Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

‘Can’t you see it? I’m delirious.’ Even as she said it, he could see the lines crease around her eyes.

Pyke was going to say something else but managed to bite his tongue. He gave her a nondescript shrug. ‘For someone who no longer cares about looks, you appear to be attracting rather a lot of them this evening.’

Marguerite allowed a smile to settle on her lips as she gazed out at the panorama. ‘You know as well as I do, this is a gathering of waifs and strays. Society types wouldn’t come to anything as vulgar as a ball to celebrate my birthday, even if Eddy is a very well-respected businessman and the cause is a charitable one.’ Her stare drifted back towards him. ‘People like you and I will never be invited into the private homes of Park Lane and Mayfair.’

‘Is that such a loss?’

She shrugged. ‘I speak fluent French and can read Plato’s Republic in Greek and yet some women still get up and leave when I walk into a room.’ As she turned to go, her arm brushed against his sleeve and he smelled her; an earthy, intoxicating scent that took him back to his adolescence. ‘Do you know something, Pyke?’ she added, under her breath. ‘I might have been unfaithful to my husband but I’ll never leave him.’

Downstairs the ball was in full swing; the mini-orchestra were playing a piece by Mozart and the supper room had just been opened.

After helping himself to some food, Pyke looked around the room and his glance fell upon a slobbering, tawny-coloured mastiff straining at its leash. It was unusual, to say the least, that such an animal should be allowed into the building, especially at a formal function, and the dog’s owner didn’t seem ill dressed for the occasion in his cutaway coat, tan breeches and elastic-sided leather boots. There was something familiar about the man but it was the squat, muscular mastiff which first jogged Pyke’s memory.

Both man and beast had been with Marguerite at the graveside in the grounds of Morris’s estate.

And while he held the dog tightly on its leash, the man was amiably chatting with Abraham Gore.

‘It’s good to see you, Pyke,’ Gore said, shaking Pyke’s hand with a warmness he found disarming. Then he turned to his companion and said, ‘Do forgive me, sir, but I’ve forgotten your name…’ He winced with embarrassment but the man didn’t seem to mind. ‘Jake Bolter,’ he said, making a mock bow, ‘and this here is Copper, a proper rum dog. Say hello to the nice gentl’man, Copper.’

The animal was an enormous creature with a square head, a short muzzle, a light fawn coat and a black mask around the eyes and nose. As it growled, a string of drool fell from its jaws, but it remained at Bolter’s side.

Bolter was horribly disfigured, to the extent that it was hard to tell what age he might be or what he might have looked like before he was burnt. Instead of eyebrows, he had two slight dents above his bulging eyes, and what remained of the skin around his cheeks was raw and blistered, a thatch of scar tissue with the rough-hewn texture of pork rind.

‘Mr Bolter was just educating me in the proper usage of cant,’ Gore said, winking at Pyke. ‘He’s an ex-soldier, you see. He was just telling me his story. Actually it’s rather tragic. His one real aim in life was to kill someone in the heat of battle. He claims he was something of a sharpshooter with the rifle. But he sustained a serious leg injury and even though his eyesight was perfectly fine they decided to give him an honourable discharge.’

Bolter grinned idiotically. ‘I’m a hearty old cock. Mr Gore is quite correct — I did yearn to serve in His Majesty’s infantry and get the chance to shoot some infidels — but I ain’t never allowed injuries to damage my prospects.’ His snuff-blackened nostrils flared with pride.

‘Indeed,’ Gore said dubiously, staring down at the mastiff. ‘Where was it you said you worked?’

‘Prosser’s school for stray and homeless children in Tooting,’ he said, proudly. ‘I ain’t shot the cat once since I started there.’

‘Very good, very good,’ Gore said, as though he were talking to a pet. ‘And if I may be so bold, what is shooting the cat?’

‘Vomiting through drunkenness,’ Pyke said.

They both looked at him, surprised, but it was Gore who said, ‘You understand this cant?’

Pyke glanced across at Bolter. ‘If I heard someone referring to this man as a freebooter, I’d know what they were talking about.’

Bolter absorbed the insult silently. ‘Then you’ll also know that to “pike” means to run away.’

Pyke looked down at the mastiff, wondering again why it had been allowed into the Colosseum.

‘See? That’s stopped the cull’s blubber, ain’t it?’ Bolter said, more to the dog than Gore.

Gore seemed unhappy about the sudden air of tension and tried to laugh. ‘I find it all delightful and very inventive. If I wanted to indicate I was hungry, I’d say my guts are beginning to think my throat’s been cut. Is that right?’

‘And if you were cheating a friend,’ Pyke said, trying to catch Gore’s stare, ‘you’d be gulling him.’

Gore turned to Bolter. ‘It was really delightful to make your acquaintance, sir. But perhaps you could leave us for a moment?’

Bolter cleared his throat and bowed his head. ‘Of course, cock. My cup is dry and I need some grog to meller the red lane.’ He nodded at Pyke and said, ‘Gemmen,’ before leading the mastiff away.

‘It’s quite beyond me why our gracious host would permit such a ghastly creature to join the celebrations,’ Gore said, shaking his head, leaving Pyke to wonder whether he was referring to Bolter or the dog. ‘But it’s good to see you again, Pyke. In fact, there was something I wanted to tell you, but from the look on your face I’d say you have something to say to me first.’

Pyke looked into his genial face. ‘I travelled with Morris to Cambridge and on to Huntingdon.’

‘I know. I hope you don’t mind. Edward told me about the trouble and, of course, I read about it in the newspapers. Terrible business.’

‘What’s terrible? The fact the townsmen acted like lawless vigilantes? Or that a handful of navvies were forced to jump from a bridge into the Ouse and probably didn’t survive?’

‘All loss of life is unfortunate but disregard for the law in this age is unacceptable, too.’

‘In this age or any age?’

‘The law and the market are the bedrocks of our civilisation. The law governs our actions and the market allocates resources. If either one fails, the whole of society fails. It may be a simple view of the world but it’s one I ascribe to.’

An uneasy silence hung between them.

‘But the problems facing the Grand Northern in Huntingdon will directly benefit the Birmingham railway, won’t they?’

Gore seemed puzzled. ‘I’m not sure I follow your logic.’

‘If the Grand Northern terminates at Cambridge, as now seems possible, it’ll leave your railway with a monopoly on passenger and freight traffic between London and all points north.’

Gore stared at him for a moment, trying to comprehend what he’d just suggested. ‘And you think I might have had something to do with the trouble in Huntingdon?’

‘I’m looking into everyone who may or may not be involved.’

That seemed to placate him a little. ‘If this business is permitted to go unchecked, it’ll undermine the Birmingham railway just as surely as the Grand Northern.’ He waited for a moment, unsure what to say next.

‘But the violence in Huntingdon didn’t just happen. The navvies were deliberately provoked and the townsmen were waiting for them to attack.’

‘Then I deplore what happened and would encourage you to take whatever action you can to bring the culprits to book.’