Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

‘Just as I’m glad to see you haven’t yet wearied of serving a selfish and capricious master.’

‘That kind of talk might really earn you a session on the press,’ Tilling said, with a chuckle. ‘But you’re correct to assume I’m here at the behest of Sir Robert.’

‘I can quite understand a man like Peel not wanting to dirty his hands but it means yours must be filthy by comparison.’

That drew a sharp stare. ‘You seem to think the worst of Peel when he has nothing but kind words about you.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘He was under no obligation to inform you of what I’m about to tell you. My visit is a product of his desire to assist you.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t fall on my knees and kiss your feet. I’ve had his help before and I almost ended up with my neck in a noose.’

‘If you’d prefer, I can always leave…’

Pyke patted him on the arm. ‘I was only joking. I’m pleased to see you, of course.’

‘I can see that in your eyes.’ Tilling wiped his forehead and smiled.

‘So what have you come to tell me?’

‘It’s come to our attention there’s soon to be a very significant crackdown against the radicals in London. Particularly, we’re told, those belonging to an organisation called the Wat Tyler Brigade.’

‘And Peel wanted me to know this?’

Tilling nodded once. His forehead was beaded with sweat. He wiped it again with a handkerchief. The serving girl returned with their coffees and Tilling paid her.

‘Do you mind telling me why?’

‘Why do you think?’ Tilling said, quickly. ‘I’m told your wife has close links with the aforementioned group.’

‘Peel sent me on a wild-goose chase to try and prove Julian Jackman is none other than Captain Paine.’ Pyke picked up his coffee and warmed his hands. ‘I take it you know who Jackman is.’

‘Why do you imagine it was a wild-goose chase?’

Pyke shrugged. ‘If Jackman was as much of a threat as Peel made out, why’s your master now passing me information that will help him to evade capture?’

‘Because he didn’t want your wife caught up in the middle of something nasty,’ Tilling said, his irritation showing for the first time.

‘Who says it’s going to get nasty?’

Tilling buried his head in his mug of coffee.

‘Let me put it another way. Who’s in charge of the crackdown?’

This time Tilling looked directly at him, his stare dark and intense. ‘If I tell you, I want your assurance it will go no farther. Is that understood?’

Pyke nodded.

‘Bow Street.’

‘You mean Bellows?’ Pyke felt his heart beat a little quicker.

‘If you like.’

Pyke turned this revelation over in his mind. ‘You’re saying Peel has no interest in the matter, one way or the other?’

Tilling looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘He has no affinity for the radicals and no love for the chief magistrate, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Then what does he want?’ When Tilling didn’t answer him, Pyke added, ‘If I said the name Abraham Gore, how would you respond?’

For a moment Pyke thought he saw the faintest of smiles on Tilling’s face but then it was gone. ‘I’d say, Abraham who?’

‘And if I asked you why the hell Peel made the journey to Huntingdon to inspect the headless corpse for himself, and why he didn’t tell me about it, what would you say?’

Tilling’s face hardened. ‘I don’t understand, Pyke. What exactly are you accusing Peel of having done?’

That night, when Pyke’s carriage drew up outside Hambledon, he saw they had a visitor. Judging by the enormous four-wheeled brougham that sat in the driveway, all lacquered and shiny, attended to by liveried footmen, five as far as Pyke could tell, their visitor was an important one. It was only later, as the brougham was leaving, that he noticed the royal crest. Running up the steps to the portico to evade the storm, he handed Royce his coat at the door and made his way through the vast mausoleum of a house to the drawing room, his heels clipping against the wooden floors and echoing through the full height of the building. From the end of one of the passageways, he heard the soothing sound of the piano and recognised Emily’s distinctive playing style, at once aggressive and melodious. When Pyke finally stepped into the warm, well-lit room, Emily looked up at him, startled, from behind the piano and stopped playing. Meanwhile the King’s brother, Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, who had been warming himself in front of the roaring log fire, strode across the room to greet him.

The duke was a few inches taller than Pyke and unlike either of his older brothers, podgy William or porter-guzzling, elephantine George, he carried almost no excess fat. In his tailored military-style tailcoat, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, he cut a commanding figure, and despite the battle scars on his face, he wore his age well. His full brow, Gallic nose, white hair and preened moustache made him seem distinguished, even perhaps noble, rather than the overbearing, reactionary bully and bigot that he was, in reality.

‘Excellent to see you again, Pyke,’ Cumberland said, pumping his hand, as though they were old friends. Apart from their very brief encounter in Westminster’s New Palace Yard, the last time Pyke had seen the duke had been in the witness box at his own trial six years earlier when Pyke had humiliated him in front of the packed courtroom.

Pyke waited until Cumberland’s smile had faded and asked him what he wanted, though in actuality he already knew. Earlier his uncle had confirmed that the tiny coat of arms on the head of the cravat pin retrieved from one of the men who had tried to attack him in his shop belonged to the 15th Hussars, the duke’s own regiment.

Ignoring the question, the duke reminded Pyke and Emily that he’d been a good friend of Emily’s ‘dear, departed father’ and proceeded to tell them about his ‘wonderful’ memories both of the house and the ‘indomitable’ Lord Edmonton. Pyke listened with gritted teeth and briefly entertained the notion of telling him about the time he’d pushed a pillow against Edmonton’s face and held it there until the garrulous aristocrat had passed away.

‘Tradition,’ the duke continued extravagantly, ‘the passing on of a family’s home and ancestry from one generation to the next, is the bedrock of our nation.’ He paused, perhaps looking for the framed portraits that had once hung on the wall but which Pyke had used for firewood.

‘Yes, with the current pace of reform,’ Pyke said, ‘we’re in danger of losing touch with our past.’

The duke observed him cautiously. ‘Indeed, I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

‘I was thinking only the other day that the ancient practice of hanging, drawing and quartering for those found guilty of treason should be revived.’

Cumberland looked anxiously at Emily and asked whether he might have a quick word with her husband alone. Emily made her excuses, wished him a safe trip back to the city and shot Pyke a quizzical stare as she left. When they were alone, the duke put down the sherry glass he’d been give by Royce and twisted the ends of his moustache.

‘By way of response to your remark, sir,’ he started, his voice tighter and colder, ‘I agree that all acts of treason should be punished by the full weight of the law. If, that is, treason can be proved.’

‘So, in your thinking, when does plotting against the King, or indeed the princess, become a legitimate act?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Well, if we were to take your situation as an example. Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that the future of the Protestant ascendancy in these islands and the British Empire throughout the world could only be ensured by the succession to the throne of a firm, capable and above all experienced ruler, might it not be acceptable to make this prospect a reality?’