‘A commoner, with very immediate needs.’ Pyke straddled her and started to pull up her nightshirt.
‘Then allow me to minister to the needy.’ She blew out the candle and kissed him on the mouth.
SIX
Four whiskered men, all wearing tall-crowned top hats and black Macintosh coats, held lanterns aloft and formed a barricade across the sodden track. Above them, the sky was black and filled with a patchwork of heavy, swirling clouds. Rain had begun to fall shortly after they had departed Cambridge, where Morris had left him to make the onward journey to Huntingdon using a short-stop stagecoach. Now, two hours later, the surface of the road had become an unrecognisable river of mud. The driver had climbed down from his seat and was engaged in a heated conversation with the leader of the group, who had a rifle slung over his shoulder and was demanding that all the male passengers present themselves outside the carriage for inspection. In fact, this meant just Pyke and a nervous undertaker travelling on to King’s Lynn. When the undertaker was allowed to retake his place in the carriage, Pyke stood alone in front of the man, wet gusts of wind buffeting the tail of his coat. Water dripped from the curled tip of the man’s vein-riddled nose and the smell of gin on his breath was overpowering. Pyke was asked about his business in Huntingdon and when he refused to give an answer, the man took a step towards him and asked him whether he was a radical. Pyke absorbed the heat of his stare and the stink of his breath and explained that he was travelling on to Newark and hoped to break his journey in Huntingdon.
That seemed to confuse the man slightly. ‘You sure you ain’t a radical?’
‘I wasn’t the last time you asked, but if you leave me standing out here in the rain for too much longer I might turn into one.’
‘How about a journalist? Are you a journalist? We hate journalists almost as much as we hate radicals.’
‘Afraid of what they might write about your dreary little town?’
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘This is a good town, with fine, upstanding people. It’s others have brought their troubles to us.’
‘I’ve no interest in you or your town but if I catch a fever from standing out here in the rain I might take an interest.’
He let Pyke return to the coach with a curt nod and soon they were crossing over the River Ouse using the old bridge, the town appearing before them and a torrent of water gushing beneath them.
Before they had parted ways in Cambridge, Morris had told him again that he was less concerned about radicals than about Rockingham’s attempts to thwart the progress of the Grand Northern beyond Cambridge and across his land. Apparently Rockingham enjoyed a great deal of support in Huntingdon, where the next phase of the construction work was about to begin because livelihoods like blacksmithing and innkeeping would be hit hard by the railway.
Pyke had told Morris to wait for him in his private carriage on the crossroads just to the south of Huntingdon at approximately eight the following evening. If he happened to make enemies in the town, Pyke didn’t want to draw the older man into any possible repercussions.
Inside the stagecoach, a matronly woman said, with breathy excitement, ‘I fancy the business with those men must have been related to the discovery of a headless body a few days ago.’
Directly across from her, the undertaker nodded. ‘I heard there was a madman on the loose from an asylum near Cambridge. Either that, or one of the four horsemen of the acropolis,’ he muttered, with a conspiratorial nod. ‘I’ve dealt with bodies my whole life and I’ll wager you don’t know how much sweat it would take to hack through someone’s neck with a knife.’
‘Please, sir, I’d remind you there are ladies present,’ the woman who’d started the conversation said, looking at Pyke for support.
‘If someone knew what they were doing,’ Pyke said, ‘a few swings of a sharp axe ought to do it.’
‘Aye, I suppose it would.’ The undertaker scratched his chin. ‘But so would a saw with a good blade.’
The matronly woman huffed but took no further part in the conversation.
When they finally pulled into the coaching yard, the carriage was surrounded by grooms and pot-boys wearing black aprons, offering to carry their bags to one of the inn’s rooms. Stretching his limbs, Pyke watched as the grooms led the tired horses across to the stables on the far side of the yard, where they would be fed and rested.
Having changed out of his damp clothes, Pyke retraced his steps back to the taproom, where haggard women and dishevelled men huddled around a blazing fire. On the floor, a gnawed chop bone and some discarded oyster shells sat in a layer of wet butcher’s sawdust.
When a pot-boy brought him a mug of frothy ale, Pyke asked about the two men playing cards next to the fireplace. The young lad explained that Septimus Yellowplush was the town’s magistrate and Mr Burden the rector from All Saint’s Church.
They were playing ‘twenty-one’ and it took Pyke just a few minutes to work out that Yellowplush, who had acquired a stack of coins, was cheating, by drawing the cards he needed either from up his sleeve or, more likely, from somewhere under the table. During each game, he would take his hand and inspect it under the table, ostensibly to shield it from his opponent. From this, Pyke concluded that duplicate playing cards must be fixed to the underside of the table.
With a hand of two jacks and an ace, the rector had just lost again, to an unlikely five-card trick, and he seemed to be on the verge of giving up. Seizing on his indecision, Pyke stepped forward and tossed five gold coins on to the table, considerably more money than they had been playing for. He patted the clergyman on the shoulder, consoling him for his luck, and asked whether he might play the next hand against his opponent. Yellowplush’s eyes narrowed but his face remained composed. He looked at the coins and loosened his cravat. The rector didn’t seem to mind and willingly gave up his seat, commenting only on his opponent’s good fortune.
‘And who might you be, friend?’ Yellowplush said in a staccato voice that was far from friendly.
Pyke’s initial impression of Septimus Yellowplush had been that of a schoolyard bully, the kind of man that he had once dealt with almost without having to think about it: a slap around the face, a few words of warning, perhaps even the flash of his blade to make his point. But having studied the man for a few moments - his hard, waxy skin that barely moved, even when he laughed or frowned, his grey eyes that looked like buttons drilled into his skull, and his small, pink tongue, which darted from his mouth as he spoke - Pyke saw a coldness in him and possibly even a propensity for violence. It was the curly wig which made him look ridiculous, but while misplaced vanity may have convinced him to don such a garment, the fact that no one had summoned sufficient courage to tell him about the folly of his choice told Pyke all he needed to know about the grip with which Yellowplush ruled his fiefdom.
‘You can call me Pyke.’ He eased into the chair, trying to seem more comfortable than he felt. It had been a long time since he had done this kind of work.
‘And where are you from, Mr Pyke?’
‘Just Pyke will do.’
‘Just stopping here for the night?’ Yellowplush picked up the cards and began to shuffle them.
Ignoring the question, Pyke took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth.
‘Not the chatty type? Perhaps your luck will be better than your conversation.’ A ripple of laughter spread across the room. ‘It’s a rich game you’re asking for. You must feel lucky, sir.’
‘Far from it,’ Pyke said, staring down at the table. ‘But any fool can see that luck like yours can’t last for ever.’
Yellowplush’s smile vanished. ‘Would you have any objections to my dealing?’
Pyke took the pack, shuffled the cards and handed them back to his opponent. ‘Be my guest.’
‘A stranger in a strange town.’ Yellowplush licked his lips. ‘I’d be careful how you conduct yourself, sir.’
‘Yes, I read in the newspapers this wasn’t the most welcoming of places.’
‘I’m guessing that you’re referring to the headless corpse.’ Yellowplush had dealt himself two eights and Pyke a ten and a seven. ‘Or perhaps to the arrival of the navvies?’
‘It’s not every day a headless corpse is reported in the newspapers. I’d say it was the talk of London when I left.’
Yellowplush looked at him, unimpressed. ‘Brutal murder may be commonplace in that city but it’s thankfully rarer here in the provinces.’ He smiled without warmth. ‘What did you say your business was?’
‘I didn’t.’ Pyke stared down at his hand and pushed the gold coins into the middle of the table. ‘I’ll have another card.’
The magistrate dealt him a card, face down. Leaving it on the table, Pyke turned over one of the corners and saw it was the four of clubs.
‘Good card?’
Removing a purse from his coat, Pyke pulled out a ten-pound note. ‘Just to make it interesting.’
There were gasps of astonishment around the table. It was more money than many of them would earn in two months.
‘You’re not one for small talk, are you?’ Yellowplush looked down at the cards in front of him. Beneath his wig, he had started to sweat.
‘As you said, a stranger should learn to hold his tongue.’
‘Indeed.’ The magistrate took some snuff on the tip of his finger, brought it up to his nose. ‘I’ll take the bet, sir.’ It was what the whole room had wanted to hear.
‘Perhaps you might allow me to see your money.’
This drew a hollow chuckle. ‘You don’t imagine I carry such a sum on my person, do you?’
‘Then how am I to know you can actually afford to pay your debt?’
‘Assuming I lose.’
Pyke nodded. ‘Assuming I win.’
‘Are you saying my word is somehow insufficient?’ Yellowplush asked, smiling to conceal his threatening tone.
‘Would you trust
my
word?’
‘I’m the magistrate of this town.’
‘I suppose someone has to be.’ Pyke folded his arms and looked around the room dismissively. ‘But I’ll still need to see your money.’
Yellowplush licked his lips and studied Pyke’s face. ‘Perhaps you would allow me a few minutes to discuss terms with the landlord.’
‘Be my guest.’
It took Yellowplush ten minutes to come up with the money; when he returned to the table, he emptied the coins out of his pockets on to the table. ‘Count ’em if you like,’ he said, taking another pinch of snuff.
Pyke leant across the table, whispering, ‘How much does it cost to buy the law in a town like this? More than the price of a new wig?’
The outrage registered in the magistrate’s dilated pupils.
‘I’d be careful of loose talk in a town where folk are already twitchy and fearful of what might happen.’
‘What might happen
when
?’ Pyke stared at his opponent’s leathery skin.
The magistrate shrugged and dealt himself another card.
As Yellowplush dealt it, Pyke again leaned over the table and whispered, ‘That card remains on the table in full view of everyone here. If you try to swap it with one of those duplicate cards you’ve fixed to the underside of the table, I’ll expose your squalid little scam. Nod once, to show me you understand.’
Colour drained from the magistrate’s face and sweat leaked from beneath his wig.
‘Was that a nod?’
Yellowplush didn’t seem to know what to do. His curly wig slipped farther down his forehead but he didn’t seem to have noticed.
A crowd of faces had gathered around the table, watching their every move with a keen interest.
‘Did I just see a nod?’ Pyke said, louder so others could hear him.
Yellowplush pushed his wig back up on top of his head and nodded. Pyke turned over his four of clubs. ‘Twenty-one. ’ He smiled at the glowering magistrate. ‘What? Has your luck finally run out?’
When Yellowplush neither answered him nor turned over his cards, Pyke added, ‘Remember what I said about keeping your hands above the table.’ Then he reached out, plucked the card from the magistrate’s hand and tossed it on to the table. ‘Makes nineteen, if I’m not mistaken.’ Scooping up the coins and his own ten-pound note, he deliberately knocked over his ale glass, and watched as the brown liquid dripped on to the magistrate’s lap. Before Yellowplush could stop him, Pyke swiped the curly wig from his head and began to mop up the mess. An awed silence fell across the room. Whistling, Pyke continued his mopping-up work, until the table was dry, and then rinsed out the wig and placed it back on the magistrate’s head. Ale began to drip down on to Yellowplush’s face. There were a few nervous twitters from the very back of the room. Otherwise, no one said a word. As he arranged the wig on the magistrate’s head, Pyke added, ‘Lay a finger on me in here and I’ll make sure that every man and woman in this inn knows you cheat at cards.’ Then he wiped both hands on his jacket and stood up. ‘Now that’s settled, perhaps you’ll join me for some night air,’ Pyke said, so that everyone in the room could hear him.
Insisting that Pyke go first, Yellowplush had prodded what felt like the end of his pistol into Pyke’s back before they had even departed the inn. ‘Tell me who you are and what you want right now,’ he whispered, ‘or I’ll squeeze the trigger and you’ll die a long, painful death.’
Outside, on the street, Pyke turned around to face Yellowplush, whose shining face was as large as a turnip, barely visible in the gloom. ‘I’m an emissary from Sir Robert Peel. He’s taken an interest in your corpse and he asked me to investigate the matter further.’ Pyke expected that Yellowplush might be surprised by this revelation but the magistrate merely shrugged as though the matter were of no consequence. ‘I have a letter confirming this,’ he added, quickly, ‘if you’ll allow me to find it.’
Yellowplush poked the pistol into Pyke’s chest. ‘I can’t understand why Peel’s so interested in our body.’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, he asked me to look into the matter and report back to him.’ Pyke waited, deciding not to say anything about Peel’s interest in Captain Paine and the threat posed by radicals.