The Revenge of Captain Paine (2 page)

‘What you did was stupid and, even worse, it was bad for business.’ Pyke drank from his pot and wiped foam from his mouth with his sleeve. ‘We might have avoided an all-out war but a man like Gold won’t forget what you did.’

‘I killed him, didn’t I?’ The shock had subsided, but Nash’s hands trembled as he picked up the gin bottle.

Pyke closed his eyes and tried to summon a memory that wouldn’t quite come to him. ‘The first time I killed a man it kept me awake for a week.’

That drew an astonished look. ‘You’ve killed a man, too?’

‘In spite of what you might think, I wasn’t always a banker.’ Pyke went to retrieve his greatcoat from the back of his chair. The morning had already taken its toll on him. In his former profession as a Bow Street Runner, he’d been kicked, punched, garrotted and attacked with a machete, and although he’d brought these survival instincts with him into his new career, it had been a while since he had fired a pistol or faced an imminent threat to his life. ‘You owe me a hundred pounds: either you can pay me from your own account or I’ll deduct it from your drawings.’

‘What did you used to do?’ Nash’s eyes bulged with a boyish excitement.

Pyke tossed a few coins on to the table. ‘That’s for the gin. Drink it and you might actually sleep tonight.’

Outside, the wind had picked up and storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. Farther along the street, Pyke hailed a hackney coachman and climbed into the cab just before it started to rain.

TWO

‘I regard the railways as central to the future well-being of our economy and our nation. Notwithstanding the competitive advantage the railways will afford our industries - I mean, just imagine being able to transport coal from the Tyne to London in less than a day - I think their impact will be far greater than anyone can presently imagine. You see, gentlemen, I was fortunate enough to be introduced to train travel earlier than most and I can say that once you’ve experienced the thrill of racing through the countryside at thirty miles an hour, sparks flying, smoke billowing from the engine, England’s green and pleasant fields no more than a passing blur, once you’ve felt that intoxicating mixture of speed and freedom coursing through your blood, you can lay your hand on your heart and say, without a shadow of a doubt, the future has arrived.’

Sir Robert Peel sat down behind his desk, looking mightily pleased with himself. He had aged well in the intervening years since Pyke had last seen him. His reddish hair had retained much of its thickness and his robust figure and ruddy complexion suggested good health.

He carried himself with the air of someone who expected great things to happen to him. And, Pyke mused, ever since he had seized control of his party from the Tory Ultras and formed a credible opposition to Lord Melbourne’s Liberals, this didn’t seem like such an outlandish idea.

‘That was a quite a speech, Sir Robert. Perhaps you should take a bow and allow us to applaud now?’

Peel shot him a sardonic look. ‘If I hadn’t already made your acquaintance, Pyke, I’d be rather offended by that remark.’

Pyke smiled easily. ‘If you’re offended then I accept the compliment.’

Peel chose to ignore him. ‘I say this as preamble, to give you some context for our meeting.’

Pyke let out a brief yawn.

‘I’m sorry. Am I boring you?’

Edward James Morris, who was sitting next to him in Peel’s disappointingly bare office, chuckled more from embarrassment than humour.

Morris was a new customer to the bank and, though Pyke didn’t know him well, he had already warmed to the older man. As a general rule, Pyke didn’t like members of the landed gentry. It wasn’t just a matter of their physical appearance - though it was true their general unattractiveness was almost guaranteed by their insistence on breeding with their own. Rather, Pyke didn’t like their effete manners and private codes of behaviour, or the way they conveyed their privilege with a look or a sneer, as though it were a stick with which to beat others. Morris was not a good-looking man, with his big-boned face and pinkish, jowly cheeks, but he was sincere and well meaning and, though he was the firstborn son of a landed aristocrat, he had given up his claims on the family pile to pursue a career in business.

His demeanour and enthusiastic persona made him seem younger than he was, but his real age could be deduced from his choice of clothes. Preferring garish colours to the more sober hues that had come to dominate in recent years, he looked like a man better suited to Regency excess than the austere world of commerce he actually inhabited. His dark green coat and purple waistcoat were set against a pair of tan breeches and a bamboo cane.

Pyke listened while Morris and Peel talked enthusiastically about the prospects for the mammoth venture Morris had been charged with overseeing: building a 186-mile railway line that linked the capital and York via the cathedral cities of Cambridge, Ely and Lincoln. But he was a little perplexed by their behaviour and didn’t fully understand the need exhibited by the great and the good to talk only in oblique terms about difficulties they faced. In the world of the tavern, if someone had a problem, they told you what it was and if you were the cause of it you could expect them to come at you with a knife or a pistol. Here Pyke could tell only from Morris’s slightly awkward manner that something was amiss. If someone had been eavesdropping on their conversation, they might have been forgiven for thinking that the railway’s progress so far had been wholly positive.

In fact, the railway’s problems had been well documented from the start. Disputes with landowners and an acrimonious fight for parliamentary approval had set the project back before a yard of track had been laid. More recently, progress had been hampered by various disagreements between subcontractors and suppliers, rows involving engineers and surveyors and disturbances involving crews of navvies. And rumours had now started to spread that the project’s costs had spiralled out of control and that the company would soon need to go back to Parliament and investors to plead for additional money.

Nonetheless, it was only when Pyke interrupted and asked them
directly
about the problems facing the railway that the mood in the room changed.

Morris shot him a sheepish look. ‘I knew that building a railway from London to York would be an arduous task but I thought everyone would pull together for the greater good. I didn’t think I’d have to fight tooth and claw every step of the way.’ He seemed relieved that he no longer had to pretend everything was fine.

‘But at present, am I right in assuming that your task has been made a great deal more difficult by the presence of radicals stirring up trouble among your workers?’ Peel asked him.

Morris nodded vehemently and Pyke thought, with sudden alarm, that it was as if they were putting on a performance for him.

‘Perhaps you’ve heard about the activities of this rogue everyone’s calling Captain Paine?’ This time Peel was addressing Pyke. ‘There are slogans bearing his name daubed across walls and gable-ends throughout the city.’

Pyke nodded but didn’t say anything. Four years earlier, agricultural riots had broken out across much of southern England, apparently led by a mysterious figure known as Captain Swing. They had been easily crushed but Captain Swing had never been arrested, leading many to conclude that he did not actually exist and had been created by radicals in order to give a focus to their struggles. So when Pyke had first read newspaper reports about this new figure - he presumed he was named after the revolutionary writer and pamphleteer - apparently now agitating among the urban poor, he had assumed it was simply the same trick. He hadn’t for a moment considered that Captain Paine might be a real figure or that someone of Peel’s stature and astuteness might be sufficiently worried about him to call a meeting.

‘Last year the coal-whippers went on strike demanding higher wages and a reduced working day. This month the tailors are going to strike. Next it’ll be the bakers, the shoemakers, the carpenters, the bricklayers, the brass-founders, the cabinet-makers. I’ve been led to believe this Captain Paine has been instrumental in promoting all of these causes and that he’s offering to support the strikers financially while they take their action. I’ve also been informed he’s taken an interest in the navvies and that he’s currently stirring up trouble among the men gathering in Huntingdon to begin work on the next section of the Grand Northern.’ Peel glanced over at Morris for support.

‘You believe he actually exists, then?’ Pyke regarded him sceptically.

‘Whether he exists or not, or whether he’s the same figure who led the agricultural riots a few years ago, isn’t the point. First, a workhouse in Bethnal Green was burnt to the ground. That was six months ago. Then a garment factory in Aldgate was broken into and ransacked. Finally last month - and this might concern you - a bank in Stepney that had lent some money to the so-called middlemen or sweaters working in the manufacturing of clothes and shoes was set alight with rags soaked with oil.’ Peel studied Pyke’s reaction carefully. ‘But in answer to your question, yes, I do believe there is a particular individual posing as Captain Paine. I think he’s personally wealthy or has a wealthy backer and that he’s willing to use this wealth to support all manner of subversion.’

‘Like encouraging people to join a union?’ Pyke asked, trying to remember whether he’d heard anything about the bank in Stepney.

Peel reddened. ‘I’m well aware the Combination Acts have been revoked.’

‘But you still consider that encouraging other people to join a union is a criminal act?’

‘No, I consider wanton damage to property to be a criminal act.’

‘Tell that to the Tolpuddle labourers.’

A short silence hung between them. ‘If you remember, it was Whig ministers and Whig magistrates who found them guilty, not my party.’

Ever since six Dorsetshire labourers had been transported to Australia two years earlier, having been found guilty of taking a pledge of loyalty to their union and thereby violating a law that had been brought in during the Napoleonic Wars to counter the threat of navy mutinies, huge pressure had been brought to bear on the government to quash their conviction.

‘In which case, perhaps you could tell me why a former Tory prime minister would seem to be so keen to repeat their mistakes.’

Peel stared into the distance, his expression inscrutable. ‘Notwithstanding the fact that I regard all radical activity to be unwelcome and detrimental to the long-term interests of this country, you could simply say that, in this particular case, I am merely assisting a friend.’ Peel gave Morris a nod.

‘You could say that but I wouldn’t believe it.’

‘That I wouldn’t help a friend?’ Peel seemed appalled by the insinuation but Pyke wondered how much of it was for Morris’s benefit.

‘Then go ahead and help him.’ Pyke relaxed in his chair. ‘But I still don’t see what all this has to do with me.’

Morris cleared his throat, trying to draw their attention to his presence. ‘Perhaps if I could say something, Sir Robert?’

‘Go ahead, but I told you, he’s stubborn and won’t be talked around.’

‘I was having dinner with Sir Robert last week,’ Morris said. ‘Your name came up in the conversation, Pyke. Sir Robert here is not an easy man to impress but he described you as a formidable figure. A fellow you’d want to have on your side, if it was humanly possible.’ In the gloomy room, candlelight glinted off his shiny forehead. ‘I have to travel up to Cambridge early next week and I’d very much like you to accompany me.’

Before Pyke had time to answer, Peel produced a copy of the
Morning Chronicle
and held up the front page. The headline required no further elaboration:

‘I thought it might appeal to your sense of the macabre.’ Peel smiled weakly.

Like the rest of London, Pyke had read about the matter. A headless, decomposing body had been found floating in the Ouse just outside Huntingdon, but no one seemed to know who the dead man was or why he had been killed. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the story had caused a sensation among the metropolitan populace, and rumours had already started to spread that an axe-wielding lunatic sent by Satan had been let loose on the countryside.

Pyke regarded him with a tight expression. ‘So why is the leader of the opposition so concerned about a squalid murder that happened somewhere in the provinces? What is it you’re not telling me?’ From experience, he’d always found Peel a difficult man to read and this occasion was proving to be no exception.

‘Not telling you? God, man, I know even less about this business than the person who wrote this report.’ Peel held up the newspaper. ‘But as someone who always has the best interests of this country at heart, it worries me greatly that a headless corpse has been unearthed just a few miles from the spot where radical types, possibly led by this Captain Paine, are busy organising themselves.’

‘That still doesn’t explain why it’s any concern of yours,’ Pyke said. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, your administration only lasted for a hundred days before the electorate spoke.’

‘I thank you for the reminder.’

A moment of silence passed between them. ‘Even if
your
interest in this business is purely altruistic, Sir Robert, I fail to see how it has anything to do with me.’

Ignoring Pyke’s mocking tone, Peel looked over at Morris. ‘Perhaps you’ll leave us for a moment, Edward?’

When Morris had pulled the door closed behind him, Peel stood up and walked to the window of his office. Outside was a view of the buttresses and passageways leading to the New Palace yard. A year earlier, a fire had ripped through the Palace of Westminster and destroyed the chamber used by the Commons as well as St Stephen’s Chapel. The old House of Lords had survived the blaze and had now been colonised by the Commons, but the resulting pressure for space had meant that men as senior as Peel had been forced into accommodation far beneath their circumstances.