this bluff world of gentlemen.
The butler paused. ‘No, sir. Shall I say who called?’
‘Thing is,’ Fry said, ‘it’s not Mr Grant we’re after, but his friend, Mr Fisher. Might you be able to direct us to Mr Fisher’s residence? We are hopelessly lost, old man.’
The butler’s lips pursed as if this was a great inconvenience. Gentlemen were expected to know the whereabouts of other gentlemen. That was the nature of the club. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I am unacquainted with Mr Fisher.’ The man barely opened his lips.
‘Or Mr Hayward. Hayward would do,’ Fry said. ‘But we simply must track down one of them. It’s a matter of an important investment.’
The butler weighed this up. Mr Grant seldom received callers – as an unmarried gentleman, he was invariably the one to call on others. The man’s eyes flicked towards Mrs Hamilton’s house, where he knew his master to be engaged in the matter of society. ‘Investment? I see.’
‘Well, if you know where Mr Grant is, we can call on him directly, but it’s Hayward or Fisher we need to speak to.’ Fry appeared nonchalant. ‘When will he be back? We heard he was with Mrs Hamilton. I suppose we could call on him there.’
The butler paused before deciding that Mr Grant would not wish to be troubled by a financial matter. Giving the details for one of the master’s acquaintances to two gentlemen callers of good standing was one thing, but allowing him to be disturbed while he was out was quite another. ‘The Hayward family, I believe, resides nearby,’ the man drawled. ‘The house is on Exeter Street.’ The butler pointed along the pavement. ‘Go to the end and turn right. It’s about halfway along.’
Fry doffed his
hat. Given two choices, a good servant would almost always decide not to trouble his employer. ‘Most obliged.’ Fry smiled. ‘Thank you.’
Exeter Street was smaller and quieter than Tavistock Street. Both sides of the pavement were in shade, so that the street felt like a tunnel. The Hayward residence stood out without having to make any enquiries – halfway along there was a lamp adorned with the same coat of arms that had been displayed on the side of Hayward’s carriage the night before. It was painted so thickly that the feathers were a nondescript crust and the visor of the helmet would be impossible for a knight to see through. Still, it was there.
‘Do you expect they’re in?’ Henderson craned to see if there was any movement in the upstairs windows.
Fry shrugged and approached the knocker. This time, the door was answered immediately by another butler, almost a carbon copy of the man in charge of Grant’s household. Henderson wondered momentarily if the men were brothers. The hallway revealed behind him was exquisitely ornate. It framed the tiny man as if he were a painting – something modern.
‘Sir.’ The butler peered along the street, as if he had been expecting someone else. ‘I’m afraid there is nobody at home.’
‘I wonder if you can help me. I called on Mr Hayward only because I’m looking for his friend, Mr Fisher. Could you direct me to Mr Fisher’s residence, please?’
‘Lord Hayward.’ The butler could not help but correct this mistake.
‘Yes. Yes. Met the fellows over cards, you see.’ Fry brushed off the correction casually. ‘Do you happen to know His Lordship’s friend Fisher?’
The butler shook his head. ‘No, sir. I am not acquainted with that gentleman.’
‘There’s a Mrs Fisher,’ a female voice said from inside the house. The butler turned and a lady’s maid appeared from a side room. ‘Mrs Fisher calls on Her Ladyship from time to time. She lives in Garrick Street. Towards Leicester Fields.’
The butler cut her off. ‘Thank you, Brownleigh.’ Fry got the impression she was going to say more but, as far as the butler was concerned, that was quite enough.
‘Ah, Garrick Street, of course. Yes.’ Fry sounded bluff. ‘Thank you, miss.’ He peered around the butler’s legs. The maid was pretty. ‘How helpful.’
The butler closed the door and the men set off.
‘Mr Grant, Mr Fisher and Lord Hayward,’ Fry smirked as if ticking the names off a list. ‘We have found them out.’
As they walked back towards the main road, Henderson pondered that this round of social calls to a series of opulent houses located on London’s nicer streets and run by efficient staff was like being given a tour of the life to which he might aspire. This was a place where everyone knew everyone else, or at least knew of them. Still, it occurred to him, not one of the grand residences had felt like a home – each had the atmosphere of a lodging. Perhaps it was only people who could bestow the title of home upon a residence. Perhaps, it occurred to him, it was love.
*
On Garrick Street, there were several gaps in the line of houses and construction was underway. The area was mixed, in part on the rise but lapsing in places into what could only be described as slums. Some of these more tumbledown buildings seemed to be in the process of demolition, while others, rickety and half-timbered, were alive with activity. Boys flitted to and fro with messages and women gazed laconically out of the grubby windows, hoping for trade of one kind of another. Many of the street’s front doors lay open and led onto what looked like public houses. Up side streets, signs jutted overhead – B. Bowman Wigmaker and Oliver Bradstock Purveyor of Fine Haberdashery. The newly built stone residences on the main street were more formal. Fry enquired of a maid, about her business with a basket on her arm, where Mr Fisher resided and was pointed to a grand edifice of Portland stone on the corner of Rose Street. It was far larger than the homes of Hayward or Grant. Fisher had clearly decided to risk a more mixed area, further from town, in order to secure all but palatial accommodation. They had picked just the right fellow to threaten with disgrace. He clearly cared about how things appeared.
‘Do you think he will be in?’ Fry asked.
‘I hope so.’
The windows were dark but that was not conclusive.
‘If someone was set to call on me with a large sum of money and a wrap of gemstones, I might tarry,’ the captain said.
‘Come on then.’
Henderson laid a hand on Fry’s chest to stop the boy advancing any further. ‘You’re not coming in, Richard. Wait for me over there.’ The captain nodded at an overflowing public house across the road.
‘But—’ the boy objected.
Henderson stopped him with a raised hand, as if he was training a dog. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You’ve helped enough. The connection to your family is too vulnerable and they think you are a pauper. If they hear you are a Fry, it will only arm them. This is my business. Go. Play dice. These are dangerous men. If I’m not out directly, then come looking.’
Fry nodded curtly ‘All right,’ he said unwillingly. ‘I’ll be your lookout.’ He turned to cross the road.
Henderson took the steps and, checking the boy was out of sight, knocked on the wide front door. It creaked as it opened, revealing a lavishly attired footman. The man had wide shoulders. He looked like a chap who could hold his own in a fight, though his ornate costume belied it.
‘Is Mr Fisher at home?’ Henderson asked.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘An old friend from Brazil.’
The man hesitated before disappearing inside. Henderson took a deep breath. He must get this right. Almost immediately, the fellow returned to usher the captain across the impressive hallway, tiled in black and white. Inside, if anything, the house was grander than its exterior. The captain’s footsteps echoed around the high ceiling. Ornamentation dripped from the balustrades. The sconces were sculpted in crystal and the plasterwork was gilded. It was like visiting a palace or a cathedral. The street was sunny, but inside the temperature dropped. Henderson shivered as if someone had walked on his grave. The footman guided the captain into an empty library, which was lined on all sides with tall bookshelves. Henderson perused the titles and took in the leather chairs placed at intervals and the mahogany desk tidily stacked with papers. Behind it was a wooden upright chest sporting several brass locks.
‘The lair of a gentleman,’ he muttered.
The air was so heavy with the smell of musty paper and leather that it was difficult to breath. His heart speeded up. He peered out of a mullioned window onto a small garden at the rear. A maid was hanging laundered sheets on a line strung between two trees. Everything here murmured tradition. The captain was disturbed by a cough, which came from behind.
Fisher stood four-square in the doorway. He was wearing a burgundy frock coat with brass buttons and the rest of his outfit was buff. As Henderson took in the man’s appearance, he noted that Fisher was pretending not to be nervous. He felt exactly the same, though he hoped he was more effective at hiding his feelings. His skills at poker would stand him in good stead. At Fisher’s heels, two fat terriers waddled in and curled up by the fireplace.
‘My wife is out for the afternoon.’ Fisher closed the door. ‘The dogs belong to her.’
Henderson nodded. This was not a social call. There was no need to waste time. He reached inside his coat and withdrew three large pouches. Fisher crossed to the desk. ‘It’s all there,’ Henderson said. ‘Half of everything.’
‘We are due two-thirds.’
The captain remained silent. The men stared at each other. Then Fisher opened the pouches and poured the contents onto the desktop. The money was satisfying, but it was the rush of gemstones and small gold bars that held the attention.
‘I have a buyer.’
‘That concludes our business then,’ Henderson said.
Fisher looked up. ‘Not quite, Captain. The thing is, you have threatened our reputations. We do not take that lightly.’
&
nbsp; ‘I shall do so no longer, sir.’ Henderson smiled. ‘And I should point out that you tried to kill me. I hope our paths do not cross again.’ He turned towards the door.
‘Ha!’ The noise came out of Fisher’s mouth like a short, sharp blast on a foghorn. ‘No, you do not understand. You owe us another portion and we will have you run for us on the same terms. We have not changed our minds. The club is quite decided.’
‘I will not be pressed,’ Henderson replied, his eyes hard. ‘And I’m surprised that I need to remind you that you should not press me, given what I could reveal.’
‘And what might we reveal of you, sir?’
‘I have fought you off once,’ the captain started. ‘Do you really want to . . ?’
Fisher pulled out a copy of The Times from the drawer of his desk. ‘Mrs Graham,’ he said, his brown eyes searching for a reaction. ‘What might she make of this?’
Henderson’s blood ran cold, but he held his poker face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Man, your own crew belie any denial. They talk of scarcely anything else but this tawdry affair of yours. The lady shall be quite done for if it comes out. Why, if you care for her at all, you shall deliver our two-thirds and do as we ask. It’s not so bad, is it? The Brazilian run has proved profitable for you already. Did you really think we would not find something to hold over you when you nestled our reputations in your grubby hand? You look like a gentleman today. Myself, I’d choose a different waistcoat. But you aren’t a gentleman, are you? And, when it comes to it, Mrs Graham is no lady. Do you want the world to know?’
The captain’s mind raced. In such a situation, he knew that if he showed his hand Maria would lose everything. By having her at their mercy, they had him as well. And these men were pitiless. The only way out, he realised, was to make Fisher believe that he did not care. He raised a smile.
‘You are at least half correct in your assumptions. Mrs Graham is not a lady, sir,’ he said, the words turning in his gullet. ‘And if you thought to hold me by threatening her, then you are sadly mistaken. Such women are ten a penny. Bitches, all.’
On Starlit Seas Page 32