The Devil's Acre (16 page)

Alvord was studying the blood and bile that were spattered across the floorboards with weary distaste. ‘You lost something, Mr Lowry?’ he asked, without looking up.

The secretary excused himself and continued on his way to the post office.

‘These fellows,’ said Richards, raising his voice to be heard above the music, ‘these damned fellows…Look at ‘em, Lowry. Go on, take a good bloody look.’

‘I see them, Richards, believe me.’ Edward murmured his words through gritted teeth; the press agent was drunk once again and unable to gauge exactly how loudly he was talking. ‘I see them.’

Richards knocked back his latest glass of spirits and then held it aloft to summon the waiter. ‘I know London, old chap, I know her thieves and her bloody cads, and this lot right here are the worst specimens I’ve seen in a good long while. See that coat there – look, there.’

He was pointing across the balcony of the famous Argyll Rooms towards the main body of their company. Discreetly, Edward pinched the bottom of his sleeve and tugged his arm back down. The coat in question was obvious enough. Cut from black velvet in an eminently fashionable style, it was worn by a great glossy hound of a man, broad-snouted and sharp-whiskered, who was leaning in towards James Colt with every appearance of loyal attention. When studied a little more closely, however, it became plain that this character was working on two quite distinct levels. He was speaking with James as a confidential friend; but he was also monitoring the American carefully, waiting for a chance of some kind to present itself.

‘That coat is far too bloody
smart
for my liking. The smarter the coat the deeper the trick, my friend,’ said Richards, tapping the side of his long nose as if imparting a valuable piece of wisdom. ‘The deeper the bloody trick.’

James Colt, however, saw nothing sinister in his predatory cohort. He was lounging beneath a silken canopy at the balcony’s rear, doing his best to project an aura of wealth and power – coupled with a strong suggestion of rakish high spirits. Such was his resemblance to his accomplished brother in both face and physique that he was frequently mistaken for him, an error Edward had noticed that he was rather lax in correcting. The secretary had soon learnt that this visual similarity, initially a source of reassurance, was entirely deceptive. Samuel Colt’s formidable, demanding nature, his absolute focus upon his guns, his strict intolerance for anything that might waste his time or impede his path to his objective, were replaced in James only by pleasure-seeking indolence; and his gallery of intent, boiling scowls by the vaguely self-satisfied simper that was seldom far from his younger brother’s face. James shared the Colonel’s taste for costly, colourful clothes (that night, for example, he wore a terracotta-coloured jacket with a waistcoat of sunflower yellow), but his garments also featured odd, dandified touches such as frilled cuffs, voluminous neckties and embroidered lapels. He walked with a slight limp – according to Richards, this was the result of a wound received in a scandalous duel fought over a married woman in the city of St Louis. Edward found this rather difficult to believe. To him, James Colt simply did not seem capable of the sheer nerve that would surely be required for such a dramatic act. Neither could the secretary detect any trace of the political and legal acumen that had been claimed for their new manager. All in all, he seemed to lack a mainsail, a driving shaft – to want for the vital propelling agent that had made the elder Colt what he was.

That evening, James was holding court with a band of followers whom he’d introduced only as ‘the Harum-Scarum Club’. Upon their arrival in the casino, it had taken less than a minute for this debauched club to attract a half-dozen of the gay women who haunted its upper regions. Obtaining access into the balcony cost another shilling on top of the door price, and these ladies were accordingly of a superior class to those found fishing for custom around the dance-floor downstairs. Their faces were painted with the utmost
delicacy, their rich gowns cut low across smooth, wool-white bosoms, and their smiles immaculately suggestive. They had infiltrated James’s group effortlessly, gliding beneath the folds of the canopy, settling among the men like sleek pigeons upon a scattered handful of seed. Batting long eyelashes, the women were putting on an expert show of amusement at the most banal, boorish remarks, and reaching out to touch the backs of male hands with titillating forwardness. James and the fellow in the too-smart coat were discussing one of their number with salacious interest – a slender, feline-featured girl of no more than eighteen who was arranging herself upon an upholstered stool. The younger Colt made an observation, cocking his head to one side; his friend met it with a grin; both shook with unpleasant laughter.

Edward and Richards were positioned at the very periphery of this party. They sat at the far end of a long seat, beside an expansive potted palm at the balcony’s edge. The inebriated press agent had been sliding down slowly among the palm’s rubbery leaves, which were now threatening to engulf him completely. Below them, through an ornate wrought-iron balustrade, a swirling waltz was underway, all dark coats and vibrant crinolines, the many revolving couples interlocking on the crowded floor like the gears in a massive multicoloured machine. Directly behind their seat hung a huge mirror, its frame embellished with gilded scrolls. Another of similar dimensions had been placed opposite and a couple more off to the side; they’d been arranged to create an impression of size, the reflections artificially expanding the really quite modest proportions of the room and multiplying its compact crystal chandeliers into glittering, serried lines.

The secretary and press agent had been instructed to attend the Argyll Rooms because Colt Company business was supposedly to be conducted there. The only other sign that this might actually be the case was the presence of Lawrence Street, accompanied by an underling of some description. He was sitting across from them, also on the fringes of the gathering; posed rather stiffly in an armchair, he had yet to so much
as acknowledge their existence. A man of unchallengeable gravity, the Honourable Member was as out of place in the fashionable casino as a cleric in a Chinese opium den. One of the finer courtesans had been sent over to talk with him and was admiring his fine blond hair; he was replying in frosty monosyllables, looking off in the opposite direction, making her work very hard indeed.

Needless to say, the women all gave Edward and Richards a wide berth, immediately recognising their lack of both ready funds and importance. This was a blessing; Edward really wasn’t in the mood to fend off their well-practised advances. His mind was occupied almost entirely with its thousandth restaging of that moment in the machine room when Caroline Knox had turned away from him. Over and over again he saw the resolute rotation of her shoulder, the angle of her head as it dipped down, and the unfathomable haste in her step. He raked through his memory for an explanation, going over every word that had passed between them, yet he could not find so much as a single grain of genuine discord or misunderstanding. Indeed, such reminiscence made him feel only that he might very possibly be in love, however inappropriate or inconvenient that might prove. Her last words to him as she left the Spread Eagle that night had been, ‘I must see to this, sir, but I promise you I’ll be back before you even know it.’ And she had smiled as she said them. What could have happened after this to spoil things so completely?

‘My eye, what a blasted
booby,’
Richards sneered from his place in the palm, nodding at James as he stretched out to take a fresh drink from a waiter. ‘He fancies himself a Carnival Roman, don’t he, cruising the bloody Corso. Rather than a jumped-up simpleton, a – a wastrel, Lowry, who rides upon our Sam’s coat-tails like a bloody…a bloody…’

Before the press agent could recover his train of thought, Mr Street came before them, pushing the departing waiter aside with graceless annoyance. ‘Did he honestly think that this would
mollify me?’
he demanded of Edward. ‘That this wretched, meretricious place was an appropriate venue for the discussion of our mutual interests?’ He moved closer. ‘It is
offensive, quite frankly. Colonel Colt would never so much as consider such a damnably stupid course.’

Edward got to his feet, offering profuse apologies. He had to agree with Street on this point; it was wholly impossible to imagine the Colonel in the Argyll Rooms, for any purpose whatsoever.

‘The Colonel had his priorities in order,’ Street continued. ‘He knew how to conduct his business. Why he has left this dissolute fool in charge of his London affairs is quite beyond me.’ The gay woman who had been making such a determined effort to talk to him came to his side, slipping a neat gloved hand through the crook of his arm. He shook her off. ‘I am leaving. I cannot risk being seen in here. I will have nothing more to do with the Colt Company until the Colonel returns, do you understand?
Nothing more.’
Five seconds later he was at the balcony stairs, his lackey in tow, putting on his hat as they went down to the main doors.

There was a loud rustle and an agitation of leaves, followed by the snap of a stalk; Richards was attempting to disinter himself from the palm, with limited success. ‘Who the devil was that?’ he asked. ‘D’you know him, Lowry? You keeping secrets from me, old boy? From Alfie Richards, your fellow Englishman, your one true pal at the Colt Company?’

Edward smiled dryly at this description, one that a more sober Richards would certainly never have made. ‘He is an associate of the Colonel’s, that’s all. I’ve met him once or twice before.’ The secretary decided that he would change the subject, and reveal no more about Lawrence Street. ‘Sounds as if he has the measure of our Jamie, wouldn’t you say?’

The press agent, as Edward had guessed, was too lost to drink to pursue or even recall his question. ‘His godforsaken family are a millstone, a bloody great
millstone
around poor Samuel’s neck,’ he proclaimed, managing to gain limited purchase on the back of the seat. ‘They are the one disadvantage that has attended on his life, and hampered his progress whenever he’s been so good as to let ‘em. The father is a bankrupt, y’know, always tapping him for money. And have I told you about his bloody
sister,
and what she did?’

There was movement beneath the canopy; James had spotted Street’s departure and was rising from his seat, looking their way. ‘Quiet, damn it,’ Edward hissed, jabbing Richards’s ankle with his boot.

The younger Colt drifted over to them in his customarily careless manner. ‘Edward, did I just see our guest take his leave without so much as a farewell?’

The secretary, still standing, told him that he had.

James was unconcerned. ‘Now there’s a rum critter. This entire evening was arranged for his benefit, yet he’s run off afore I could say six words to him. Was the scoundrel skylarking us, do you think?’

‘I fear that he might have been expecting your conversation to take place somewhere a little quieter, Mr Colt.’ Edward nodded towards the gay women. ‘Somewhere a little less filled with distraction, perhaps.’

James had fixed him with a questioning smile. ‘Why won’t you call me Jamie, Edward? How many times do I have to ask you?’ He chuckled, shaking his head. ‘You might be right, I guess. Too late now though, ain’t it? And what’s the loss of one jumpy customer, anyways? We’re selling
guns,
by God. Another will be along soon enough.’

Edward almost winced to hear this. Did James have no understanding at all of Street’s importance – of the connections he had, the opportunities he could provide? Had the Colonel really not impressed this upon him?

James put an arm around Edward’s shoulders. ‘There’s something I need you to do for me at the works tomorrow, my friend, something important.’ He turned slightly, seeking out the eye of the young courtesan upon the stool. ‘I’m told we had an accident on the machine floor.’

‘Indeed we did…Jamie,’ Edward replied. ‘A girl lost a finger in one of the machines. I witnessed it, in fact. A truly nasty piece of luck.’ He wondered briefly if James was concerned about poor Nancy’s well-being, and maybe wished to see her properly cared for. There were occasional stories of factory managers displaying such benevolence. ‘She still suffers terribly, I hear. They say that a fever has set in.’

James’s lip was curling slowly as the woman held his gaze. ‘It’s a mistake to employ females in a gun factory. I can see why Sam chanced it – the cheaper wage-bill and so forth – but the simple fact of it is they just can’t understand the machinery, and accidents like this are the certain result.’ He looked back at Edward for a moment and then added softly, ‘I want you to get rid of ‘em for me.’

Edward went quite cold. He found himself staring hard at the pattern of swooping nightingales that was stitched along James’s brick-red collar. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think I –’

‘The female employees,’ James clarified. ‘Remove ‘em from the works, every last one. Do it tomorrow morning, first thing.’ He took his arm from around Edward and held out a hand to the girl, making his selection. She rose from her stool with queenly elegance and started towards him. ‘It looks like I’m going to be indisposed until pretty late in the day, I’m afraid, but I’m sure there’ll be others around to provide assistance.’ James looked down at Richards. ‘Like this gamesome true-blood here, for instance. What do you say, Alfie? You’ll help Edward out, won’t you?’

Richards, jerked from a doze, stuck out his lower lip and nodded gravely, giving James a thumbs-up. He plainly had no idea whatsoever of what had just been under discussion.

‘I think it’s time for him to head on home before he hashes up his dinner on one of these fine seats. Can you manage that, Edward?’

The secretary said that he could, reflecting bitterly that this foppish fool had finally shown his portion of Colt ruthlessness. One minor mishap and that was it, fifty souls cast from their positions, back out onto the mercy of the city – and Caroline Knox was among them. As James and his courtesan swapped coquettish pleasantries, his fingers quickly finding their way past her elbow to the small of her back, Edward thought hard, knowing that this might be his only chance to save Miss Knox’s livelihood. Then, amazingly, it came – a stunning powder-blast of inspiration.