Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

A turbid haze filled the room, drifting slowly upwards until it hovered just below the ceiling, while beneath their feet, a thick-pile carpet muffled their steps. No one looked up at them as they repaired to the corner of the room and a couple of empty armchairs.

‘Sir John Conroy.’

Gore’s avuncular face broke into a smile. ‘Ah. The gentleman who caused all that trouble for your uncle. But I thought that business had been resolved?’

‘I thought so, too.’

‘I take it the matter is settled now,’ Gore said, still enjoying himself.

‘In a manner.’

‘And that you didn’t object to my intervening to calm the situation down.’

‘On the contrary,’ Pyke said, bowing his head. ‘It seems I’m indebted to you once again.’

As Gore put on his spectacles, Pyke thought about this intervention and wondered again about the man’s motives and whether he was to be trusted or not.

‘Actually,’ Gore started, ‘I was hoping to run into you sooner rather than later, so this is very fortuitous.’ His expression assumed a serious air. ‘For a start, I was wondering whether you’d made any progress on the delicate matter we discussed at Morris’s funeral.’

‘You mean, finding his killer?’

Nodding, Gore reached into his pocket and fished out two expensive-looking cigars. He offered one to Pyke, who declined, and then, reaching for the candle, he added, ‘Exactly.’

‘I’ve nothing new to report, if that’s what you mean.’ Pyke didn’t yet trust Gore enough to tell him what he really suspected had happened.

‘But I don’t doubt you’re taking the challenge seriously. As today’s little fracas has proven, I can see you’re quite a tenacious chap, once you get the sniff of something.’ Gore tapped some ash into a silver ashtray.

‘I do what I can.’

‘You’re too modest, Pyke. I can see for myself what a success you’ve made of the bank.’ Gore blew out some smoke and said, ‘Actually that was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘Blackwood’s?’

‘That’s right,’ Gore said, nodding. ‘I have no idea how you’re going to react, but I have an offer to make you.’

‘What kind of an offer?’

‘A very lucrative one,’ Gore said, smiling. ‘Look, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that Gore’s is the largest private bank in the city. However, at present, we don’t have representation in the East End, where, I’m told by my advisers, significant money is to be made.’

Pyke allowed himself a smile. ‘I didn’t think an institution as venerable as Gore’s would want to chase after the slop trade.’

‘All institutions need to change with the times. But of course you’re quite right to suggest that any explicit involvement on our part in what you rather delightfully call the “slop” trade may indeed upset some of our more sensitive customers.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘Straight to the point, eh? I like you, Pyke. I like you a lot. You’re just the kind of man I could do business with.’

Pyke waited but didn’t say anything. He still couldn’t work out what he thought of the banker, whether he liked him or not.

‘I’m offering to buy a third share of Blackwood’s.’ Gore paused for a moment, to check Pyke’s reaction. ‘In effect, my bank would underwrite a massive expansion of loan capital to a fledgling business in the east of the city. Of course, you would remain in overall charge of the bank. In addition to the increased profits we’d all share, the current partners at Blackwood’s could expect to receive remuneration of, let’s say, sixty thousand pounds for the stake that’s being relinquished.’

Pyke studied Gore’s face, its features partially obscured by the smoky haze. ‘And how would this remuneration be divided between my partner and me?’

‘That would be up to you to determine,’ Gore said, a little puzzled by the question.

‘You miss my point. At present, I own a two-thirds stake in Blackwood’s and my partner owns the other third.’ He didn’t mention the five per cent stake that he’d given to Nash from his share. In light of the contract they’d drawn up prior to his death, Nash’s stake would automatically revert to him. ‘I’m asking how you’d envisage the shares in this new venture being allocated.’

‘Ah, I understand.’ Gore’s expression became serious. ‘Well, Gore’s would claim a third stake: after that, it would be up to you and your partner to work out how to allocate things between yourselves.’

‘So you wouldn’t object if I insisted on retaining a fifty-one per cent stake in the bank?’

‘Object? Not in the slightest, old chap,’ Gore said, easily. ‘In fact, I’d insist on it. I’d be investing in your expertise as much as the bricks and mortar of your bank. If you remained at the helm, I could rest assured that my investment was being soundly looked after.’

Pyke did a quick calculation. He could sell off fifteen per cent of the bank, retain overall control and earn twenty thousand pounds in the process. In the short term at least, the money would be very useful.

‘Sixty thousand for a third share of the bank? It’s a generous offer.’

Gore chuckled lightly. ‘Remember we would receive a third of the profits. I’m not running a charity.’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, what do you think?’ Gore asked.

‘Before I do anything, I’d need to discuss the offer with my partner,’ Pyke said, wondering what Blackwood might say about it.

Gore nodded pleasantly. ‘I quite understand.’

But did Pyke completely trust Gore and did he want him as a business partner?

It had been easier, he thought, when people came at him with pistols and brickbats rather than handshakes and contracts. As a Bow Street Runner, he had trusted no one and used maximum force in every situation: he knew where he stood when someone pulled a knife on him. But the world of commerce was not nearly as clear cut. For a start, it wasn’t possible to work independently of others. Doing business necessarily involved delegating responsibilities, taking a chance and trusting those around you. As such it left him feeling constantly exposed.

‘At least think about my offer, Pyke,’ Gore said. ‘I think we could do great things together, given the chance.’

Pyke thought about replying but managed to maintain his silence.

It was raining by the time Pyke emerged from the bank the following afternoon. He passed through the alley and looked up and down Cornhill for his carriage, stepping back from the kerb and cursing a passing omnibus that splashed the bottom part of his trousers with a brownish slush of mud and horse dung. He was searching once more for his carriage when he heard someone behind him call out his name. Fitzroy Tilling was standing by the door of the New York Coffee House. Peel’s long-time private secretary wore a black frock-coat over a pale grey waistcoat, a white necktie and matching pale grey trousers. It had been a few years since Pyke had last seen him, and while his coal-black hair had thinned a little, he retained the same air of brooding intensity that Pyke remembered, the product of piercing bug-like eyes and a protruding forehead. Pyke had always liked Tilling and, in contrast to Peel, he had always found him to be open, fair minded and well read.

They shook hands and took a table in the damp, crowded coffee house. The smell of wet clothes and foul breath filled the room, and the windows had steamed up so that it was impossible to see the alley. Tilling ordered two mugs of coffee.

‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Pyke asked. ‘Am I to be taken away to the Tower and pressed?’

‘I’d heard you’d moved up in the world but I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your irrepressible sense of humour.’