Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He just ordered me to bring her back to him.’

‘You don’t know, eh?’ Crane ran his teeth over his bottom lip, eyes narrowing to slits. ‘But you could find out, couldn’t you?’

‘Perhaps.’

That made Crane smile. ‘Well?’

‘Are you suggesting I switch horses halfway through the race?’

‘I could be.’

‘What would be in it for me?’

That seemed to be what Crane expected, and wanted, him to say. He grinned. ‘I like a man who knows how to think for himself.’

A silence passed between them. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Pyke said. ‘If I find out why Harold Field is interested in this woman, you can tell me why you went to see Mary Edgar and Arthur Sobers at Thrale’s lodging house.’

‘Back to that, eh?’

‘That’s what I’m offering. Take it or leave it.’

‘I’m the one with the pistol and you’re trying to make a deal?’ Smiling, Crane shook his head, as though both irritated and impressed by Pyke’s bravado.

Pyke looked into his flinty eyes. ‘Do we have an agreement?’

‘How will I know you’re telling me the truth, not just making up any old story?’

‘I suspect you know exactly why Field might be interested in your affairs. But what you don’t know is how much or little he knows — and you need to know because Field is not a man to be taken lightly.’ He hesitated. ‘And if that’s the case, you’ll know if I’m telling the truth, won’t you?’

This time Crane’s smile appeared genuine. ‘You’re really quite remarkable. A few moments ago I was ready to kill you.’

But Pyke wasn’t quite ready to shake the man’s hand. ‘We still haven’t decided what to do about her.’ They both looked down at Bessie.

‘She stays with me.’

Pyke shook his head. ‘I want to take her with me.’

‘And hand her on a plate to Field, pay off your debt, just like that?’

‘I don’t doubt you’ve already had your money’s worth from her.’

Crane folded his arms. ‘She stays here for the rest of the day. Tomorrow I will pay her what I owe her and let her go home. How does that sound for a compromise?’

Pyke looked into Crane’s face for signs he might be lying. ‘I have your word on that?’

‘You have my word.’

As they shook hands, Crane smiled slightly, an act that later seemed both mocking and sincere.

Harold Field was playing whist in an ostentatious private room adjoining a gin palace he owned in Holborn; the thick red carpet, red velvet curtains, striped flock wallpaper and the gilt-panelled ceiling put Pyke in mind of a Roman bordello, the kind of place where Caligula might have abused little boys while being fed grapes by half-naked prostitutes. Across the table from him, Field’s partner, a fat, bald, pig-like man whose face was slavered in his own sweat, was deliberating on which card to put down. On either side, their opponents shielded their hands and waited for the fat man to make his move. They swapped a brief look but their expressions remained inscrutable. Field placed his hand face down on the table and whispered something into the ear of one of his mob. Pyke couldn’t tell whether Field had noticed him or not as he’d made no effort to acknowledge his presence. From the gin palace, Pyke could hear the shouts of drunken revellers over the wailing of a badly tuned fiddle. On the table itself was a pot that looked to be in excess of a hundred pounds, if the growing pile of coins were all sovereigns, as they appeared to be. Briefly Pyke entertained the thought of someone walking in and trying to steal the pot at gunpoint, and of Field’s reaction, and he wondered whether there was anyone in London brave or stupid enough to attempt such an exploit. His attention was brought back to the game by Field’s partner, who had tentatively laid down the queen of hearts, to a murmur of disapproval from Field; the fat man’s mistake in playing the wrong card was obvious to everyone in the room. One of the opponents picked up the card and laid down his hand, taking care not to appear too triumphant. Both players eyed the pot but neither dared touch it. Field looked at the one who’d laid down his hand and whispered, ‘Go ahead. Take it,’ then stood up and stretched his legs. In the chair opposite him, the fat man’s face was flushed and his eyes darted wildly around the room. He seemed desperate to explain himself, yet too afraid to speak.

‘ Take it.’

Field walked across to the mantelpiece, where one of the candles had just burned out; and, taking care not to scald himself, he picked the stub out of the brass candlestick, tossed it to the floor, and barked at one of the servers to fetch a replacement.

No one in the room spoke.

One of the players gathered in the pile of coins and Field nodded, as though gratified by this development. The server returned with a candle but Field insisted that she give it to him, rather than placing it in the candlestick herself. Field then took the tall brass object in one hand, the candle in the other, and wandered back to the table. Carefully he placed the candle down on the card table and smoothed his ginger hair. The fat man gave him a pleading look and was about to say something but Field put a finger to his mouth and shook his head. The fat man held his silence and watched as Field circumnavigated the table, still carrying the brass candlestick.

He put it down on the table and retrieved his partner’s hand.

‘If you’d actually been concentrating and played this card,’ Field said, holding up the seven of diamonds, ‘then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, how something apparently quite trivial can have grave consequences.’ The fat man nodded dumbly, unable to bring himself to meet Field’s gaze.

Without saying another word, Field retrieved the brass candlestick and, in the blink of an eye, he swung the heavy end through the air and slammed it against the side of the man’s head, which seemed almost to disintegrate under the force of the blow. Holding the instrument with both hands now, Field raised it above his head and brought it down against the top of the fat man’s already shattered skull. The man slumped forward on to the table, and was quickly surrounded by a pool of his own blood.

Field wandered over to the mantelpiece and put the candlestick back where he’d found it. ‘You can all go now,’ he said in barely more than a whisper.

The room cleared almost immediately. Field’s opponents opted to leave their winnings on the table.

Only Pyke and another man remained. He was tall and boyish with a smooth complexion and dimples on his cheeks but he was staring at the blood spilling from the fat man’s head with curiosity rather than revulsion. Field looked over at Pyke, acknowledging his presence for the first time.

‘I’ll need you to clear this mess up,’ Field said to his younger assistant. Then, turning to Pyke, he added, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Matthew Paxton. He used to cut meat for a living, as I once did.’

Pyke and Field’s assistant regarded one another warily, like two animals squaring up for a fight. Paxton wasn’t afraid of Field — Pyke could see that much — and Field’s introduction, as florid an account of another human being as Pyke had ever heard coming from the man’s lips, indicated that he both trusted and respected Paxton. Pyke could smell the younger man’s ambition.

‘Looks like you need a new whist partner,’ Pyke remarked, once Paxton had left them.

‘I appreciate your effort, however misguided, to lighten the atmosphere.’ Field smiled weakly. ‘That being said, I hope you have good news for me.’

‘I went to the address you gave me but the property was deserted.’