Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

‘Why not?’

‘Because there are things that I’ve committed to; things I want to do, things I need to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Just things.’ Emily shook her head angrily.

‘Things you can’t tell me about?’

‘It’s not that I can’t tell you,’ she said, sounding pained.

‘Then what is it?’

‘Don’t use that tone with me,’ Emily retorted, quickly. ‘It’s not as though you tell me everything you do, whether that’s fighting alongside the navvies or sniffing around an old acquaintance.’

‘That’s nothing by comparison.’

‘Nothing? An old lover suddenly becomes our closest neighbour and I’m meant to dismiss it as nothing?’

‘This is about your safety, your life. You think I’m just going to stand by and watch someone harm you?’

‘And I can’t just give up what I’m doing.’

‘This man killed a priest for no other reason than he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Think what he might be capable of, if he put his mind to it.’

‘All right,’ Emily said, finally giving a little ground. ‘Just give me a couple more days to tie up some loose ends.’

‘And then you’ll stop for a while?’

‘For a while.’ She reached for her glass and took another sip of claret.

‘But you won’t tell me what it is you’re working on?’

Emily sighed. ‘Don’t put a pistol to my head. I’ll tell you in my own time.’

A brief silence hung between them. ‘I’d like you to pass on a message to Jackman. Tell him I want to meet.’

‘What do you want with him?’ There was a sharpness in Emily’s tone that hadn’t been there before.

‘Can you arrange it or not?’

‘Not until I know why you want to see him.’

‘For God’s sake, Emily, the man saved my life in Huntingdon,’ Pyke said, angrily. ‘Did he tell you that? Someone was about to pull the trigger on me. He intervened. I think I have a right to see him and express my gratitude.’

From Emily’s expression, it was clear that Jackman hadn’t told her and some of her resolve left her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘So you’ll arrange a meeting?’

She bit her lip and nodded.

For the rest of the night they barely said another word to each other, and when it came time to go to bed, they gravitated towards their separate bedrooms without having to articulate their need to be alone. As he lay in his bed, Pyke listened to the branches of the trees swaying in the wind and thought about what to do. It was no longer a question of being nice or accommodating. If he couldn’t guarantee Emily’s safety, either in public or, for that matter, at Hambledon, then he would have to find another place for them to live, if only temporarily. At least until he’d tracked down the glass-eyed man, which was now his top priority.

The sky was low and grey and reminded him of why he detested this time of year, the prospect of a long, cold winter ahead, months of damp coats, coal fires, sodden earth and seasonal chills. Pyke was waiting at the bottom of Park Lane with Green Park on one side of him and Hyde Park on the other. The location meant he had little protection from the squally wind, and as the leaves fell from almost denuded trees and glistened underfoot, a carpet of wet slime as smelly as it was treacherous, he was put in mind of funerals. This was the time of year when his own father had been killed, the victim of a crowd stampede in the vicinity of Newgate prison, a herd of frightened, angry people pushed into a space that couldn’t accommodate them as they waited for the execution of two men found guilty of killing a botanist. Even now the smell of wet leaves conjured memories of that moment when his father’s calloused hand had slipped from his own and he had stumbled and been swallowed up by the terrified mob, a clutched fist disappearing into an ocean of contorted faces. Some thirty years later, he might see a glimpse of his father’s dark, weather-beaten face in a dream or, fleetingly, in a crowd, but it was never enough to sustain a picture of him in his head. Often Pyke wondered how his life might have been different, if his father hadn’t lost his footing and fallen to his death under the boots and shoes of people as poor as him.

Ned Villums shuffled into view, a black, woollen muffler around his neck and a greatcoat pulled tightly around his waist. ‘Come on, let’s walk,’ he muttered as he came up alongside Pyke. He was carrying a newspaper under his arm. The Times or the Morning Chronicle.

‘Any news about the leak at your bank?’

Pyke was about to say the leak couldn’t have been at his end but stopped himself at the last minute. Why? Perhaps Villums was correct. Perhaps someone at the bank had passed information on to the Tory leader. ‘The matter’s in hand,’ was all he said.

‘Good.’ Villums headed into Hyde Park and Pyke followed him.

‘Any news on the man I asked you about?’

They had walked twenty or thirty yards into the park when Villums turned to face him. ‘His name’s Jimmy Trotter.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘He’s a nasty one, that’s for certain.’

‘Oh?’

‘You name it, he’s done it. Theft with violence, larceny, embezzlement, burglary, assault, housebreaking, pick-pocketing. ’

‘Murder?’

‘You tell me.’

Pyke pointed to the newspaper. ‘Did you read about the priest who was killed in St Paul’s?’

Villums’ face hardened. ‘That was Trotter?’

Pyke told him what had happened, including the threat Trotter had made against Emily.

‘Your business with him is your business, but if you want my advice I’d get my family as far away from him as possible.’

‘You know where I can find him?’

Villums started to walk, his hands dug deep into the pocket of his coat. ‘I heard he was working for a man called Field in the East End. Embezzling money from shopkeepers and small businessmen.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘Actually there’s a story about that you might want to hear. Or not, as the case may be.’

‘What story?’

‘A cabinetmaker in Bow wouldn’t pay, so Field sent Trotter to persuade him. Trotter saw the man’s wife was pregnant and when the cull refused to pay, he tied him up and went for the wife with a red-hot poker. According to my source, Trotter knocked her down and shoved the poker right up inside her, if you know what I mean, with this cully looking on, helpless. It killed the baby straight away and, after a long, painful illness, the wife, too. The cabinetmaker disappeared shortly afterwards, as well. After that no one in the East End ever refused to pay Field again.’

For a moment neither of them said anything. The gusting wind rustled the tops of the trees. In the distance, they could hear the sound of horses’ hoofs and carriage wheels clattering past Apsley House at Hyde Park Corner.

‘Does your source have an address?’

Villums nodded. ‘A former crimping house on the river, just along from Cowgate. After the war, it was turned into a convalescence home for soldiers wounded in action but the funds ran out a few years ago and now it’s been overrun by petty thieves and the likes of Jimmy Trotter.’

‘And Field?’

‘He owns a slaughterhouse near Smithfield.’ Villums’ expression clouded over. ‘But I wouldn’t go there if I were you. Not if Field was the last man alive.’ He looked up at the army of jackdaws perched in the treetops. ‘Listen, Pyke, I’m well aware you don’t need my advice and I’ve seen with my own eyes that you can take care of yourself…’

‘But?’

‘We both know you haven’t been out there for a while. All I’m saying is take care with Field. If you’re going to tackle him, make sure you’re unfailingly polite and careful about what you say.’