Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

Briefly Pyke told him about Trotter’s role in inciting the navvies to violence but decided not to mention anything about the headless corpse and a possible link to letters stolen from Sir John Conroy.

‘Do you know where one might find this Jimmy Trotter?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Because when you do, I’d be interested in paying him a visit.’

‘You’ll have to get in line.’

That drew a thin smile. ‘You’re not a bad sort, for a capitalist.’

‘Tell me something, Jackman. What is it that you’re planning?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘It’s just that you don’t strike me as the kind of man who’s going to do nothing.’

The radical’s eyelids twitched. ‘The Grand National Consolidated Trades Union is planning another march through the capital. They’ve been gathering together signatures for a petition in support of the navvies for the past week.’

‘I take it from your tone that you don’t think much of their plans.’

Jackman shrugged. ‘Something happens, people’s first thought is to plan a march. It might look impressive on the day, thousands of folk filing through the streets, but what’s changed at the end of the day when it’s over and everyone goes home?’

‘So you’re planning a more lasting action?’

The radical stared down at the wooden table. ‘I’m presuming you’ve heard of Wat Tyler.’

‘He was hung in Bartholomew’s Field for his part in the Peasants’ Revolt.’

‘Tyler had the whole of the city within his grasp but he chose to negotiate with the King and his ministers. At first, they agreed to his demands; his army disbanded and went home. Then Tyler and his ringleaders were arrested, tried and put to death.’

‘It’s an interesting story,’ Pyke said, staring at the radical, trying to determine why he’d told it.

‘We’ve decided to call ourselves the Wat Tyler Brigade.’

‘Then let’s hope for your sake that you don’t end up like your namesake.’

‘It’s important to learn from history, from other people’s mistakes.’

‘Such as?’

‘Don’t negotiate, for a start.’

‘That’s a tough position to take. Politics is all about compromise.’

Jackman leaned forward across the table and whispered, ‘Did you learn that from Peel?’

‘Why do you say that?’ Pyke asked, the skin tightening across his face.

‘I heard you were close to the Tory leader,’ the radical said dismissively, as though the matter weren’t important.

‘From?’ Pyke turned the options over in his mind. Emily? She had no idea about their current arrangement and, anyway, she would never betray his confidence. Or would she?

Jackman tapped the end of his nose. ‘That would be telling, now, wouldn’t it?’

‘If you knew me better, you’d know I’m not one for playing games. If you’ve got something to say, say it.’

‘What if I were to tell you there’s a gentleman, here in London, who’s determined to wipe us out?’

‘I’d want to know more.’ Pyke waited for a moment. ‘I’d also want to know what you’re busy planning.’

‘Who said we’re planning something?’ Jackman’s eyes glistened. ‘Did Emily tell you that?’

Pyke finished his ale and put the pot down on the table. ‘I’ve told you I’m not one for playing games but let me give you a little warning, something to take to heart.’

Jackman’s eyes rose lazily to meet Pyke’s stare. ‘Oh?’

‘I know you saved my life and I owe you for that, but if Emily is hurt in any way because of her involvement in your affairs, I’ll come down on you so hard you’ll think what happened in Huntingdon was a gentle scolding.’

It was a chilly evening, with just a hint of coal dust in the raw air, but under starry skies, the promenade of the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall was already beginning to fill up with strollers. Under gas lamps and strings of lanterns symmetrically arranged in the bare branches of trees, the gardens looked immaculate, though in recent years the clientele had fallen with the entrance fee and now you were just as likely to see milliners and shop girls mixing with the elegantly attired ladies who paraded up and down the promenade in their silk dresses.

Most had escorts and wore their hair piled up in curls under wide-brimmed straw bonnets trimmed with different colours of silk ribbon.

Pyke saw Marguerite Morris strolling towards him from a distance, as though she had all the time in the world. It was hard not to notice the admiring and jealous glances of other people, for even in her mourning clothes she turned heads in a way that few women would be capable of. An elaborately darted black silk dress was drawn tightly around her waist to reveal her hourglass figure and cut low around the neck to show off her flesh.

Marguerite seemed oblivious to the attention and greeted Pyke with a flicker of her eyelashes.

Pyke had requested to meet her here, rather than at her house or the bank, because he hadn’t wanted to risk a meeting in private, but almost immediately he wondered about the wisdom of this decision: this was a place where lovers came to flirt and cavort away from the eyes of their parents and guardians.

‘Eddy’s will was read yesterday. His lawyer confirmed what I already knew. He left it all to me.’ As they walked, Marguerite threaded her arm through his, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

‘You don’t seem very excited about it.’ As they walked, Pyke thought about his conversation with Jackman and the radical’s offhand reference to someone who wanted to wipe out the Wat Tyler Brigade. Who had he been referring to, and why had he told Pyke about it? Was it some kind of warning?

‘Eddy wasn’t as wealthy as some might have imagined. He had money tied up in stocks and shares, mostly in the Grand Northern, and as you know he bought Cranborne Park…’ Up close her breath smelled of stale wine.

‘Not something to be sniffed at.’

‘He owned it outright. But his lawyer told me that Eddy had recently requested the deeds to the estate and when I looked for them in his safe, I couldn’t find them.’

Pyke nodded, as though he appreciated the dilemma. ‘And without the deeds, the ownership of the estate can’t be transferred into your name.’

Marguerite’s body stiffened. ‘Don’t play games with me, Pyke. He gave the deeds to you, as security for the personal loan you told me you made to him.’

‘So you believe me now?’

Pyke walked ahead and, having gathered up her skirt, she hurried to keep up with him. ‘How much did Eddy borrow?’

‘Ten thousand.’

She absorbed this information without comment or apparent response. ‘Then why don’t you produce the loan papers, together with the deeds, and lodge your claim against Eddy’s estate?’

‘You sound angry at this prospect.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be? Bankers always have a way of clawing back their money.’

This time, he stopped to look at her. ‘But it still doesn’t explain where the money went, does it?’

‘You mean, the money you claimed you lent him?’

‘Your husband walked out of my bank with ten thousand pounds of my money. I intend to get it back.’

Out of the blue, Marguerite broke into a throaty laugh and said, ‘God, you haven’t changed much, have you, Pyke. You were always so serious, especially when money was being discussed.’

‘Back in those days it was harder for some of us to earn our bread than others,’ he said, walking ahead. In the distance, he could the drum of a military band.

Marguerite hurried after him. ‘And you were always a self-righteous prig too,’ she said, a little out of breath.

Above them, the night sky was momentarily illuminated by a volley of fireworks. They paused for a moment, to look up at the spectacle, sparks of light fanning out across the sky in a giant spider’s web. ‘Look, I’ll make you a deal,’ she added, in the same flinty tone. ‘If you can unearth the deeds to Cranborne Park, I’ll give you Eddy’s shares in the Grand Northern.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Right now, they’re hardly worth the paper they’re written on.’