The Revenge of Captain Paine (43 page)

‘Arrests, but not a kidnapping, not abducting a woman and a young child in broad daylight . . .’

‘Will you at least see what you can find out for me? Who knows? You might be quite right. Bellows might have had nothing at all to do with the abduction. But I’d like to hear this confirmed by one of your contacts. I’m not accusing him of anything just yet but he’s never liked me and my recent encounters with him have all been acrimonious.’

‘Of course, I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll get to work on it immediately. I’m just glad you felt you could confide in me.’

Pyke nodded his gratitude. ‘It goes without saying that the fewer people who hear about the kidnapping the better. I don’t suddenly want to be inundated with false ransom demands.’

‘Quite, quite,’ Gore said, sitting forward in his chair, his face lined with concern. ‘In the light of this awful news, perhaps we should think about postponing our little piece of business ...’

‘Why?’ Pyke said, more sharply than he had intended. ‘Are you suddenly having second thoughts?’

That seemed to wound Gore. ‘Not at all, my friend. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m chomping at the bit to get going with it.’

‘Then we should proceed as planned. After all, business is business.’

‘Admirable sentiments,’ Gore said, seriously. ‘Even more so in the light of your ...
difficulties
.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And rest assured, I will do everything I can to help you. Everything in my power. I’m certain this dreadful business will work out in the end. Even though I have no faith to speak of, at times like this I can see why people turn to the Church. I wish I could offer you more than I’ve been able to.’

 
When the hack-chaise dropped him at the steps of Hambledon, he was met by Jo, the only servant Pyke had told about the kidnapping. Jo said that no ransom demand had been delivered to the hall and no new information had come to light She added that some of the servants were starting to question the story they’d been told - that Emily and Felix were visiting an old friend of hers on the south coast. Why hadn’t she told any of them about this trip? Royce had apparently been asking. Pyke dismissed these concerns with a shake of the hand. ‘So what,’ he said, bounding up the steps two at a time. He asked how Milly was. Jo explained that she was eating properly and looked quite well but that she still hadn’t spoken a word or ventured out of her room.

Pyke found Milly sitting on her bed, humming to herself. Laid out in front of her were a series of pencil drawings; one of a horse, one of a tree, one of a flower and one of a dog.

When she saw him, Milly tried to gather up and hide the drawings but he managed to retrieve the one of the flower from the bed before she could crumple it up. ‘This is very good, Milly,’ Pyke said, looking at the drawing from different angles. Clearly the girl had a talent for draughtsmanship.

Blushing a little, she relinquished the other drawings from her grip and Pyke took them in his hands and admired them in passing. He told her the drawing of the flower was his favourite and without hesitation Milly thrust it into his hand.

‘You mean I can keep it?’

She nodded.

‘Really? Are you quite sure you want to part with it?’

Smiling now, she nodded again.

‘Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put it in a frame and hang it over there on that wall. Would you like that?’

This time her nod of the head was less forthright.

‘I want to help you, Milly. I really do.’ He reached out to touch her gently on the cheek but she shrank from him, her blue eyes widening with fear. ‘But to help you, I need to know what happened that night when I found you under the table. Do you understand what I’m asking?’

She stared at him without blinking.

‘Please, Milly. I know it’s hard for you. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been, having to see what you saw . . .’

Milly retreated farther up the bed until her back was pressed against the frame. She had started to shake a little too.

Sighing, Pyke glanced down at the drawings on the bed and noticed that the dog was a mastiff. He picked it up and studied it more carefully. In the drawing, the beast had a sturdy, muscular frame, a fawn coat and a black face.

‘Have you ever seen a dog like this one before?’ When she refused to answer him, Pyke added, ‘Please, Milly. This is very important. Did you see a dog like this one on the night your mama and papa were ...?’

Milly turned towards the wall and started to hum.

‘Milly, please . . .’

But she wouldn’t turn around and look at him.

That afternoon Pyke journeyed back into the city in his own carriage and arrived at the house on Berkeley Square just after five. For an hour, he wandered listlessly around the empty building, wondering quite what he had seen in it to begin with: the whole place had the feel of a mausoleum. Just after six, he met Townsend at the front door and saw at once from his expression that he had no news about Emily. The previous day, Townsend had seemed a little intimidated by the house so Pyke suggested they take a stroll around the square instead.

‘I talked with one of the watchmen at the bank,’ Townsend explained. ‘I hadn’t seen him before. He told me he’d been ill with a fever. He hadn’t even heard about the burglary, the fact that some papers had gone missing from the vault, but he was on duty that night. I asked him if he’d seen anything. He looked at me and said, “Not if you don’t count Jem Nash.” Apparently, Nash was there in the building between about two and two thirty in the morning.’

Walking ahead, Pyke contemplated this for a moment. Perhaps Nash had allowed himself to get mixed up in something untoward and had been killed for it? Perhaps he had stolen the documents for someone else, to clear his debt, and then been killed?

Turning to Townsend, who was lagging slightly behind, he said, ‘I’d still like you to keep a close eye on Blackwood and continue to maintain a presence at the bank.’

Townsend nodded.

‘That was very fine work with the watchman by the way,’ Pyke said, noticing that Townsend was grimacing slightly and that he limped when he walked.

Pyke wanted to invite him into the house and talk about the old days, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate. Their lives had moved on and an unbridgeable gap had opened up between them. He handed Townsend an envelope stuffed with money. Townsend took it and was gone.

TWENTY-FOUR

The last time he had visited the Jolly Sailor in Bermondsey he had seen three dogs fight a bull and had taken a billiard cue to the head of Jake Bolter. But when he entered the taproom later that night, no one took any notice of him, at least not until he had asked the landlord where he could find Jake Bolter or Jimmy Trotter. It was late, after midnight, but the tavern was thronging with drinkers.

‘I can see from your reaction you know who I’m talking about,’ he added, tipping the Jamaica rum he’d been served down his throat in a single movement.

The rough spirit burned the sides of his throat and forced him to shudder slightly. Someone chuckled next to him. Pyke let him see the two pistols in his belt - the landlord, too - and the chuckling stopped. The rum, mixed with some laudanum he’d taken earlier, put him at ease.

Looking around the dirty, low-ceilinged room, he decided the Jolly Sailor didn’t live up to its name. It was the kind of place where petty thieves congregated with sailors on shore leave to drink themselves into a stupor and gamble what little money they had on rats, dogs, bulls, bears, cockerels and perhaps even human beings. The place stank of unwashed bodies, gin vapours and stale tobacco. Along the zinc-topped counter stood a motley collection of bedraggled men wearing soiled smock-frocks, shooting jackets and blue-flannelled sailor’s shirts. He could feel the heat of their stares burning into his face.

‘I asked a question.’ He waited, and folded his arms. ‘I was told Trotter once had his cigars delivered here.’

Pyke sensed the man’s presence behind him but when he turned around, he found himself staring at someone’s chest. He had to look upward to see the man’s face, and this almost caused him to crick his neck.

‘You’ve had your drink.’ The man glowered. ‘Now you can leave.’ His arms, like small oak trees, rippled with veins.

‘Someone here knows where I can find Trotter and I’m prepared to pay for this information.’ Pyke raised his voice so that the entire room could hear him. After that, you could have heard a mouse scamper across the floor.

‘But are you prepared to fight for it?’ someone asked him, from farther along the counter. A ripple of approval spread throughout the room. The prospect of spilled blood never failed to arouse appetites.

‘Fight who?’

‘Fight me, if you like.’ This time a man stepped out from the line of drinkers to reveal himself to be a nine-stone specimen with a collapsed chest and a set of elaborately coiled whiskers.

‘And if I beat you, you’ll tell me where I can find Trotter?’

‘Aye, I’m sure it can be arranged,’ the man said, glancing surreptitiously at the landlord, who gave him a curt nod.

‘And if you beat me?’

‘Then everyone here gets to see a gentl’man suffer. That’s always the best show in town.’ He grinned, pointing at the pistols. ‘’Course, you’ll have to leave your pops behind the counter.’

‘If I agree, what’s to stop someone going to warn Trotter so that when I turn up at his lodgings he’s long gone?’

‘You won’t find anyone here who likes that cur.’ The man twisted the ends of his moustache. ‘Ask folk if you don’t believe me.’

A little later, stripped down to the waist, Pyke was led into the same yard where the mastiff, Copper, had torn apart the stricken bull. Someone had opened the door of the pen and Pyke was jostled into the makeshift arena, crowds building around the wooden fence, red-faced men and women gesticulating and arguing with each other, a few coins changing hands. The remains of the bull had been cleared away, Pyke was pleased to see, but the enormous pool of blood had left a dark stain on the hard ground. Looking around him, he tried to see his puny opponent in the crowd of faces leering and shouting at him. A few left-right combinations would shut them up. He may have put on weight around the midriff but he still knew how to throw, and take, a punch.

Some cheers went up inside the taproom and soon eager faces turned to greet his opponent. A path was cleared and the gate swung open. Pyke should have seen it coming. He had walked straight into it.

Above the heads of the gathered crowd, Pyke saw the man who had first accosted him in the taproom, and when the seven-foot giant stepped into the pen his bare torso was glistening with oil.

The cheers and jeers around him reached a climax and Pyke realised he was trapped. He could plead a mismatch but the giant would still do his best and take him apart. He could try to make a run for it but the hostile crowd was seven or eight deep all the way around the fence and they would kick him to death before they let him leave. No, his only choice was to stay and fight, but when he looked across at his opponent limbering up, he wondered whether suicide might be a better option. If only he hadn’t agreed to give up his pistols.

Pyke measured himself against his opponent and realised that the top of his head didn’t quite reach the man’s chin. More gas lamps were lit, flooding the arena with additional light.

Before he could take further action, the fight had started and his opponent tried to bear down on him, throwing punches like a windmill. With some ease, Pyke ducked under his opening barrage, staying light on his toes and keeping his breathing regular. The giant grunted with anger and turned on him, this time not bothering to throw a punch but rather pushing him against the fence and head-butting him in the face. The bridge of his nose exploded, blood and cartilage spraying from both nostrils. His opponent stepped back and grinned, this time acknowledging the applause of the crowd, his torso barely damp with perspiration. Swallowing his own blood, Pyke seized upon his opponent’s temporary loss of concentration and landed a left and a right blow, both under the short ribs, to deprive the big man of air. The punches surprised more than hurt his opponent and, responding with an embarrassed fury, he swung wildly and missed, Pyke ducking inside the blows and landing two more punches, this time to the kidneys. A few cheers of support greeted his left-right combination, further infuriating the giant, who shoved Pyke back into the fence and tried to grab him in a headlock. Pyke stamped on his toe with the heel of his boot, causing his opponent to grunt with pain for the first time, but he didn’t move back quickly enough and the giant caught him with a straight punch just under the eye. It was like being hit with a sledgehammer. The next thing Pyke knew, he was on his hands and knees: a gash had opened up under his eye and he could taste blood and saliva in his mouth. Staggering to his feet, Pyke cleared his throat, blinked twice and tried to focus, but the gash under his eye had swollen up so much he could barely see out of it. He certainly didn’t see the blow that caught him on the temple and sent him crashing to the floor again. His opponent stood over him and told him to stay on the ground. All around him was a blur of screaming and motion.

Pyke remained on his hands and knees a little longer this time, to try to clear his head. Pain from the last blow was strangely welcome, though. It helped to focus his mind. He stood up quickly and raised his guard. The giant rushed at him but Pyke stepped inside his reach and landed another left-right combination in the kidneys, blows that winded the giant a little. That enraged the big man and caused him to lose his composure. He came at Pyke throwing wild punches, but they were easy to evade. Sensing an opportunity, Pyke ducked under one blow, reached down and grabbed his opponent’s scrotum. With all his strength, Pyke jerked the sack upwards and felt the skin tear. At first the giant didn’t seem to know what had happened, nor did any of the baying crowd, who looked on with stunned bewilderment. The man blinked twice, his jaw slackening and his eyes widening, before a low, piercing scream tumbled from his mouth. Pyke looked down and saw he was still holding part of the man’s scrotum. He opened his fingers and let the thin strip of skin fall silently to the ground. The giant stumbled around the ring screaming, throwing wild punches into thin air, blood gushing from his wound. Seizing his chance, Pyke landed three telling left-right combinations under the short ribs and to the kidneys and followed them up with another series of blows to the body. The crowd had fallen silent. The only sounds were the hissing of the gas lamps and the ragged panting of the wounded man. Pausing to gather himself for the ‘kill’, Pyke wiped blood from his mouth with his bare arm, took aim and landed a kick directly into his opponent’s groin. There were a few gasps from the crowd. The giant went down easily after that and he didn’t get up. Blinking, Pyke looked around him at the sea of hostile faces. No one had wanted him to win and no one had bet any money on this outcome. The slain giant reminded Pyke of the stricken bull.