Killigrew quit the offices of the Ethnological Society and returned to where he had left his hired horse in the care of the crossing-sweeper at the junction of Queen Anne Street and Harley Street, tipping the sweeper every bit as generously as he had promised. When he was going to be sued by Videira’s lawyers for every penny he had, a few extra crowns here and there did not seem to matter: better to give it to an honest crossing-sweeper than a slave captain and his pettifoggers.
It was a bright, crisp day in mid April and he enjoyed the ride through Mayfair’s elegant streets to Hyde Park Corner. He reached the statue of Achilles on the dot of half past ten. There was no sign of Eulalia, but it would have been unladylike for her to arrive on time; that would have smacked of over-eagerness. She kept him waiting no more than ten minutes, arriving in the company of a groom acting as chaperone, both of them mounted. She looked even more lovely by day than she had done the other evening, the sunlight picking out the golden tresses pinned beneath a high-crowned riding hat perched at a rakish angle. Seeing him, she smiled.
‘Good morning, Mr Killigrew. Your appointment at the Ethnological Society went well, I trust?’
He touched the brim of his top hat with his riding crop. ‘Not as well as I’d hoped, ma’am,’ he said, a little disappointed by her reversion to a more formal form of address than that which they had enjoyed the other night. He supposed it was due to the presence of the groom.
They at once set off at a slow, steady pace along Rotten Row, mingling with the other genteel riders, while the groom followed behind them at a discreet distance. The London Season was getting into its stride and the sandy track was busy with aristocratic young swells trying to catch the eyes of genteel ladies, and officers of the Household Cavalry showing off their latest mistresses.
‘You were not able to learn anything more about those primitive native superstitions, then?’ asked Eulalia.
‘Nothing I didn’t already know. Would you believe that their foremost expert on Africa had never ever been there?’
‘Forget about Africa, Kit. It’s behind you now.’
‘I know. But it is still there.’
‘Is it a beautiful country?’
‘The parts of it I saw were – once you get out of Freetown, of course. But those were only on the coast. It’s such a vast continent. I’ve not even scratched the surface…’ He frowned. It was not the continent whose surface he wished to scratch, it was the slave trade. And he would do a damned sight more than just scratch it, if only he had the chance.
‘You seem troubled.’
‘I was just thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘The slave trade.’
‘Fie on you, Christopher Killigrew. You come out riding with me, and all you can think of is the slave trade?’
‘If you had seen some of the atrocities I have…’ He shook his head. She did not want to hear of such things.
‘It’s not your problem any longer, Kit. Forget about it. Let someone else worry about it. Or do you think you’re the only man in the whole world who can do that?’
‘There are very few men who even seem to have the inclination.’
‘You need something to take your mind off it,’ she told him. ‘Some vigorous exercise will do the trick, I think.’
‘Oh?’ he said, arching an eyebrow, but before he could come up with any suggestions she had turned her horse off the path and goaded it into a gallop, dashing off across the grass. He cursed under his breath and urged his own horse after her. The strollers of the lower orders cheered to see a fine woman galloping along so bravely, and laughed at the young gentleman who was hard pushed to keep up with her, using one hand to hold his top hat in place. If he was able to keep level with her it was only because she rode side-saddle. The groom was left far behind.
They passed along the bank of the Serpentine and crossed over the bridge, where pedestrians forced her to slow down, enabling him to catch up with her at last. She turned to smile at him, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration.
‘So you can ride,’ she acknowledged, and laughed merrily. ‘You know, Kit, you haven’t changed one bit. You always did have to excel at everything you attempted.’
He frowned. ‘Do you think so? I’ve never thought of myself as competitive.’
‘But that’s what’s so infuriating about you. It isn’t a question of being better than anyone else. It’s as if you already know that you’re the best at everything you do, accept it without arrogance, and compete against yourself because there’s no other competition.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve always felt that if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, if that’s what you mean. If it makes you feel any better, there are plenty of things I’m hopeless at.’
‘Such as?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Gardening.’
She laughed.
‘No, truly. Every kind of vegetation I touch withers and dies.’
‘I don’t believe you’ve ever tried your hand at horticulture in your life. If you did, I’m sure you would have a garden which would make the gardens at Kew look like a costermonger’s vegetable patch.’
Red-faced and dripping with sweat, the groom caught up with them, which stifled the conversation from then on, but it was pleasant enough to amble through the park on horseback beside Eulalia. It seemed that scarcely a few minutes had passed before the bells of St Paul’s in Kensington were tolling half-past eleven and Killigrew took out his watch.
‘Am I boring you?’ asked Eulalia.
‘Not at all. I wish I could stay longer,’ he said, with genuine regret. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed a young woman’s company so much. ‘But I have an appointment at twelve. Perhaps I may be allowed to enjoy the pleasure of your company again some time?’
‘When did you have in mind?’
‘How about this afternoon?’ he found himself saying.
She laughed. ‘All right. Your appointment is for dinner, I take it? Shall we say two o’clock at Gunter’s Tea Shop?’
‘Better make it three,’ he told her. ‘I’m dining with Rear-Admiral Napier.’
He left Hyde Park at the same place he had entered, by the statue of Achilles, and rode up Piccadilly to St James’s Street, where he had an arrangement with the landlord of the White Horse Cellar Coaching Inn for the stabling of his hired horse. It was only a temporary arrangement, for he had no idea how much longer he would be staying in London. He had only been in the city for a few days but already he was growing bored, and if it had not been for the possibility of a closer acquaintance with Eulalia Fairbody then he might have had a hankering to get back to sea.
There was not time for him to return to his own club to get changed, so he made his way directly to the United Service Club on Pall Mall. He was about to present himself to the porter in the hallway when he saw Napier coming down the stairs from above, deep in conversation with another gentleman who was smoking a cigar. The rear-admiral walked with his feet turned out, limping from one old war wound, and stoop-necked from another. He was too involved in his conversation with his companion to notice Killigrew.
‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ asked the porter.
‘It’s all right, I’m here to see Sir Charles,’ Killigrew told him, nodding up the stairs.
‘And you are…?’
‘Christopher Killigrew.’
‘Very good, sir. Sir Charles is expecting you.’
At the foot of the stairs Napier and his companion took their leave of one another, shaking hands warmly, and then Napier hailed Killigrew. ‘Hullo, Killigrew. Come on up.’
Killigrew followed Napier up the stairs. ‘That was Mr Brunel, the celebrated engineer,’ Napier told him. ‘Do you know him? Very clever chap, young Brunel. He’s helping me with the designs for a new steamship I’m working on.’ More than a quarter of a century ago, when steamships had seemed nothing more than a novelty, Napier had designed and built a small fleet of steamers for the River Seine at his own expense to prove how practical they could be; and only the previous year another vessel of his design, the first-class steam frigate HMS Sidon, had been launched and completed.
‘Another steam frigate, sir?’ asked Killigrew.
‘No, no. She’s not so big as the Sidon. A sloop. Well, a surveying ship.’
‘Steam powered?’ Killigrew asked in some surprise.
Napier nodded. ‘Most of the navy’s exploring ships are still sail-powered only; and all our charts are drawn up with sailing ships in mind. Steam vessels have completely different requirements, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. When steam supplants sailing ships altogether, as I have no doubt it will, then all the old Admiralty charts will be out of date. My new ship will be just the thing to update them; and being steam-powered, she’ll have no difficulty navigating narrow creeks and inlets.’
They entered the reading room and sat down at a table, Napier ordering drinks for them both from a waiter. ‘Yes, I’ve got big plans for my little surveying ship. I’m trying to design her to be something of a jack of all trades, you see. The danger is that if you try to compromise too much you end up serving no useful purpose at all. I don’t want her to be a jack of all trades and master of none. And I’ll need a crew of energetic officers to run her,’ he added with a wink. ‘Mind you, I can’t see her being ready for at least another three years, so you’ve got time to get another posting under your belt before then. Who knows? By then you may have been promoted to post-rank.’
Killigrew smiled. ‘That would be too much to dream of.’
‘Why not? You’re a capable and energetic young man. You’ll be how old three years from now? Twenty-six, twenty-seven? Worse men than you have been promoted to postcaptain at a younger age.’
Killigrew was pleased to think that Napier thought him worthy of the command of a vessel which was obviously a pet project of his. But just because Napier had designed another ship, there was no guarantee that the Admiralty would approve its construction, or that if they did they would approve Killigrew’s appointment to the crew when it was ready. Besides which, all of that seemed a long time in the future and Killigrew knew he had no chance whatsoever of obtaining post-rank within three years if he spent them all ashore.
They dined heartily – Killigrew had a young man’s appetite, and that Napier was a good trencherman was testified to by his stout girth – and talked of the navy, the problems with manning and the slowness of promotion, and of steam engines and the relative merits of paddle-wheels and propeller screws. While all these subjects were close to the hearts of the two naval officers, Killigrew sensed that none of this was why Napier had asked him to dinner; a hunch which was confirmed when Napier told the waiter they would take coffee in the billiards room.
‘D’you play billiards? Splendid game. Very scientific, d’ye see? It’s all about angles.’
‘I’m afraid I never was much good at trigonometry, although I have played billiards on occasion,’ admitted Killigrew.
‘Splendid! We shall play a game or two, and talk while we do so.’
The billiards room was empty at that time of day. Killigrew took two cues from the rack and offered Napier his choice. Then the two of them stood side by side at the baulk and each strung a ball up the table, bouncing them off the top cushion so that they rolled back towards the lower cushion.
‘Ha! I win,’ said Napier, when his ball came to rest nearest the bottom cushion. ‘Although I suspect you let me, out of deference to seniority. Well, no matter. I shall break the balls, and you’ll soon see I’ve no need of a handicap. I must warn you, Killigrew, I’ve been playing this game a good deal of late, and though I say so myself I’ve become rather a dab hand at it. First to score one hundred? I’ll take spot white,’ he added, placing that ball in the baulk and lining up a shot. He at once knocked Killigrew’s ball into one of the pockets. ‘First hazard to me, I think,’ he said smugly, lining up his next shot. ‘By the way, you do realise that Captain Standish thinks you murdered Captain da Silva in cold blood?’
‘Oh?’ Killigrew said cautiously. When Lieutenant Jardine had entered the day room on board the São João to see da Silva’s corpse stretched out on the deck and Killigrew with a smoking pepperbox in his hand, Killigrew had merely indicated the pistol in the open drawer of the desk and allowed Jardine to draw his own conclusions. ‘Has he said anything?’
‘Good heavens, no! Not as such. Standish is no fool; at least, not that much of a fool. He knows perfectly well that it could never be proved that you murdered da Silva – which you didn’t, of course – and that if he said so publicly you’d be well within your rights to call him out. And we both know how that would turn out. No, he’s just made some… shall we say insinuations. Oh, damn and blast!’ he added as he missed a shot.
Killigrew stepped up to the table and took a shot.
‘Oh, well played! Now, if it was up to me, I’d shoot every last slaver and be done with it. But you know what these damned Whigs are like: can’t kill a man without a fair trial, and all that. As if there were such thing as a fair trial! Which reminds me, I read your report to the Slave Trade Department at the Foreign Office. Interesting reading. You’re not the first naval officer on the West Africa Squadron to hear of this Owodunni Barracoon, either; although the information you found on the São João has helped to narrow down its location to within two hundred miles.’
‘With all the creeks and inlets on that stretch of coastline, it should only take the entire squadron a couple of years to find it – if they dedicated all their energies to surveying that stretch of the coast, that is.’
‘Which they won’t, of course. The only thing we know about the Owodunni Barracoon is that it lies somewhere between Sierra Leone and Monrovia, it’s run by a man called Francisco Salazar – Portuguese or Brazilian, no one knows for sure – and it seems to have picked up most of the slave trade which was lost when Denman and his colleagues destroyed the barracoons on the Gallinas, Sherbar, and Pongas rivers. In fact the department estimates that over twenty thousand slaves are shipped from this one barracoon to the Americas every year. Can you imagine that? Twenty thousand men, women and children, every year? Why, at an estimate of one-third dying en route, that’s nearly seven thousand killed on the middle passage alone; and the rest condemned to a life of misery and degradation. Oh, capital shot, Mr Killigrew! I gather from the support you gave me in our rather heated debate with that pompous ass Sir George the other night that you feel rather passionately about the slave trade?’
‘I’d give anything to see it stopped,’ said Killigrew, concentrating on his next shot.
‘Anything?’ Napier chuckled. ‘I wonder…’
‘If you’d seen some of the atrocities I witnessed last month alone, you’d understand why I feel so strongly about it.’
‘I dare say. But there are plenty of other men in the squadron who’ve seen sights every bit as atrocious as the ones you’ve witnessed, yet precious few of them seem to have your zeal for crushing the slavers. Well played! You’re better at this game than you let on, Mr Killigrew. It is as well you’re not a member of this club; I do believe you are what they call a “shark”. Tell me, if you had the power, how would you go about stopping the slave trade?’
‘There are a number of ways…’ said Killigrew, taking another shot and potting Napier’s ball once again. ‘And I’d use all of them.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, the most important thing is to abolish slavery in the Americas.’
‘True. But given that this is beyond our powers?’
‘Discourage the African princes from selling the slaves to Europeans; make other forms of trade more profitable. Like that palm oil Sir Joshua is so keen on. I’d use carrot and stick techniques. The carrot is the vast profits they could realise from palm oil; the stick is stepping up the activities of the West Africa Squadron. We should smash the barracoons as they did a few years ago, before Captain Denman was taken to court. Damn the law! If a merchant has goods at a barracoon, then he’s aiding and abetting the blackbirders at the very least. His goods should be forfeit. I say we smash their barracoons and smash their goods and smash their ships until we’ve forced them out of business.’ He struck the cue ball savagely and managed to sink all three balls.
‘An eight stroke, by God! But will putting the barracoons out of business be enough, do you think?’
Killigrew stared at the green baize while he considered the question. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘To tell the truth, the trade is just too damned profitable. It’s the men who make the real money out of it we have to hit. The investors.’
‘Very good!’ Napier beamed like a teacher listening to a favourite pupil.
‘But they’re all foreigners so they’re beyond the reach of the British law.’
‘Supposing I were to tell you that one of the biggest investors in the slave trade today was an Englishman; and not only an Englishman at that, but a leading member of the Establishment?’
Killigrew almost dropped his cue. ‘Who?’
Napier chuckled. ‘My dear boy, if we knew his name you could rest assured the whole world would know about it by now. No, all we know are a few hints we’ve picked up here and there from reports such as yours handed in to the Slave Trade Department. But a definite picture is beginning to emerge. We even have a scrap of a letter of instructions to a slaver captain written on the House of Commons own headed notepaper!’
‘A member of parliament?’
‘Makes one think, does it not?’
‘You don’t suppose it could be…?’
‘I know what you’re going to say; don’t say it. We need proof before we go making any accusations, otherwise we’ll just ruin both our careers. And that’s where you come in, Mr Killigrew.’
‘I?’
‘I want you to become a blackbirder.’
Killigrew miscued. Unmindful of the balls clinking on the baize, he looked up at the rear-admiral in astonishment.
‘Yes, you heard me correctly,’ Napier told him. ‘The tighter we clamp down on the slavers, the more organised they become. The only way we’re going to get the proof we need is to infiltrate their ranks.’
‘You mean join the crew of a slaver under an assumed name?’ Killigrew shook his head. ‘It’s a nice idea, but it will never work. The blackbirders are as thick as thieves, and I’ve crossed swords with so many there’s too great a risk that one of them will recognise me as a naval officer.’
Napier nodded. ‘I suspect that’s the mistake I made with the last naval officer I sent on this mission.’
‘You mean… you’ve tried this before?’
‘Yes. You remember Lieutenant Comber, don’t you?’
‘Comber? Yes, he’s a good man.’
‘Ah… was a good man.’
‘Please tell me he’s working as a lion-tamer somewhere in central Europe.’
‘Eh? No, no. I fear it more likely that Lieutenant Comber is currently somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. But I won’t make the same mistake with you as I made with him.’
‘No?’
‘No. I intend for you to join a slaver under your real name.’
‘I know you well enough by now to know there’s method in your madness, sir, but I fear you’ll have to explain it to me.’
‘We’ll make it look as if you’ve been dismissed from the service in disgrace; guilty of something so vile that you’ll never be able to get honest work on any ship again, navy or merchant. What more natural than for you, embittered and twisted, to seek revenge by signing on with the kind of crew which the navy works so hard to foil?’
‘What more natural than the aforementioned crew should take the opportunity to thrash the living daylights out of me as soon as we’re at sea, just for devilment?’
‘Not if we pick the right captain, Mr Killigrew. One clever enough to realise the distinct advantages he’ll enjoy from employing an ex-naval officer – one with a grudge towards the navy – on board his vessel. A man who is completely familiar with all the tactics the navy employs.’
‘It might work,’ Killigrew allowed. ‘You have such a captain in mind?’
‘There’s an American, a man named Caleb Madison. He’s the master of the Madge Howlett, a Baltimore-built brig out of New York. She lands at Liverpool two or three times a year and loads with manufactured goods ostensibly destined for Havana. Cotton textiles, gunpowder and muskets, looking glasses, copper wire, kitchen utensils…’
‘All the usual goods in the slave trade.’
‘Precisely so. A brig plying between Liverpool and Havana could make the crossing more than four or five times a year. Furthermore, our consul in Havana keeps a close watch on shipping which might be involved in the slave trade and sends regular reports to the Slave Trade Department. He’s never seen any ship named the Madge Howlett land there.’
‘So she’s changing her name between Liverpool and Havana.’
‘Or sailing directly to the Guinea Coast. But the Madge Howlett belongs to the Bay Cay Trading Company, the same company which owned several other ships which have been condemned as slavers; one of which contained the fragment of the letter with the House of Commons heading. There’s a mass of paperwork and red tape between the Bay Cay Trading Company and its real owners, but I’m willing to stake my life that if you berth on board the Madge Howlett for a voyage, you’ll learn something which will lead us to our high-placed slaving investor.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, sir,’ said Killigrew, lining up his next shot. ‘It’s not your life that will be at stake.’
‘I know I’m asking you to undertake a perilous enterprise, Mr Killigrew, and believe you me, I’ll not think any the less of you if you decline my offer.’
‘And if – when – the voyage is ended and I return to England? I’ll have my naval rank reinstated and my honour restored?’
‘A hundred fold. You’re going for a ten stroke? You’ll never make that shot, Mr Killigrew. A guinea on it.’
‘What odds will you give me?’
‘A hundred to one.’
‘And what odds would you give on my even surviving a voyage on a slaver, never mind finding out the information you require?’
‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Killigrew. About the same.’
Killigrew took his shot, striking first the red ball and then the spot white, pocketing both before his own ball slipped slyly down the top pocket.
‘’Pon my soul! Done it, by Jove!’ exclaimed Napier. ‘Which takes your score up to…’
‘A hundred and one. My game, I believe.’
They replaced their cues in the rack and went downstairs and outside, waiting on the steps while the porter stepped out into the street to flag down a passing hansom for the rear-admiral.
A young girl – no more than eleven or twelve, gauged Killigrew – approached them with a bundle of heather. Her face was scrubbed, but there was grime around her neck and behind her ears, and her out-sized clothes were grubby and patched. ‘Buy some lucky heather, kind sirs?’ she asked.
‘Oi! I’ve told you before!’ growled the porter. ‘We don’t want your sort round here. Hop it!’
Killigrew waved him away. ‘I think I’m going to need all the good luck I can get if I’m going to undertake this enterprise.’
Napier was delighted. ‘You accept, then?’
‘Did you ever doubt I would?’
‘Capital fellow!’ Napier clapped him on the back. ‘I know you won’t let me down.’
Killigrew handed the girl a sovereign in return for a sprig of heather.
‘I can’t change this, mister!’ she protested.
‘That’s all right,’ said Killigrew, smiling benignly. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Coo! For this much change I’ll suck your sugar stick,’ she offered.
Killigrew’s smile grew thin. ‘That won’t be necessary. Why don’t you buy some food for your family?’ She nodded and ran off up the street.
‘You realise, of course, she’ll probably spend it on gin?’ said Napier.
‘If I had to live by selling heather and performing lewd acts on strangers, I’d probably spend all my money on gin, too,’ said Killigrew.
‘To return to your enterprise,’ said Napier. ‘If, as I suspect, the man we’re after is high up in London Society, then there’s a good chance he may have spies in all manner of unexpected places; such men usually do. For your own safety, I suggest that the fewer people know of this, the better.’
‘How many people did you have in mind?’
‘Ideally, just the two of us—’
He broke off at the sound of horse’s hoofs clopping on the cobbles and they both turned to see a gig come racing down Pall Mall, a young swell standing with the reins in one hand while he lashed the horse’s flanks with a whip held in the other. As the gig careered down the thoroughfare the man swayed on his feet, and it was only a drunkard’s luck which kept him from being pitched into the road. The porter, standing halfway into the road to flag down a hackney, had to leap aside to avoid being knocked down.
Further up the road, the flower-girl was not so lucky. She heard the horse’s hoofs and the rattle of the wheels on the cobbles, turned to see the gig bearing down on her, and froze. Killigrew launched himself towards her, but it was a purely instinctive reaction and he was too far away to do anything.
The driver of the gig did not even see the girl. She squeaked briefly before falling under the horse’s hoofs, and then one of the gig’s wheels bounced over her chest. The man in the gig fell back into the seat, giggling drunkenly, unaware that anything untoward had occurred, and the gig veered off Pall Mall on to Cockspur Street.
Killigrew reached the girl’s body. Plenty of other people walked past, but none troubled to stop. She was barely conscious, and the blood which bubbled past her lips indicated that at least one broken rib had pierced a lung. Killigrew cradled her head in his lap and looked up at the passersby. ‘Someone fetch a doctor, for God’s sake!’
A fit of coughing racked the girl’s body, and she lay still. Napier stood over Killigrew and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s too late, Killigrew,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’
Feeling shaken, Killigrew pushed himself to his feet. He was not unaccustomed to the sight of violent death, but it was not something he associated with the genteel streets of St James’s. ‘We’d better fetch a constable,’ he told Napier. ‘Someone has to give that fellow’s description, though I doubt they’ll catch him.’
Napier nodded. ‘No need for us both to wait. You must have things to do.’
‘So must you, surely? And more important than what I’d had planned for this afternoon.’ Killigrew glanced at his watch: it was nearly three o’clock.
Napier smiled. ‘You had plans? Concerning a young lady, perhaps? No need to keep her waiting. You run along.’
‘All right. When the police get here, give them my name. If they do catch that swine, I’ll be happy to stand against him in the witness box. I’m staying at the Army and Navy.’
Napier nodded, and after one last regretful glance at the dead girl, Killigrew headed up Regent’s Street. As he made his way towards Piccadilly Circus, he thought about her. There were those who would have said the death of one reduced to such circumstances was probably for the best, but Killigrew would have dismissed them as self-righteous asses. He felt sick. He had been so close to the incident, perhaps if he had been a little more vigilant he could somehow have prevented it. But there had been nothing he could do – how he hated to be an impotent bystander! – and it was done now anyway.
As he turned off Piccadilly and headed up Berkeley Street, he forced himself to put the girl’s death from his mind and tried to think about the mission he had agreed to undertake for Napier. He wondered how he could inveigle Captain Madison into taking him on board the Madge Howlett. Killigrew had little taste for the duplicity which would be required of him to maintain his imposture, although he had confidence in his ability to carry it off, and it would be well worth it if it would enable him to bring some of the men foremost in the slave trade to justice. And it would be exciting; more exciting than cruising off the Guinea Coast on the Tisiphone, and certainly more exciting than mooching around in London. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he realised he was looking forward to the adventure.
He reached Berkeley Square with a couple of minutes to spare, although Eulalia was already there, seated in a calash parked with the top folded down a short distance from Gunter’s Tea Shop. There were several other carriages parked nearby, and waiters moved back and forth between the tea shop and the carriages delivering ice creams and sorbets. There was no sign of the calash’s driver; Killigrew guessed that Eulalia had sent him off on some errand. Gunter’s was popular with the younger members of Society, and the only place Killigrew knew of where a gentleman could talk to an unescorted lady without giving rise to scandal.
‘Are you all right, Kit?’ she asked as he approached. ‘You look pale.’
‘I saw a nasty accident just now,’ he explained. ‘A young girl knocked down by a gig.’
‘Good heavens, how awful! Was she all right?’
‘No. She died.’
Eulalia looked shocked. ‘It’s more genteel to say she “passed on”, Mr Killigrew.’
‘And not referring to her death directly makes it all right, does it?’ he asked heatedly, removing his top hat to run his fingers through his hair in agitation.
‘I’m sorry. You are right, of course. It will not bring her back. I forgot I was dealing with a plain-speaking navy man.’
‘No, I’m the one who should apologise. It was not my intention to address you so intemperately, ma’am. I was angered by what I saw, and improperly expressed my anger towards you.’
‘It is not improper to be angry, if the anger is justified,’ she allowed, and smiled. ‘But we are becoming formal once more, are we not? I think two people who played together as children might be permitted to address one another by their Christian names.’
He smiled and waved across a waiter, ordering them both a sorbet. ‘So, are you going to tell me what all these mysterious appointments you keep having to leave for are?’ she asked, when they had finished eating and the waiter had taken away the bowls once more.
‘Oh, I’m just doing some work with the Slave Trade Department at the Foreign Office,’ he told her absently, mindful of Napier’s injunction not to discuss their plan.
‘Still trying to suppress the slavers, Kit?’
‘I have to. I’m sorry if I seem obsessive about them, but if you’d seen what I saw…’ Even there, in the leafy surroundings of Berkeley Square, the mental image of the slaves being thrown off the São João had lost none of its impact.
‘You had a bad time with the West Africa Squadron, didn’t you?’
‘I? No, I can think of no place better for a young naval officer wishing to see some adventure, both for its own sake and with an eye to getting noticed by his superiors. Nor can I think of any cause more just to fight for.’
‘Does it come to fighting?’
‘Indeed, yes. They’re a rough crowd, the slavers: murderous scum who’ll stop at nothing.’ And the only way to beat them is to play by their rules, he found himself thinking.
He felt a raindrop on the back of his hand, then another on his cheek. ‘It’s starting to rain,’ said Eulalia.
‘Let’s get the top up,’ he suggested, unclipping the folded-down hood.
‘Let me do it,’ she insisted. ‘I’m afraid there’s a knack, and if you’re not careful you’ll tear… oh!’ she finished, as he raised the hood effortlessly and clipped it into place. She laughed. ‘Oh, Kit! You really are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because you’re too good to be true. Are you going to stand there all day and get soaked?’ she added, opening the door for him.
‘I’m not sure it would be seemly of me…’
‘Don’t be silly. Look, here comes Giles,’ she added, nodding to where her coachman emerged from the tea shop. ‘He can chaperone us.’
Killigrew climbed in beside her while the coachman took his place on the driving board and got soaked. ‘Where to, ma’am?’
‘Better take me back to my club,’ said Killigrew. While he would have been happy to spend all day in Eulalia’s calash, he was concerned for her reputation despite the presence of her coachman, although inside he despised the new-found prudery of Society and longed for the days of the old King’s reign, when a gentleman might do as he pleased and Society be damned. ‘The Army and Navy, in St James’s Square.’
The coachman glanced at Eulalia, who nodded, and he flicked the tip of his whip at the backs of the horses. They clipped through the rain-soaked streets at a comfortable pace.
Killigrew found himself staring at Eulalia until she blushed, but he could not take his eyes from her face. ‘What are you staring at?’ she asked at last.
‘A Kit may look at a queen.’
She smiled; he knew it was a bad joke and worthy of no more, and appreciated the fact that she did not go out of her way to laugh at the jest. She was a rare woman, of that there was no doubt. When so many of Society’s young ladies were brought up to be brainless girls interested only in home-making, it was a delight to meet someone like Eulalia who had a brain to match her looks and was not afraid to let it show. He suddenly realised that if he and Napier went ahead with the rear-admiral’s plan to get Killigrew shunned by Society, then he would feel unhappy about it. Like her, he did not much care what Society thought of him, but the notion of being in her ill-graces was more than he could bear.
Could it be that he was in love with her?
Of course he was. Hopelessly, stupidly, pointlessly. Had she not said she was in no hurry to get married? But then neither was he. Was there any chance she would wait for him?
Of course not, if Napier’s plan worked.
‘Eulalia?
‘Mm?’
‘If something happened… if I were accused of some terrible crime, and found guilty and shunned by Society, would you think any the less of me?’
‘What a strange question! Well, I suppose it would depend on the crime… and whether or not you had committed it.’
It was an intelligent response, as he would have expected of her. ‘But would you believe in my innocence when everyone else was convinced of my guilt?’
‘Of course.’
‘You say that, but is it just because you think that is what I want to hear?’
She laughed. ‘When have you ever known me to say something just because I thought it might please you to hear me say it?’
‘True,’ he admitted with a rueful grin.
‘Why, have you done something… or rather, been accused of something?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet?’ she echoed, and then dug an elbow into his ribs. ‘Oh, you’re just teasing me!’
The calash pulled up in St James’s Square. ‘Here I must take my leave of you,’ said Killigrew, climbing out into the rain. ‘Perhaps I can see you again some time?’
‘I’ve taken a box at Her Majesty’s for the Season. My father and I are going with some friends to see Jenny Lind in Roberto il Diavolo next month.’ Already celebrated on the continent, the silvery voice of the Swedish Nightingale had London Society in a froth of anticipation. ‘I’m sure I can squeeze you into my box,’ she added.
‘I can think of no way I’d rather spend an evening.’
‘I’ll have an invitation sent round,’ she told him, and ordered the coachman to drive on. Killigrew stood there on the pavement outside the Army and Navy Club and grinned like an idiot as the rain dripped from the brim of his hat until the calash had disappeared from view. Only then did he realise he was getting soaked through by the rain, and he hurried up the steps and into the club.
The porter looked up from where he sat in his lodge, and the expression on his face when he recognised Killigrew told the young lieutenant that something was wrong. ‘There’s a couple of gentlemen here to see you, sir,’ explained the porter, the tone of his voice implying that he considered the visitors to be anything but gentlemen. ‘I told them you were out and asked them to leave their cards, but I’m afraid they insisted on waiting.’ He jerked his head to where two men sat on chairs in the lobby.
Both wore greatcoats and hats; one was a stout man of middle height, aged about sixty, with sharp eyes set in a round face, and half-whiskers; the other a red-headed, bony man with a turned-up nose. ‘That’s quite all right, Josephs,’ Killigrew said, as the two men rose to their feet. He went to greet them.
‘Mr Killigrew?’ asked the sharp-eyed man. ‘I’m Inspector Blathers, and this here’s Sergeant Duff. We’re from the Detective Department at Scotland Yard. We’re given to understand that you may be able to assist us in our inquiries into the death of a young flower-girl who was knocked down on Pall Mall earlier today.’
‘Oh, that business. Yes, I shall be delighted to give you whatever help I may.’
‘Would you mind accompanying us to Bow Street Police Court?’
‘Is that really necessary? I’m soaked to the skin and I wouldn’t mind changing out of these wet things. Couldn’t I drop by later to give you a description of the man responsible?’
Blathers and Duff exchanged glances. ‘Oh, we already have a full description of the man. And his name.’
‘His name? Why, that’s splendid! Fast work, I must say. Who is he?’
‘The name we’ve been given is Mr Christopher Killigrew.’