Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

'Double them!' Sir George said defiantly, then he saw that Sandman's threat was real and he seemed to deflate like a pricked bladder. He flapped a paint-stained hand at Sammy. 'You're not going anywhere, Sammy.'

Berrigan put the boy down. 'You can make some tea instead,' Sandman said.

'I'll help you, Sammy,' Sally said, and followed the boy down the stairs. Sandman suspected she was going to get dressed.

Sandman turned to Sir George. 'You're an old man, Sir George, you're fat and you're a drunkard. Your hand shakes. You can still paint, but for how long? You're living off your reputation now, but I can ruin that. I can make quite certain that men like Sir Henry Forrest never hire you again to paint their wives or daughters for fear of you doing to them what you would have done to the Countess of Avebury.'

'I would never do that to…' Sir George began.

'Be quiet,' Sandman said. 'And I can put in my report to the Home Secretary that you have deliberately hidden the truth.' That, in reality, was a much lesser threat, but Sir George did not know it. He only feared prosecution, the dock and jail. Or maybe he saw transportation to Australia, for he began to shudder in unfeigned terror. 'I know you lied,' Sandman said, 'so now you will tell me the truth.'

'And if I do?'

'Then Sergeant Berrigan and I will tell no one. Why should we care what happens to you? I know you didn't murder the Countess and that's the only person I'm interested in. So tell us the truth, Sir George, and we shall leave you in peace.'

Sir George sank onto a stool. The apprentices and the two men portraying Nelson and Neptune gazed at him until he snarled at them to go downstairs. Only when they were gone did he look at Sandman. 'The Seraphim Club commissioned the painting.'

'I know that.' Sandman walked to the back of the studio, past the table heaped with rags, brushes and jars. He was looking for Eleanor's portrait, but he could not see it. He turned back. 'What I want to know, Sir George, is who in the club commissioned it.'

'I don't know. Really! I don't know!' He was pleading, his fear almost tangible. 'There were ten or eleven of them, I can't remember.'

'Ten or eleven of them?'

'Sitting at a table,' Sir George said, 'like the Last Supper, only without Christ. They said they were having the painting done for their gallery and they promised me there'd be others.'

'Other paintings?'

'Of titled women, Captain, naked.' Sir George snarled the last word. 'She was their trophy. They explained it to me. If more than three members of the club had swived a woman then she could be hung in their gallery.'

Sandman glanced at Berrigan, who shrugged. 'Sounds likely,' the Sergeant said.

'They have a gallery?'

'Corridor upstairs,' Berrigan said, 'but they've only just started hanging paintings up there.'

'The Marquess of Skavadale was one of the eleven?' Sandman asked Sir George.

'Ten or eleven,' Sir George sounded irritated that he had to correct Sandman, 'and yes, Skavadale was one. Lord Pellmore was another. I remember Sir John Lassiter, but I didn't know most of them.'

'They didn't introduce themselves?'

'No.' Sir George made the denial defiantly because it confirmed that he had been treated by the Seraphim Club as a tradesman, not as a gentleman.

'I think it likely,' Sandman said quietly, 'that one of those ten or eleven men is the murderer of the Countess.' He looked at Sir George quizzically, as though expecting that statement to be confirmed.

'I wouldn't know,' Sir George said.

'But you must have suspected that Charles Corday did not commit the murder?'

'Little Charlie?' For a moment Sir George looked amused, then he saw the anger on Sandman's face and shrugged. 'It seemed unlikely,' he admitted.

'Yet you did not appeal for him? You did not sign his mother's petition? You did nothing to help.'

'He was tried, wasn't he?' Sir George said. 'He received justice.'

'I doubt that,' Sandman said bitterly, 'I doubt that very much.'

Sandman lifted the frizzen of the pistol he had taken from Sir George and saw that it was not primed. 'You have powder and bullets?' he asked, and then, when he saw the fear on the painter's face, he scowled. 'I'm not going to shoot you, you fool! The powder and bullets are for other people, not you.'

'In that cupboard.' Sir George nodded across the room.

Sandman opened the door and discovered a small arsenal, most of it, he supposed, for use in paintings. There were naval and army swords, pistols, muskets and a cartridge box. He tossed a cavalry pistol to Berrigan, then took a handful of the cartridges and pushed them into a pocket before stooping to pick up a knife. 'You've wasted my time,' he told Sir George. 'You've lied to me, you've inconvenienced me.' He carried the knife back across the room and saw the terror on Sir George's face. 'Sally!' Sandman shouted.

'I'm here!' she called up the stairs.

'How much does Sir George owe you?'

'Two pounds and five shillings!'

'Pay her,' Sandman said.

'You can't expect me to carry cash on—'

'Pay her!' Sandman shouted, and Sir George almost fell off the stool.

'I only have three guineas on me,' he whined.

'I think Miss Hood is worth that,' Sandman said. 'Give the three guineas to the Sergeant.'

Sir George handed over the money as Sandman turned to the painting. Britannia was virtually finished, sitting bare-breasted and proud-eyed on her rock in a sunlit sea. The goddess was unmistakeably Sally, though Sir George had changed her usually cheerful expression into one of calm superiority. 'You really have inconvenienced me,' Sandman said to Sir George, 'and worse, you were ready to let an innocent boy die.'

'I've told you everything I can!'

'Now you have, yes, but you lied and I think you need to be inconvenienced too. You need to learn, Sir George, that for every sin there is a payment extracted. In short you must be punished.'

'You insolent…' Sir George began, then lurched to his feet and called out a protest. 'No!'

Berrigan held Sir George down while Sandman took the knife to the Apotheosis of Lord Nelson. Sammy had just brought his tray of tea to the stairhead and the boy watched appalled as Sandman cut down the canvas, then across. 'A friend of mine,' Sandman explained as he mutilated the painting, 'is probably going to get married soon. He doesn't know it, and nor does his intended bride, but they plainly like each other and I'll want to give them a present when it happens.' He slashed again, slicing across the top of the painting. The canvas split with a sharp sizzling sound, leaving small threads. He slid the knife downwards again and so excised from the big picture a life-size and half-length portrait of Sally. He tossed the knife onto the floor, rolled up the picture of Britannia and smiled at Sir George. 'This will make a splendid gift, so I shall have it varnished and framed. Thank you so very much for your help. Sergeant? I believe we're finished here.'

'I'm coming with you!' Sally said from the stairs. 'Only someone has to hook me frock up.'

'Duty summons you,' Sandman said to Berrigan. 'Your servant, Sir George.'

Sir George glared at him, but seemed incapable of speaking. Sandman began to smile as he ran down the stairs and he was laughing by the time he reached the street, where he waited for Berrigan and Sally.

They joined him when Sally's dress was fastened. 'Who do you know getting married soon?' Berrigan demanded.

'Just two friends,' Sandman said airily, 'and if they don't? Well. I might keep the picture for myself.'

'Captain!' Sally chided him.

'Married?' Berrigan sounded shocked.

'I am very old-fashioned,' Sandman said, 'and a staunch believer in Christian morality.'

'Speaking of which,' the Sergeant said, 'why have we got pistols?'