‘You deny the affair?’
‘No, sir,’ he said strongly. There was no point. Who knew what they’d heard from the crew. ‘Nor do I deny it is over. If you wish to tar Mrs Graham with your brush, then go ahead. I shall, of course retaliate with what I know. The secret society enjoyed by yourself and your fellows will capture the imagin-ation of the scandal sheets far more than a fallen woman – a bluestocking, at that. People will wonder what you get up to in Mallow Street. They will wonder if what I say about you is true even if you never set foot in the place again. My guess is you couldn’t afford that, could you? Not with such a fine mansion to keep up. A place like this. You must keep the shipments arriving.’
Fisher puffed. A small vein in his temple throbbed – a tell. He had not expected Hayward’s ruse to work. Now he set it aside and decided he could not let the captain leave. He’d wanted to kill him all along. Laconically, he turned and opened a hidden door concealed in the spines of a set of books. Inside was a drinks cabinet. He poured a glass of brandy from a crystal flagon and gulped it down. ‘Would you like one?’
Henderson shook his head.
‘It’s a good year, from the cellar of a friend.’ Fisher ignored the captain’s refusal. He refilled two glasses and handed one over. ‘It’s bad luck to drink alone. You are off the hook, sir. And you cannot blame a fellow for trying.’
‘I can and I do,’ Henderson objected. ‘I have never known the like and I’ve been running goods for more than a dozen years into America.’
‘Ah, Americans,’ Fisher declared with distaste. ‘Why, they do not even choose a king when they have the chance. Please. No hard feelings.’
Henderson picked up the glass. The liquor was the colour of toffee and it smelled of burnt sugar. He sipped. Fisher was right. It tasted good.
‘A fellow has to try,’ the older man continued. ‘My wife, you see, can be demanding. It takes two-thirds to keep her happy. I hoped I might reason with you.’
‘You can’t try to murder a fellow and expect to negotiate what you want. I came to your offices in good faith and I have delivered in good faith too. But I’ll not haggle or be subjected to this kind of blackmail – and on the good name of a lady! I have no care for Mrs Graham, but, still, it is both low and unnecessary.’
Fisher changed tack. ‘How is the boy? Dick, isn’t it?’
‘He’ll recover.’
Henderson downed the drink and laid his empty glass on the desk. Fisher looked pained; his shoulders dropped.
The captain continued. ‘Now, to be clear, I spent the day visiting the houses of Mr Grant and Mr Hayward. Or Lord Hayward, isn’t it? So, Mr Fisher, I recall to you the terms of the deal that you are accepting, by dint of the payment I just made. This matter is concluded, sir. And should you choose to pursue it, there will be revelations and damn Mrs Graham in the crossfire. My intention – my hope, rather – is that I might simply disappear from your notice. I’m certain you must have more important business.’
Henderson’s thumbnail was cutting into the cushion of his hand so sharply he feared he might draw blood. He examined Fisher for any sign that he had not played his part. He hoped he had saved her. There was still time to backtrack if he had to. He held Maria’s face in his mind’s eye.
‘Very well,’ Fisher snapped.
Henderson smiled. ‘I hope Mrs Fisher will be happy.’ He turned. ‘And with that, I bid you good day.’
Fisher emerged from behind the desk as if to walk the captain out. ‘I built the place to my own design,’ he said. ‘I like an old-fashioned library. You’d wager it had been here a hundred years, wouldn’t you?’
Henderson laid his fingers on the handle of the door. His palm was clammy, he noticed, but then he had had a shock. Fisher closed his left hand over the top of the knob. The captain squirmed. He pulled back, but he wasn’t quick enough, and at close quarters Fisher’s right fist hit him square in the face, slamming the back of his head hard against the wood. He felt woozy, but he lashed out, knocking Fisher onto the patterned carpet. The dogs barked but didn’t move from the fire. Fisher laughed, heaving the sound from deep inside his chest. He pulled himself up as the captain staggered to his feet. Henderson thought he might vomit. A bitter taste was building. It seemed to come from his chest.
‘You won’t last more than another minute,’ Fisher said. ‘It’s the oldest trick in the book. Powders in the glass.’
Suddenly, behind Fisher’s head, the window appeared to sparkle as if the garden was beset by fairies. Henderson blinked, his eyelids heavy. How could he have been so naive?
‘You won’t get what you want if you kill me,’ he blurted. ‘There’s no more money that way.’
‘We won’t be unmanned. We can’t have you threatening us.’ Fisher smiled, pressing a button so that a door clicked open in the wall of books. ‘My design,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Ten feet by ten feet, and no one knows it’s there.’
He returned to put an arm around Henderson’s shoulders and, with his elbow jabbed painfully into the captain’s ribs, he guided him towards the hidden room. The captain had lost the capacity for speech. His mind was crowding. He couldn’t remember exactly what he was doing here. In the windowless gloom, Henderson made out a stack of paintings of naked women – why were none of them Maria? His eyes dimmed. Fisher’s voice was an echo.
‘My wife wouldn’t like my little collection,’ he admitted, pushing the captain into a corner.
He fetched a length of rope and tied Henderson’s arms. The terriers were still yapping, though it sounded as they were further away, in the street perhaps. Henderson tried to lift his head, but it was too heavy. The room heaved. Were they on a ship? Were they at sea? What had he done to her?
‘Jewellery,’ Fisher said contentedly as he tied the knot. ‘That’s what I always say. Copious jewellery and your attention over breakfast. Keeps any woman happy and you can do whatever you like.’
28
Piccadilly
Maria arrived a little early for Murray’s salon, at the publisher’s own request. She took the news of Sir Horace’s refusal of her talk, and the resultant unlikelihood of her being accepted at the Royal Society, rather better than Murray expected.
‘My goodness.’ She smiled, her eyes bright and with a look that Murray could only describe as mischievous. ‘You’ve caused a stir, John. Perhaps we must simply come to terms with the fact that certain of our friends will never accept the notion of a lady with a mind of her own.’
Nervous of Maria’s reaction, Murray had downed half a bottle of port before she arrived and now it was spreading a pleasant tide of warmth through his body. His eyes were round as soft-boiled eggs, halved and ready to be consumed. He had thought Maria would be distraught. That she would blame him. Now, he smiled.
‘The truth is that a lady must do what she can,’ Maria continued smoothly, ‘and in this situation, we can only hope the books will be well received by those broad-minded enough to read them without judgement. As you know, that does not include members of my own family, who disregard the good notices of society because I am a woman. As for the glory of the Royal Society, well, it was a lot to hope for and I am not entirely convinced it would be a pleasant excursion. They gave Margaret Cavendish a dreadful time.’
‘That was over a hundred years ago,’ Murray said. They had called her Mad Madge. ‘Some lady must be first,’ he commented.
Maria got up. She walked to the window. The muffled sound of hooves on beaten earth reached her as the carriages creaked by. Albemarle Street was bathed in summer sunlight. It hadn’t rained for two or three days.
‘Well, it’s hardly a battle worth engaging in. I shan’t be in London much longer.’
‘If you were a gentleman, you would not take this sleight so well,’ Murray pointed out.
A ghost of a smirk played across Maria’s face. ‘If I were a gentleman, I would call Sir Horace out, I expect. And as I cannot, you are angry on my behalf?’
Murray nodded.
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br /> ‘You men – always after blood. If Sir Horace is mistaken, I’m sure it will not be the first time or the last. And in this matter, I believe he is mistaken,’ she said coolly. ‘That is enough, don’t you think?’
A laugh escaped Murray’s lips.
‘We cannot,’ she continued smoothly, ‘exact our revenge on such people. Why, we would find ourselves at war with half the world.’ Maria sat tidily on the yellow sofa with her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. Her mind flitted to Georgiana and, for that matter, her aunt. It was the same over and over. One could not be held up by it. ‘It seems to me, Mr Murray, you don’t comprehend what it is to be a lady and a writer. That is the matter.’
Murray laughed. ‘Pray, tell me. How is it?’ The publisher leaned forward.
‘Sir, I’m a widow. I shall never have children. But I can leave my writings and I can teach the Princess Maria da Gloria. One day she may rule millions of people and perhaps some of my teachings will help her to make sound decisions. It sounds grand, I know. But how many childless women can leave such a legacy – not money or mere gossip or a flight of poetry, but something that might have a bearing on the world? Her Majesty wishes me to teach the princess not only sketching or deportment, but geography, history, mathematics, languages. A proper education. Can you imagine? We women are bred to fall in love, to put on charm alongside our other vestments – one as important as the other. This is a chance to educate a young woman who might someday be an Elizabeth! Sir Horace be damned. That and being able to write my journals gives me a voice – one that you amplify by publishing my words. Men such as Sir Horace may not listen, but that does not downplay the fact that I have said what I wish. I have seen the world. These are my concerns. And while there are things I must give up for that – the good services of my family, perhaps – it seems to me that for a lady lucky enough to have such opportunities, the Royal Society and Sir Horace Strange are by the by. I shall see the world and I shall understand as much of it as I can.’
And there it was. Murray sat back. She was simply the most admirable woman. Upon occasion, there was something historical about her. He published everyone, but some of his authors were simply made for posterity.
‘Have you everything you need, Maria? You know that if there is anything . . .’
Maria turned. There were two dresses still to arrive from the Calcotts’ seamstress, but they were on their way and Murray would not wish to be troubled by trifles. In addition, her finances looked remarkably healthy. Murray had put a most generous price on her books. Maria had visited a few private galleries and strolled round the new public gallery at Dulwich with the Calcotts. She had amassed a small library to take back to Rio and had called on almost all her old acquaintances. She had also bought a leather pouch to house Calcott’s miniature of her father, which she had taken to carrying with her at all times. It was nestled now in the drawstring bag she had laid on Murray’s side table. Lady Dundas was surly but as close to placated as might be hoped. Georgiana was beyond help. All in all, Maria was set. There was no place for Henderson in her future. There could not be. This fact still stung her, but no progress could be made without some losses. She bore up.
‘I have your friendship, sir and your role as a staunch supporter besides. What more might I require?’
The question hung.
The butler came into the room. ‘Mr Smyth is here, and Mr Gulliver,’ he announced.
‘Afternoon tea?’ Murray offered. In Maria’s flight of passion, he had forgotten there were other guests. ‘Oh. Yes. Bring them up.’ He waved off the butler.
‘My dear.’ He leaned in confidentially, knowing only a few seconds remained before they would be in company. ‘You will promise me, though, should you have another chance for marital contentment . . . You are still young enough . . . and what is a life without love? You would not give up that, I hope.’
Maria’s hand lighted on the drawstring bag. Her stomach jumped. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. Had she given herself away? She searched Murray’s face and realised that the enquiry was general. She put his mind at rest. ‘Another fellow like Thomas, you mean? I can’t imagine I should ever be so fortunate,’ she said. ‘I am content, John. Really I am. I have made my choices and they are good ones.’
Murray wavered. It was on the tip of his tongue to enquire as to Maria’s happiness. Goodness was important, but, still, it was happiness that made a life. Then the door opened and Mr Smyth entered with his hand held out and John Murray abandoned the idea. It had, after all, probably been foolish.
*
In Garrick Street, Fry had decided to wait half an hour before he took any action. He bought a tankard of small beer at the bar and eyed a game of crown and anchor that was under way in the corner of the room between keeping a check on Fisher’s front door. It was, he was positive, no more than twenty minutes after Henderson had disappeared inside when the door opened and Fisher emerged and slipped into the back of a carriage that pulled round. Fry considered. Fisher had left the house alone, which meant the captain must still be inside, and that, most assuredly, was not right.
He laid his tankard on a table. There was no evidence of any wrongdoing visible through the house’s black windows, but Fry was curious. Leaving a coin for the serving girl, he crossed the road, dodging the stinking manure that had built up in the absence of a sweeper. Garrick Street was too mixed to merit the prompt attention on offer for gentlemen traversing the roads around Piccadilly. Fry turned the corner. On Rose Street, Fisher’s house had a side gate, but it was locked. He peered over the top. The back garden was laid to grass and he could see no movement in the windows beyond it.
Returning to the street, Fry knocked on the front door and awaited the sturdy footman. ‘My friend, Captain Henderson called here earlier,’ he said when the door opened. ‘I’m looking for him.’
‘The gentleman from Brazil?’
‘Yes.’
‘He left, sir. With Mr Fisher.’
Fry studied the man’s face, which was entirely impassive. There was something of the bulldog about him. Fry knew better than to argue with an English footman, valet or butler in the matter of who was or wasn’t home. There was no bringing them round. ‘I see. Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll look for my friend elsewhere.’
The footman closed the door. Fry tarried on the step, considering his course of action. There seemed nothing for it but to get inside the house. Henderson was definitely still inside. He turned smartly towards the side gate, where he paused to check that he had aroused no notice. Then, with some effort, he pulled himself over the top. Without hesitation, he dodged between the lines of drying washing and sneaked towards the rear. From the basement, a wispy cloud of steam rose from a vent in the kitchen window and inside there was a flurry of activity as a maid and a cook fussed over the long table.
Fry looked up. Ahead of him, on the ground floor, there were three rooms to the rear, one of them a library. With Fisher out, there would be no resident of the house in there. The library was the domain of the master. This made it the perfect point of entry. Looking round, he fetched an empty barrel that lay to one side of an outhouse and levered himself onto the windowsill. Then he painfully smashed his elbow through one of the small mullioned panes and reached gingerly through the ragged glass to open the window and step inside.
Mrs Fisher’s dogs were stationed by the fireplace. As Fry’s feet landed on the carpet, they sniffed the air. One of them let out a solitary bark as if in greeting and then the terriers waddled over, tails wagging. Richard dropped to his haunches and petted them.
‘There, there,’ he said, comforting himself as much as the animals, his stomach was turning over. If he was caught here, God knows what they might do to him. ‘Now,’ he said to the dogs, ‘where’s the captain?’
By logic, Henderson must be restrained. In a house such as this, there might be any number of storerooms and cupboards, the most secure of which was usually near the kitchen and housed the silver. It would b
e tricky to get into. Richard crossed the room and the dogs trotted at his side. When he reached the door, he listened and put his eye to the keyhole. The dogs barked. ‘Shush,’ he said.
The hall appeared deserted. Richard listened. If they had taken the captain, he would fight and there might be some kind of noise. On the other side of the hallway, a grandfather clock ticked loudly. Apart from that, the silence was absolute. Richard steeled himself and was about to hazard crossing the hallway to investigate when, behind him, the dogs barked again and one of them made a whining sound. He turned to reprimand the animal. It might be a large house, but a barking dog might draw attention. Both terriers were on the other side of the room, one of them bouncing up and down against a bookshelf. Fry laughed. The little animals were eccentric – quite loveable really. Still, he must get on – Henderson needed him. He decided to search methodically – the top of the house (where there should be fewer people and, therefore, where he should be safer) to the bottom.
Fry turned the doorknob and was about to slip into the hallway and make for the stairs when he heard a maid approaching. His heart pounding, he curled back into the room and squatted, watching the girl through the keyhole as she crossed the black-and-white tiles with a bucket of coal in her hand. The dogs had stopped barking now, but one of them was still knocking himself silly off the row of books.
‘What on earth are you up to?’ Richard hissed as he crept across to investigate.
The terriers appeared to be interested in the writing of Plato. Fry touched the book. The dog barked again and its fellow appeared by its side as Richard grabbed its snout. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered.
One terrier wagged his tail as the other continued to butt himself against the classics. With half an eye on the door, Fry removed a book. ‘Plato?’ he asked.
This was foolish. Then he noticed the rim of the bookcase. It was flush, but the edges were split. You had to be close to notice it, but there was a thin outline the size of a door embedded in the frame. Fry grinned. He stroked the dog. ‘I don’t suppose you feel like telling me how to open it?’ He looked around.
On Starlit Seas Page 33