Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (16 page)

Neesom said, ‘May I ask, Mr Blake and Mr Avery, where you both stand on the Charter?’

Blake gave a small smile and said nothing.

‘For myself,’ I said, ‘I think such disruptive tactics weaken your case. I have no great love of the Anti-Corn-Law Leaguers, but I cannot understand the point of your performance today. Some might say you demonstrate your unworthiness to vote by such rowdiness. And your Polish major, Bennywhisky or whatever his name is, seems more a pantomime creature than anything else.’

‘I am sorry you think that,’ said Neesom quietly. ‘You must understand that though they are many fewer in number to us, the Leaguers have almost infinite resources and much more influence in Parliament. We have to find striking ways of showing that they do not speak for us, and that we will remain an irritant until our demands are met. As for Major Beniofsky, he has done a good deal for our cause.’

‘You can hardly be surprised that someone of my background would be no supporter of your cause,’ I said. ‘Though I do agree that something has gone terribly wrong in the dealings between masters and men. I do not know what is to be done, but to me your movement threatens chaos and anarchy.’

‘I must assure you that you are wrong,’ said Watkins. ‘I am glad to have the opportunity to say this to a man such as yourself. Whatever
The Times
may say, Chartists are not revolutionary hotheads. We believe in debate and the rule of law. I would say those of us who talk of force do so more to try and frighten Parliament into acting than because they wish to rise.’

‘Would you agree, Mr Neesom?’ said Blake.

‘What of the work of Lord Allington?’ I interrupted. ‘I do not believe he wants to “buy off” the labouring man. He is entirely sincere in his desire to improve lives. This is the backbone of good Toryism. For hundreds of years the right-thinking country gentry have kept their tenants’ needs at heart.’

‘I’m sure Lord Allington is an admirable gentleman, Captain Avery,’ said Watkins, ‘but he is one man, and his own party challenges him at every turn. What we the workers want – nay, deserve – as subjects of the Queen and creators of wealth, is the right to have a say in the regulation of our own lives; not to be reliant on the
passing kindness of masters or landowners. And not to be dismissed as a tiresome group whose circumstances can never be bettered.’

‘You have not said where you stand, Mr Blake,’ said Neesom.

‘Oh, Mr Blake is a veritable radical,’ I said.

Blake shook his head. ‘I see the justice of the Charter. But I fear it will take more than signatures to bring the change you seek.’

‘We are prepared for that,’ said Watkins. ‘We are out to change hearts and minds. To persuade the country that the labouring classes are respectable and responsible, not rootless and threatening. All these things take perseverance and time.’

‘I wish you well of it, but I’m no joiner. Not any more.’

‘But, Mr Blake, politics is life,’ Neesom said. ‘Association makes one man part of a great combination which can enable wonderful changes. Strength resides in community, combination and trust. If you will not join, then what good are you?’

The shadow of a smile flitted across Blake’s face. ‘It is a good question.’

A cold rain blew into our faces when we emerged from the Crown and Anchor. I thought of Matty Horner in the street with her basket, struggling for a few coins. The poor are always with us, my father liked to say.

‘Did you find that illuminating? Are you any closer to a solution?’ I said.

Blake scratched his ragged ear. ‘Why, are you?’

I laughed. ‘I am perplexed. All I can say is that Woundy was lying, Connie Wedderburn is hiding something, Dugdale is unpleasant, the poor are starving, the Chartists are disruptive and Daniel Wedderburn is alarmingly angry. But I thought that you might have certain theories by now.’

‘This work is not like a steady climb up a flight of stairs. It’s more like gathering crumbs, and hoping that at some moment you may find yourself with part of a loaf.’

‘So it was a day of crumbs then.’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘I lost sight of the Wedderburn boy,’ I said. ‘I am sorry.’

He shrugged, rubbing his ear again. ‘Never mind. We’ll find him. Thought I’d go to the Cyder Cellars. Frequented by journalists and hacks. Might pick up something about our dead men.’ He gave me an uncharacteristic sideways look. ‘Come if you wish. It’s not far from here. Unless you are dining with your Oriental gents.’

I was pleased by the invitation, though I was careful not to show how much. Also I had one errand to fulfil. The Chartists’ descriptions of want had so moved me I was filled with a desire to help Matty Horner in some small way.

‘I should release the girl, Matty, first,’ I said. ‘Inquire if she has seen anything.’

He looked at me, having entirely divined my intentions, and as so often chose not to comment on them, for which I was grateful. Then he tore a page from his notebook. ‘I’ll draw you a map. Take care. Do not lose yourself.’

She stood opposite the Wedderburn house, a small wet figure clutching an empty basket, taking what shelter she could under Abraham Kravitz’s awning. The rain had eased, but many of the shopkeepers had already closed and the street was quiet save for a couple of drunken vagabonds, too far gone to stand up.

She gathered herself when she saw me. ‘Anything to report, Miss Horner?’

‘Yes, Captain. Daniel came in about ten minutes ago. Out of breath he was. Hasn’t left yet. And that copper from the Strand. Never comes up here normally. He walked up and down about an hour ago. No one else.’

‘Thank you, Miss Horner. Here is something for your trouble, and I should like, if you will let me, to buy you a hot meal. What will you have?’

‘A ’tater if you please,’ she said. I purchased one from a man with a small, brightly polished tin brazier at the top of the street by Drury Lane. The potato was cut in half and slathered in butter and salt. I wrapped it in my clean handkerchief. We stood under a gaslight,
and she warmed her hands upon it before eating it. I removed myself while she ate, returning with a large orange which I had bought from a costermonger on the corner of Drury Lane. Seeing it, she shook her head.

‘Oh, Captain, you’re a babe-in-arms.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said, disappointed. ‘Have I done wrong?’

‘The orange. It’s no good.’ She took my hand and pressed it into the skin. ‘See? Like a sponge. It’s been boiled. Coster trick. They do it to the old ones – makes them swell up – but if we opened it, all the juice’d be gone. Where’d you get it from?’

I hesitated, feeling foolish.

‘It was from him up on Drury Lane, wasn’t it?’ She marched off.

‘Oi! You!’ she said, her hands upon her hips, her head jerking angrily. She looked unpredictable, almost threatening. I very nearly felt sorry for the orange seller. ‘I know you. Give him his money back or you’ll tell me the reason why.’

The man looked most taken aback. He at first pretended ignorance but soon caved in beneath the onslaught of her threats.

‘I’ll tell the whole street you’re boiling. I’ll queer your pitch even if I lose me own. You doan cheat my friends!’

‘Calm down, Matty, don’t shout about it, he can have his money back.’

I bought her a cup of coffee, a jam puff and a halfpennyworth of ‘hard-bake’ treacle, which she put in her pocket.

‘Can I ask you something, Captain?’ she said.

‘Anything.’

‘How is it that Mr Blake is, well, in charge? You’re the gentleman, ain’t you, and Mr Blake is, well, he’s not. It’s hardly usual.’

‘I suppose it is not. But Mr Blake, though he may seem brusque and even rude, saved my life in India, and when others lied, he saw through their lies and told the truth.’

‘Will you tell me about it?’

‘Well, it is a long story and not really mine to tell.’

‘Tell me about India then. What it’s like?’

And so I told her about India. As she listened, her face opened and I saw how the ugly bonnet and shapeless clothes and a certain
boyish jauntiness of manner disguised her delicate features, the fine curve of her neck, a burgeoning womanliness. She caught my look and I saw she disliked it – somehow her expression shifted, and she retreated to the wary, boyish girl again – so I glanced away and all was easy.

‘He did look at my writing, didn’t he, Mr Blake?’ she said at last. ‘He does know I can write?’

I realized I had forgotten her crumpled bit of paper. ‘I am sure he did, Miss Horner,’ I said guiltily. ‘You work very hard. I hope your brother does his share?’

The amiability that had struck up between us suddenly faltered.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, ‘when he can. Thank you, sir. I should go home now.’

I am ashamed to say that even with his scrawled map it took me well over half an hour to find the Cyder Cellars, a walk that should have taken not much more than five minutes. I circled Covent Garden market, taking wrong turn after wrong turn, my sense of unease and helplessness growing by the minute. When it came to finding my way around the city, I was quite incapable. At last, with a sense of inexpressible relief, I stumbled upon the place. It was very heaven to descend its greasy steps and find myself assailed by a miasma of cigar smoke, the reek of beer and roars of inebriation.

Gaslights hung from the high ceiling, there was sawdust upon the floor and the walls were panelled with old cider casks cut in half. Parties of raucous drinkers and diners were ranged on long tables. At the far end was a stage – if one could dignify with such a name little more than a raised platform framed by a pair of skimpy curtains. Upon it, a skinny man in theatrical make-up, white-faced with two red smudges on his cheeks, was singing, but such was the general uproar I could not hear the words. Blake was in a corner, observing the scene with his usual dispassion, nursing a mug of beer. I fought my way across the floor. Two other men were seated with Blake. They shared a bottle of claret and were helping themselves to a plate of oysters and brown bread. Both men’s hands were stained with ink.

‘Ah, you must be Mr Blake’s friend,’ said the older of the two. He was a short man with a curved back and a pointed face, unruly grey hair, shaggy eyebrows and a considerable stomach. ‘I am Douglas Jerrold and this is Henry. He has not stopped talking since we sat down. He is a writer of humorous and satirical ephemera, and the editor of
Punch
.’ He eyed me expectantly.

The younger man closed his mouth and raised his hand in
greeting. He was plump with a plain good-natured face and a general air of chaos – his hair stuck out at odd angles, and his shirt had worked itself out of his trousers. ‘Henry Mayhew at your service. Douglas, the poor man will most certainly not have heard of
Punch
.’

‘I will be sure to read it now,’ I said, and introduced myself. And then, because I could not resist it, ‘Might I ask if you are acquainted with Mr Dickens? I am a most tremendous admirer of his.’

‘I have that honour,’ Mr Jerrold said wearily; behind him, Mayhew pulled a comic grimace. Evidently I had said the wrong thing. ‘He is a fine writer and a good friend. I cannot, I fear, procure for you an autograph. Mr Dickens has declared he cannot sign any more.’

‘Oh no, please forgive me, I would not dream—’

‘Mr Jerrold is himself a famous playwright and wordsmith,’ said Mayhew quickly. ‘You may recall his play,
Black-Eyed Susan
? It ran for 300 nights at Drury Lane, which I believe is a record.’

‘Henry is too kind,’ said Jerrold drily, ‘and prone to flatter me. He wishes to marry my daughter.’

Mayhew blushed.

‘Avery is West Country-born and has been in India these last five years,’ said Blake. ‘You’ll have to excuse his ignorance.’

‘It is, of course, excused,’ said Mr Jerrold. ‘You know, this is the first time Mr Blake has ever introduced us to an associate. We had no idea what to expect. But then Mr Blake always tickles our curiosity but never quite satisfies it. He is a very elusive gentleman.’

‘I have often thought so,’ I said.

Blake said nothing.

‘In the meantime he has been kind enough to stand us a bottle of claret and these oysters,’ said Henry Mayhew, ‘and has promised to give us a tour of the most wretched parts of London. Here, let me pour you a glass.’

‘May I ask how you met?’ said Jerrold.

‘We were sent on a commission together in India some years ago,’ I said, ‘and now Viscount Allington has retained us both to work on a particular case.’

‘Viscount Allington, eh? Is this the matter on which you wish to
consult us, Blake? I am not sure I wish to come to the aid of the aristocracy,’ said Jerrold.

‘You should know, Captain Avery,’ said Mayhew, ‘that Douglas has a very particular list of bêtes noires: lawyers, bankers, aristocrats and Tories. The rest of the world he looks upon with an indulgent eye.’

‘Then I am afraid we must differ,’ I said stiffly. ‘I am a Tory born and bred, and I can think of many admirable aristocrats, Viscount Allington being one of them.’

‘An admirable creature I am sure, in his lofty evangelical way. But one cannot justify the creaking privileges of a whole class on the back of one well-meaning toff,’ said Mr Jerrold. ‘Your Duke of Wellington – a man who in my opinion should have been pensioned off after Waterloo – denies the existence of poverty and hunger among the poor in London. And why? Because he has counted five and twenty turkeys at his own poulterer’s.’