‘Ah,’ he said, ‘we have a reply.’
The men formed a group around the fireplace. When the footman brought the note, Fisher held it up. It was sealed with green wax and written in a good hand. Fisher turned it over and shooed the man away. As the door closed, he cracked the seal.
‘Well?’ Grant strained.
Fisher read quickly and handed over the paper. ‘Bastard,’ he said.
Gentlemen, I firstly want to assure you that the fire of yesterday was not set by me. When my fellows rescued me, they were understandably vexed on my behalf. I only heard of their actions upon rising after a long sleep induced by your brandy. I wish to apologise heartily for what they did, but if you will persist in trying to kill me, I expect such matters will continue. I also wish to issue an invitation to Lord Hayward – a peer of the realm and a fellow I hope I can trust. Sir, if you would like to finish this matter to the satisfaction of us all, I suggest we meet tomorrow morning at 11 at the offices of my acquaintance, Mr John Murray, at 50 Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. I have chosen this address because if you were to attempt to kill me there, you would certainly be charged, and if I were to harm you, the same would apply. It is a gentleman’s address and I hope we will all behave as gentlemen while we are there. Mr Murray is unaware of our situation, but he is an accommodating fellow. Will you risk it? I admit you have a great deal held over me, but you will find I am not unarmed. If you carry out your threat against my ship, I promise you a bloody breakfast, and if you carry through your threat against the lady’s reputation then I will do worse. It would be better to parlay. I hope I can bring us to agreement and will spend today endeavouring to arrange the means to do so.
Grant let the letter drop from his fingers into the fire and watched it curl in the iron basket. His eyes were alight. ‘How interesting. Do you think he might give us more money? The means to do so. Is that what he’s referring to? If so, we should get our hands on that before we do anything else – the third share that was owing.’
‘To hell with that. If we go tonight, we can burn him alive in his ship,’ Fisher spat.
Hayward sat on a richly upholstered chair. He sighed. His eyes fell to a chessboard, which was in play on the other side of the room. Even from here he could make out the best move. Fisher must play with his wife – only a woman could possibly mount such a vulnerable defence. He could mate in two moves in two different ways. The peer got up and played black. It was disappointing that both his business partners so lacked vision.
‘He’s intriguing, isn’t he? Well, Fisher, I think for once you are right. Let’s see what the fellow has to say for himself. We can disgrace the woman afterwards if we want to. I think I shall meet him before deciding what’s best. I’ll go to Murray’s tomorrow, and if we still want to kill the man afterwards, what’s to stop us?’
‘You mean at Murray’s?’ Fisher sounded shocked.
‘Certainly not. But we can pull him into a carriage if we choose and take him to Mallow Street. He thinks an address in Piccadilly will save him? The impudence of it! Still, I’d like to hear what he has to say.’
‘I shall come with you,’ Grant swore.
Hayward nodded. ‘If you wish. You can wait in the carriage. But I say let’s play his game for now. I, for one, am intrigued.’
Fisher licked his lips greedily. ‘And if there is more money—’ he started.
Hayward cut in. ‘If there is money to be had, then we shall have it, dear fellow.’
Fisher wandered over and stood on the other side of the chessboard. He played a white bishop to the front lines. ‘All right,’ he said, resigned ‘Should I come too?’
‘You have enough to do here, I imagine, old man. Leave this to Grant and I. We shall send news as soon as we have it.’
The truth was, Lord Hayward wanted to keep Fisher out of the way. This had to be dealt with competently and, though deadly in the confines of the Old Street Bridge Club, Fisher didn’t have what it took to kidnap a man in the street or, indeed, blackmail a fellow effectively enough to assure the best outcome. Henderson had escaped from his house after he had administered poison. What kind of fool could still lose from a position of such advantage?
‘And if you take him to Mallow Street?’ Fisher enquired.
‘We will wait for you. Of course,’ Hayward promised as he brought up his queen. ‘Checkmate,’ he announced.
Grant laughed. It was a cruel sound, and Fisher fumbled with his cravat. ‘Very well, very well,’ he said, saved from his humiliation by the butler announcing Mr Notman, who provided an immediate excuse to motion his friends to the door. ‘Yes, I have quite enough to see to,’ he said airily. ‘There’s a great deal to do. But we will kill him, Hayward, will we not?’
Hayward knocked over the white king.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I’m only curious, is all. And this way is neater. I’d hate to miss our mark and tomorrow, at least, we know where he is going to be.’
30
St James’s
John Murray rode out in the morning. He enjoyed a canter in the park. It put his mind in the right frame for a few hours’ work until it was time for his salon. On Rotten Row, he greeted fellow riders as he passed, for Hyde Park was a hub of sociable encounters. The light was exceptionally pleasant today. There really was nothing quite like an English summer. The trees cast long and complicated shadows, and the sky was a pleasing shade of blue. The smell of grass, which a small army of gardeners were presently scything, rolled in waves towards his nostrils, and the sound of horse brasses, hammering hooves and voices raised in discourse floated back and forth. Much of London society was arrayed in smart riding gear or seated elegantly in glossy leather-upholstered buggies, open to the air. The Sidmouth sisters raced their mounts, and gentlemen passing time with their mistresses slowed the pace so they could talk. Some ladies preferred to walk, their parasols aloft, but most of the excitement was around the track as people made the best of their last week or two in town. Soon London would all but empty as society took off for the countryside in the wake of the good weather. The Thames had already started its summer stink and in London a fellow was never far from the river. It was not only unpleasant to stay but also dangerous. Murray was set to visit relations in Scotland for a month. Mrs Murray had been looking forward to it.
When he had had taken the air, London’s foremost publisher trotted back to Albemarle Street. The costermongers were out in full force and several of the kitchen maids had been sent up to street level to avail the household of the best of the fruit from London’s market gardens, coming into season. Murray hoped his cook had thought to buy peaches and perhaps some raspberries, of which he was particularly fond – spots of bright blood in the sea of cream on his plate. As the publisher handed over his mount and strode into his shady hallway, the butler approached.
‘Captain Henderson is waiting in the drawing room,’ he said.
Murray searched to recollect the name. Ah yes, the fellow who had called for Maria. An early visitor. Whatever might he want? Murray handed over his hat and gloves and took the stairs at a stride. The ride had been most invigorating.
Henderson was stationed by the long windows, one eye on the street. As Murray entered, he held out his hand.
‘Might I interest you in some refreshment, Captain?’ Murray enquired.
Henderson professed himself perfectly satisfied. ‘I come with a project in mind, sir. I wondered if I might discuss it?’ he said, his tone serious and yet convivial, just as he’d practised with Fry.
It had all been leading to this morning. If he put a foot wrong, he might be dead by lunchtime, and Maria ruined too. He hoped that Murray would never know the half of it. But this was the only respectable place in London he had a reason to call.
The publisher’s blue eyes sparkled. He never tired of new proposals. It was part of his success that even when for weeks on end not a single idea was of interest, he still gave consideration to whatever came his way. Many of Murray’s most popular pub
lications were the result of a chance meeting or an unsolicited manuscript. Miss Austen, whose books had received limited critical acclaim but sold by the gross, and, for that matter, many of the scientific publications that he had produced, which provoked debate worldwide, had their genesis in moments of chance, just like this one.
‘Certainly.’ Murray smiled. ‘What had you in mind?’
‘I have been based in Brazil, as you know, and what I have in mind is cacao. It’s a fascinating plant and a delicate one, difficult to farm – an exotic crop that has been a luxury here for hundreds of years. I was brought up in part on a plantation and chocolate has been my cargo for the last fifteen years. I should like to write about it. I will have to search out someone to illustrate this venture – the seedpods are quite beautiful and lend the plantations a particular wildness. There are native recipes that employ chilli or nutmeg, which they use for ritual purposes – meditation, and medication too. The drink has a reputation in Europe for lavishness and allure. From the seed to the cup, I thought. Do you think such an endeavour might be of interest?’
Murray took a seat by the fireplace and considered Henderson’s appearance. The fellow was well dressed, and the rough edge he had, the sea captain in him, suited him well. At least this time he hadn’t mentioned Maria. Murray thought of the books already available on this subject. Sloane had written a great deal about cacao, but that was almost a century before. There was nothing of popular interest that he could think of.
‘I should need to see how you write, Captain, before I can commit myself, but yes, readers often enjoy discourse of a botanical nature and there are many chocolate devotees. Mrs Murray, herself, is one. Such a book could do well. How might you approach it?’
‘The different varieties of cacao produce different flavours. There is criollo from Brazil and elsewhere in South America. Trinidad has its own varieties – all different to cultivate. I’d like to write about that. The farms, the methods and the processing of the beans, as well as their uses in the kitchen and out of it.’
Murray nodded. The more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea. In addition to the botanical element, London loved to read about foreign climes. Good travel books sold in numbers and everyone was interested in the medicinal qual-ities of food.
‘If you could compose it as a personal journey, visiting plantations and describing what you find – the people who work there, the customs and superstitions as well as the botanical issues and recipes – then, yes, if you would do me the honour, I should very much like to read what you produce with a view to publication.’
A grin split the captain’s face and quite suddenly he had the air of a boy who had scored a point at a ball game. Smiling, he continued to hover at the window. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I was hoping that my friend Mr Fry of Bristol might write an introduction.’
Murray had heard of the Frys, but a botanist would be better than someone in trade – the author of the foreword should be eminent. Such a decision might make or break a book. There was no point in tackling that issue now, however. Instead, the publisher brushed it off. ‘We shall see. I may find a fellow to pen something for you.’ He crossed the room to lay a hand on the globe by his desk, where he peered at South America. Henderson joined him and helpfully pointed out Brazil and Trinidad.
‘Cacao only grows in tropical conditions,’ he said. ‘The latitudes form exact boundaries – there is no chocolate above or below them. The terrain must be perfect or the entire enterprise fails.’
Murray considered the area in question. ‘And longitude?’ he enquired.
‘Well, it stops at the sea.’
Henderson moved the globe. The latitudes he had pointed out ran across the Atlantic and his finger lighted upon the west coast of Africa. Something stirred. It occurred to him suddenly – might cacao be able to grow there, in another place along the correct latitude, but on the other side of the ocean? Henderson twitched as a candle lit in his mind. It was providence, surely. Almost as if the regions were somehow related – distant cousins torn apart. It might be possible. Imagine if it were.
Murray, oblivious, retreated to his seat, and Henderson tore his attention away from the Ivory Coast and recalled himself to the matters in hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see movement at Murray’s front door distorted through the uneven glass. The second and more dangerous part of his plan was coming into play. The church bells struck eleven of the clock, the hazy chimes from nearby Warwick Street sliding over the slates.
‘You have had a pleasant morning, then?’ He made idle conversation.
‘Riding,’ Murray admitted, still pink-cheeked.
Henderson waited. The clock on the mantle ticked. He felt his heart pumping as the butler entered the room.
‘Sir,’ he announced. ‘Lord Hayward is here.’
Murray stood up. ‘Hayward . . . Hayward . . .’ He was trying to recall the name.
‘That’s for me,’ Henderson said. ‘I sent a note to His Lordship. I wanted to introduce him, Mr Murray.’
Murray nodded, as acquiescent as expected. ‘Send him up, then,’ he said. ‘Any friend of yours is most welcome, Captain.’
This was how Henderson had seen it playing out. He steeled himself.
When Hayward entered the room, he was not in a friendly frame of mind. His eyes impassive, he made a slight bow in Murray’s direction and then blurted, ‘Well, sir. I am here, damn you.’
Henderson laughed, as if Hayward was a naughty child or simply in his cups. ‘I summoned you, Lord Hayward. I apologise for that.’
Hayward glared. He had come as bidden, but he would not put on a show for Murray. In fact, he looked as if he might strangle the captain with his bare hands. Henderson, however, remained calm, convivial even.
‘When I last met Mr Murray, I lacked manners,’ he admitted. ‘I hoped my acquaintance with a peer of the realm might reassure him. I wanted to introduce you.’
Murray put up his hand to allay any such assumption. ‘In this residence,’ he said, ‘ideas are of paramount importance. I like the idea of your book, Captain. It is always a pleasure to meet new friends, however. Lord Hayward might I offer you—’
‘Brandy,’ Hayward said, his eyes still on the captain.
Murray looked around. The decanters were not out – it was early. He rang for service and, frustrated, went to the door. ‘I shall have them fetch some,’ he said as he disappeared.
Hayward’s eyes lit up. ‘Your guard dog has gone.’ He smiled ominously. ‘And if you think you are protected here or anywhere else, you are greatly mistaken, Captain. We shall have you.’
Henderson knew he only had a moment. ‘I am trying to come to an accommodation where every one of us does not end up bloody, beaten or burnt, Lord Hayward. If you have me, I shall have you back, and how many of us will end up in an early grave? You strike me as the most intelligent of the gentlemen at Mallow Street, so let me put something to you. A proposition. Murray is not my only guard dog, sir. I have left letters in the event anything should happen to me or to the Bittersweet or, indeed, to Mrs Graham. They will be dispatched if you cause harm. And, sir, I have a record of your dealings. This is no longer a mere matter of reputation. It is a matter of the law. And what I have will see you swing.’
Hayward drew a slim cigar from his inside pocket. ‘Letters? Pah,’ he said as he lit up. ‘There are no records of our dealings, sir.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘I beg to differ. I found exactly that at Mr Fisher’s residence. Did you not know of it? It goes back years. A gross of silken cloth from Murmansk and a shipment of green tea from Canton in the last few weeks alone. A notebook.’
Hayward was a chess player, not a fellow for the cards. He betrayed his shock. These were indeed the last two shipments that had passed through the Bridge Club’s hands. Damn Fisher, he thought as his heart plummeted. The fool had been keeping accounts. He was obsessed with money – of course he had.
Henderson ignored Hayward’s distress an
d continued smoothly. ‘Until now I have been merely a captain in your eyes – a drudge – but Murray is commissioning me to write for him. I am to be established in London. So I am a gentleman, sir, like you. As such, we must come to terms.’
Hayward looked as if he might not take the trouble to remove the captain from his shoe, had he stepped on him. He grabbed Henderson by the lapels. ‘Gentleman,’ he spat. ‘I’ll kill you, and I’ll kill bloody Fisher too.’
‘What you do to Fisher is your business. But if you make me fight, I’ll unmask you,’ the captain growled, his face against the peer’s. ‘If anything happens to me or to Mrs Graham, the details will be released and you, sir, and your fellows will swing. The letters I have written are detailed. I have had them notarised. They are addressed to the chairman of every club in London and to the editor of every paper. To the magistrates and to the Bishop. To the coffee houses. Oh, and to your wife and to Fisher’s. Your secret is a scandal, and there will be no escaping it if you have me. I promise. We’ll be like two men with loaded pistols pointed at each other’s temples. It’s the safest way, if you have the nerve for it. Which, from what I know of you, I’m sure you do.’
Just at the moment Hayward understood the captain’s proposal, the door opened and Murray returned, the butler in tow. Hayward stepped back, his eyes flitting. The captain had considerably upped his game.
‘Brandy, was it?’ Murray smiled as he poured the pale liquid into the crystal balloons. The carved facets amplified the light into sharp pinpricks, like tiny suns.
‘I was just saying,’ Henderson said smoothly, ‘should you publish my discourse, Lord Hayward knows more of me than most. He could make or break my reputation.’
Murray handed Hayward a glass and he held the brandy to the window to examine its colour before sipping. He appeared to be thinking. Having perused the liquid in his glass, he now turned his attention to Henderson, or, more accurately, his attire, which he checked up and down coldly. Then he leaned confidentially towards Murray. ‘The captain can be fiery, you know.’
On Starlit Seas Page 35