Great Historical Novels (51 page)

‘Eliza. There is something …’ Antonia faltered. ‘I would like you to look at this.’ She hesitated and then lay the portrait upon her lap.

Eliza gazed at it, frowning. It took her a minute to understand what she was looking at. But Juliette knew exactly what it was. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes darted to Rhia suspiciously, as though this must be her doing.

‘Do you recognise any of these men?’ Antonia prodded gently.

Eliza didn’t seem to have heard; she was still trying to comprehend the portrait.

Juliette looked at Antonia, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t understand.’ She had seen not one ghost but two: Josiah Blake and Ryan Mahoney.

‘I know what you did, Juliette,’ Antonia said quietly, ‘and why. But you see, the negative found its way back to me anyway. Who would have thought it?’ She shrugged as though it was nothing more than a mildly interesting event.

Eliza yelped and threw the portrait onto the floor as though it had bitten her.

‘That’s him, that’s John Hannam all right,’ she croaked. She
put her hand to her throat as if something had grabbed at it.

Antonia picked the portrait up. ‘Which one is John Hannam?’ Everyone was silent, watching Eliza.

Eliza stabbed her finger at Mr Montgomery. Rhia felt a chill. No one spoke. It must be a mistake. She looked around. Juliette didn’t look surprised, of course. Isaac was nodding as though he had already suspected as much, and Antonia was clearly devastated.

‘But that simply isn’t possible, Eliza. Mr Montgomery is a respectable man. A wealthy man, from a good family.’

‘Do you know anything about Jonathan Montgomery’s family, Antonia?’ Isaac asked.

‘No. But I assumed …’ She trailed off. ‘Do you?’

‘No,’ said Isaac. ‘I, also, assumed. Respectability only needs wealth to defend it these days.’

Rhia couldn‘t stand still a moment longer. She needed air. She needed to think. It could not be possible that Mr Montgomery was behind the deaths of Josiah and Ryan. She stood up. ‘Mr Dillon and Michael Kelly are meeting in Covent Garden,’ she said. ‘I’ll find them.’

‘Take my chaise,’ Isaac offered.

‘I’d sooner take one of your horses, if I may. I’d be faster.’

‘Very well. I’ll unhitch the mare.’

Isaac left to do this while Rhia fetched her cloak. By the time she reached the footpath, he’d put a bridle and reins on one of his pretty greys.

‘I don’t have a saddle,’ he said as he handed her the reins.

‘I don’t have need of one,’ she replied. Isaac held the mare still while she mounted.

She rode through Cornhill, easily manoeuvring past slow-moving carriages. On Threadneedle Street, a queue had formed behind a brewer’s cart that was unloading tuns at a tavern. She
rode past, barely noticing the shocked expressions of ladies in hansom cabs as they stared at her skirts hitched up around her knees. You’d think they’d never seen a leg. It was cold. She wished she’d thought to put on her longer boots and a riding skirt instead. She pulled her hood lower over her face against the frigid air.

The road beyond Cheapside looked clearer, so she pressed her heels into the mare’s flanks. They almost reached a canter along Newgate Street. She didn’t look at the prison, not once. She wondered if someone within those grey walls was listening to the hooves on the cobbles, as she once had. She said a prayer. It came out so naturally that she barely noticed.

At Holborn the thoroughfare was congested again, and Rhia wondered if any of the side streets to the south cut through to Drury Lane. She saw three grey doves, sitting on the wrought iron curl of a street lamp on the corner of an alleyway. She took a chance.

If Mr Montgomery was indeed John Hannam then they needed evidence. It would do no good to accuse him otherwise. She had a feeling, though, that this was precisely what Dillon and Michael were up to. It would have been easy enough for Mr Montgomery to take the embroidery from his wife’s collection and put it into the emporium. And he only needed to pay his maid, or threaten her, to get her to lie. He must have suspected that Rhia knew something. She remembered the afternoon of Isabella’s tea party. She’d said something. She couldn’t remember what exactly, she’d been quite drunk, but it was something about being suspicious of Josiah’s and Ryan’s death. Mr Montgomery knew that she’d been with Isabella, seeing the collection. It would have been easy to convince his wife.

Rhia nudged the mare along the narrow passage towards the Covent Garden market square. Rows of hackney carriages
queued around its periphery, their drivers smoking or talking in huddles beside a brazier, stamping their feet to stay warm.

‘Lovely set of pegs, miss,’ one of the drivers remarked as she passed.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She rode straight across the square and through a laneway clogged with barrows. She arrived at the Red Lion at the same time as Dillon, who was hurrying along from the opposite direction. The collar of his long coat was up around his ears and his breath was a puff of mist around him. Rhia dropped her hood back as they drew closer and he laughed when he recognised her.

‘I’ve been waiting to see Rhiannon on her mare,’ he said, ‘but isn’t your cloak the wrong colour?’

‘I’ve news.’

‘Ah.’ He took the reins. ‘There’s a stable at the back, I’ll tie her up. Mr Kelly’s probably inside.’

Michael Kelly was in a snug, smoking and reading a trade journal. He looked out of place, Rhia thought, with his sun-burnt skin, felt hat and stockman’s boots. They had spoken of Greystones at breakfast, before Antonia arrived, and for the first time Rhia saw his raw longing to be home. There were tears in his eyes when he spoke of Annie. There had been no time to send a letter from Sydney that would reach home before they did. No one in Greystones knew that she and Michael Kelly were in London. Michael looked up as Dillon arrived with a jug of porter.

‘I’ve news,’ said Michael.

‘That’s all of us, then,’ Dillon said. ‘You first,’ he added, looking at Rhia.

She described what had happened that morning, and when she named Mr Montgomery Dillon slammed his hand down on the table making her jump. ‘I knew it!’ he said, shaking his
head in disgust. ‘I knew it. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I should have. Well, we’ve evidence now.’

‘We have,’ said Michael. ‘I paid a visit to Ryan’s solicitor this morning.’ He drew a sealed envelope from his waistcoat pocket. ‘But it isn’t mine to open.’ He handed it to Rhia

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘We should be on our way.’

‘Aye,’ said Michael, draining his glass. ‘I’ll find us a cab.’

‘Rhiannon is on horseback,’ said Dillon, glancing at her with a half-smile as he used her full name. ‘I’d like to recruit Sid if we’re going to pay Montgomery a visit, so let’s you and I stop at the Jerusalem on the way.’ He looked at Rhia and raised an eyebrow. If she had been in any doubt, before, about her feelings for him, she was no longer. She had no idea how one came back to earth from this soaring weightless feeling.

She rode hard and reached Cloak Lane before Dillon and Michael.

Juliette opened the door and shocked Rhia by attempting a smile. In the morning room, Eliza sat crocheting while Isaac was pacing. They all looked up at her expectantly.

‘They’re coming. They’ll be here soon,’ she said.

Antonia said something about people wanting lunch and disappeared, obviously needing to keep busy with something.

Michael, Dillon and Sid arrived.

No one seemed to want the curried salmon sandwiches Beth had prepared, and Rhia couldn’t even eat ginger cake though she took a bite just to keep Beth happy. For a time there were several conversations taking place at once. Sid shook Rhia’s hand so hard that it made her shoulder ache. ‘You look well, Miss Mahoney,’ he said, beaming.

‘That’s a lie!’ She laughed.

‘It is, but I’m pleased to see you all the same.’

Michael raised his voice until everyone was listening. ‘I’ve
paid a visit to Ryan Mahoney’s solicitor, and persuaded him to hand over a letter that Josiah Blake posted to Ryan.’

‘How ever were you able to convince him?’ Antonia asked.

‘I’d rather not say, Mrs Blake.’ Michael turned to Rhia who took the envelope from her cloak pocket. She broke the seal. Inside was another envelope, already opened. The address on this was China Wharf and it bore the stamp of the Bombay postmaster. Inside this was a single leaf of parchment.

Rhia unfolded it and read Josiah’s letter aloud.

Arabian Sea
March 1840

My dear Mahoney,

My pen is slipping in my damp grasp and the mirth of the ocean is rattling my inkpot. The closeness of the air is stifling, but not so much as my fear. It has grown since I stumbled on the opium sheds in Calcutta and was mistaken for Isaac.

It might be only fear that makes the shadows follow me, scorning my good sense. I have prayed like a condemned man as we navigated the east India shore and through the Strait of Ceylon. But the feeling of danger has only grown and now I am unable to distinguish between the shadow of a mast and that of a man. The crew from Calcutta are neither men I recognise nor trust, so I keep to my cabin, seeking only the company of my goodly companions.

Before we left Calcutta I sought out the sailor who apprehended me thinking that I was Isaac. I found him in a tavern, drunk. But instead of telling me more about the
Mathilda
being chartered to Lintin Island, he was rambling about two ships meeting in the open sea. He assured me that
he could tell me no more or I’d certainly have the law after him.

Our friend Isaac has seen fit to trade outside of the law of Emperor Tao-kuang and in defiance of the Quaker ethic. Perhaps you knew this? The trade may not be illegal in England, but it is immoral. The emperor’s trade law is farcical of course. It is not honoured by the merchants of Jardine Matheson and the East India Company, and indeed the Queen herself seems content to ignore a reasonable request in order to expand her empire. If this is the new world, then I prefer the old.

I had a private word with Mr Beckwith last night, and he seemed distressed. He promised me that he would investigate, and I told him that I would write to you so that you might make discreet enquiries from London. The Jerusalem should have a record of charters with signatories. If there is a criminal in our company, and it is neither you nor I, and it is not Isaac, then it can only be Jonathan Montgomery. I hope I have not overly distressed poor Mr Beckwith whom, I now realise, must also have come to this conclusion.

As you know, we are often in Calcutta for up to eight weeks so that we might travel to the indigo dyers and wood block printers in remote villages. The ship’s crew is usually entirely different for each passage, sailors being itinerant and not inclined to wait in port, idle, when they could be at sea earning a wage. Calcutta is a busy sea port with a sizeable ship building yard. It was my mistaken belief that
Mathilda
was in the dry dock during our last stay. It was a convenient misapprehension, and Isaac was not then obliged to tell me an untruth.

I entreat you to make your own enquiries, Mahoney, and I beg you to be cautious. I admit that I always felt curious to
know more of Jonathan’s past, which he has kept private. One does not wish to pry. Perhaps he has other crimes to hide.

I hope to be returned safely to you, and that this foreboding that I have is no more than cowardice. But should any ill befall me, please take care of my beloved Antonia. I need convey no message of my affections to her, she can be in no doubt of my devotion.

I remain your steadfast and loyal friend,

Josiah Blake

Rhia folded the page and returned it to its envelope. Antonia was weeping. Dillon held out his hand for the letter. ‘It will be needed as evidence,’ he said quietly. Rhia gave it to him and their fingers brushed against each other. It was a light touch only, but its current spread through her.

Dillon waited for Antonia to compose herself, and then said, ‘I promise I will take good care of the letter, Mrs Blake. Your husband was wrong about one thing only. Mr Beckwith would not have been shocked to hear that Jonathan Montgomery, once John Hannam, is a criminal. He is not only Montgomery’s associate but also his accomplice. How else could Montgomery have discovered that Ryan had the letter? Josiah told Beckwith he was writing to Ryan. It could only have been Beckwith who killed both Josiah and Ryan.’

The room was silent as everyone considered this. Shy, retiring Mr Beckwith, a killer?

‘When I met Ryan,’ Dillon continued, ‘it was because I was investigating London merchants who were trading with China. I knew he was hiding something from me. I was curious about his firearms, and he assured me that his interest was antiquarian,
and that he didn’t even know how to fire one. Furthermore, he said that he kept no bullets. I saw no reason to disbelieve him, and I still do not. If he were to take his own life, it would have had to be premeditated, not something he did in a moment of despair.’

‘Then it was not his own pistol that shot him?’ Rhia heard her voice as though from afar.

Dillon shook his head. ‘It was not. The shot was taken from a greater distance than an arm’s reach. It was a simple matter for Mr Beckwith to arrive with his own firearm, and then to place Ryan’s in his hand once he was dead. It is easy enough to dust gunpowder residue around the barrel of the gun so that it appears to have been fired.’

Antonia, now composed, was looking around the room. ‘Where is Juliette?’

Juliette stepped forward from the shadow of the doorway.

‘When did you suspect Mr Montgomery?’ Antonia asked.

‘And how?’ Rhia added.

‘It was the day I came to the emporium with you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He rolled up his shirtsleeves when I knocked that organza to the floor. I saw a scar the shape of the burn that I left on John Hannam’s arm before he killed my father. And then I just knew that it was he – there was something about him. I couldn’t say what, but I
knew
.’