Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

‘This is the eminent banker and industrialist Abraham Gore,’ Pyke told the jurors. A few of them recognised the name and seemed stricken by the dilemma he’d presented them with.

‘I’m afraid the evidence has already been heard and a verdict, a most reasonable verdict, agreed. You, sir, should learn to be more punctual.’ Bellows glanced nervously at the jurors, some of whom had sat back down, and licked his lips.

‘Has this imbecile presided over a verdict of death by suicide?’ Gore asked Pyke, shaking his head.

Pyke nodded. ‘I tried to warn the jurors about the folly of delivering such a verdict but they wouldn’t listen to me.’

‘More like they were too cowed by this bully to reach a more considered decision. No, my evidence will be heard. My good friend of thirty years would never have taken his own life.’ Gore turned on the jurors. ‘Which can mean only one thing. He was murdered. Do you hear me? Murdered.’

‘You might have connections far beyond the reaches of this meeting, sir, but here at least they count for little. The jurors reached a verdict and that decision has to stand.’

‘Balderdash,’ Gore said, training his stare on the chief magistrate. ‘Complete and utter balderdash.’

‘I’ll ask you one final time to refrain from insulting me and the jurors, sir. After that, even a reputation such as yours cannot save you.’ Sweating profusely, Bellows had lost all his former poise.

Gore looked around the room. ‘Who’s the coroner? Let me make an appeal to the coroner.’

Timidly Day coughed and raised his hand.

‘Will you reconsider, sir? I’m sorry I was late but my carriage was held up on the Strand.’ Gore took another step into the room. ‘Good God, man, don’t you understand the terrible stain you’re placing on my friend’s reputation? Only cowards and Bedlamites kill themselves.’

‘A verdict of suicide perfectly suits Morris’s killer or killers,’ Pyke added, quickly. ‘It means his death won’t be investigated and their crime will go unpunished. Is that what you want on your consciences?’ He looked at each juror in turn; some of them had visibly whitened.

‘I will not stand for this talk,’ Bellows screamed, cowing the jurors still further. ‘A decision has been reached. I am the only arbiter of the law here and if I am happy that procedures have been adhered to and the law upheld, then that, sirs, should be the end of the matter.’ Red eyed and hands trembling, he turned on Gore and pointed at him. ‘And if you, sir, should dare to challenge my authority one more time, then I will have no choice but to hold you in contempt, and issue a warrant for your arrest, which I promise you will be served.’

Outside, Gore pulled Pyke to one side and took his arm. ‘I’m so sorry I was late. I feel I’ve let my friend down terribly. I know you did what you could, Pyke. I also know for a fact that Eddy would never have taken his own life. I’m aware this verdict makes an official investigation unlikely, if not impossible. But I’m also told that you’ve had certain experience in this area and I was wondering whether I could employ your services to try and determine what really happened to him. I know you’re probably far too busy to even think about committing to such an undertaking but I also know Eddy thought a great deal of you and, it goes without saying, I would remunerate you handsomely for your services, whether you found Eddy’s killer or killers or not.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Pyke said, having considered the proposal for a short while. He looked up at the giant herring gulls circling above him, no doubt drawn by the leftover scraps to be had at the nearby fish market, and felt a biting anger that rose up from the pit of his stomach until he could taste it at the back of his throat.

On the wall opposite someone had daubed the words ‘Captain Paine’ in red paint, and when Gore noticed it and saw how fresh the paint was he shook his head, muttering, ‘I don’t suppose you heard about the latest outrage? One of the warehouses belonging to our subcontractors, near Kilsby, was attacked and set on fire. The brigand calling himself Captain Paine claimed responsibility. They lost everything.’ He shook his head sadly and shrugged.

Pyke returned the expression, not sure what to say. On the other side of the street, he noticed Bolter and the dog lurking with intent.

Gore patted him gently on the arm and said that if there was anything he could do to help, anything at all, Pyke had only to ask. His shoulders hunched, Gore trudged along the narrow street to his waiting carriage.

‘Can I have a quick word, Pyke?’ The coroner, Day, had sidled up next to him and was smiling awkwardly. ‘I believe the chap who was found beheaded in his apartment in Moor’s Yard was a friend of yours.’

‘Jem Nash. He was my assistant at Blackwood’s.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bolter and Bellows reconcile. ‘Actually there was something unusual I wanted to ask you.’

Day squinted suspiciously at him. ‘Oh?’

‘Have you inspected the body yet?’

‘Cursorily,’ Day said, clearly embarrassed by something.

‘But you’d know if the corpse had been marked with red welts?’ Pyke paused for a moment. ‘The kind you might get if someone pressed a hot cigar into your flesh.’

This drew a sharp frown from the coroner. ‘I don’t recall seeing any such marks.’ He hesitated and gave Pyke an awkward stare. ‘Listen, Pyke, as you might know, I was to have conducted the inquest into his death later today, even though there doesn’t appear to be much doubt as to what actually caused it.’

Across the street, the giant mastiff tugged on Bolter’s leash, having seen something intriguing farther down the hill towards the river.

‘Nash’s body was taken to the Turk’s Head in Holborn. But his death has attracted so much print and interest…’

‘What happened?’ The skin tightened across Pyke’s face.

‘Resurrectionists broke in late last night and stole his corpse. I’m afraid there’ll be no inquest after all.’

‘You know for certain it was the resurrectionists?’ Pyke asked, shaking his head. He knew there was a trade in dead bodies and that unscrupulous surgeons sometimes paid as much as ten guineas for a fresh corpse.

‘Who else would want it?’

Across the street a wiry greyhound trotted around the corner and came face to face with Copper. It froze to the spot and then tried to retreat, its hackles raised and its belly scraping the ground. Without any hesitation, Bolter let go of the leash and the mastiff tore after the terrified greyhound and caught up with it in a few bounds. It was over in a matter of seconds. The mastiff’s jaws clamped around the smaller dog’s throat and its body went limp. Blood on its mouth, the mastiff shook the greyhound like a rag doll and dropped it on to the ground. It then rejoined Bolter and the two of them ambled up the hill towards St Paul’s.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ Day asked, looking down at the greyhound’s mangled carcass. ‘Do you really think Morris was murdered and Bellows tried to force the jurors to declare his death as a suicide?’

Later Pyke thought some more about Day’s question. Why had Bellows been so insistent that Morris had committed suicide? Or rather, why did it matter to him?

In the end he could think of just one answer.

It mattered because Morris hadn’t actually committed suicide.

Which, in turn, suggested that someone had instructed Bellows to cajole the jury; someone whose interests might be damaged by an investigation into Morris’s affairs.

Who had wanted Morris dead? And what had happened at the Colosseum after the guests had left?