The Devil's Acre (39 page)

The ragged denizens of the Acre, startled by the quick sequence of shots, scuttled for cover like lice suddenly exposed under a log. A street-corner drunk shouted that it was the Russians, a detachment of the Tsar’s finest who’d crept into London to mount a daring raid, and the air of panic increased. Edward, however, recognised the sound of a Colt Navy immediately. Moving from the path of a fleeing fruit-seller, he craned his neck, trying to find the source of the gunfire between the Acre’s rotten buildings. There were two more shots, and screams; and he saw one of the Irishmen, limping down the side of a black hillock only one street away, leaving a drift of pistol-smoke hanging behind him. Picking a winding alley that seemed to lead in the right direction, he broke into a run.

In the space of a single day the situation had grown mortally serious. Benjamin Quill, the Colonel’s blameless engineer, had been murdered. Edward had overheard enough of the conversation on the wharf to know that Walter Noone believed that Rea and his friends were responsible. He was certain that the watchman would now go after them at the very first opportunity, regardless of the Colonel’s view on the matter. Caroline would probably still be close to the Irish hideout, waiting for an opportunity to free her sister. Edward could easily imagine her becoming entangled in the bloody showdown that Noone was sure to initiate. She had to be reached somehow, and warned, but he had no idea where she was.
The only course open to him was to follow Noone, do whatever he could – and pray that he was not too late.

Throughout the afternoon Edward had done his best to monitor Noone’s movements. This had proved something of a challenge. The Colonel was determined to report Mr Dickens’s visit as widely as he could, which meant a great stack of letters for the secretary to draft and pen. Deadened by worry, he’d barely considered the magnificent strangeness of having met Charles Dickens, shaken his hand and watched him perform in the Colt proving room; yet he was uncomfortably aware that the renowned author’s evident delight in the Colt six-shooter would now be harnessed to the Colonel’s cause. At the end of the day, by luck as much as vigilance, Edward had spotted Noone leaving the works by the Bessborough Place gate. He’d stuffed a couple of letters into his pocket, intending to tell anyone who asked that he was going to the post office, and started after him.

Keeping track of Noone as he went from Millbank to the Devil’s Acre became increasingly difficult. The watchman had been marching along at quite a pace, and seemed to be acting on some very specific directions. He’d taken several tight turns, cut through a mob that had gathered around a reeking oyster stall – and then he was gone. Edward had searched about frantically for a minute or two before coming to a dismayed halt. A few seconds later the first shots had rung out through the rookery.

The alley he’d chosen led him to a misty, litter-strewn street, all but cleared of people by the gunfire. A lone child was wandering on the pavement, a girl of perhaps two years old with light chestnut curls and a paper flower pinned to the front of her grey-blue smock. She was lost in distress; sobbing, calling for her mother, she ambled to the gutter and sat down unsteadily. Could this be Katie, Caroline’s sister’s child? He walked towards her, saying the name softly. There was movement on the edge of his sight, through an open gate. He glanced over at it and everything was upturned forever.

Caroline was on her back, dark blood spreading fast across the front of her plain dress. Her face was ashen but for a
ripe black eye; she was working her arms against the ground, paddling them in the dirt as if struggling to sit up. The bonnet had been knocked from her head, and her fair hair was clinging damply to her skin. He ran over, lifting her into his lap, cradling her shoulders. She gripped his hand and he found himself smiling, laughing almost, even as he was swamped with maddening helplessness.

What the devil was to happen now?

He looked around. They were in a dust-yard. Martin Rea lay a few feet away, clearly dead. A young woman who could only be Caroline’s sister was clinging to his body, her face buried in his clothes. The black hillock, the dust-heap, rose at the yard’s rear; and there was Colt’s watchman, scaling it with quick agility, a smoking Navy in each hand.

‘Noone!’
Edward shouted, his voice cracking. ‘Noone, what have you done?’

Noone turned, angling a pistol as if to shoot; seeing the secretary, he merely sneered a little, lowered the gun and carried on his way.

Caroline was attempting to speak, but gave up mid-word with an agonised gasp. There was a sharp trill somewhere past the dust-yard gate – the blast of a brass whistle. The police were coming, running over from the direction of the Abbey, alerted by the gunfire.

‘Caroline,’ Edward said gently, ‘we must leave. We must get you to a – a doctor. To a hospital.’ Where was the nearest one – Westminster, on Broad Sanctuary? Which side of the Acre were they on, even?

‘Katie,’ she managed to murmur. ‘Please, Edward…’

‘We won’t leave her. We’ll fetch her now.’

Edward eased Caroline to her feet, but they’d only walked a couple of steps before she went completely limp, losing all strength. As he lowered her to the ground again, he noticed that something heavy was dropping from her clothes and reached out to catch it. It was his revolver – Colonel Colt’s gift. She’d taken it from under his bed, he realised, and had been planning to use it to save her family. He wondered if she’d so much as drawn it from her shawl before Walter Noone had shot her down.

Her eyes were rolling back now, the blue irises disappearing behind her flickering eyelids. This was impossible; it simply couldn’t be real. How in God’s name had it come to this? Edward leaned in close, fitting himself around her as he had so many times before, begging her to look at him and talk to him; but her fingers were slipping from his, and very slowly her head dipped down to meet the earth.

Hob-nailed police boots were hammering on the street outside. A constable stamped through the gate, going straight to Martin Rea, pulling his widow from the body and demanding that she provide him with an explanation. She could only wail in response, clawing at his hands and throwing herself back on her lifeless husband. The child, Katie, still sat in the gutter, staring over at her parents, desperate to approach them but too scared to move. Edward tucked the Navy revolver inside his jacket. More police would be arriving at any moment. He would surely face arrest; and when Colt discovered what had happened, some charge or other would be drummed up and he would be sent to prison. He took a last look at Caroline – at her corn-coloured hair and the two neat moles upon her white cheek. He tried to breathe but the air wouldn’t enter his lungs. There was an ache in his chest as if his heart was being crushed, ground to paste beneath a rock. Wiping the hot tears from his face, he drew himself upright and walked out of the yard. He would do what she’d asked of him.

Shortly before dawn, Edward awoke fully clothed in the chair before his fireplace. He’d been dreaming with terrible vividness that Caroline’s death had itself been only a dream; that he’d woken beside her in the sheets that now lay cold at his feet, where they had lain together only the previous morning; that he’d told her of the dreadful scene in the dust-yard and she’d called him a silly fool, kissing his nose and wrapping her warm, soft arms around his neck. He’d smiled, kissing her in return, feeling a pure and joyful relief.

Sitting there in the grey light of early morning, he was forced to remember the truth. She was gone – killed by a
Colt Navy in the Devil’s Acre. All happiness had been taken from him. He was quite alone.

A weak whimper from his bedchamber, however, reminded him that this was not so. Leaning forward in his chair, he peered through the open doorway. Katie Rea was in his bed, a tiny lump beneath the coverlet. She was in the grip of a nightmare, sleep giving the exhausted child no refuge from the ordeals of the previous day.

Edward rose, stretching his stiff back. They could not stay in Red Lion Square. Noone had seen him in that dust-yard. He had no doubt that the watchman knew where he lived – where he had been sheltering Caroline Knox – and would be coming to call before very long. Katie’s mother was certain to have been arrested and would face charges of some kind. If he was taken too, handed over to the police or worse, the child would enter the care of the parish. He well recalled Caroline’s horror at this prospect. They had to flee, both of them.

Ready money was needed. Edward had just over fifteen shillings in cash – not an enormous sum. A visit would have to be paid to the pawn shop. The clothes he’d bought for Caroline before Christmas, a soft green dress, a black shawl and some snowy petticoats, were arranged on a stand in the corner. They would be worth at least two or three pounds to the second-hand clothes dealers over on the Strand. Hanging there, they seemed to hold a faint shadow of the woman who had worn them; his head grew light as he went over to the stand, lifting the hem of the dress in his hand. He could see her in it, clear as life, patting a crease from the fabric as she sat in front of the fire. It was no use. How could he possibly sell these garments? They were hers. He turned sharply, searching the cramped parlour for something else.

And there it was, resting on the table by the window: the presentation Navy. Edward looked at the perfect sheen of the blue; the crisp octagonal lines of the barrel; the delicate, interweaving forms of the decorative engraving that twisted around the frame. Any reputable pawnbroker would give ten pounds for such a rare and magnificent thing. That would take them well away from London and keep them for some
weeks, if spent judiciously. He put on his coat and hat, packing Caroline’s clothes into a carpet bag along with a couple of clean shirts and collars, laying the revolver carefully on the top. Then he scooped the slumbering infant from his bed and went out onto the stairs.

Sam hated policemen with a real passion. All they were good for, in his experience, was meddling and over-complication, and every man-jack of them was as bent as a goddamn coat-hook. Those he’d encountered in London were not a jot different from those back in the States. Indeed, the sheer mass of humanity over which they wielded such unreasonable power meant that their corruption tended to run deeper and blacker than that of their American counterparts, there being so many more opportunities to practise it.

The fellow sitting opposite him now – an Inspector Norris from the Westminster station – was a typical specimen, a pasty, overfed sort with an idler’s skinny limbs. There was a studied ease to his movements, and a sly self-satisfaction in his features, that suggested he was used to having his interests accommodated. Norris had set his sturdy top hat down on the carpet beside his chair, crossed his blue-clad arms and was looking around Sam’s Piccadilly apartment with an appreciative air. Next to him, standing at attention, was Walter Noone. On the watchman’s wrists was a pair of iron manacles, their greased hinges glinting in the gaslight. From outside in the corridor came some lewd, muffled laughter; the two constables posted there, brutes in uniform from Sam’s glimpse of them, were exchanging reminiscences of a recent jaunt in the Haymarket. The gun-maker cut himself a thick coin of Old Red and slotted it into his cheek. He had a feeling that this was going to cost him.

‘So this is
normal procedure
right here, is it, Inspector?’ Sam poured two glasses of bourbon. It was accepted without hesitation – a clear indication of what was to come. No righteous bleats about drinking on duty from Inspector Norris. ‘Pulling a man from his dinner? Barging your way into his home?’

In fact, Sam had returned to Piccadilly gladly, despite the nature of the summons. It had removed him from a rather tedious dinner at the Garrick Club in Covent Garden, hosted (and dominated) by Mr Dickens. The famous author had invited him at the conclusion of the factory tour that afternoon, promising introductions to some important press-men. Yet instead of useful conversation the evening had been given over to endless speechifying and increasingly foolish recitations, culminating in Mr Dickens’s performance of what was plainly a regular parlour-trick of his – an unbroken leapfrog along a dozen-strong line of his companions. Sam had declined to participate.

‘There are four fresh bodies in the morgue at Westminster Hospital,’ the Inspector stated blandly. ‘Three vicious-looking Irishmen and a rather pretty girl. A domestic of some kind, I’d say.’ Norris sipped his whiskey, taking his time. ‘Rough hands, you see, from all the laundry.’

Sam knocked back his own drink. ‘What’s that to me?’

‘They were shot to death with your pistols, Colonel Colt. My men tell me that a great many bullets were loosed very close together. I don’t see how that can be anything but a repeating arm of some kind.’ Norris angled his shoulder to include the stoic Noone in their discussion. ‘And then there’s this gentleman here, nabbed not twenty yards from the scene of the crime – an American gentlemen, Colonel, in your employ. He’d thrown away the weapons themselves by that time, o’ course, but there was a plentiful quantity of powder on his fingers, and a few of your special-rolled cartridges in his pockets.’ The Inspector shrugged, taking another sip of whiskey. ‘We could make the case, if needs be.’

‘I never shot the girl,’ Noone said. ‘I only wanted those what had –’

Sam glowered at him. ‘Goddamn it, Mr Noone, you be
quiet and let the Inspector and me see if we can’t come to an agreement on what happened here.’

He spelled it out clearly and carefully. The gun or guns in question were not Colts. He was a responsible arms manufacturer, and could account for each and every one of his weapons. There were other revolver makers in the city who were less rigorous, though – the Inspector might do well to direct his queries towards Mr Adams of Deane, Adams & Deane, whose workshop at London Bridge was open to whoever chose to stroll on in. As for Mr Noone there, the fellow was as dazzled by the majestic extent of London as any American. He’d developed a taste for wandering its limitless thoroughfares, often for hours on end; and this was what he’d been doing when he was apprehended by the Inspector’s men.

Norris was regarding him shrewdly. ‘So you expect me to believe that your man’s presence in the Devil’s Acre was merely a
coincidence?’

The moment for the pay-off had arrived. Sam wrote out a banker’s draft for two hundred pounds and slipped it inside one of the half-dozen cases of presentation Navys he kept beside his desk.

‘Accept these,’ he said, holding it out to Norris, ‘as a token of my deep and abiding esteem for the London constabulary. And be aware that if I ever hear of this unfortunate event being in any way connected with me, I’ll know at whose door to lay the blame. I appreciate you bringing this to me, Inspector, truly I do, but I ain’t a man you want to cross.’

Norris raised his eyebrows, acting as if Sam’s matter-of-fact bribe was an unforeseen and rather impertinent thing; but he took it all the same, and as he lifted the lid he could not hide his greedy pleasure. ‘Well, Colonel,’ he announced, picking up his hat and rising to his feet, ‘it’s plain enough what happened here. The Irish gangs around Old Pye Street have been feuding of late. These deaths’ll be to do with that. It’s a commonplace sort of event, in truth, and soon forgotten. Worse than rabid dogs, these blasted micks are.’ Sliding the pistol case beneath his arm, he undid Noone’s manacles and
then hung them on his belt. ‘I’ll take up no more of your time.’

Once Norris had gone, taking his chortling underlings with him, Sam crossed the room, poured himself another bourbon and sat down upon his plush red divan. He looked coldly at Noone.

‘What did you do with Ben Quill?’

The watchman was rubbing his wrists, sore from the policeman’s bracelets. ‘Colonel, we ain’t done with –’

‘An
answer,
Mr Noone, damn you.’

‘Weighted him. Sunk him further out in the mud.’ Noone stared at the floor – almost sadly, it seemed. ‘He won’t come up again.’

Sam considered this, chewing his tobacco mechanically. ‘How the devil d’you know where those Irishmen were?’

‘I been in that rookery a good deal, while you were busy with your lords and celebrities. I got people I can ask.’

The gun-maker caught the bitterness in his tone. ‘Mr Noone, I ain’t a goddamn gangster, seeking to rule through terror – and neither am I some kind of policeman serving out justice. I’m in this city to make guns and to sell ‘em, you hear me, not to wage your little war.’

Noone met his gaze. ‘It ain’t over. One of them cocksuckers got away from me – the ringleader, it was. I clipped his leg but he got away. Two more days, Colonel, and I could –’

‘You ain’t listening,’ Sam interrupted. ‘You’re done, Mr Noone. I’m sending you back to Hartford.’

The watchman hesitated. ‘You
firing
me, Colonel?’

Sam shook his head; Christ, the fellow knew far too much Colt business ever to be fired. ‘You’ll be given a place at the works. Good pay. Light duties. Just two thousand goddamn miles from London.’

Noone lifted his chin, proud and angry, those fierce eyes sparking like a lit twist of fuse-paper. He was as unrepentant as ever; Sam supposed that a man who’d done the things he had couldn’t have much room in his heart for regret. ‘Your boy was there as well, y’know,’ he snapped, trying to inflict a little vengeful discomfort, ‘the English secretary. Taking the
dead girl up in his arms. I was right about them, just like I was right about Ben Quill’s assistant.’

‘Well, many thanks,’ snarled Sam sardonically, downing his whiskey, ‘but that I’d already figured out for myself. Mr Lowry was heading for the door. He weren’t the man I took him for at all. It’s often the case for an employer of labour. A fellow can’t be getting sentimental in such situations.’

‘Ain’t you going to do nothing, then?’ Noone was incredulous. ‘Goddamn it, I could go out and fetch him right now, bring that cocksucker back here for –’

Sam’s patience ran out. ‘By thunder, Mr Noone, I don’t believe that you ever really grasped our purpose here. Your head’s full of honour, ain’t it, that soldier’s pride of yours, but this is
business.
You’ll take your leave, I’ll get me another watchman, and we’ll see if he can’t keep my men and my machines safe – which you never quite managed to do, did you, despite all the goddamn Irishmen you killed.’

Noone’s lips were pursed, and his lined forehead crumpling up like corrugated iron. Sam could tell that he was biting his tongue. ‘Colonel, I –’

‘Get out of here, go on. I’ll wire Hartford, tell them to expect you.’

The watchman strode from the room without so much as glancing in Sam’s direction, and slammed the door mightily behind him. He’ll calm down sooner or later, the gun-maker thought – he’d damn well have to. There was no chance on earth of any other respectable employer giving him a position.

Rising from the divan, Sam strolled to a window, pulled back a pearl-grey curtain and looked out at the lamps of Piccadilly. A new chapter was beginning for the Colt Company. The difficult introduction to a fresh territory, after a long year of struggle and strife, was finally at an end. Some useful men had been lost along the way, it was true; Ben Quill’s fate, in particular, was a goddamn shame. Edward Lowry prompted more conflicted feelings. Who could honestly say what had happened there? Given a fine opportunity for self-advancement, the boy had somehow fallen in with criminals and worked against the very man who’d
sought to help him. It was truly inexplicable behaviour. That would teach him to put an unknown, a foreigner, in such a privileged post. Sam could only be thankful that he’d never let the boy in on the company’s more sensitive operations.

Both, however, were easy enough to replace. Lou Ballou would get the engine running again, and there were a few promising juniors in Connecticut who could be tranfered to Pimlico to aid him. The workforce would be reinvigorated. It was a real chance to start over. Spitting his spent tobacco plug into an empty vase, Sam reflected upon his remaining London employees. There was definitely still some dead wood among them, and this was the time to chop it down. He went to his desk, reached for pen and paper and started to write a list.