The Killing Hand (6 page)

 
  Everyone around the table nodded as if in agreement of my actions. Just as we had started to play our first hands, Rufus appeared at the door - drunk as usual.

 
  "You started without me?" he asked.

 
  "You were late," Lucius responded. "We have not all night to wait on you."

 
  Resignedly, Rufus sat at the table drinking and watching the other men play. The game was quick; hands were exchanged with brief contemplation and pairs were matched hastily. It was not long before Palmer emerged victorious.

   "Again?" Rufus mumbled. "That is a lucky streak to end all lucky streaks."

   "Luck has nothing to do with it," Palmer bragged. "What you are presently witnessing is pure skill, a true master at work. I work hard to get what I want."

 
  Ignoring Palmer's bragging, Lucius moved on to business. "So, what will our business be this time?"

 
  "You know well enough, Lucius," Palmer responded, his smug grin fading. "They are still on my back, Ashdown & Son. They are unfathomably tenacious."

 
  "I have tried to persuade them. However, it must be said; Charles Ashdown simply will not sell. Irrespective of our offer. Some men cannot be bought."

 
  Palmer set his glass on the table. "I will speak frankly, Lucius. He is getting to be more and more of a pain. His company is pushing up my costs and driving away customers: he is absolutely bleeding me dry. I will not tolerate it."

 
  "I am unable to perform miracles at present; I will notify you if my situation changes. Until I inform you otherwise you may consider my answer to be the same as always."

 
  A grave expression washed over Palmer's face. Suddenly, the man sat across the table from me seemed to lose his roundness, instead compacting with anger. He growled, "I wish he would drop dead. I need that company to go under for my own sake."

 
  "Is he your only competition?" Francis asked, sensing the mood turning sour.

 
  "He is not my only competition, but he controls the only company big enough to cause me problems. I have lost many customers to him over the years. Wealthy customers that were my main source of income. I need him out of the picture. Now."

 
  "Palmer, I am as eager to attain Ashdown & Son as you are, their acquisition would benefit each of us greatly," Lucius stated as he stared about the table. "However, I can only offer you the same as usual, though I am not optimistic about the outcome."

 
  "Thank you, Lucius," Palmer responded, his fingers crossed.

 
  "Is there any further business?" Lucius asked, but nobody responded. "Then let us call an end to the proceedings, gentlemen."

   Lucius returned to the foyer to continue drinking and gloa
t about his ill-gotten gains to other men whom I did not recognise. How it must feel to be significant in the eyes of others, I would never know. Francis and I exited out into the night, walking side by side through the cold streets towards our homes.

 
  "The card game we play," I mused. "The victor chooses what the following buy out will be for that week, is that correct?"

 
  Francis nodded. "Nothing gets past you. At first we had a different method, but every week we were bickering, trying to benefit our personal company over the companies of the other members and we did not have the necessary capital to fund all the acquisitions. Eventually it was Palmer who decided to play cards. The outcome determines who will choose the funds for each week."

 
  "Palmer has won two weeks in a row. The deal has not gone ahead, is this because he is unable to obtain the necessary capital?"

 
  "His target: one Charles Ashdown, is far too proud. Palmer has been hoping that if he bides his time, the account could accumulate enough money to persuade him. This, along with the persuasive techniques Palmer has been using to motivate the sale, is his easiest ways of buying the company."

 
  "That is to say, he could do this if nobody else wins the game."

 
  "Exactly, then all that money saved in the pot would just roll over to the next person and go into obtaining their chosen company for that week. It is unfortunate for the rest of us that Palmer is a miracle worker when it comes to playing cards."

 
  "Do you believe that Ashdown will ever be persuaded?"

 
  "No, never," Francis stated firmly. "Palmer is foolish to even consider it a possibility. Ashdown will not rest until he has driven Palmer into the ground. Palmer should probably just concentrate on actually running his business, rather than trying to swindle his way to success."

 
  "I doubt he would do that. He seems too committed. He will probably just come up with some scheme to drag him down. He would rather destroy another company than lift a finger. He has always been the same. Some people never change."

 
  "For a man running his own business, he certainly has no motivation to actually work. Shame really, if Ashdown were to sell it would gain us all a pretty penny."

It was several mornings after the last meeting. I stirred in my bed, my eyes only semi-opened, refusing to awaken fully to allow myself to return to work. The prospect of rising to greet the day was too painful. I realised that I had slipped back into my old mind set - I had begun to hate life once more. It was a struggle for me to even drag myself out of bed every morning – and it was even harder knowing that, when I did eventually wake up, all I had to look forward to was spending my day with Gilbert. Work, as always, was something that my mind refused to warm to.

   I did not rush as I got up. I spent my time cleaning and dressing as I fancied and only made my way out when I felt ready. Why should I rush to work when I am my own boss? Gilbert could bully
me all he wanted; but ultimately he was powerless. Surely? It was a joint business and he had no power over I and likewise. It was with this knowledge that my dedication towards my work (as if I had much previous) began to dwindle.

   The streets were aliv
e as I exited my home. A market had set up in the street not far from where I were and many people were out to shop. Men and women idly wandered from stall to stall. The air smelled of smoke and sweat from the factories of London. Pushing my way through the bustling streets, I made my way to a local newspaper stand. Pulling a copy of The Times from the rack, I pushed my change into the vendor's dirty palm and left without uttering a word.

 
  I made it to work not long after, making sure to walk at my own pace. As always, Gilbert was already sat scrawling away in a ledger when I arrived at my workplace. He did not so much as even look up at me. I took my seat and laid the newspaper down, flicking through it before starting on my work. The main article dominating the front page drew me in.

THE TIMES, SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 16, 1837

MURDER AT BARNES COMMON

Businessman CHARLES ASHDOWN was brutally murdered near Barnes Common two nights ago. Charles Ashdown had left his workplace late that evening. As his carriage passed Barnes Common an assailant obstructed the road. His carriage collided with a passing carriage. The assailant dragged Mr Ashdown from the carriage and stabbed him to death in the street.

Mr Ashdown was admitted to hospital, but was announced dead on arrival. The murderer evaded capture and remains at large. Police are asking anyone else with information to contact them immediately.

   The name floated about in my head before finally registering. I was almost certain that this was the man who Palmer was so desperate to buy out – Charles Ashdown, owner of Ashdown & Son. I chuckled to myself at the thought of Palmer cheering over the revelation of his opposition removed, before realising just how depressing the thought of one man celebrating another's death was. I tucked the newspaper away.

   Gilbert had assigned me the task of finalising the details of the Brazilian export deal
– the very reason I had set out to Europe originally. I spent the majority of my day drafting letters to the traders in both Brazil and Spain. I was simply signing documents - easy work, yet dull. For the most part I simply gazed at my desk, my eyes open but my vision clouded by thought.

   I snapped out of it when I heard the doorbell chime and a man step in. He was a tall gentleman, dressed in a fine suit.
I did not recognise him – not that I would expect to recognise anyone who stepped through that door – and called out, "A friend of yours, Gilbert."

   Gilbert looked up from his desk, his face stern. He stood and walked
out to the back room in silence without so much as acknowledging the man, nor my call.

   The stranger smiled and walked towards me, offering me his hand. "Not
quite. I am a friend of your Father's, actually. We did business frequently, although it does sadden me that Gilbert has refrained from mentioning me to you."

   I stood and took his hand in a quick and polite shake. "And your name?"

   "Arthur Shaw. No need to introduce yourself. I know all about you, Eric. Although, admittedly, I did not know you were back in England. How was Europe?"

   "Different."

   "I imagine. No plans to return?"

   "None at present."

   He smiled. "Surprising."

   "Can I help you,
Mr Shaw?"

   "I visit monthly; I daresay you will see more of me than you wish to. Gilbert, my good fellow, do you have it?"

   "Indeed," came a call from the back. Moments later Gilbert emerged with an envelope and passed it to the gentleman. "Business is done."

   Arthur paced towards the door again. "Always so abrupt and to the point, Gilbert
No wonder business is slow in here. You are nothing like Mr Godwin here; perhaps you could take a page from his book? Goodbye." And with that, the man disappeared out into the street.

  
Gilbert and I watched as the murky silhouette passed by the curved glass windows of the shop façade. I said, "Shall I ask?"

   "You can, although you will not like the answer. That man was Arthur Shaw, one of London's
so called ‘elite’. His estate is mostly built on the honest work of his parents, but his additional income comes from blackmail. Your Father, for reasons I could never comprehend, made some sort of a deal with the foul man. In return he takes a monthly cut from the company - as payment. We are now paying for that arrangement, even with your Father gone."

   "And we just give him it?"
   "Not a lot we can do, Eric. Mr Shaw has enough contacts to ruin us and this company. There is no choice, even if there is the illusion of such a thing."

   "Christ, this company must be bleeding money. My Father was not the sort of man to do turn to such people, nor to make such arrangements. Something must have forced his hand."

   Gilbert nodded, but spoke no more. I could tell it was a bitter subject for him, and one that he felt helpless in. He was paying the price for my Father's decision and found it inescapable.

   I worked until
mid-afternoon in silence, before deciding I needed some air and took letters to the post office before closing time. Afterwards, I returned to the quiet of my home. It still seemed alien to me. I was still finding ornaments and changes in furniture that had occurred in my absence. Bits and pieces that had changed whilst I was gone. The simple moving of a chair was enough to throw me off. My mind was still functioning on the memory of the year previous. My room had not been saved from the change either; china ornamental figurines of dancers that once belonged to my Mother were dotted about atop my drawers, no doubt placed by my Father in her remembrance. Perhaps it had been his way of dealing with my absence.

   I spent the night pricking the flames at the fireplace and exploring the remains of the liquor cabinet, which had long been ignored. Into the dead of ni
ght I spent my time alone, intoxicated, thinking about my time in Europe – now just a distant haze – and of my return to London. My Father’s death. The company now divided. Money laundering schemes. Stalkers in the night. I held my glass high and thought to myself, God Bless Britain.

   How far would it go? I wondered.

  
As far as it needs to go
, was the response.

   I could go on until I had enough money from the Hudson Group. Enough money to leave London and start a new life. That was all I had to go on
right now.

   And what of Lilly?
Could I really leave her again? If I did, it would most likely be forever. Did I have it in me to do that? Perhaps, although I was ashamed to admit it. That was the truth. I had my own goals in life and no path I were to take would be free of struggle.

   I took another drink, feeling the alcohol taking me over. It was for the
better; else my mind was clouded with worry. I drank again and again until I felt drowsy enough to sleep.

   I woke up late the following morning in t
he very same armchair I had sat drinking in. I had no recollection of falling asleep. Several wine bottles stood empty beside me. The fire had long burned out.

   Instead of spending my Sunday at home recovering and merely sitting by my lonesome, I decided
I would visit my dear sister Lilly. She had told me so much of her home that I thought it rude not to visit her and meet her new husband, of who I was yet to be introduced to.

   The terraced houses of Lambton Road seemed to peer down into the street as I
passed before them. Their unnatural (and if I may say, somewhat excessive) height seemed to exist for the sole purpose of blotting out all sunlight from the wide street. Lilly's home stood halfway down this road and, feeling somewhat anxious, I proceeded to tap the cast iron knocker against the grand door. I wondered if I had made a mistake. Lilly had said little of her husband, other than repeatedly informing me of her marriage, and I found it odd that she would fail to mention such grandeur. Had I arrived at the wrong home? Possibly I had mistaken her address with someone else; by my own admittance I am a forgetful sort. Not that it was uncommon for someone of our wealth to marry into similar circumstances, you understand, it was more the fact that I did not know what to expect at all.

   There was a click at the door as the chain came off the hook and the door swung open. My throat swelled as I choked on my own words, barely able to suppress my surprise. "The devil are you doing here?"

   "
I
live here," Gilbert hissed as he stepped aside and opened the door to beckon me in. "I assume it is your sister you are here for as opposed to my company."

   I froze on the spot, barely able to understand what was happening before me. When I did not move, Gilbert let
out a bored sigh. "She did not tell you, did she?"

   A thousand responses rushed through my head, most of them unpleasant. Did I really understand correct? Did the man before me, who I had already despised prior to my leaving, successfully take both my co
mpany and my sister from me in my absence? I scowled, almost settling with a spiteful response, but when Lilly appeared from behind Gilbert and rushed out to hug me, I found myself silenced once more.

   "I am glad to see you out of that house," she smiled
. "I was so worried that you would struggle to return to your normal routine after such an absence."

   I wanted to respond, I really did. I would have liked nothing more than to walk with my sister, chatting idly and enjoying ourselves, but my gaze was tr
ansfixed upon Gilbert, the hatred in my heart burning through enough for him to see it in my eyes.

   Lilly had apparently noticed too, as she turned to him and said "Dear, would you please give us a moment?"

   "I will go to the study; I have important work to finish anyway. I am sure you two have much to catch up on." He gave a half-hearted smile before disappearing back into the depths of the house.

   Lilly turned to me, her smile now gone. "Come, the street is no place to be talking. Come in, please."

   I entered the home and she led me through towards the living room. The house was beautiful. Everything was newly decorated and furnished. The wooden railings and fittings about the house were crafted in such an intricate way that I could not help but admire them and wonder just how much money had been invested into such a home. It was obvious it had come from a long line of a wealthy family – Gilbert’s family.

   She opened the door and led me into the living room. It was lavish
– all the hallmarks for a wealthy home - great heavy curtains framing every window, paintings of the British countryside clung to each wall, a luxurious rug spread almost the width of the room and a great black fireplace that let out enough warmth for the entire house, with various clocks and keepsakes atop of it. Above the fireplace there hung a rifle on a mantle.

   The house was beautiful, such a fact was undeniable. But the events that had occurred played heavily on my mind, and I could not help but break the silence. "Why did
you not tell me you had married Gilbert?"

   "I did not know how," she said. "I knew you would not take it well."

   "I now know why you were so adamant for me to make up with Gilbert the other day."

   "Are you angry?"

   "Angry? Perhaps. Shocked, more so. How did this come about?"

   "How does any romance come about? He wooed me and I saw him as the gentleman that he is, not as the monster that you have painted in your mind. We were wed after not long and I moved in. When Father died, he became the only t
hing I had. Gilbert consoled me..."

   "Groomed you and fated you, perhaps," I snapped. "It seems to me that Gilbert was merely taking advantage of the situation and condition you were in."

   "Eric, it was not like that."

   "Not like that? I find it stra
nge that in every aspect of my life that has collapsed over the past year, Gilbert has been there at the ready to put the pieces back together in his own advantage."

   "Gilbert was here when you were not Eric, and that is that," Lily retorted. "I will not
have you slander him, for he was simply consoling me. What happened has happened."