Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain Read online

  ‘Mr Haydon wrote to me in India,’ I said, ‘asking for an account of what happened. He said he wanted “colour” and “detail”.’

  ‘Didn’t listen to you then.’

  ‘I said that I could not help him. I didn’t get the impression he would much have appreciated my version. I find I do not like to talk of it. Did he approach you?’

  Blake nodded.

  ‘I don’t know much about art,’ I said, ‘but I should have said it was not a very good painting.’

  He met my gaze at last.

  ‘Are you in trouble, Blake? Is that why you wrote to me? Forgive me, but I cannot but notice you seem, well, not exactly flushed with good fortune. Finding you here, among these poor wretches, I …’ I trailed off, not sure how to proceed. ‘If you are in straitened circumstances, please, Jeremiah, let me be of assistance.’

  He looked almost amused. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No, you will not accept my help?’ I said.

  ‘No, I am perfectly well. I eat here because I like it. It reminds me of Calcutta. I talk to the sailors, keep up my dialects. And Mohammed cooks the best Bengalee food in London.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. I glanced doubtfully down at the dark-brown mess on the plate before me. It did not smell too bad. ‘I have taken rooms at the Oriental Club. They say it has the finest curry chef in England – you really should let me take you.’

  ‘No,’ said Blake.

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’ll never set foot in that place.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘Foolish of me. But, Blake, I have to say, you do not look well. And your clothes are …’

  ‘I’ve had a bout of fever,’ he said testily. ‘That’s all. It returns once in a while. Especially in winter.’

  We glared at each other.

  ‘Well, you have managed to mystify me entirely, Blake. You should know that when I received your letter I dropped everything and came at once. I have journeyed seventeen hours to see you. Why we are here, save that you have a taste for the cooking, I have no idea. I suppose I should not be surprised. But I would be grateful if you would oblige me with some explanation.’

  ‘I wrote to you because I have an appointment with someone who wishes to meet you too.’

  ‘Me?’ I said, bemused.

  ‘You may decide you don’t want to meet him, but since you’re here …’

  ‘Someone in London who wants to meet me?’

  ‘Viscount Allington.’

  ‘Viscount Allington, the peer? The evangelical? The Factory Act peer? The one who helps the chimney sweeps?’ I said, even more puzzled.

  Blake nodded.

  ‘Asked for me? For us?’

  ‘He has some particular work – a case. But you are under no obligation. You can leave if you want.’

  ‘But how—’

  ‘Theophilus Collinson knew you’d returned. Recommended you.’ He raised his eyebrows for a moment and the white scar through the left one lifted into his forehead.

  We had both had dealings with Collinson, the former head of the East India Company’s Secret Department. In India, it had been said that he had a finger in every curry. Blake did not trust the man, but when both were returning to England, Collinson had very forcefully offered his patronage. It seemed Blake had accepted it.

  He brought out a small envelope and drew from it a leaf of paper of fine quality. He handed it to me. The writing was an elegant, spidery scrawl:

  Lord Allington has a fancy to employ both you and William Avery, whom, as you may recall, is now returned from India.

  Below was written my address in Devon, and at the end, in a less formal hand:

  I think that in this case even you will not be able to question the client’s principles.

  I was flattered, and at the same time felt a pang of disappointment. It was not Blake who had summoned me at all.

  Chapter Two

  From outside there came a great jangling of trappings and horses’ hooves. Through the small, smutty panes of the establishment’s front window I glimpsed a large black coach and four draw up. Four figures alighted from it.

  The front door opened. Drawing aside the canvas curtain with great aplomb, a black-and-gold-liveried footman stepped in, bringing with him a blast of cold air which caused many of the diners to look up apprehensively from their bowls and hunch their shoulders. Through the door, dressed in black, processed a tall, gaunt gentleman and a youngish woman, quite handsome. They were followed by a short man in a brown cape with a small, fussy moustache who clutched a brown leather bag – clearly a secretary. The room fell silent. From a door near the back fireplace there now issued a middle-aged Indian native wearing a small white cap and an approximation of Indian dress – kurta, waistcoat and pyjamas – but made in thick grey worsted woollens. He was followed by a white woman anxiously smoothing her hair and struggling to tie a clean apron, and behind her a small golden-skinned child, about six. The Indian native, whom I took to be Mohammed, the proprietor, bowed, then righted himself and spread his arms in welcome. The white woman in the apron curtseyed low.

  The gentleman visitor removed his shining beaver hat – his face was pleasing in an ethereal, ascetic manner, though very pale – and nodded loftily to his hosts, leavening his regal manner with a brief, serious smile. Then, to my surprise, he knelt before the little child and very solemnly took her hand. She grinned and kissed him on the cheek. His female companion watched, her expression demure but guarded. The man in the brown cape stood behind, hat in hand, very much the practised, impassive retainer. The gentleman straightened, and the small girl ran up to the Indian proprietor and took his hand. With the other the proprietor beckoned one of the rushing waiters and had him lift a bowl of curry up to the gentleman. He bent slightly – with a hint of trepidation – sniffed, his pale nostrils quivering, and gave a tiny nod. The proprietor lifted his daughter into his arms and ushered the visitors around the room, stopping at a few tables where the tall gentleman made short solemn inquiries of the diners, and the proprietor appeared to translate their replies. At last the visitors were conducted through the far door by the white woman, who was if anything more flustered than she had been before, and they all disappeared.

  The dumbshow over, the diners returned to their food.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Blake.

  ‘Lord Allington? What is he doing here?’ I drawled, doing my best not to sound too interested.

  ‘He is Chairman of the Committee for the Rescue of Destitute Lascars. The Navigation Acts forbid Lascar sailors from working their passage back on the ships that brought them to England. Once their ships dock they’re left onshore until they can find another passage, but English ships don’t want them because they’ve mostly got little English. A few freeze to death on the docks each winter. This place feeds them and tries to find them passage. It’s run on charitable donations; Allington gives the most. Today’s his first visit.’

  ‘So you approve of him – Allington?’

  ‘Won’t know till I meet him.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Who is the white woman in the apron?’

  ‘Mohammed’s wife; they met in Dublin. The child is their daughter – Noor or Nora.’

  ‘And why are we here?’

  Blake finished his rotee. ‘Collinson mentioned Allington had an interest in the place and I suggested we meet here.’

  ‘Perfectly talkative when you want to be,’ I muttered, not quite loudly enough for him to hear, though he looked up sharply. ‘And what does he want with us?’

  ‘Don’t know. But I say again, you’re not obliged to take part.’

  ‘Allington is an admirable man. If he were to ask for my services, I should feel inclined to say yes. Unless, of course, you would rather I did not.’

  Blake gave nothing away. His brow hooded his eyes; his mouth was a straight line. ‘It’s up to you. You’d be paid.’

  ‘Money is neither here not there,’ I said, though this was not quite true. ‘Look here, Jeremiah, I should be more than content to embark on another endeavour with you, but not if I am regarded as a useless piece of baggage. If that were the case, I should rather know now, and take myself home.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ll be useful. I don’t know what the job is.’

  ‘How encouraging to find you have such faith in me,’ I said, ‘given that I have travelled so far.’

  A young waiter now appeared at the table and murmured in Hindoostanee that we were awaited upstairs by the grand sahib. I glanced at Blake’s shabby get-up and wondered what a lord would make of him.

  ‘Did you really have to come attired like this?’ I said.

  ‘Suits me to go through the streets like this. People don’t remember a poor man.’

  ‘I think you will be fairly memorable to Viscount Allington. And please, Blake, mop your face. You look like a piece of wet fish.’

  He ignored me, pulled on the remains of a pair of gloves that looked as if they had been half eaten by exceedingly hungry cats, then retrieved the rest of his bundle. Twice he stopped at a table to greet a diner, who looked up companionably and exchanged a few sentences, mostly in dialects I did not know. The young waiter led us through a tiny dark kitchen full of huge steaming tureens and pots, and up a flight of rickety stairs. We continued through three bare but clean dormitory rooms hung with hammocks, next to each a sad roll of possessions. As we approached the door at the far end of the last, it was opened by the black-and-gold footman and there stood Mohammed and his wife, with the child now holding her mother’s hand. The proprietor grinned at Blake and raised his eyebrows as they left and we entered. The Viscount and his companions were clustered round an old deal table, looking over a number of ledgers. The man in the brown cape beckoned to us grandly. ‘Your L
ordship,’ he said, ‘Mr Blake and Captain Avery.’

  The Viscount stood between the brown-caped man and the lady like the apex of a triangle; both looked expectantly up at him as at an admired saint in a religious painting. He was perhaps five years older and a little taller than me, and clean-shaven. Had he not held himself with the confidence and poise of an aristocrat, one might have described him as lanky. It was clear, close to, that his severe black clothes were immaculately cut and of the finest wool; I suddenly felt my own garb to be both frivolously bright and cheap by comparison. On the table, along with his beaver hat, were a fine silver-topped cane and a pair of silk gloves. His most distinctive features, apart from his pallor and slenderness, were his large pale-blue eyes, which were ringed with long dark lashes and gave him an air of unworldliness and a slightly effeminate look – one, I suspected, that women liked. This effect was not altogether mitigated by a head of thick, lustrous dark-brown hair worn slightly longer than the fashion, and dark brows.

  Brown Cape, whose short, stubby figure and punctilious gestures could not have been more in contrast to his master’s languid gracefulness, said, ‘Lord Allington thanks you for responding so speedily to his summons.’

  The Viscount inclined his head and took us in. The sight of Blake in his full glory caused him to blink several times and for some moments he was unable to tear his eyes away, nor to moderate his slightly appalled expression. I was convinced then that Blake had deliberately dressed in his worst in order to conjure just such a reaction, and felt a burst of irritation. The Viscount’s gaze alighted upon me; his relief was tangible.

  ‘Gentlemen, I hope you will join me in prayer,’ he said, bringing his long delicate fingers together, and bowed his head. I followed. Blake looked stonily ahead.

  ‘Dear Lord, show us the way. Give us the strength to gain self-mastery, to do good, to help the weak, the lost and the fallen. To see evil and to lay waste to it. To fight wickedness and to defeat the snares of pride, vanity and indolence. Amen.’

  After a considerable silence His Lordship opened his eyes, looking dazed, as if he were having to drag himself down from some higher heavenly plane.

  My knowledge of Anselm Bertram Vickers, Viscount Allington, derived from The Times and political gossip from my father’s circle in Devon. He was a member of the new Tory government, but better known as a philanthropist and for his religious piety – not qualities readily associated with the aristocracy. He was very well connected. Through his mother alone he was related to the Earl of Aberdeen and the Duke of Buccleuch. He chaired a legion of committees of charitable and religious organizations which were especially devoted to the needs of children. In Parliament he had attempted with some success to prevent young children from working in mines, mills and as chimney sweeps. He had seen through laws to improve the treatment of lunatics, and had led the thus far failed campaign to reduce working hours in factories and mines to ten hours a day. There were those who said that his work denied poor families the chance to bring home a decent income, and that he was at least partly motivated by the desire to confound the rich mill and mine owners of the Whig party. As for his personal life, he was unmarried but considered highly eligible. I had seen him described as ‘the prince of philanthropy, with the looks of an angel’. It was also widely rumoured that he was on very ill terms with his father, the famously unpleasant Earl of Pewsey, who had tried and failed to stall Allington’s inheritance of a fortune from a great-aunt, and that the two could not be in the same room together. Since Allington was a Tory, my father more or less approved of him, though he was suspicious of the Viscount’s churchiness and philanthropy. He delighted, however, in the fury Allington’s campaigns inspired among the opposition, the Whigs, whom he regarded as the enemy.

  Brown Cape began to speak, but His Lordship raised his hand.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I asked Sir Theophilus Collinson to recommend two men with a strong sense of duty, two men incorruptible and undeflectable. He named you. I must admit, this was most agreeable to me. Apart from this refuge for the poor Lascars, I am on the Indian Board of Control and am much concerned both to improve the lot of the natives there and to combat the evils of Hindooism.’ At this, Blake’s brows twitched into the briefest frown. ‘Your association with Xavier Mountstuart was for me no small added incentive for seeking you out,’ His Lordship continued. ‘I applaud your brave efforts to save him at the hour of his death.

  ‘Captain Avery, may I congratulate you on your various acts of bravery, most recently on the Afghan campaign. The Company’s loss is England’s gain. Mr Blake, Sir Theo likes to say of you simply that you have a talent for “finding things”. I know, however, that your exploits are something of a byword.’

  I will confess that it was exceedingly pleasant to find myself complimented by Lord Allington. At the same time I had the strongest feeling that Blake had taken against His Lordship and was about to say something disobliging, and that the whole enterprise would collapse before it had begun. I did not wish this to happen and so I struck out before he could.

  ‘Your Lordship, I know we would both be glad to help in any way we may.’

  Blake said nothing. I judged he would hate an untidy contradiction and it felt peculiarly satisfying to have outmanoeuvred him, if only for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps you might tell us about the task you have for us,’ I continued.

  Lord Allington turned to his female companion, who had thus far barely shifted her attention from him. ‘The subject is, I fear, not one suitable for ladies’ ears.’

  ‘Come, Allington, there is no real reason for me to depart,’ she said.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, warningly.

  ‘But, Allington—’

  He raised his hand and she fell silent. ‘Mr Threlfall,’ he said to Brown Cape, ‘would you see my sister back to the coach?’

  The lady sighed loudly and gave us a mutinous look. ‘The footman will escort me,’ she said stiffly, lifting her skirts and rustling noisily from the room, the silent footman gliding behind her.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ The Viscount unmeshed his fingers and pressed them on to the table, staring into its unpolished surface. ‘I have a dark and ugly task to ask of you. I do not know if it may be resolved, but I think it must be attempted and I believe that the act of doing so will cast light into the dark places where it is most truly needed. The matter concerns an unsolved murder – two, indeed.’

  I felt a thrill of shock, and also of excitement.

  ‘One took place three weeks ago, in the back streets below Drury Lane – a hive of degeneracy but also of great poverty and wretchedness. It was not some drunken brawl or cheap revenge played out upon the street. The victim was the poorest sort of printer, of chapbooks and the like, and he was attacked in his own shop.’

  ‘Printers, even poor ones, are hardly the most wretched in London,’ said Blake sullenly, for the first time. Looking up, Lord Allington became instantly once more mesmerized by his appearance.

  ‘Your Lordship,’ I said, ‘I see you are surprised by Mr Blake’s attire. I should perhaps explain that he is accoutred thus so as to pass easily through the lowest and poorest parts of the city – just such places as you describe. In India this skill saved my life. Indeed, I would go so far as to describe him as a very “master of disguise”.’

  Lord Allington nodded and looked patently relieved. Blake glared at me but said nothing. I had judged once again that his natural antipathy to complicated explanations would make him loath to contradict me, and so – for the moment – it proved.

  ‘Please, Your Lordship, pray continue,’ I prompted.