Bernard Cornwell - Fallen Angels

He walked slowly through the lavishly appointed room, acknowledging the silent greetings of three of the players, and then climbed the far stairs that led to the dining room.

It was almost empty at this time of night. The waiters stood solemnly at the sides of the room watching the few patrons who remained. The food at Abigail’s was famous. Within an hour, Larke knew, the tables would be crowded with men from Parliament who saw no disgrace in eating their chops beneath Abigail’s bedrooms. One of the waiters hurried forward to usher Larke to a table, but Larke dismissed him. He walked the length of the room and through a door that would, by a short passage, bring him back to the main stairway which led to Abigail’s girls.

Another door, marked ‘Private’, led from the short passage. Larke paused, looked left and right, saw that no one was watching, and took from his waistcoat pocket a key. He fitted it into the keyhole, grunted as it turned reluctantly, and then, with a last look left and right, went into the room. He locked the door behind him.

He sat. On a table beside him was a tray with glasses. He poured himself some wine. A great book, bound in morocco leather, was beside the tray and, pulling the candelabra nearer to his chair, he opened the book on his lap.

‘Recorded. That Lady Delavele will drop Twins by Easter Day, between Mr Tyndall and Ld. Parrish. 200L.’

‘Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Tomcat, prepared in Mrs Pail’s Kitchens, Entire. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 150L.’ Beside it was written. ‘Ld. Saltash the winner.’

‘Recorded. That Mr Calltire’s Bucentaurus will beat Sir Simon Stepney’s Ringneck, the owners up, between Tyburn and St Paul’s. The race to Commence at Midnight, Christmas Eve. Between the Owners. 2000L.’

‘Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Marmalade Cat, Without Benefit of Onion Sauce, entire, prepared without Any Sauces or Gravies, in Mrs Pail’s Kitchens. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 300L.’

Valentine Larke smiled. The commission on wagers recorded in Mrs Pail’s book was twenty per cent. A key sounded in the lock of the door.

He looked up, his bland, flat eyes wary in the candlelight.

Mrs Pail herself stood in the doorway, her white, podgy face grim.

Larke stood. ‘Dear Mrs Pail.’

‘Mr Larke.’ She shut and locked the door, then turned and gave him a clumsy curtsey.

He smiled. ‘I find you well?’

‘Indeed, sir. Yourself?’

‘Never better, Mrs Pail.’ He put the book on the table. ‘Things seem to be flourishing?’

‘Flourishing they are, flourish they had better.’ She said it grimly, then smiled and bobbed her head as Larke poured her a glass of wine.

He raised his glass to her. ‘What’s this I hear about a French Countess in the house?’

‘Dear me!’ Mrs Pail gave a coy laugh. ‘A spinet maker’s daughter from Birmingham! Father was a rich man, raised her to speak French, but he’s bankrupt now.’ Mrs Pail shook her white, shapeless face. ‘Not the most beautiful of my girls, but I took her as a favour. She does well. She jabbers in French while they work. You’d like to see her?’

Larke smiled. ‘No. But a splendid idea to call her a Countess. I do congratulate you.’

Mrs Pail blushed with pleasure. ‘You’re too kind, sir, entirely too kind.’

‘Please sit, Mrs Pail.’

Valentine Larke was the sole owner of Mrs Pail’s Rooms, though only she, he, and a select few others knew it. He owned a dozen other such establishments in London, places where the gentry went to lose their money at cockfighting, cards, women, or prizefighting. He was insistent that, in public, she treated him as one of her less valued customers, such was his passion, his need for secrecy. He waited till she was seated, then sat himself. ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your evening with business, Mrs Pail.’

The doughy, powdered face screwed itself into a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s always a pleasure, Mr Larke.’

He smiled. ‘I won’t detain you long. I merely wish to know how much Sir Julius Lazender is in your debt.’

She thought for two seconds. ‘Not counting tonight, Mr Larke, nine thousand four hundred and twenty-two guineas.’

He raised his eyebrows. It was a huge sum, yet he did not look displeased. ‘You still lend him money?’

‘Of course, sir. You told me to.’

Larke nodded and sipped his wine.

Abigail Pail watched him without speaking. She did not know why her employer had instructed her to let Sir Julius Lazender run up such a vast debt. Sir Julius did it without difficulty. To Abigail Pail’s knowing mind Sir Julius Lazender was a brute, a brute with an appetite that drew him back night after night. He lost at the tables, he became drunk, and he went upstairs to the lavish, soft rooms and never was asked to pay a penny. Even his gambling debts were settled by the house. Sir Julius Lazender, on Valentine Larke’s specific instructions, had been given the freedom of London’s most exclusive and expensive whorehouse.

Larke knew that freedom should not end yet. His timing in this matter of Sir Julius had to be exquisitely right. He put his glass down, steepled his fingers, and smiled at the woman. ‘You will see Mr d’Arblay and instruct him, upon my authority, to prepare a summons for ten thousand guineas. But it is not to be served, you understand?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Nor is Sir Julius to know that the summons exists. He may continue to come here and you will continue to welcome him. If you need money then my bankers will, of course, oblige.’

‘You’re very kind, Mr Larke.’ The white, blubber face sniffed in disapproval.

Valentine Larke saw it and smiled. ‘Something troubles you, dear Mrs Pail?’

‘Not my position to be troubled, sir,’ she said in a tone that contradicted her words. ‘But he’s going to be the ruin of us!’

‘I assure you he is not.’ Larke smiled.

She chose to ignore his assurance. ‘Only this week, Mr Larke! He bit a girl! Horribly, Mr Larke! I can’t work a scarred girl!’

‘You put it on his bill?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the girl?’

Mrs Pail frowned. ‘I can’t put a girl on the streets just before Christmas, Mr Larke! It’s not Christian!’

‘Indeed not.’ He stood, to show that the interview was over. ‘Indeed you may keep her in the house, Mrs Pail, so long as you wish.’ He knew the loyalty that Abigail had to her girls. She educated those that could not read and always ensured that those who were not communicants in the Church of England learned their catechism and were confirmed by a bishop who was one of the house’s steadier patrons. By day the bishop conducted the girls towards heaven, and at night they returned the favour.

Larke bowed over her fat, ring-bright fingers. ‘I will stay a few moments.’

‘Of course, Mr Larke.’ She smiled archly. ‘You’d like company?’

He shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no.’

When she had gone, and when the door was locked, he took from his waistcoat pocket a message that had come to him at the House of Commons. He opened it, read it for the third time, then tossed it onto the grate that was piled with glowing coals. He watched the letter curl, burn, and break into wavering scraps of black ash.

Chemosh had not done what he had said he would do.

Larke stared into the fire.

Chemosh had promised that the girl would never marry because no man would marry her. She would be poxed and scarred, yet she was neither. She lived still with her beauty and her virginity. Chemosh had not done what he had promised he would do.

He put his head back, the corrugated black ridges of his hair crushed on Mrs Pail’s chairback, and he wondered when the Gypsy would next come. The Gypsy was the messenger who connected Larke and Marchenoir, carrying the coded letters that none but those two politicians could read. Larke hoped the Gypsy would come soon for he needed to pass on to Lucifer, by way of Marchenoir, the news of Chemosh. Lucifer would have to decide what was to be done. The timing of this thing was like the workings of a chronometer; gleaming, valuable, and exact. Chemosh was threatening to fail.