Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

‘What does Godfrey want with the daughter?’

‘She was going to take the stand in a libel trial that Godfrey was facing.’

‘Was?’

‘The case against him has been dismissed.’ Pyke saw her frown and added, ‘It’s a long story.’

Emily watched him, her expression inscrutable. ‘Milly’s scaring Felix and none of the servants know what to do. She won’t eat any food and they’re worried she might pass away.’

‘Would you prefer that I throw her out on to the streets?’

Emily sighed. ‘No, of course not…’

‘But?’

‘But I’m worried about you, Pyke.’ She came and sat next to him on the sofa and touched his face. ‘I’m worried you might have got yourself into something…’

‘I told you. I was trying to find the girl’s sister for Godfrey.’ He waited, not sure what else to say.

‘And you don’t have any idea who might have killed the parents or why?’

Pyke looked over at the fire blazing in the grate. Emily stroked his cheek, adding, ‘You just looked tired, that’s all. Is anything else wrong?’

Yawning, Pyke told her that everything was fine, even though it was obvious that everything was not fine. Why couldn’t he look her in the eye and admit that he could lose his entire fortune? That someone was conspiring against him? Why were these things so hard to admit even to someone he loved?

‘Sometimes I feel you don’t know how to talk to me, Pyke. I’m worried about you and the girl upstairs. I don’t know what to think but I’m guessing there’s more to this than you’re telling me.’

‘Just like there’s more to your bruise than you’re telling me.’ He waited until she was looking at him before adding, ‘You didn’t just get pushed over at a meeting. Someone attacked you, didn’t they?’

Emily laughed, though not particularly convincingly. ‘If someone had attacked me, do you really think I would have walked away from it with just a bruise to my forehead?’

Later that night, as they lay next to one another in bed, Pyke asked, ‘Have you heard about a sweater called Groat? He owns a whole terrace on Granby Street in the East End.’

In the darkness, a puzzled frown appeared on her face. ‘Why is it that just when I think you’ve lost the capacity to do it, you go ahead and surprise me?’

Morris’s funeral was an intimate affair held in the Church of St Edmund the King on Lombard Street, near the Grand Northern’s head office. After many clergymen in the city had politely refused to host the funeral on the grounds that Morris had taken his own life and thereby committed a mortal sin in the eyes of God, the vicar at St Edmund’s had taken pity on Marguerite and agreed to accommodate her wishes for a Christian funeral. It later transpired that Abraham Gore had made a large donation to the church’s coffers on the condition that they perform Morris’s funeral.

Most of the Grand Northern’s central committee attended the short service, as did all the clerks and under-clerks His assistant, Bledisloe, wept openly in the second row. Other than that, the congregation mostly comprised family and friends. Gore was there and so was Jake Bolter. His dog had been tied to the railings at the front of the church. Peel had come, too, and indicated that he wanted to talk at the end of the service. Earlier Pyke had seen Bolter chatting quietly with Marguerite and, again, he wondered about the basis of their friendship.

Pyke sat with Emily five or six rows back from the front of the gloomy church. He had made eye contact with Marguerite once, when they had first arrived, but he hadn’t tried to approach her.

As the service started, Emily whispered, ‘There’s something about her I still don’t trust but she’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘Who?’

‘Marguerite. Morris’s widow.’

Pyke put on a non-committal face.

The vicar stepped up to the pulpit to give the eulogy. He spoke quietly and blandly for five minutes about God’s grace, hardly mentioning Morris once. It was Abraham Gore who finally decided enough was enough, striding down the aisle and relieving the stricken vicar of his place on the pulpit.

‘What my friend here meant to say was this is a sad, sad day for those of us who respected and loved dear Edward and at this very sad time our thoughts and prayers are with Marguerite, his beloved wife, whose gentle care and fierce support sustained Edward through good and bad times.’ He looked up at the congregation and took a few moments to gather his thoughts.

‘We stand on the precipice of a new era. This great city of ours is changing before our eyes. Within a generation, the broken city we inherited from our Georgian ancestors, with its fetid slums and gin-addled paupers, will be swept away for ever. And in its place will rise up a city of magnificent sweeping avenues, elegant buildings and open spaces for all to enjoy, a beacon for the entire civilised world, a veritable new Jerusalem. A city built in our image, reflecting our values: no longer a dark place where crime and disease are rife, infecting young and old alike, but a clean, enlightened city where men and women, inspired by their wonderful surroundings, can better strive to do God’s work and remake themselves in his image. Open your eyes. Look at the buildings, the squares, the circuses. Even as I speak, railways are cutting a welcome swath through the damp, derelict slums; verminous places abandoned both by God and our ancestors. Our dear, departed friend committed his life to such good works, and now, as we look back at his achievements, and give thanks for his life, we might all pause for a moment to reflect on his example.’

There were a few sobs from the hushed congregation. Pyke, however, was puzzled by the speech. He hadn’t considered Gore to be a religious man.

‘Edward James Morris stood, nearly alone, while lesser men — men of an artistic sensibility — rushed to attack what they perceived to be the destruction of what William Blake called our green and pleasant land by the dark satanic mills of commerce. Edward saw this posturing for what it is and was: empty rhetoric. While blind men of letters could see only the deadening impact of money, Edward believed in its virtue: what could be achieved if men were allowed to pursue their interests and freely participate in the market without interference from government. Could the railways, so dear to Edward’s heart and which are now spreading out across this great country of ours like arteries carrying blood to all parts of the body politic, have even been contemplated without this freedom? Could Edward have realised his dream of building a railway across our great land without this freedom? Could he have improved the lives of men currently toiling to build his railway without this freedom? Of course not.’ Gore bowed his head and stepped down from the pulpit to murmurs of approval.

‘Could Abraham Gore have lined his own pockets to the tune he has done without this freedom?’ Emily whispered.

‘Of course not.’

Emily nudged him playfully in the ribs and they both shared a smile.

After the pall-bearers had carried the coffin up the aisle, followed by a procession of horsemen with black ribbons tied around their arms and feathermen carrying trays of black plumes, the rest of the congregation filed out of the building.

‘That was quite a eulogy,’ Pyke said to Abraham Gore on the steps of the church.

‘Thank you, Pyke. I’m most touched by your kind words.’ Gore bowed his head at Emily. ‘Mrs Blackwood.’

‘I’m afraid I found your eulogy rather self-congratulatory, ’ Emily said, pulling her woollen shawl around her shoulders. ‘I thought it revealed more about yourself and your own ambitions than about the deceased.’