Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (27 page)

In the back room along with a bed there was a small Indian rug, and a deep pot in which sat a set of bow and arrows and an Indian sword, a tulwar, in a fine leather sheath. Hung on hooks on the wall, among other pieces of linen, was a lavishly embroidered banyan robe. Outside the back window was a makeshift
ledge with a few wrinkled apples and some cheese wrapped in muslin. Next to the bed was a low table with more books, among them something called
Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Miss Jenkins’s girl had come with a pot of warm veal broth. Blake had woken. I tried to press a coin into her hand which she mutely refused, looking past me anxiously at Blake.

‘Well?’ I said at last, handing him a little broth in a cup with a few pieces of torn-up bread. He took a sip and regarded me gloomily.

‘She is a spinster who was left a small annuity and bought a shop here, without any idea of what she was doing. The French tend to buy from their own, and the rest have barely the wherewithal for tea or trinkets, and so her stock declines year by year. I buy a little from her, share the cost of her maid, who brings me hot water in the morning and cleans my rooms from time to time, and I pay her to take my messages so I am not disturbed here. She is very efficient.’ He put a piece of bread in his mouth and began to chew laboriously.

‘I did not mean Miss Jenkins.’

I could have sworn Blake blushed, though it might have been the fever.

‘Oh, Loin. He and his bone-breaker arrived when I was in the midst of the fever.’

‘The old biddy downstairs let them in?’

‘I don’t know how they got in. Loin said he’d come to deliver a message. He knew we’d been to see Heffernan, and the matter was bigger than I knew, and I must leave well alone and persuade Allington to do so too.’

‘He said that?’ I said, my heart sinking. But I knew better than to disbelieve him: he had never lied to me. ‘Does he speak for the new police?’

‘For someone in the police.’

I took the cup from him and brought it up to his lips. He drank a little, then fell back, grumbling that he had had enough, and so we continued until the cup was finished.

‘Can it be the new police who had us warned off Holywell Street?’

‘They, or someone else.’

‘But the story is out now. It can’t be silenced. Every patterer and broadside seller is crying Woundy’s murder down the Strand.’

‘Do the broadsides mention the other murders?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Did he say more?’

‘I asked him why the murders must be suppressed. He said it would be better if I didn’t ask. I said, “I’ll find it out.” The bruiser hit me. Loin said, “This will show you they’re in earnest.” I said, “Who are they?” The bruiser hit me again. I said I was sure he didn’t like being kept in ignorance about Blundell and Wedderburn. He looked sour. I said, “Things are being deliberately kept from you, Loin. How do you like it?” He said, “There are things that you don’t understand. The Chartists are the true danger. I know what they can do. I’ve seen it. There is a plan, a conspiracy for a rising in London. I shouldn’t even tell you. Like Newport but far worse.”

‘Perhaps you weren’t back for Newport?’ Blake’s eyes closed, but he continued to talk. ‘After Parliament voted down the first charter in ’39, some miners’ organizers were arrested for illegal assembly in Wales. Five thousand Chartists marched on Newport to free them. They had pikes and a few guns and there was a pitched battle. Twenty, thirty Chartists were killed. It was said afterwards that other risings across the North had been planned. But nothing came of them.’

I had, of course, heard of Newport. It had shocked the country.

‘The ringleaders were tried last year,’ Blake said. ‘They were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered. But their sentences were commuted to transportation. There was a great wave of sympathy for them. There were petitions, editorials in every newspaper, votes against the government in Parliament. I had thought the lesson of Newport was that it had convinced the Chartists anew that the government can be swayed by the strength of public opinion. But it seems the coppers see it differently: that the Chartists are some great threat.

‘I said to Loin, “What do you know about the Chartists?” He said, with some force, that he knew plenty. He’d fought the Chartists in the Birmingham riots of ’39. A unit of the new police from London
was sent up there to deal with the unrest. Two of his mates were beaten so badly they never recovered from their injuries. He has no love for them. He said the printers’ deaths were oil on fire. If there’s noise about them, the Chartists will say that radicals are being murdered and the police are ignoring it. I said, “But that is what you are doing.” He said I didn’t know what they knew. I asked whether Blundell and Wedderburn were radicals, or tied up with the Chartists, or if it was just that some high-up was being protected. Loin said what he’d told me was the God’s honest truth, and I should know how such things went. People were being watched and our inquiries would alarm them.

‘Then he told me that if we didn’t drop our researches, they’d pin Woundy’s death on me. I was the first to find the body and I’d been heard threatening him, and you were seen fighting his bruisers, who have now vanished. It would be easy to make it stick.’

‘But that is absurd! Could they do this?’

‘They could try.’

‘But you are a hero.’

‘There are parts of my time in the East India Company that could be made to look bad. I was demoted for insubordination, disciplined for disobeying orders.’ Blake had never spoken before about his demotion.

‘And then?’

‘I said that it must be a great satisfaction to him to be someone’s messenger boy, which was not wise. So the bruiser hit me and kicked me in the ribs. Then you arrived.’

‘What can we do?’ I said.

He tilted his head back. His voice was little more than a croak. ‘I do not like being threatened. I do not like leaving a case before it’s cooked. I will not walk away from this. You understand. But you can.’

‘Ah, that old chorus!’ I said. ‘Just now you could not make your way to the chamber pot without me. Besides, what is there to walk away from? We know nothing.’

‘I think we have happened on something. Why else would I be bleeding?’

‘We must arm ourselves as best we can. We should visit Sir Theo Collinson or Lord Allington and explain all. They will stand by you.’

‘We cannot tell Allington. He will close down our work.’

‘But—’

‘William, you cannot speak of it to him. You must promise me.’

I bit my lip. ‘
You
do not give promises.’

‘I will not promise what I cannot be sure of delivering. But you must promise me this. You owe me a secret kept.’

It was true, though it shamed me to recall it. ‘All right. Drink your tea,’ I said. ‘What of Sir Theo?’

‘Oh, he’d believe us, but if the coppers asked him he’d hand over chapter and verse on my misdemeanours in a moment.’

‘But he made an agreement. He must protect you – if not, we will tell the truth about the Thugs.’

‘It’s been four years, William. The moment has passed. All I have is some notes, and for all I know I still have enemies in the Indian Political Department.’

‘Is this Jeremiah Blake speaking? The most phlegmatic man I ever met?’

He shifted and pressed his ribs. ‘You don’t need to stay,’ he said again.

‘I swear if it were left to you, you would be dying in a ditch, protesting your good health,’ I said. ‘I shall stay as long as I need to. You may sleep.’

He shut his eyes.

‘But when I can, I will go to see Lord Allington, tell him about Matty and ask him if he will come to Coldbath Fields with us. His presence might help.’

He opened one eye. ‘You will not mention Loin?’

‘I said I would not. But let me ask you one thing: why did you refuse to come with us to see Matty’s brother?’

He closed his eyes and brought the blanket up to his chin as if to fend off the question. ‘I know what a child in prison looks like,’ he said.

Down below, the door knocker cracked out a tattoo and the old harridan shouted out a litany of complaints. There were footsteps
on the stairs, a knock on Blake’s door and a voice announced itself as belonging to a Dr McDouall, summoned by Miss Jenkins. There ensued a short argument during which Blake tried to insist he had no use for a doctor or stitches. I proposed the opposite and mentioned his fever, his breathing and his ribs, and the doctor – at first bemused by Blake’s resistance – finally managed to take a look at his forehead and suggested politely but insistently that the cuts at least be sewn. He said that a little laudanum would help with the pain and encourage sleep, though it would also depress the breathing. I mentioned that Blake had already partaken. The doctor began to speak of a new ‘scientific’ method for the relief of pain. At the word ‘scientific’, Blake’s interest was piqued. He was persuaded to sit up, and allowed the doctor to look at his ribs, the left side of which was blooming with a red bruise. The doctor wanted to bind them. I looked for something long enough and found a piece of embroidered Indian cotton, while the doctor poured a few extra drops of laudanum. We bandaged Blake’s ribs as the doctor asked after Blake’s fever herbs and in turn described the vapour called ether which could induce loss of consciousness and so permit painless surgery; though on an unfortunate number of occasions patients had failed ever to wake up. The doctor took out a needle to sew up Blake’s brow.

‘You may leave the patient with me,’ the doctor said. ‘I shall not leave until I am certain he is comfortable.’

Lady Agnes Bertram Vickers received me in the small cold drawing-room at Charles Street. Mr Threlfall stood in attendance, as ever a picture of simultaneous pomposity and obsequiousness. The lady was dressed, as usual, in black, though today the dress had sleeves fashionably puffed at the shoulder and was ornamented with tiny jet buttons and fine embroidery in raised black thread. At her waist was a chain of keys and a small notebook which dangled across her skirts.

Today the improving tract on the desk was
The Humble Spirit under Correction
, but the house was silent. There were no delegations or singing children, and Lady Agnes was distracted and impatient.

‘Captain Avery, I was under the impression we should not see you until tomorrow. And no Mr Blake, I see? What did he make of the tract I gave him?’

‘I believe he gave it a good deal of consideration,’ I lied. ‘I fear he is indisposed. But I wished to ask His Lordship about a matter separate from our investigation. One I thought would be close to his heart, regarding a child in need. I had hoped he might spare me a few moments in what I believe to be a good cause.’

‘His Lordship is also indisposed,’ she said briskly. ‘You may deliver your request to me. I shall judge its merits and will pass it on should I consider it appropriate. I cannot, however, encourage too much hope. His Lordship is not well and when he recovers he will be extremely busy. I, too, have a great deal to do.’

I had little confidence that she would present my request in any positive light. ‘More charitable works, Lady Agnes?’

She glanced at me as if she suspected I might be mocking her. ‘I may be but a poor weak woman, Captain Avery, but I strive always to be worthy of the role that the Lord has accorded me as my brother’s helpmeet and lieutenant in charitable matters.’

‘I have no doubt,’ I said hastily.

‘It just so happens, however, that I have another matter to raise with you. His Lordship received a letter this morning which casts a by no means attractive light on your investigations. It is from Mr John Heffernan MP, who writes that you and Mr Blake came to his house uninvited yesterday and gained access to him on false pretences by invoking my brother’s name. He goes on to say that Mr Blake then extracted from him admissions which he felt in other circumstances he should never have made and which had no bearing on the matter of your investigation. In short, you harassed him. He says that he is considering commencing legal proceedings against you, and will certainly do so should you attempt to see him again.’

‘That is an outrageous misrepresentation!’ I cried.

‘Captain Avery!’

Forgive me, My Lady,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘but that is not how it went at all—’

‘So you did see him?’

‘We did visit Mr Heffernan, Lady Agnes, but this description bears little resemblance to our encounter. We parted, I assure you, on good terms. I can only conclude that having made several very personal admissions – most relevant to our inquiries, I might add – Mr Heffernan must afterwards have regretted his candour. He seemed to me a most anxious man.’

‘Listen to yourself, Captain Avery, you hardly contradict Mr Heffernan’s account – he was in fear of you!’

I shook my head. ‘No—’

‘But that is by no means all, Captain Avery. Another missive arrived this morning from the Office of Richard Mayne, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. This letter states that Mr Blake’s investigations are actively interfering with the police’s own inquiries into the deaths of Mr Wedderburn and the other man …’

‘Blundell,’ I offered.

‘Yes.’

‘But as His Lordship knows all too well, My Lady, the new police have made no inquiries into those deaths,’ I protested.

‘Do not interrupt me, Captain Avery!’ said she impatiently. ‘I will continue. In view of a number of matters the Viscount has asked me to suspend his employment of you both. Among these matters is the fact that Mr Blake was found with the body of Eldred Woundy in circumstances that beg more questions than they answer and that it has been brought to the Commissioner’s attention that on several occasions during his time in India Mr Blake’s conduct was called into question.’

‘That is a flat-out lie!’

‘Captain Avery!’

‘I am sorry, but this is utterly unjust. Might I remind you that the very reason Lord Allington took up this matter was because of the dilatoriness of the new police, and that in our inquiries thus far we have found no evidence that they have taken any interest in either of the first two cases. I assure you, I would not behave in this manner did I not feel our honour had been unfairly calumnied. And though I do not in any respect wish to be impolite, madam – I mean My Lady – it seems to me that if these matters are to be raised at all, I should be discussing them with Lord Allington.’