Cross of Fire (8 page)

Peter Sam went ahead, to guard the path. Peter Sam behind when needed, in front when danger neared. Peter Sam and his captain. A little man who needed him. A thing to be protected.

Devlin tipped his hat as he left. Repeated for the stage. ‘I’ll be back, if I has to. And you know what they say about dead men, Cracker.’

Alone, Cracker limped up and to his counter; a pistol beneath the bar top of decking, unloaded should his concubine ever have found her nerve, but that would take seconds to correct. He picked it up as a voice yelled out from the path.

‘And I can
hear
lead, Cracker!’

Cracker slung down the pistol to the bar and hoped Devlin could hear his curse.

Chapter Five

‘It is done, then?’ A gold mask muffled the voice at the round ebony table, round so no man could sit at its head. Yet surely some superiority was implied over the others who sat in the corners of the room above the Greyhound tavern, suitably situated in St James’s, close enough for any gentleman to travel thence discreetly from Westminster or Cornhill.

‘It is done,’ the white mask replied with a bow and sweep of black velvet cloak. ‘Coxon is on his way. All is set.’

The gold mask nodded, sipped his black port. There was some shifting from the other figures in the room, similarly masked. Red and black, white and blue. One of an Apollo aspect with curled fringes of plaster hair, others distinctively feminine or bestial: almond eyes, red lips or whiskers and pointed noses.

A figure rose to his feet, white gloves pushing back his cloak to reveal a gold and sapphire hilt. His was the Apollo mask, also of gold.

‘And our revenge? Is that promised?’

The seated mask raised his hand dismissively. ‘All in good time, sir.’

‘My satisfaction is paramount. That must be stressed, sir. The pirate has hurt me more than just in estate and purse! I seek blood!’

A hand went to the back of the neck of the seated mask to rub away some tension, his blond wig shifting. His other hand reached into his pocket. A brass token was tossed across the table to the white mask, bearer of news. A slow obeisance was displayed and then a gloved hand dragged the coin to the edge of the table, unable to pick it up with beaver-lap gloves. An intaglio of a bull’s head with a serpent’s body was on the coin’s face, and a papal cross on its reverse. White mask scraped it into his hand and then his waistcoat.

‘Privacy, gentlemen,’ the seat ordered. ‘I must discourse alone with our wounded fellow.’

The room emptied so that only the two gold masks remained, a glass of port for each. Both stood now, removed and put their disguises to the table.

‘That is better,’ the one who had been seated perched on the table’s edge. ‘Can’t see the rim of yer damn glass with those things on! Now, George, explain your outburst. What riles?’

Sir George Lee, Earl of Lichfield, also took a perch at the table.

‘Philip, you aspire to be a poet. I find it demoralising that you purport to not understand.’

‘I do understand, dear friend. Albany Holmes was close to us all. But such scenes do not favour our sentiments. The Hellfire club aspires—’ he lifted his hand above their heads and George’s eyes followed ‘—to debase such,’ the hand dropped to below the table. ‘Are we not beneath all men who think otherwise?’

George conceded, drank his port and filled his goblet again. ‘That is the pretence, Philip. Walpole gives us no mind whilst he thinks us a rakes’ club for fools and scoundrels.’

Philip, Duke of Wharton, opened his palms, declaring modesty and innocence. ‘Precisely, George. The Hellfire club is a child’s folly. Walpole knows me for a Jacobite but knows me more as feckless and libertine. What possible harm could we inflict?’

‘Your political notorieties matter less today, Philip. I need only your promise that my investment will ensure Devlin’s death.’ George drained his second glass. ‘You have lost only money.’

George Lee and Albany Holmes had been young gentlemen on a grand tour, taking a repose on Madagascar when the pirate Devlin had need of a ship. Their ship. He had robbed and abandoned them on Ascension island, sure that a passing party would acquire their unfortunate company. Eventually. That had been three years ago.

Returning to England, George resumed his education at Oxford while Albany rejoined a lascivious life in the courtyards and passageways of London. Inevitably Albany had shared shoulder and tankard with Wharton, Duke of Wharton, Irish peer and Duke of Northumberland, that title bestowed upon him by the exiled James Stuart, to be taken up on his return to the throne. And with Albany’s companionship so followed a friendship with the new Earl of Lichfield, George Lee.

Somewhere, over beef and burgundy, under tobacco and turbans, Albany, George and Wharton had envisioned a club to annoy Walpole’s government, ridicule the masonic doctrine and to mock the House of Hanover and indeed the very hand that fed them.

With the South Sea Company’s collapse and the financial travails of all Europe that followed, even peers of the realm found their carriages and tailors actually needed paying and Wharton discovered that he had something more than just an exemplary eye for horseflesh in common with his young friends.

The pirate Devlin, with his failure to assist the bearing up of the South Sea enterprise, had cost Wharton his fortune. Wharton had even held a funeral parade for the company and for England, to further humiliate Walpole’s Westminster, when it transpired that the government and Bank of England had backed a consortium of thieves.

The arrogance of the worm of a pirate in casting the diamond into the Thames! His dilettante’s whimsy with other people’s fortune. The idiotic gall of him.

Wharton may have been a wastrel and profligate but he knew the purpose and value of money. Pleasure until death. The only purpose in life. Peasants knew nothing of entitlement. The pirate had most probably laughed at the sound of banks falling.

But it was more than that. Along with the loss of the diamond Devlin had mercilessly, cowardly, taken the life of Albany Holmes when he came to the diamond’s defence. There had been a wherry boat on the Thames, under the fog, that two-of-the-morning fog that clings to your coat and lungs. A blade had ground into a liver, a body was dumped on the water, even more casually than the diamond.

The Hellfire peers would have their revenge, for they were Hellfire in more than just name.

‘George,’ Wharton drew his friend’s shoulder close. ‘Our friends have secured the only man who surely could find the dog. He has his orders from Whitehall for the same.’ He tapped the masks in turn. ‘Ridiculous, ain’t it so? Masks. Cloaks. But they insist. And they have considerably deepened our purse.’ He lifted his goblet. ‘And mine host’s cellar.’

George sniffed. ‘They could be anyone in our group. I think the anonymity gives them pleasure. The little shits.’

‘But they wish to return the true king.’ Wharton pulled another one of the tokens from a pocket, twisted it in his fingers. The bull with the serpent’s body. The papal cross. ‘They fear the Hanoverian will ruin the colonies. The Stuart has promised independence. The Americas allied with Spain.’ He put back the coin. ‘The pirate has had dealings with them before. There was the porcelain.’

‘Aye,’ George said. ‘Myself and Albany were in the opening act.’

‘Exactly.’ Wharton stretched and yawned. ‘A dream that the “white gold” might provide them with their own industry. Fools. They are merely England’s lumber yard. Slave paragons. They should be grateful for that.’

‘As we should be grateful. For the pirate denying.’ More port, a chime of glass this time.

‘Just so,’ Wharton said. ‘But we share a common purpose.’

‘The extinction of the dog.’ George drank.

‘Ah, ah,’ Wharton lifted a hand in objection. ‘The return of the king.’

George corrected himself with a salute of his glass.

‘And the man Coxon?’ he said. ‘He can be trusted?’

Wharton’s thin lips twisted. No sneer; just disinterest.

‘I think it of no matter. His hate will see him through. To the end.’

‘But orders from his king? From Whitehall? And from masks? Is that not too much?’

Wharton lifted his rear from the table with a snort.

‘He is farmer stock. Impressed that one seal is as valid as another.’ He crossed the room to the shuttered windows and opened them out onto the night of St James’s, the jovial sounds of the inn travelling up from beneath his feet. ‘He sees them all the same.’ He turned back.

‘He probably adores the feel of paper at his breast. Needs it like wine.’

George stepped across the floor.

‘But if he fails . . . paper will hang someone for sure . . . when it is discovered.’

‘Oh, George!’ Wharton shook his head. ‘Do you take these masks for imbeciles? Even I, with brandy for breakfast, understood how that poor little play closes!’

‘And how is that?’

Wharton ignored the question. ‘What matters, George, is that Walpole has demonstrated the idiocy of the Hanoverian. How his government does not work. Our friends have ministers, lords in every quarter, who are willing to turn to be in credit again. Walpole failed with the pirate. He sends Coxon to correct that error. Our friends and their lords intercede and send Coxon also. If he succeeds our friends will claim satisfaction for those who have lost their fortunes, and turn
more
coats.’

‘And again. What if he fails? If Coxon does not bring the pirate?’

‘Then that will be the false king’s failure yet again. And
more
will turn. And we will promise to send out another to correct.’

‘But our incrimination? I mean our “friends’” incrimination. His orders?’

Wharton sighed. ‘Trust me, George. I have confidences that I cannot share even with you.’ He looked back out onto St James’s awakening from its long luncheon, choosing its evening coats and hose.

‘Have no concern. I’m sure the failure will not stain.’

Chapter Six

Portsmouth. Monday 2 June, 1721

John Coxon had spent a woeful Sunday night at the Ship Inn on Portsmouth Point. He took a meal of broiled beef, beans and one green potato in the wet, plaster-smelling room. The buttered beer, however, was good as would befit an inn in Portsmouth if it was to make any trade.

Below his floor several crèpe-makers had found brothers-in-ale in a group of young shipwrights and he had watched from his window as some formerly respectable ladies, judging by their dress, were carried from the tavern shortly after six to their carriages.