His wife’s breathing was steady as James Moncrieff lay beside her staring at the canopy of their satin-covered beechwood bed, the velvet curtains tied back against the posts, for there was no cool air on this summer night that required to be baffled. He rested a hand on her hip, gently so as not to disturb her, finding the tactility comforting. They had made love that evening and it had been glorious. He always found it glorious with Katherine for he loved her deeply. If only they could manifest that love with a child, whether male or female he cared not. So far that blessing had escaped them and he feared that he had not inherited his father’s fecundity.
That thought, inevitably, inexorably, caused him to consider Jonas Flynt.
He considered his feelings towards the man he had seen only once, as they both walked on the frozen waters of the Thames. He had not known it was he until later, and when told he realised that some part of him had recognised a familiarity in his features, for they both favoured their father – Flynt less so, but it was there.
The Grand Master was correct in his assessment of James Moncrieff the elder. Though publicly his son defended his name, privately he recognised that he had been something of a satyr. He had taken his pleasures as and when he saw fit, believing it to be his right. His mother knew that her husband’s breeches were unfettered with such regularity that it was a wonder he did not develop callouses on his fingers. However, Lady Moncrieff refused to discuss her late husband’s infidelities, no matter how much her son pressed.
No bastards had come forward, which was yet another miracle. When he was old enough to discuss such matters, his father had revealed to him that he spurned the employ of any form of sheath as protection. He said he disliked the sensation of either linen or animal skin on his member, while the need to dip the prophylactic in water before coupling was tedious.
‘I like to get on with the task in hand, James,’ his father had said. ‘The mood can so easily dissipate and you must strike while the iron is hot.’
It was possible, therefore, that there was a small army of bastard siblings in Edinburgh and beyond but the only one of whom Moncrieff knew was Jonas Flynt. His mother had dismissed the rumour that Flynt was his half-brother as idle chatter among those who frequented low taverns but he needed to know, so had confronted Gideon Flynt in the Edinburgh tavern he owned. As he lay in his chamber in London, Moncrieff’s nostrils again twitched with the stench of the tallow candles that burned in the gloom, the odours of ale, spirits and cooking hanging in their smoke, heard the spit and crackle of the fireplace spreading its much-needed warmth against the winter night, saw in the sepia glow the unmasked curiosity and – yes – suspicion in the older Flynt’s face. Behind the counter, the broad, handsome face of Gideon’s second wife, Mercy, watched them as they talked. They said Gideon had smuggled her away from her owner in the Indies, her daughter too, who had subsequently married the shoemaker’s son, Robert Gow. His father had hated the girl Cassie, her husband, too, for he was certain they assisted in the hiding of runaway servants. The Moncrieff family had interests in tobacco and sugar in the colonies, and also in the trade of slaves from Africa, so anyone who threatened profits was to be detested.
‘Why do you wish to know of this?’ Gideon Flynt had said.
‘I need the truth.’
‘Even if it pains you?’
‘Even then.’
Gideon had taken a deep breath as he assessed him. ‘I hold no enmity for you, lad. You’re as innocent as my boy and his dear mother. My enmity remains with your father.’
‘God rest him,’ Moncrieff had said, automatically.
‘I regret he’ll find no rest for he won’t be basking in the Almighty’s good graces. He was not a good man, I think that is something you must know by now, even if you don’t acknowledge it as fact.’
Moncrieff felt the need to defend his father’s name. ‘He was ruthless in business and in furthering the fortunes of my family. That didn’t make him evil.’
‘It’s not his business dealings to which I refer, lad, and I think you ken that right well, otherwise you wouldn’t be here asking what happened over thirty years ago.’
‘There’s too much blethering about that and I would know the truth of it.’
‘You’ve asked your mother, I assume?’
‘She will not discuss it, apart from to say that it is slanderous nashgab promulgated by bitter and idle men.’
A little smile tugged at the corners of the Gideon’s mouth. ‘Bitter I may be, but far from idle. And she kens fine what occurred that night in the parlour of your home. She saw my Jenny crying on the floor where he had left her.’
‘That does not mean it was rape.’
‘It was rape, lad. Jenny was a good woman, a decent woman, and she wouldn’t give herself willingly to anyone other than her husband.’
‘Why did she not then report it to the courts?’
‘Don’t be stupit, lad, you ken the answer to that. Your father was a nobleman and Jenny a seamstress and husband to a seafarer. There was no justice open to her in the courts, for your father was friend to most of the judges. Your mother threatened to have her indicted for slander if she repeated any accusations of rape. She said she would have Jenny and her sister hounded from the town. And all said while the guilty party was still buttoning himself. It was rape, lad, and my Jenny couldn’t take the shame of it. Blamed herself, as women are often made to. Thought she had somehow instigated it, displayed some sign that she was open to it. But she hadn’t, and I ken that fine without being present. And then she found herself with child and even though she carried it, for that child was an innocent no matter how evil the method of conception, the balance of her mind was destroyed. She was a delicate, sensitive soul was my Jenny, how she ever looked favourably on me I’ll never know, but I loved her and she loved me.’
Gideon had paused then to swallow something back; lingering grief Moncrieff surmised, still lodged in the man’s throat.
‘In the end that love wasn’t enough. She couldn’t face my return from abroad and once she had delivered a fine, healthy bairn she took herself down the High Street and threw herself from the crags.’
He paused again, leaned forward and spoke in a lower voice. ‘She was murdered, lad, by your father and, aye, your mother, too. They weren’t there on that cliff with her but it was their hands at her back, sure as I’m sitting here.’
‘I cannot believe that.’
‘Believe it or believe it not, but I’m telling you God’s straight truth. Your father had his way with her and though he be my boy in all other respects, Jonas is the result of it – along with my Jenny lying cold in her grave. It was only by declaring that she had slipped and fell that we were able to have her rest in the kirkyard at Greyfriars, otherwise it may have been an unmarked grave at a crossroads, maybe even with a stake through her dead heart.’
Moncrieff could make no reply to that, for he felt a twinge of guilt, even though he had not been born when this had taken place. He would not come along until the following year.
‘I should’ve taken a pistol to your father but I didn’t and that’s my shame,’ Gideon had continued. ‘But they would’ve hung me for it and left Jonas with nobody but his aunt. It was left to the boy as a grown man to seek justice for his dead mother and he found it on Sheriffmuir. I’m sorry, lad, but that’s the truth of it. What happened to your father was justice, delayed to be sure, but justice all the same…’
Lying in the dark of his chamber, his beloved wife at his side, hopeful that their lovemaking would at last bear fruit, Moncrieff turned the conversation over in his mind. Though he had denied to the Grand Master any familial connection with Jonas Flynt, he knew in his heart that it was true, but it remained a truth that he could not countenance publicly. Flynt had gunned his father down, he had known that for a fact even before Gideon had confirmed it, and for that he had to pay. He also wished to protect his father’s reputation, not out of a sense of duty but because what reflected badly on one Moncrieff could taint the whole. A rotten apple quickly infects its neighbour and Moncrieff could not have any whiff of scandal, for he had plans to further his family’s wealth and influence. The men of the Fellowship were certainly not angels but there was an unwritten rule that the Grand Master be relatively free of blemish. The current holder of the position was a man of probity, his only descent into sin being his mistress, but that was a minor vice and accepted. Outraging a woman and by extension causing her death was another thing entire.
Although Flynt had displayed no sign of proclaiming his blood, Moncrieff couldn’t take the chance that someday he would. He was not a true Moncrieff and he could not, must not, be allowed to make any claim on the fortune, for that would open the scandal to public scrutiny, even though proofs would be impossible to produce.
Vengeance was Moncrieff’s primary motivation, but Flynt posed another threat and one that the Grand Master had now come to fully understand. His gaze strayed from the bed canopy to the window, open to allow some air to circulate. He heard a carriage pass on St James’ Square, the glow of its lamps briefly illuminating the glass. The man Lester was out there now, beyond those windows, those walls, beyond the somewhat noxious and unpleasant rough ground at the centre of the square, somewhere in the night of the city. The man doubted the efficacy of his plan to remove Flynt, he believed it too convoluted, but Moncrieff was adamant that it be given a chance. He felt it necessary that he be drawn beyond the city limits where Charters’ influence was less potent.
His father had not been a perfect man but he was still his father. And the son would have his revenge, whether he and Flynt shared blood or not.
The Golden Cross faced the statue of the first King Charles astride a horse like a hero of old, although it was his steed’s rear that presented itself to the coaching inn as if making some form of comment on its quality. The memorial to the old king had been erected where the cross of the village of Charing had once stood and the long-dead monarch looked down upon the pillory where malefactors were regularly punished. Flynt often wondered if the man whose arrogant belief in the God-given right to rule would enjoy the sight of the suffering of those poor souls. Perhaps not. Perhaps given his own manner of death he would have understood their misery.
A heavy sign bearing the name of the inn swung out over the footpath. When the winds were strong and swirled around the T-shaped junction, the sign creaked as though it were about to break free, but this night it hung immobile, like a dead weight on a gallows pole. The hour was late but there was life yet in the vicinity, for there were taverns and bawdy houses aplenty. Sprightly fiddle music floated through the warm air, accompanied by hoarse voices yelling the words to a song he could not quite identify. A woman’s laughter rippled over and under the lyrics and Flynt guessed their nature was filthy.
He paused to let a coach thunder from the courtyard at the rear of the inn, the driver giving him a cursory glance as he passed, the flaps of the compartment down. As Gabriel had learned when he had sought him out, Flynt did tend to move around, but he had remained in this particular lodging longer than usual. He liked the old place, with its uneven floors and its warren of corridors and flights of stairs that seemed to appear from nowhere. It was within easy walking distance not only of Covent Garden and Drury Lane, where were situated the gaming halls and taverns he frequented, but also the establishment in which he lodged Horse. There was a small stable adjoining the inn’s courtyard but Flynt had no desire to take further advantage of the landlord’s hospitality. It was enough that John Wilkes and his wife allowed him to lodge rent-free, even though it was in gratitude for a service he had done them in dealing with a gang of natty lads who had set themselves up as an ad-hoc watchman service, demanding regular tribute if the premises were not to somehow find themselves go up in flames.
He watched the coach rattle towards Great Scotland Yard and Whitehall, enjoying the still unidentified music and savouring the night, before he turned into the archway. He seldom accessed the rambling old building by the front entrance, preferring to use the rear.
The sound of the pistol shot came from somewhere ahead of him and he threw himself to the ground to roll against the wall. The ball had narrowly missed him – he’d heard it thud into the brickwork just inches from his head – but he hadn’t spotted the muzzle flash. He spun away again and while on his back, drew both Tact and Diplomacy, glad he had taken the precaution of reloading them during the journey from the Rookery. He twisted onto his belly, keeping himself flat, swivelling the weapons back and forth, but could see nobody. There had been only a single shot but that didn’t mean whoever it was did not have a second pistol. Or that he was alone.
He focused his attention in the direction from which he thought the shot had come, doing his best to filter out the sound of the music in order to hear any movement. He had lodged here long enough to know that the coach that had just left would be the last to visit that night, so the exterior lanterns to the rear had been extinguished and the courtyard would be deserted. He hoped neither of the Wilkes decided to investigate, as they might fall victim to the assassin. He did not want their deaths on his conscience. That space was already more than adequately filled.
He could not lie in the dust of the long archway all night so he inched to his feet, but crouched forward, keeping the wall to his right, and always throwing a cautious eye over his shoulder lest there be a rear assault. He stopped as he reached the edge of the courtyard to peer round the corner. Squares of light dropped to the ground from the inn’s upper windows, but the remainder of the courtyard was in deep shadow. A door creaked and a horse whinnied as it stamped its hooves on the ground, as if it had been disturbed, so he crept towards the stable’s double doors. One was ajar and he nudged it open with a pistol barrel, causing the same grate of a hinge he had heard moments before. It was black as pitch within, no candle or lantern would be left unattended, old wood and straw being incompatible with naked flames. He heard the horse stir again. He sucked in a lungful of air heavy with stale straw, horse sweat and manure, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly before easing himself through the open door, making as little noise as he could, knowing he would be silhouetted against the inn’s lights but instantly dodging into the shadows and keeping low. He made out the three stalls, only one currently occupied by a large brown horse which remained agitated. Beyond them was a narrow open doorway. With no sound reaching him other than the animal’s restless hooves and heavy breathing, it was possible his assailant had made his escape through that door and had vanished into the alleys and backyards beyond. Possible, but by no means certain. He had to maintain caution, so he stepped carefully across the cramped space, turning back and forward, pistols ranging around and above him, his eyes and ears alert for any sign of an attack, muscles prepared to throw himself out of harm’s way.
He felt the impediment with his foot just outside the occupied stall and knew immediately what it was. He reached up to a post beside him and flipped open a lantern, found his tinderbox in his pocket and took care in setting the wick of the candle within to flame. He unhooked the lantern and knelt to study the man lying face down in the straw at his feet. Using his free hand to tug him onto his back, he saw immediately the ragged wound at the throat, the blood glistening in the glow of the flame, the mouth gaping in silent scream, the eyes wide as if still experiencing the searing agony of the blade as it sliced through flesh and gullet. He had half expected the face to be familiar but this man was unknown to him.
He sat back on his heels, frowning. Who in all damnation was this fellow? And why did he want him dead?
But more importantly, who had killed him and then vanished into the night?