Matthew Plampin - The Devil’s Acre

Edward exhaled, the blood humming through his trembling fingertips, trying to work out if the Colonel had known for certain which chamber the bullet had been in. Surely he must have done. He was sauntering back across the room, continuing to act as if nothing whatsoever was wrong – as if he was, and always had been, the master of the situation.

‘My point is made, I think,’ Colt pronounced. ‘If you honestly wish to equip Her Majesty’s troops with such an unsound weapon – troops who are battling savage Negroes to the death even as we speak – well, Paget my friend, that mistake is yours to make.’

The gun-maker poured the powder and bullet onto the desk, the tiny lead ball bouncing twice against the wood before disappearing onto the carpet. Laying the Adams revolver stock-first before the still-petrified Paget, he looked at Edward and then nodded towards the door. Their audience was over.

The Colt carriage was waiting for them on Pall Mall. Edward climbed inside and recoiled with an oath, almost losing his balance. A man was tucked in the far corner, dozing away peacefully with his hands folded over his chest; woken by Edward’s entrance, he stirred and let out a massive yawn. Completely unconcerned to have been so discovered, this intruder then heaved himself up, bending back an arm until he elicited a loud crack from one of his shoulder joints. In his mid-thirties, he had a long, horse-like face, a Roman nose and languid, greyish eyes. His clothes were fine but worn, and looked as if they had been slept in the night before. There was an air of gentlemanly entitlement about him, despite the clear signs of dissipation and financial hardship. He looked over at Edward and smiled sleepily.

‘You must be the new secretary,’ he said. A good deal of the polish had been scraped from his voice, but it was still plainly that of a well-born Englishman. ‘So pleased to make your acquaintance.’

Before Edward could demand to know who this character was and what the devil he was doing in the Colt carriage, the Colonel climbed in, having given the coachman his directions. ‘Alfie, you goddamn wastrel,’ he muttered to the man by way of greeting, sitting down opposite him, ‘I was wondering if you’d honour us with your company today.’ He took off his hat, setting it upon his knee. ‘Mr Lowry, this here’s Mr Richards, my London press agent. He was supposed to accompany us in to the Board of Ordnance this morning, but clearly did not deem it worth his precious time.’

Edward sat next to the Colonel. There was an old familiarity between his employer and Mr Richards. This was an unwelcome development.

‘My apologies, Samuel,’ said Richards with a shrug, settling on the carriage’s full cushions and refolding his hands. ‘My schedule simply would not permit it.’

Colt looked at him disbelievingly, pulled off one of his calfskin gloves and then laid his naked hand against his brow. ‘By Christ, my head,’ he grumbled. ‘I could surely use an eye-opener about now.’

Immediately, Richards produced a slim bottle from his frock-coat and tossed it across the carriage – no mean feat as they were moving by now, cutting back out into the traffic. Colt caught it with similar dexterity, gratefully tugging out the stopper and taking a long drink. This simple but well-practised exchange laid bare the nature of their relationship. Both were devoted to drink, and had no doubt shared a series of adventures about the city during the Colonel’s previous visits. Richards had thus managed to earn the Colonel’s indulgence, if not his trust.

‘You still have today’s pistol, I see.’

‘I was disinclined to make a gift of it on this occasion.’ Colt took another slug of liquor, sucking it through his teeth. ‘We saw Paget.’

Richards was aghast; he too clearly knew Lord Paget. ‘Was no one else available? What of old Tom Hastings?’

Colt shook his head, saying that it had been Paget or nothing. He gave a brief summary of the meeting, failing to mention his practical experiment with the Adams revolver but admitting freely that the door had been pretty much slammed in their faces.

‘Mr Lowry here fought his corner, though,’ he added. ‘A cousin soldiering in Africa, saying my guns would force the savage foe to surrender! Why, he came at it like a seasoned operator. Nothing of the greenhorn about our Mr Lowry! Potential there, Alfie, real potential – like I told you.’

Edward grinned, well pleased by the gun-maker’s praise. Colt plainly thought that he’d invented the cousin at the Cape to help win over Paget. This he most definitely hadn’t – Sergeant-Major Arthur Lowry was very real, although in truth the half-dozen letters Edward had received from him contained only a single passing reference to revolving pistols and gave no indication of Arthur’s opinion of their merits. He decided to keep all this to himself. Why risk spoiling the Colonel’s contentment?

Richards was looking at the new secretary again. There was laughter in his eyes, and a certain opposition too. He sees me just as I see him, Edward thought: as a potential competitor, an adversary within the Colt Company. Edward found that he was unworried by this. Let the dishevelled fool try to knock me down, he thought, and see where it gets him.

The press agent stretched out luxuriantly, placing his muddy boots on the seat beside Edward, just a touch too close to the edge of the secretary’s coat. ‘He certainly seems like a sound fellow – a good London lad.’ Richards paused to pick something from between his large, stained teeth. ‘Not actually a cockney, I hope?’

Edward met this with careful good humour. ‘No, sir, I hail from the village of Dulwich. My father was a schoolmaster there.’

Richards inclined his head, accepting the bottle back from Colt. ‘So you are seeking to rise above this rather humble background – to improve your lot under the guidance of the good Colonel. No doubt you expect that before too long you’ll be at the head of one of his factories.’ He took a lingering drink. ‘A Colt manager or somesuch.’

This was exactly the future that Edward had predicted for himself a couple of nights before, while out celebrating his appointment with his friends; he’d declared it nothing less than a blasted certainty, in fact, standing up on a tavern stool, liquor spilling from his raised glass and running down inside his sleeve. The secretary looked over at his employer. Colt was staring out of the window at the elegant townhouses of St James Square, oblivious to their exchange.

‘I have my professional goals, Mr Richards, of course,’ he replied, ‘but my only concern at present is to serve the Colonel’s interests to the best of my abilities.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have long been a sincere admirer of both the Colonel’s inventions and the dedicated manner in which he conducts his business.’

One of Richards’s eyebrows rose by a caustic quarter-inch. ‘And how did you come to hear of the position? It was not widely advertised.’

‘Through an interested friend,’ Edward answered lightly, ‘that’s all. No mystery there, Mr Richards.’

The secretary thought of Saul Graff, the fellow who’d passed on the tip to him. Graff was like a voracious, information-seeking weed, his tendrils forever breaking out across fresh territories; God alone knew how he’d found out about this particular vacancy, but his timing had been faultless. He was owed a slap-up dinner at the very least – although he doubtlessly had his own reasons for wanting Edward Lowry placed with Colt.

‘An interested friend. How very deuced fortunate for you, Mr Lowry.’ Richards held the bottle up to the window, trying to ascertain how much spirit was left inside. ‘Sam tells me that you know a thing or two about the buying and selling of steel.’