The Revenge of Captain Paine (45 page)

At ten, when he knew that sleep was beyond him, Pyke collected his greatcoat from the entrance hall and stepped out into the rain. The pavement in front of the house was wet and slippery from the fallen leaves. He walked briskly over to the other side of the square and then followed Berkeley Street to Piccadilly, where he crossed the road into Green Park. The park was deserted and the ground was marshy and sodden. In the dark sky, the yellow moon came and went behind clouds like a gargoyle. Pyke followed a track southwards towards Birdcage Walk, the outline of the new King’s Palace just about visible in the distance. From Green Park, he crossed over into St James’s Park and skirted around one end of the shallow lake. From there, he could see the army barracks, but when he finally reached Birdcage Walk there were no prostitutes or dolly mops idly patrolling the pavement in front of the barracks. The rain must have driven them indoors.

There was a solitary carriage parked about a hundred yards farther back along the walk, and when he looked around, he saw the door swing open and heard a voice through the rain. Later, Pyke would find out that Marguerite had been following him for much of the day and had shadowed him to Birdcage Walk from the house on Berkeley Square, but at the time he followed the voice as if in a trance. There was something familiar about it.

‘Pyke.’

Someone was calling his name.

‘
Pyke
.’

He walked around the two black mares, both tossing their heads and snorting, and nodded to the driver.

Slick with perspiration and illuminated by a gas lamp, Marguerite’s face looked as though it had somehow drifted free from the rest of her body, the whiteness of her skin set against her black cloak and the dark furnishings of the carriage.

Pyke climbed up into the carriage and the door swung closed after him. His hands were still trembling. He felt a little feverish, despite the dampness of his clothes.

‘What happened to you?’ Gently she touched the gash under his eye and winced, out of empathy. ‘My poor darling.’

They were sitting next to each other on the horsehair seat, the floor covered with wet straw.

She pulled him towards her and kissed him on the mouth. It was like opening the door on to another time. For many years after she had left for Paris, he had thought of her almost every day, wondering what she might be doing and whether she still thought about him. With the passage of time, these thoughts had faded and dwindled to almost nothing. Or had they? Because the moment their lips touched, Pyke wanted to kiss her again, only harder this time, as Marguerite threaded her fingers through his coarse hair and pulled him still closer, their tongues intertwined in a sticky embrace. Now, all these years later, Pyke could taste only her sadness, and he wanted more of it because it spoke to a feeling locked up inside him that he couldn’t find any other way of touching. Pyke drew the curtains and grappled with the layers of her petticoats, too far gone to care about what he was doing or who he was with, but afterwards all he would remember was a blur of unfulfilled desire. Trousers around his ankles, he pulled up her petticoats and took her there in the carriage, the creaking vehicle rocking back and forth on that wet, deserted street as he finished in a series of jolting, painful spasms that made him feel simultaneously alive and yet one step from death.

TWENTY-FIVE

As the first shards of watery daylight leaked through the muslin curtains, Pyke was jolted from his sleep by a pungent smell that seemed as deeply familiar as his adolescent memories. He lay there for a while, the thought of what he had done flooding back to him along with the guilt. Next to him, the quiet murmurs of Marguerite’s breathing reassured Pyke she was still asleep, but he hardly dared turn his head to make sure, in case he woke her up. Where were they? He looked around the unfamiliar room, guessing that they had returned to Cranborne Park. He blinked and opened his eyes. Yes, he remembered now. What they had done in the carriage and then again in the bedroom. Was it shame he felt most acutely or guilt? he wondered. And what was the difference? Taking care not to disturb her, he slid from underneath the sheet and realised he was naked. Various items of his clothing were strewn across the floor. He had just put on his trousers when Marguerite called out, ‘You don’t have to creep around on my behalf, you know, Pyke.’ Her tone was warm and playful.

Perhaps there had been news about Emily and Felix. He had to make his excuses and go. Turning around, he saw she was sitting up in the bed, the sheet pulled up around her shoulders, to cover her nakedness. She smiled. ‘I’ve often imagined what it would be like, waking up next to you again.’

He picked up his shirt from the floor and started to put it on. ‘What happened last night shouldn’t have happened, Maggie.’

‘But it did, didn’t it?’

Pyke couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

‘Do you regret it?’

‘I’m married to someone else, Maggie. I love my wife.’

‘Then why did you fuck me?’ she said, her tone becoming harder. She coiled the sheet a little more tightly around her body.

‘Because ...’He looked over at her and hesitated, not sure what to say. There were so many reasons he couldn’t fathom them all. And he detested having to make excuses for something he’d done. Accept, learn and move on. That was usually the way he did things. He wondered what he might learn from this.

‘Let’s face it, Pyke. You fucked me because you wanted to,’ she said, rearranging her hair. ‘You always did try to over-complicate things.’

‘And you’re the same old Maggie Shaw. Nothing ever got to you, did it?’

‘Is that what you thought?’ She stopped fiddling with her hair, her face quizzical rather than angry.

‘What I thought fifteen years ago doesn’t really matter now, does it?’

‘Maybe you should have looked a little more closely,’ she said, with a small shake of the head.

‘Would it have made a difference?’

‘You tell me.’ Marguerite waited until she was certain he was listening and added, without changing her tone, ‘You know I was carrying our child when I left for Paris all those years ago.’

Her tone had been so matter-of-fact that it took him a few seconds to comprehend what she’d just told him. He hadn’t known, of course. And yes, it might have made all the difference. He had to sit down on the end of the bed, his head suddenly alive with useless possibilities.

‘I had it in Paris,’ she said, without shifting position in the bed.

‘A boy or a girl?’ Finally he managed to look at her, not sure whether he wanted to hug or beat her with his fists.

‘A boy.’

‘Is he still ...’

‘Alive?’ Marguerite shook her head, her eyes empty and sad. ‘He died just before his fifth birthday.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left London.’

‘But why didn’t you send me a note from Paris once he’d been born?’

‘I didn’t have an address.’

‘But you knew where Godfrey lived. Where Godfrey still lives.’ He heard himself getting angry.

Perhaps that’s what she wanted, Pyke thought, trying to make sense of the opaque expression on her face.

‘Would it have made a difference if you’d known?’ This time her tone was gentler and more conciliatory.

‘He was my son.’ Briefly Pyke thought about the burial ceremony he’d witnessed, Marguerite and Bolter standing over the freshly dug grave. Had that been
him
? The grave had surely been too small. The boy, if he’d lived, would have been fifteen or sixteen years old. And Marguerite had just told him that he had died when he was five, the same age as Felix, some time in the twenties: 1826 or ’27.

‘He was
my
son, Pyke. You’d already chosen a different life.’

‘And this was your way of punishing me for that decision? Keeping me from my own flesh and blood?’

‘It wasn’t about you. Don’t you understand that? I didn’t have time to think about what was right or wrong. In case you didn’t know, raising a child in a foreign city on your own isn’t an easy task.’

Pyke nodded, not wanting her to see he was as angry as he was. ‘So what was his name?’

‘James.’

‘James.’ He repeated the name. Saying it out loud didn’t make him any more real.

‘He was the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen. White-blond hair and the bluest eyes.’ She was crying now but Pyke didn’t feel like trying to comfort her.

‘How did he die?’

Marguerite sniffed and dried her eyes on the sheet. ‘He caught a fever. He fought it like a little tiger but, in the end, the fever spread to his lungs.’

‘Why tell me about it now? I mean, what fucking purpose has it served, telling me after all these years, apart from rubbing my nose in it?’

‘I thought . . .’

‘You thought
what
?’

She stared at him, shocked by his anger. ‘God, you’re a cold, self-centred bastard. I thought last night meant something.’

‘One fuck and everything is just as it was before. Is that it?’ Pyke shook his head, already sorry he’d said it. ‘I
have
a family, Maggie. I have a wife and I have a son.’

For a moment he wasn’t sure whether she’d cry or scream. In the end, it was something between the two. ‘Well, I fucking don’t.’

‘Is that what this is about? Punishing me because I have what you want?’

‘Do you think I want you? Eddy may have been a molly but he was still twice the man you’ll ever be ...’

‘
What
did you say?’

Ignoring him, Marguerite said, ‘After James died, Eddy picked me up out of the gutter and took care of me. I always felt safe with him, Pyke. That’s something I never knew with you.’

‘You said Edward was a molly?’

‘What?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Didn’t you know? Pyke, the once famous detective, didn’t know my husband was a mandrake?’

Pyke stood up and walked across to the window. She was right. All the signs had been there. He’d just missed them: her offhand references to a Platonic marriage, Morris’s outburst on the night of his death when, apparently, he’d called himself a ‘dirty monster’. Rationally Pyke knew it made sense but it didn’t alleviate his shock.

‘I never asked what he did or who he slept with. It didn’t bother me at first. And I slept with other men.’

‘And later?’

‘Later it disgusted me.’

‘What Morris did with other men?’

She shook her head. ‘The
situation
disgusted me, what we’d allowed ourselves to become, a sham of a marriage.’

Could she have killed Morris? No, she had arrived home around the same time he had last been seen alive. Perhaps she had paid someone to do it for her. Or perhaps Morris killed himself. That was another possibility he’d have to consider.

‘You should be glad he’s dead, then.’

Marguerite sniffed and cleared her throat. ‘Maybe you’re right. I should be. But I still miss him.’

‘Do you think he killed himself?’

She shrugged, the hardness returning to her face. ‘Like I said before, I don’t know. It’s possible. Most of the time, Eddy put on a jovial face, but deep down I think he hated what he was.’

Pyke sat down again on the edge of the bed and touched her ankle. She flinched ever so slightly. ‘So what happens now?’

‘What do you mean, what happens now? You go back to your nice family and live happily ever after. I get to keep this place.’ Marguerite looked at him and smiled. ‘I forgot to tell you. Someone sent me the deeds in the mail.’

That got his attention. ‘Who?’

‘It was an anonymous letter sent from somewhere in the city. There was no return-to-sender address.’

‘Just like that?’

She stared at him and shook her head. ‘Why does that upset you?’

‘It doesn’t
upset
me; it just follows that whoever sent you the deeds also stole the money I lent Eddy.’

‘Maybe no one stole it. Maybe Eddy hid the money somewhere and it’s waiting to be found.’

‘The deeds and the loan papers were stolen from the vault at my bank. Now they just turn up on your doorstep.’

‘I hope you’re not accusing
me
of theft.’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything.’ Pyke let out a sigh. ‘Listen. A while ago, you mentioned you wanted to sell Eddy’s shares in the Grand Northern. I’ll buy them off you at the market rate, plus an additional ten per cent.’

‘Is that why you fucked me? To lay your hands on my late husband’s shares?’

‘It’s a simple question,’ Pyke said, ignoring the insult. ‘Do you want to sell me his shares or not?’

Marguerite fiddled with her hair. ‘I’m afraid I’ve promised them to someone else.’

‘Who?’ he said, quickly. Perhaps too quickly. ‘Who have you promised them to?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

Pyke went to pick up his coat from the floor. ‘There’s a meeting early next week to decide the fate of Eddy’s railway.’

‘It isn’t Eddy’s railway and it never was. And as far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if a single yard more of track is laid or not.’

‘Eddy put the last years of his life into that enterprise. Are you going to let some chinless fools piss his legacy up the wall?’

‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t see you to the door,’ Marguerite said, without looking up at him.

 
Pyke hadn’t told her about Emily and Felix and, as he walked along the driveway, he wondered why not. He hadn’t wanted her pity, for a start. But was that all? The question that he kept returning to was this. Did Marguerite already know? Was it possible she had somehow been involved? She hadn’t made any reference to his difficulties but there were elements of their conversation that bothered him, in addition to her revelations about their son and Morris. James, if indeed he had ever existed, had perished shortly before his fifth birthday. Felix’s fifth birthday was fast approaching and now he was in grave danger, too. Marguerite had met Emily, as well. What if she had decided to drive a stagecoach through their lives, ruin things for them just as her life had been ruined? As soon as he’d had these thoughts, he dismissed them as ridiculous. Ultimately Marguerite was as selfish as he was but she wasn’t a kidnapper, or worse, a murderess. She wouldn’t deliberately harm anyone. He was relieved by this realisation, but as soon as he’d reassured himself of Marguerite’s innocence, another thought struck him. She was somehow acquainted with Bolter. Bolter and his mutt had stood alongside her when she had buried someone - or something - in a field on the estate. He had to know who or what had been buried that day. He’d intended to walk the five miles back to Hambledon. Now he would just take a path that skirted the same field; and, hopefully, a shed where he would find a shovel
and
a pick ...