The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (17 page)

After they’d left, Joseph made his own way down the hill towards the station. Marie Osborne had made him waste valuable time, and because of her, he would now have to go without his haircut, he thought all the way down the hill. He was excited and nervous, but most of all, he was confident that after the game, his life would change forever. Celia had gone, and for the moment, the farm was still his. A thought struck him, making him laugh: when he returned, he’d be richer and more powerful than Peter Merrill ever was!

When he arrived in London, Joseph walked across London Bridge and found a small but smart bed and breakfast on the north side. He booked himself in for one night and was shown the room where he intended to rest for the remainder of the afternoon, glad that the journey was over. After he’d hung up his suit, he decided to go for a quick drink, just to settle his nerves, he thought. He patted his jacket pocket, combed his hair, and stepped into the hallway.

Chapter 20

T
he red walls of The Crown and Anchor were nestled between a grocer’s shop and a flower stall. Joseph looked inside through the stained-glass window on the street front, decided it was suitable, and went inside through the snug side entrance. He chose a table in the corner with a view of the street outside and then ordered his first whisky. He patted his jacket pocket continually to make sure that his money was still there and tapped his feet to an imaginary tune as his confidence slowly turned into something akin to fear. Then he ordered another drink. He had never had so much money on him, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. What if he lost it all? The thought struck him like a brick. How would he survive? What if the men were as good, if not better than, he was? After all, he didn’t know them from Adam. What if they were dangerous, the type of men that contracted someone to kill you if you didn’t pay your debts? He swallowed hard and asked for a another whisky. That would settle his nerves; a couple of more drinks would do him good.

John Stein and his friends Arty Weisman, David Stern and Mathew Gates, who worked with him at his family’s main offices, sat in the plush armchairs in the room that John had rented for the night. John had met the other three men at Cambridge years before and knew there was no group of men he could trust more. They had gone over their game plan four or five times, and they were worried. They had all played poker before, but it had been more for the fun of it than for the money won or lost. Joseph was a professional, a man with eyes that missed nothing, and a wrong gesture, smile, or even the slightest eye movement in Joseph’s world could prove disastrous for them.

The most difficult part of this particular plan had been fixing the deck, but they were confident that they had succeeded in doing that. It had taken them long enough to get it right. John Stein told the others about Joseph, and they were all aware that he was a good, if not great, poker player; he wouldn’t be fooled easily. They couldn’t afford to make any mistakes, John had drummed into them again.

David Stern asked John with a pensive expression, “John, do you think laudanum in Joseph’s whisky is a good idea? What if he notices that there’s something wrong?”

John thought about this for a moment before answering. The decision to drug Joseph hadn’t been an easy one, but he truly believed that without a little extra help, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I’ve spoken to a few people about it. My wife’s cousin is a pharmacist, and he’s assured me that the drug, if taken in the right doses, will only make a person feel drowsy or lose his concentration. At worst, fall asleep. I’ll give it to him if and when we need to; I’ll be very careful.”

Arty Weisman said, “You’d better be, John. I remember being given that when I had that rotten cold not so long ago. It knocked me for six. I was out for days!”

John laughed. “Stop worrying, you lot. Joseph won’t even detect it in his system. He’s a big whisky drinker. Believe me, I’ve seen him in action.”

“Yes, and don’t forget that he’ll have no reason to suspect any type of conspiracy. You both worry too much,” Mathew Gates told Arty and David.

John was still thinking about the laudanum. If they were going to use it, they all had to agree to do so.

“Maybe they’re right to worry,” he told Mathew. “So I say we take a vote on it. I don’t want anyone to do anything he’s not comfortable with. All those in favour, say aye.” “Aye!” The resounding chorus echoed around the room.

John had brought the necessary funds, and he divided it equally amongst them. He’d brought almost four thousand pounds, and he hoped that Joseph would have at least a thousand pounds on him, as that was the kind of money he’d told him would be needed. The plan, he’d explained, would be to make Joseph feel comfortable… in the beginning. Allow him to win a few hands, lose a couple, and then, when his confidence and pile of money grew and he started to play for higher stakes, they would slowly take everything he had. John reiterated to the others that Joseph would also have to be distracted for the cards to be switched at various times, and this would be the most difficult part of all.

From his own observations on the night he first saw Joseph, he surmised that he would never back down before either winning or losing everything. Joseph’s mixture of pride and arrogance would be his undoing tonight, but it would be a long night, one he and his friends had to win!

Joseph arrived tipsy at the Bermondsey rooms at seven thirty. He wore a smart blue suit with a green tie that matched neither his shirt nor his jacket. His hair had been swept back. It lay wet and flat across his forehead, but some unruly curls were beginning to spring into life, framing his collar and ears. His shoes were new, but he had forgotten to clean them in his haste to leave Goudhurst, and they were caked in cow dung and mud.

John opened the door and smiled. “Hello, Joseph, nice to see you again,” he said, shaking Joseph’s hand. “Glad you found the place. It’s a bit out of the way, I’m afraid.”

“I found it with no problem at all. I know London like the back of my hand; I do a lot of business here. Nice place you’ve got; is it yours?” Joseph said, having a quick look around.

“God, no, I’ve just rented it for the night. We tend to move around for these types of games. It’s much better this way, keeps everything neutral. And as I said when we first met, a lot of important people are involved, and I don’t want anyone knowing their business.”

“No… I know what you mean. So where are the others? They are coming, aren’t they?”

“Yes, of course. You’re the first; they’ll be here soon enough.”

Once inside, John poured Joseph a drink and made small talk. “Are you married, Joseph?”

“Yes.”

“Got any children?”

“Yes, a boy.”

“Have you lived in the South for a long time?”

“Yes.”

John sat on the sofa and watched Joseph out of the corner of his eye. He sat at the table shuffling a pack of cards at the speed of light, and John grudgingly admired the way he handled the pack. Joseph wouldn’t go down without a fight, he thought. But John stared at him a bit longer and realised that he was easy to read; he was a man who prided himself on his poker face, yet his characteristics were so obvious. He was a boaster, living for poker, horse racing, and anything else that would put easy money in his hands. He was a charmer, yet he was also superficial. He was arrogant, bordering on narcissistic, and this particular character flaw would be his undoing.

The doorbell rang.

During the next thirty minutes, the other three men arrived. They shook hands with one another and, as the introductions continued, Joseph looked them over as one would a herd of cows at market. He had learned from a young age that you could get the measure of a man by the way he held himself and by the way he spoke. It didn’t take him long to gather his information, and he decided that the four men in front of him were probably rich, clever gentlemen, but they were no match for him at a poker table.

The game began at eight thirty, and the room grew quiet. The faces around the table became more and more tense. They arranged their money in neat piles directly in front of them, their drinks were to the right, and all had hung their jackets on the backs of the chairs.

After about an hour, when Joseph in particular was doing well, they decided to have another round of drinks. They took a short breather, making some more small talk, but Joseph was bored. He wasn’t there to listen to shit.

John stood behind him and poured Joseph’s drink, slipping the first drops of laudanum into it.

Joseph was thinking that he had never been in better form, and that apart from the man called Gates, he decided that there was no real competition in the room. He looked at the pile of money in front of him and then at the others round the table and smiled to himself. John Stein had made a big mistake inviting him. He was going to take every penny they had off them and get a few IOU signatures into the bargain.

The game began again, and he turned his attention to his cards. He was confident, had a good hand, and surmised by the transparent expressions on the amateurs’ faces that it was probably unbeatable.

“Shall we up the stakes a bit? I play with this kind of money in Kent villages, and I didn’t come here to win matchsticks.”

He looked at John Stein, who was almost down and out, and laughed to himself. The audacity of the man in thinking that he could be any match for him was hilarious; Stein was an amateur at best. He turned his attention to the other three men. Not one of them had answered his question, and judging by the looks on their faces, they were scared shitless. He gulped his remaining whisky and asked for another. At the rate he was going, he could be home and dry in time for breakfast, with pockets bulging with money.

When they were three hours into the game, David Stern began making a comeback, but Joseph wasn’t worried. John Stein had been out for a while, but it had cost Joseph dearly: his pile had halved in size. He knew it was time to change his tactics and break the losing streak he was finding himself in. For a start, he thought that he would have to concentrate a bit more. He took off his tie and undid the top button on his shirt. Jesus Christ, it’s hot, he kept thinking. He looked across at David Stern. Was that a worried frown he saw?

“Right, I’m upping stakes,” he slurred.

David Stern folded, leaving him with Weisman and Gates to fight it out to the end.

Joseph could feel the sweat dripping down his back and regretted having the bottle of whisky earlier on in the pub. The alcohol had taken its toll. It was now making him feel tired and unfocused. Nonetheless, he raised the stakes again and won the next three hands.

In the next hour, a devastated David Stern saw his measly pile of money grow smaller and smaller, but Joseph was not about to show any mercy, and he soon finished him off with a royal flush.

“Gentlemen, I’ve never known anyone to beat me when I’m on this kind of form, so I suggest you each get yourself another drink. It might be your last.” He winked comically at the others.

The next hand seemed to go on forever, but Arty Weisman finally called. Joseph believed that he had an unbeatable hand and smiled victoriously as he placed his cards on the table face up. The shocked expression that crossed his face was nothing compared to the havoc in his mind. He was beaten by a royal flush that took him completely by surprise.

Joseph watched in horror as Arty Weisman raked in the money and added it to his own pile. He cursed to himself, groggy and confused at his own miscalculations, and three hands later, he secretly admitted that he was in serious trouble. He waited for the next hand to be dealt and tried to work out what he was doing wrong. He was frustrated, so tired that he could hardly think. He realised that he had a long way to go before he would be on top again and wondered how he was going to get through the night.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked. The cards were jumping off the table at him. He was having trouble picking up and holding them, and he could only manage to slur stupidly, even though he tried to speak properly. Fuck, what was happening to him? No more whisky! he scolded himself.

Ten minutes later, Joseph asked for another whisky and looked nervously around the room.

“Will credit be given?” he asked John.

“Boys, what do you think?”

John had set the game up, and he would be the one to decide if credit would be given or not. However, it was still common courtesy to ask the other three men to agree to the terms. When he saw them nod their heads in agreement, he asked Joseph, “What will you put up as collateral?”

“I have money in the bank, and I can sign an IOU,” Joseph blurted out with enthusiasm.

John’s eyes widened. He asked him, “What else do you have?”

“I have a farm… biggest bloody farm in Kent.”

“Then it really depends on how much you’re asking for, Joseph,” John said. “I mean, if you only want a few pounds, an IOU will be accepted, but if you really want to get back in the game… well, let’s just say that it’ll take a lot more than that.”

“What are you saying?” Joseph asked him, trying but failing to concentrate on the words.

“I am saying that unless you can prove that your bank is loaded with guineas, I will need a lot more than just your word and signature.”

Joseph’s body visibly shook, and drops of perspiration glistened on his forehead and trickled down the side of his face. “Are you calling me a liar?” He scowled at John, hating him now.

“No, I’m just saying that maybe a few pounds won’t be enough for you… what with the pot so high… Do you want to give up, Joseph?”

“No!”

“Then you must understand that we are all here to win a tidy sum. This isn’t your average game, Joseph. I made that clear to you when you reserved your seat.”

Joseph was fuming. His poker face had all but gone, swallowed up by the hatred he felt for John Stein. “Look, you patronising git! What are you trying to say, that I have to put up my fucking farm if I want to continue? That farm’s my livelihood. Besides, I’m only the trustee. It’s still not in my name, so there’s no way I could put it up, even if I wanted to.”

“That is unfortunate,” John told him.

Joseph panicked. “Listen to me, John. I’ve had a bit of a bad run, but I’m known for coming back from situations like this… I assure you I’ll be getting my money back. I always do. So take my fucking note, will you! It’s worth the paper it’s written on; you’ve got my word on it.”

John looked around the table again and asked the other three men if they would agree to three hundred pounds being advanced to Joseph on receipt of the note and his signature. They did, but Mathew Gates was reluctant, and it took some amount of persuasion from the other three to convince him to go along with it.

As Joseph signed the note, he once again questioned his decision to participate in something as big as this. He counted the money that was handed to him, said thank you at the same time, and watched John Stein pocket his IOU. Snotty-nosed bastards, he thought. They were probably loaded and could afford to lose, whereas he’d just lost more money than he’d ever had in his life, and the night wasn’t over yet.