Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

‘Then in June or July, an Act of Parliament comes along authorising the extension of the railway line to Euston.’

‘July,’ Godfrey said. ‘And the company pushed hard for it. They had to go back to Parliament because the extension is going to cost another four hundred thousand pounds. They’re building this monstrous contraption just down the road from here that will pull the trains up the hill from Euston. I’m told the company reckoned a terminus there would be more convenient than one in Camden.’

‘And in the meantime, let me guess. The price of property along the New Road in Somers Town has soared, and Bellows has made himself a small fortune.’

‘I think it’s fair to assume that Bellows was forewarned about plans to move the terminus to Euston.’

Pyke nodded, his fists clenched into balls. ‘One presumes by Abraham Gore.’ He thought about Gore’s intervention in Godfrey’s libel trial and the violent words he had exchanged with Bellows at the coroner’s meeting. These, Pyke supposed now, had merely been cynical ploys to win Pyke’s friendship and favour and to distract his attention from what was really happening. All of which threw fresh light on to Morris’s death and, in turn, cast suspicion back on to Gore. Had he conspired, after all, to murder his ‘oldest, dearest’ friend? The thought was almost too monstrous to imagine. If Pyke hadn’t seen Jackman’s body nailed to the crucifix, he might not have believed it possible. But who knew what a man like Gore was capable of?

‘Gore and Bellows,’ Pyke said, gritting his teeth. More than anything else he wanted to confront the banker and beat the truth out of him, but a more subtle strategy was required.

‘Gore, Bellows and Conroy,’ Godfrey corrected him. ‘Don’t forget the egregious comptroller.’

Pyke took a sip of wine and felt the excitement building in his stomach. Godfrey was quite right. The three of them were tied up together. Everything was starting to make more sense.

It was after one o’clock in the morning by the time Pyke made it up to Hampstead Heath and hammered on the front door of Fitzroy Tilling’s home. The worst of the fog had cleared but in front of the stout, red-brick property, mist-covered allotments and denuded apple trees shivered in the freezing temperature. It took a number of thumps to arouse Sir Robert Peel’s private secretary, and when he finally opened the door, wearing a gown and carrying a lantern, and saw it was Pyke, he wearily shook his head, muttering, ‘I might’ve guessed it would be you.’ Rubbing his eyes, he invited Pyke into the front room. As he did so, a ginger cat bolted past their ankles into the warm house. ‘I see things haven’t changed much,’ Pyke commented, as he settled into one of the uncomfortable horsehair chairs and watched as Tilling poured them both a glass of brandy, the cat coiled around his leg. It didn’t take much to revive the fire and, with a little brandy inside him, Pyke quickly felt sensation returning to his fingers and toes.

‘God, you look like shit, Pyke,’ Tilling said, peering at him from the other side of the hearth. He was, by no means, a good-looking man, with his receding hairline and bug-like eyes, but his olive skin and ink-black hair glowed in the flickering light produced by the candle and fire.

‘You mean the bruise?’ Pyke rubbed his cheek and smiled. ‘I got into a tussle with a bareknuckle fighter and lived to tell the tale.’

‘Should have seen the other man, eh?’

‘I ripped off his scrotum.’ Pyke hesitated and shrugged. ‘I don’t imagine he’ll be adding his progeny to the human race.’

Tilling took a sip of brandy, not reacting to the story. ‘Why don’t you tell me what brings you to my house at half-past one in the morning?’ With a nimble leap, the marmalade cat jumped up into Tilling’s lap.

‘I need to talk to Peel.’

Tilling waited for the cat to settle down in his lap. ‘Peel’s convalescing at Drayton Manor. He caught a fever and isn’t planning to return to London for at least another week or two.’

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t pass on my condolences.’

Tilling regarded him carefully. ‘I take it you have a particular gripe with Peel?’

‘A gripe. Hmm.’ Pyke considered this for a moment. ‘You could say that. Do you remember the radical, Julian Jackman? Peel certainly knows him.’

Tilling didn’t answer but rather waited for Pyke to continue, stroking the purring cat.

‘I found Jackman about two hours ago nailed to a cross on the construction site of the Birmingham railway near Camden.’

If the news was a surprise to Tilling, he didn’t show it. ‘And that’s what you woke me up to tell me?’

‘Is that all you’re prepared to say? A man was crucified. Six-inch nails were driven through his ankles and hands. He died the most horrible death imaginable.’

Tilling nodded, acknowledging Pyke’s outrage and anger. ‘Perhaps you should tell me how you think any of this relates to Peel.’

‘About a month ago, he called me to his office at Westminster and persuaded me, you might even say blackmailed me, to perform a dirty little task for him. He wanted me to prove or disprove that Jackman was Captain Paine.’

Tilling’s expression remained inscrutable.

‘At the time he tried to make out that he was simply helping out a friend, Edward James Morris. Morris was about to begin work on the next section of the Grand Northern Railway and Peel made it appear that the venture was beset by problems mostly caused by the radicals; radicals, that is, like Jackman, who, according to Peel, were stirring up dissent among the navvies.’ Pyke paused for a moment, to gather his thoughts. ‘Then there was the matter of the headless body which had turned up a few miles from the navvy camp in Huntingdon. I heard later that Peel had already been to Huntingdon himself. He asked me to investigate that death, too.’

Tilling was apparently absorbed in stroking the cat but looked up at the last moment, a frown on his face. ‘I’m not sure what it is Peel has supposed to have done here. I mean, surely you don’t suspect him of any involvement in the unfortunate death of this Jackman figure?’

‘Involvement. That’s a fine word, isn’t it? No, I don’t think Peel had any direct involvement in the matter but his hands aren’t clean either.’

‘Perhaps you should explain yourself.’

‘I don’t believe Peel ever cared one little bit either about the problems facing the Grand Northern Railway or the threat posed by the radicals.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It’s my guess Peel suspected Abraham Gore was involved in the struggle against the radicals in London and Cambridgeshire and sent me off into the lion’s den hoping I might turn up something he could use against him.’

Tilling shoved the purring cat off his lap and sat forward, his eyes fixed on Pyke. ‘You know, there are some who believe that Gore effectively controls this current Liberal government from behind the scenes, but without ever having to show his hand or answer to the electorate.’

‘Is that an admission that your master tried to use me to do his dirty work?’ Pyke had used the term ‘master’ deliberately, to cause offence, the insult registering in Tilling’s stare.

‘If Peel suspected Gore of wrongdoing, why shouldn’t he try and gather evidence against him?’

‘ Gathering evidence implies Peel sanctioned some kind of official investigation in which his full intentions were disclosed. What actually happened was he dispatched me to Huntingdon without an inkling of what or who I was dealing with.’

Tilling’s face reddened a little and Pyke knew he’d scored a hit. ‘He made certain you were adequately compensated for your troubles. I heard that Morris gave you a plum contract, one you couldn’t fail to make money from.’