The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2 Page 18

  ‘But if I tie him up downstairs someone’ll bilk him for certain. This here is a rum burgher.’

  ‘ Get that beast out of here now,’ Bellows yelled, his face turning a violent shade of crimson.

  Interrupting, Pyke said they could probably do without Bolter’s testimony. After all, he added, was a man like Bolter really the best person to comment on the deceased’s state of mind?

  That drew some chuckles from the jurors and the blood rose in Bolter’s neck. He yanked on the leash and the dog growled and, this time, bared its teeth.

  As Bolter trudged disconsolately out of the room, with his mastiff, he gave Pyke a sour grimace. Even Bellows, who had calmed down considerably, appeared sorry that he was going.

  Pyke had won the first skirmish but Bellows was in no mood to concede the battle to him.

  As Bellows went on to explain, Morris had last been seen alive, on the viewing promenade, by a pot-boy from the Crown and Anchor tavern in Camden Town, who had been charged with clearing-up duties, just after midnight. The caretaker of the Colosseum stood up and testified that he had ‘personally’ toured the platform at half-past midnight and hadn’t seen Morris, or anyone else, there. He told the jurors that when he had locked the building up at half-past one, Morris was nowhere to be seen. He had discovered Morris’s body only the following morning, when he’d opened up the building. The caretaker explained that he didn’t know exactly when Morris had fallen to his death, and Bellows speculated that Morris must have hidden himself in the building and jumped later, when no one was around.

  ‘If, indeed, he jumped,’ Pyke interjected, ‘rather than was pushed. As far as I’m aware, the jurors haven’t yet reached their verdict.’

  Bellows muttered an apology and tried to assure the jurors that he hadn’t intended to influence them.

  ‘Placing a pistol to their heads might have been more subtle,’ Pyke replied.

  Bellows chose to ignore that comment.

  Day, the coroner, had then posed the question that had been at the forefront of everyone’s mind. Was it likely or even possible that Morris had been of a suicidal frame of mind?

  On this note, Bellows tried to convince the jurors that, by all accounts, Morris had been upset about something.

  ‘But the one person who might have upheld this claim has now left this meeting,’ Pyke said, ‘so clearly this assertion should be struck from the record.’

  ‘Morris was as drunk as a sailor. I hope you don’t dispute that,’ Bellows retorted bitterly.

  ‘And that’s supposed to confirm his suicidal state of mind? If that were so, every man and woman downstairs enjoying a drink might very soon be expected to throw themselves into the Thames.’

  That drew a further ripple of nervous laughter.

  Pyke didn’t doubt that Morris was both severely drunk and perhaps deeply troubled by something that had happened to him. But he didn’t believe Morris was suicidal. In his experience, men like Morris killed themselves for two reasons: acute money worries or intolerable inner turmoil, neither of which seemed to apply to Morris. Still, he couldn’t help but think about the large sum of money Morris had borrowed from Blackwood’s and about his inebriated rant to Bolter: if true, what had Morris meant when he’d described himself as a ‘dirty monster’?

  The last witness to give evidence was Bellows himself. Apparently he had spoken to Marguerite Morris — ‘the deceased’s wife’ — to break the news to her, and he proceeded to offer a description of their conversation. He explained that, for obvious reasons, she had been too upset to attend the inquest in person but that she had talked openly and freely with him. The jurors were told that, on the night of the ball, Marguerite had argued with Morris about his drunkenness — this much chimed with what she’d told Pyke — and had left the Colosseum at half-past ten. Servants at Cranborne Park confirmed that Marguerite had arrived back there just before midnight. The chief magistrate went on to point out that Marguerite had clearly loved her husband very much and said that she had described him as a virtuous, good-natured man who was nonetheless prone to bouts of depression and secretiveness. To his credit, Bellows didn’t claim Marguerite had described her husband as suicidal but he also said she hadn’t ruled it out as a cause of death.

  All in all, he made a very convincing witness.

  Drawing the inquest to a close, Daniel Day asked whether anyone else had something to add that might have a bearing on the jury’s decision.

  Pyke coughed. ‘What happened to Morris’s watch?’ He waved the piece of paper that listed the items retrieved from the dead body. The watch hadn’t been listed. ‘I saw it in his pocket a few hours before he died. The watch must have been worth hundreds. Its case was encrusted with diamonds. It was a family heirloom. He was never without it.’

  Bellows looked at Day and the Colosseum’s caretaker. ‘Did either of you come across a gold watch?’

  Day just shrugged but the caretaker rose to his feet and stammered, ‘I hope you ain’t accusing me of bilking it, sir.’

  Bellows told him to calm down and that no one was accusing him of anything. He shot Pyke an angry stare. ‘An antique watch has gone missing,’ Bellows added, this time to the jurors, ‘but I don’t think we need to concern ourselves about it. You have sufficient evidence to reach a verdict on the cause of death.’

  ‘Why are you so concerned to rule Morris’s death as a suicide, Bellows?’ This time Pyke stood up, to directly confront him. ‘What is it that you’re trying to prove or trying to hide?’

  ‘Your belligerent tone and sharp tongue will land you in serious trouble, if you’re not careful.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you’re even here in the first place.’ Pyke pointed at his chest. ‘Morris’s death has got nothing to do with you or your office.’

  ‘You’ve flouted my authority once and, to my intense dismay, seem to have gotten away with it. Do it again and I’ll see you’re locked up for a year without trial. Don’t think I can’t do it, either.’

  ‘I think you’re a fraud and a liar and I also think you’ve unfairly used your office to sway the outcome of this meeting.’

  Bellows sprang to his feet and gesticulated angrily. ‘Someone arrest this man.’ Of course, there were none of his officers, and no policemen, in the room, and no one reacted to his demand. When he realised that he’d made himself seem vaguely ridiculous, he went an even deeper shade of crimson and ordered the jury to arrive at a verdict without further delay.

  It took them just a few minutes to reach their decision. It was unanimously agreed that Morris had committed suicide by jumping to his death on the second night of November from the Colosseum’s viewing promenade. His voice still trembling from Pyke’s insult, Bellows then congratulated them for their eminently sensible verdict.

  If that had been the end of it, the meeting would have been deeply depressing, but as the jurors stood up and stretched their legs, the door was flung open and a panting, red-faced Abraham Gore stumbled into the room and muttered, ‘Am I too late? Please tell me I’m not too late.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Bellows muttered, clearly recognising Gore and not relishing the intrusion, even though the meeting had, for him, reached a favourable conclusion.

  ‘I’m here to throw my shilling’s worth into the pot. I knew the deceased, Edward James Morris, for more than thirty years,’ Gore spluttered at the jurors, still recovering from ascending the stairs too rapidly, ‘and I can lay my hands on my heart and swear to you that he would never, ever have taken his own life.’

  ‘This is the eminent banker and industrialist Abraham Gore,’ Pyke told the jurors. A few of them recognised the name and seemed stricken by the dilemma he’d presented them with.

  ‘I’m afraid the evidence has already been heard and a verdict, a most reasonable verdict, agreed. You, sir, should learn to be more punctual.’ Bellows glanced nervously at the jurors, some of whom had sat back down, and licked his lips.

  ‘Has this imbecile presided over
a verdict of death by suicide?’ Gore asked Pyke, shaking his head.

  Pyke nodded. ‘I tried to warn the jurors about the folly of delivering such a verdict but they wouldn’t listen to me.’

  ‘More like they were too cowed by this bully to reach a more considered decision. No, my evidence will be heard. My good friend of thirty years would never have taken his own life.’ Gore turned on the jurors. ‘Which can mean only one thing. He was murdered. Do you hear me? Murdered.’

  ‘You might have connections far beyond the reaches of this meeting, sir, but here at least they count for little. The jurors reached a verdict and that decision has to stand.’

  ‘Balderdash,’ Gore said, training his stare on the chief magistrate. ‘Complete and utter balderdash.’

  ‘I’ll ask you one final time to refrain from insulting me and the jurors, sir. After that, even a reputation such as yours cannot save you.’ Sweating profusely, Bellows had lost all his former poise.

  Gore looked around the room. ‘Who’s the coroner? Let me make an appeal to the coroner.’

  Timidly Day coughed and raised his hand.

  ‘Will you reconsider, sir? I’m sorry I was late but my carriage was held up on the Strand.’ Gore took another step into the room. ‘Good God, man, don’t you understand the terrible stain you’re placing on my friend’s reputation? Only cowards and Bedlamites kill themselves.’

  ‘A verdict of suicide perfectly suits Morris’s killer or killers,’ Pyke added, quickly. ‘It means his death won’t be investigated and their crime will go unpunished. Is that what you want on your consciences?’ He looked at each juror in turn; some of them had visibly whitened.

  ‘I will not stand for this talk,’ Bellows screamed, cowing the jurors still further. ‘A decision has been reached. I am the only arbiter of the law here and if I am happy that procedures have been adhered to and the law upheld, then that, sirs, should be the end of the matter.’ Red eyed and hands trembling, he turned on Gore and pointed at him. ‘And if you, sir, should dare to challenge my authority one more time, then I will have no choice but to hold you in contempt, and issue a warrant for your arrest, which I promise you will be served.’

  Outside, Gore pulled Pyke to one side and took his arm. ‘I’m so sorry I was late. I feel I’ve let my friend down terribly. I know you did what you could, Pyke. I also know for a fact that Eddy would never have taken his own life. I’m aware this verdict makes an official investigation unlikely, if not impossible. But I’m also told that you’ve had certain experience in this area and I was wondering whether I could employ your services to try and determine what really happened to him. I know you’re probably far too busy to even think about committing to such an undertaking but I also know Eddy thought a great deal of you and, it goes without saying, I would remunerate you handsomely for your services, whether you found Eddy’s killer or killers or not.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Pyke said, having considered the proposal for a short while. He looked up at the giant herring gulls circling above him, no doubt drawn by the leftover scraps to be had at the nearby fish market, and felt a biting anger that rose up from the pit of his stomach until he could taste it at the back of his throat.

  On the wall opposite someone had daubed the words ‘Captain Paine’ in red paint, and when Gore noticed it and saw how fresh the paint was he shook his head, muttering, ‘I don’t suppose you heard about the latest outrage? One of the warehouses belonging to our subcontractors, near Kilsby, was attacked and set on fire. The brigand calling himself Captain Paine claimed responsibility. They lost everything.’ He shook his head sadly and shrugged.

  Pyke returned the expression, not sure what to say. On the other side of the street, he noticed Bolter and the dog lurking with intent.

  Gore patted him gently on the arm and said that if there was anything he could do to help, anything at all, Pyke had only to ask. His shoulders hunched, Gore trudged along the narrow street to his waiting carriage.

  ‘Can I have a quick word, Pyke?’ The coroner, Day, had sidled up next to him and was smiling awkwardly. ‘I believe the chap who was found beheaded in his apartment in Moor’s Yard was a friend of yours.’

  ‘Jem Nash. He was my assistant at Blackwood’s.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bolter and Bellows reconcile. ‘Actually there was something unusual I wanted to ask you.’

  Day squinted suspiciously at him. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Have you inspected the body yet?’

  ‘Cursorily,’ Day said, clearly embarrassed by something.

  ‘But you’d know if the corpse had been marked with red welts?’ Pyke paused for a moment. ‘The kind you might get if someone pressed a hot cigar into your flesh.’

  This drew a sharp frown from the coroner. ‘I don’t recall seeing any such marks.’ He hesitated and gave Pyke an awkward stare. ‘Listen, Pyke, as you might know, I was to have conducted the inquest into his death later today, even though there doesn’t appear to be much doubt as to what actually caused it.’

  Across the street, the giant mastiff tugged on Bolter’s leash, having seen something intriguing farther down the hill towards the river.

  ‘Nash’s body was taken to the Turk’s Head in Holborn. But his death has attracted so much print and interest…’

  ‘What happened?’ The skin tightened across Pyke’s face.

  ‘Resurrectionists broke in late last night and stole his corpse. I’m afraid there’ll be no inquest after all.’

  ‘You know for certain it was the resurrectionists?’ Pyke asked, shaking his head. He knew there was a trade in dead bodies and that unscrupulous surgeons sometimes paid as much as ten guineas for a fresh corpse.

  ‘Who else would want it?’

  Across the street a wiry greyhound trotted around the corner and came face to face with Copper. It froze to the spot and then tried to retreat, its hackles raised and its belly scraping the ground. Without any hesitation, Bolter let go of the leash and the mastiff tore after the terrified greyhound and caught up with it in a few bounds. It was over in a matter of seconds. The mastiff’s jaws clamped around the smaller dog’s throat and its body went limp. Blood on its mouth, the mastiff shook the greyhound like a rag doll and dropped it on to the ground. It then rejoined Bolter and the two of them ambled up the hill towards St Paul’s.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Day asked, looking down at the greyhound’s mangled carcass. ‘Do you really think Morris was murdered and Bellows tried to force the jurors to declare his death as a suicide?’

  Later Pyke thought some more about Day’s question. Why had Bellows been so insistent that Morris had committed suicide? Or rather, why did it matter to him?

  In the end he could think of just one answer.

  It mattered because Morris hadn’t actually committed suicide.

  Which, in turn, suggested that someone had instructed Bellows to cajole the jury; someone whose interests might be damaged by an investigation into Morris’s affairs.

  Who had wanted Morris dead? And what had happened at the Colosseum after the guests had left?

  FOURTEEN

  Marguerite’s cheeks were streaked with tears and her breath carried the sour traces of claret. The fact she’d made no effort with her clothes, nor with her blonde hair, which fell untidily to her shoulders, made her seem unusually vulnerable. She had greeted Pyke on the steps of the house and had fallen into his arms, burrowing her head deep into his neck and clinging to him while she sobbed. This had lasted for what seemed like minutes, her whole frame shaking violently. Finally she peeled herself from him and stared up at him through cloudy eyes.

  He could taste the salt of her tears on his lips.

  They were alone in the drawing room, the same room they had taken tea in just a few days earlier. She walked over to the full-length Venetian window and watched as the afternoon skies darkened and rain began to fall. ‘It’s beautiful here, with this view of the garden.’

  Pyke contemplated the view with her. ‘Is it why you
persuaded Edward to buy the house?’

  Marguerite didn’t answer. Instead she pressed her face right up against the steamy pane and sniffed.

  ‘You must have known I’d be your neighbour.’ Pyke took a step towards her.

  Again Marguerite stared out of the window at the landscaped gardens. He reached out and wiped away a solitary tear that was rolling down her cheek. ‘Edward’s death was ruled as suicide.’

  She nodded, as though she’d been expecting it. ‘But you don’t believe he killed himself, do you?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘In spite of what you might think, Pyke, I loved him. Maybe not..’ She hesitated, fresh tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Maybe not?’ Briefly their eyes met but she looked away first.

  ‘But I wouldn’t have left him.’

  Though Marguerite’s skin was mottled from her tears and her hair was ragged and unkempt, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever met.

  ‘Most people only saw his naturally gregarious side but Eddy was a troubled man in lots of ways.’

  ‘In what way was he troubled?’

  ‘What man could possibly live up to the ideals he set himself?’ she said, suddenly angry.

  Pyke nodded. ‘I presume Edward left everything to you.’ As far as he knew there hadn’t been any children.

  ‘After we married, Eddy told me he’d changed his will.’ Marguerite wiped her eyes. ‘We didn’t discuss the matter again.’

  ‘Have you actually seen his will?’

  ‘He kept it with his lawyer.’

  ‘But there will be a copy of it in the house. In a safe perhaps?’

  They were standing just a few feet from one another. He could smell her powerful, earthy scent.

  ‘There’s a safe in Eddy’s study.’

  ‘If you felt able to, we could have a look.’

  This time Marguerite looked up at him. ‘Why are you so interested in the terms of his will?’

  Pyke took a breath. ‘Did Edward mention that on the day he died he borrowed a large sum of money?’