The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) (16 page)

“George? Miss Roberts, she was used to be busy in
the works, was she not?”

“Aye, sir, you could call it that.”

So there had been a reason for Clapperley’s idle
chat, Tom made a note to thank him, as obliquely as he had made his warning,
the nature of which he must ferret out for himself.

No need to be subtle with Mason – his loyalty was
unquestioning and his mouth stayed closed.

“All right, George, tell me the details.”

Mason clasped his hands behind his back, he would
never sit in the office, assumed a righteous pose, face stern.

“She were a damned nuisance, Mr Andrews! Flirting
around the men, where they was bare-chested at work, and making half-promises
she never meant to keep, leading some of the younger men on something chronic,
and ready to scream blue murder if ever one was to so much as lay a finger on
her. Right pain in the arse, that one! She did some of the paperwork, and did
it well enough too, but she would have screamed ‘Rape’ and had a man hanged
before too long. Got to the point that the older blokes would pass the word
whenever they saw ‘er about and make sure none of the lads was left on their
own with ‘er.”

“Surprising, not what one expects of a young lady.”

“That one ain’t no lady, that’s for sure, sir.”

“Best to build that fence of ours a bit higher,
George?”

“Better still to build a big moat like they old
castles had, sir!”

“Did her father have any idea, George?”

“Who was going to tell ‘im?”

Good question – no workman would keep his job for
ten seconds after complaining to the master that his daughter was a bit of a
whore.

“Strange family, it would seem, George.”

“The old man’s father was stranger yet, sir, from
all I’ve ever heard. There was just a smithy in his day and the old ’ouse that
they built when the family used to have money, way back – the word was that
they was Romanists and when King James was thrown out they got fined for being
disloyal. Anyhow, sir, the old man worked his forge, would work all hours of
day and night for weeks at a time, the story goes, and then suddenly it’s down
tools, apron and hammer thrown into the corner and ‘e’s off to the boozers and
knocking shops, come crawling back on ‘is hands and knees a week later, pick up
the hammer and blow up the forge and back to work, not a word said. Died blind
and raving mad, so ‘e did, Mr Andrews, and everybody guessed the cause of
that
,
as you may imagine, sir! They say it passes on, sir, the sins of the fathers,
down through the generations.”

“So… you reckon she might not be all there, George?”

Mason shrugged, he was no mad-doctor, could not say
for certain, but all things were possible, and some were a bit more likely than
others.

Clapperley came into the works unannounced,
apologised for not making an appointment by letter, but he had preferred to
keep this piece of business unwritten.

“Mrs Morris, Mr Andrews, to whom you lent one
thousand last month, begs leave to meet you, wishing I think to vary the terms
of your agreement.”

“Does that mean she
can’t
pay, Mr
Clapperley?”

“Not necessarily, Mr Andrews – I believe, in fact,
that she has a long term proposition instead. As yet she does not know your
name, only that you are a client of mine and she would prefer the relationship
to be more open if it is to be longer lasting.”

Tom shook his head, he was not at all sure that he
wanted a longer term relationship with a gaming house with all of the risks of
becoming involved with the shadier side of the business world.

“It would be highly profitable, though risky, but
more importantly, sir, it could be the opening into any number of
opportunities. Men, even the most discreet, will open their mouths and blab in
such surroundings – a little wine, relaxing company, the excitement of the
tables, can cause the most sensible and hard-headed to talk of affairs better
kept quiet. I have no doubt that Mrs Morris would be able to put you onto
several profitable little transactions.”

“You are very persuasive, Mr Clapperley. They say
that Peel has made a million from cotton and general dealing – I wonder if,
with your assistance, I might not match him? I presume it has occurred to you,
sir, that once I met your Mrs Morris, I would be unable to safely drop the
acquaintance, would be in effect part of her world.”

“As am I, Mr Andrews.”

“So be it. When do we meet?”

“This morning? I have my gig if you are at leisure,
sir.”

During the cold three quarters of an hour in the
gig, hooded but essentially open, wrapped in his heavy coat, scarf up to his
ears, hat pulled low, Tom gave some thought to where his life was taking him.
The works was on its way to return a thousand this year, would multiply that
several times over when they had the steel production and special castings up
and running and had built a name for themselves; Joseph’s cotton would
eventually come in at as much or more, particularly if, ‘when’ rather, a proper
power loom was invented – a dozen men in England, France and the Low Countries
were said to be experimenting. Ten years would see them very well off, so why
take wild risks? Why not? Risks made life amusing - without them all became
humdrum, boring, tedious. Already he was discovering that his daily round had
become routine – get up at six o’clock, breakfast and visit the works, take a
morning report from George, discuss any minor problems that had arisen on the
previous day, make the necessary entries in the books, authorise and agree
expenditure, check the bills that had come in then take any payments to the
bank. In the afternoon, discuss new contracts, their prices and potential
problems and enter them into the calendar, talk over the question of twenty-four
hour working, of when they must start a night shift and what they must pay. It
was predictable, he knew exactly what tomorrow would bring – it was almost
tempting to hand over to Joseph and look for a berth as prize master on a
privateer, except that the war was almost at its long-delayed end.

Definitely
time to do
something – perhaps Mrs Morris would be the answer.

She dwelt in a merchant’s house of the previous
century, large, rambling, full of chambers, great and small, inconvenient to
modern tastes, the sort that commonly became rookeries, a family, or more, of
the poorest in every room and paying pennies in rent, dirty, smelly and
eventually burning down to a drunken mid-winter’s fire. A few of the big old
places became offices, sub-divided into attorneys’ and doctors’ chambers; one
or two served other purposes.

The ground floor was given over to the domestic
functions, kitchens and such, and visitors were led up a broad, open oak
staircase to a first floor landing, a hallway and four large salons – it seemed
probable that internal walls had been knocked down, three and four chambers
made into one. The proprietress was waiting for them in the largest room,
bay-windowed and airy but not, perhaps, spotlessly clean – she lacked the
housewife’s eye it would seem. She had an abundance of other attributes,
however, including a bosom that was quite the largest Tom had ever seen, well
displayed and heavily underpinned; she was of uncertain age – if she knew how
old she was she had carefully forgotten – a dubious blonde dressed in several
yards of glossily purple satin variously decorated with pins and brooches
scattered at random and showing stones coloured as diamonds, sapphires and
rubies, some of them quite possibly genuine. Her voice was nasal and powerful,
overlain with an attempted but ill-taught gentility; she could have done well
as foremast lookout in a gale of wind.

“Good morning, Mr Clapperley!” She did not make a
curtsey, which was as well for decency’s sake.

“Good morning, Mrs Morris. May I present Mr Thomas
Andrews?”

They shook hands, no gentle clasp, she had good
muscles, which thought took Tom’s mind back to Antigua and brought a
spontaneous grin. The twisting scar had its normal unfortunate effect, causing
her to step backwards.

“Oh, Christ! I ‘opes you don’t bite, mister!”

The patina of gentrification did not survive shock,
it would seem, to her embarrassment. She squared her shoulders, to the danger
of anything within a yard’s range, smiled determinedly, rebuilt the layers of
courtesy.

“I am sure, Mr Andrews, you would like to inspect
the property and to discover the details of my little business. Do tell me if
you find anything especially interesting.” She thrust her bosom forward
hopefully, did not seem surprised that Tom did not take up her offer – it had
been some years since she had interested a young man without first paying him.

Tom nodded and smiled again, it having worked so
well first time.

“The salon we are in is used for welcoming our
guests and as a lounge for those who wish to sit and chat for a while over a
glass; we serve a midnight buffet on Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings.”

There were mismatched tables scattered about the
room and a long dining table against the wall, presumably where the buffet
would be set out. All of the tables, whatever their size, had only two chairs,
or, if close to a wall, a chaise longue, variously upholstered in green or gold
and all slightly grubby. Tom raised an eyebrow to Clapperley, received an
imperceptible nod. It was a knocking shop as well, the men would make their
choice in this room, which was as he had expected, betting and whoring tending
to go together naturally.

“The Blue Room, Mr Andrews, through here, is devoted
to faro and such other games as may be desired, whilst the Yellow Room, on the
other side of the hall is kept quieter for the whist players. The Green Room is
not always open but is used normally once or twice a week to stage little
entertainments.”

She opened the green doors, the only ones closed, to
display a couple of dozen heavily upholstered wing chairs in a semi-circle
about a raised dais, the walls behind it covered in mirrors and a chandelier
directly above loaded with wax candles.

“I am sure you can imagine our little pageants, Mr
Andrews.”

Tom was not sure he could, or wished to;
Clapperley’s leer was more than ordinarily pronounced.

They left the Green Room and Mrs Morris waved her
hand towards a thickly carpeted stairway at the rear of the hall, said that it
led up to the private rooms.

“Do you open for business every night, Mrs Morris?”

“Never on Sunday – we would be closed down within the
week if we broke the Sabbath and in any case, the best paying customers are not
available then – they are all in church or chapel!”

They chuckled together, all three having an
appreciation of the arts of hypocrisy.

Back in the main salon they sat down at the dining
table to discuss finance, tea offered and accepted, no mention of alcohol at
business.

“I could repay you your cash today, Mr Andrews, with
one month’s interest, but it would leave me tight for working money. I would
prefer to keep it for a twelvemonth, spending some on restocking the wine
cellar and a little on furnishings and holding the rest against need. I would
meet the interest monthly, and would repay the principal on the twelvemonth
day, unless you wished to discuss a further advance then, which I might or
might not wish to take – at this distance I do not know.”

“That sounds open and above board, ma’am, and I will
be very happy to proceed on that basis.”

“Mrs Morris tells me that she is putting on a show
next week, Mr Andrews, on Wednesday. A five guineas contribution and an
audience of twenty or so for an hour or two of fun and gig.”

“I rather fear I am already engaged for that
evening, Mr Clapperley.”

“It is a way of meeting up with other enterprising
businessmen, Mr Andrews, breaking the ice, as it were.”

Tom promised to have another look at his diary to
see if he could rearrange his meetings; a little consideration and he left
things as they were – an audience of twenty, not all of them active businessmen
out of a community of a hundred or so, big and small together, in the St Helens
area, might lead to perhaps ten contacts and work for Roberts from say one half
of them. On the other hand, he might easily become known as ‘not quite the
thing’ and be avoided by the respectable. The scar was the problem here, it
identified him, which could be advantageous, making him stand out in a crowd,
but it also meant that people would notice it, ask who he was and casually
comment on having seen him at Mrs Morris’ house and create a reputation for him.

Habitual visits to Mrs Morris would be harmful to
the firm, but it would be possible to make a more clandestine contact, out of
hours, to solve a pressing problem.

“Mrs Morris, a pleasure to see you again. I wonder
if we might discuss a matter of some convenience to me?”

“Of course, Mr Andrews, do take a seat!”

The accent was at its most genteel today, Tom
noticed, easily matched his own; he wondered if she also recognised the falsity
of his dialect – no matter, they were essentially of the same ilk.