# The Devil’s Acre

Matthew Plampin

A novel of intrigue, violence and conflicted loyalties from the author of The Street Philosopher.What price to take hold of the devil’s right hand?Spring, 1853. After a triumphant display at the Great Exhibition in London, the legendary American entrepreneur and inventor Colonel Samuel Colt expands his gun-making business into England. He acquires a riverside warehouse in Pimlico and sets about converting it into a pistol works capable of mass producing his patented revolvers on an unprecedented scale – aware that the prospect of war with Russia means huge profits.The young, ambitious Edward Lowry is hired by Colt to act as his London secretary. Although initially impressed by the Colonel’s dynamic approach to his trade, Edward comes to suspect that the American’s intentions in the Metropolis are not all they appear.Meanwhile, the secretary becomes romantically involved with Caroline Knox, a headstrong woman from the machine floor – who he discovers is caught up in a plot to steal revolvers from the factory’s stores. Among the workforce Colt has gathered from the seething mass of London’s poor are a gang of desperate Irish immigrants, embittered refugees from the potato famine, who intend to use these stolen six-shooters for a political assassination in the name of revenge. As pistols start to go missing, divided loyalties and hidden agendas make the gun-maker’s factory the setting for a tense story of intrigue, betrayal and murder.

## The Devil’s Acre. Matthew Plampin


For Sarah

‘People may differ about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a fool or a rascal: that’s all.’

George Bernard Shaw, Major Barbara, Act I

‘I will tell nobody what I supply my arms for. If you want to buy, and say you will buy ten thousand of them, and will give me a fair price, you can have them today.’

Samuel Colt, from the minutes of the Select Committee on Small Arms

## Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

PART ONE Bessborough Place

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

PART TWO Crocodile Court

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

PART THREE The Devil’s Acre

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

EPILOGUE

[1]

[2]

[3]

AUTHOR’S NOTE

P.S.

About the book

‘England’s Foulest Graveyard’

About the author

A Q & A with Matthew Plampin

About the Author

Also by Matthew Plampin

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE Bessborough Place

## [1]

Colonel Colt was on his feet a good five seconds before the carriage had come to a halt, pulling open the door and leaping outside. A brisk spring wind was sucked into the vehicle like a mouthful of cold water, rushing underneath the seats, swirling through the hat-racks and almost scattering Edward’s sheaf of Colt documents across the floor. He tightened his grip on it, coolly shuffling the pile back into shape, and conducted a quick inventory. Something critical was missing. Looking around, he saw a finely made wooden case, slim and about fifteen inches long, resting upon the narrow shelf directly above where Colt had been sitting. He tucked it under his arm and followed his new employer down into the street.

Colt was issuing orders to the coachman while straightening his broad-brimmed Yankee hat. Behind him towered a mighty rank of Italianate façades, among the grandest in all London, belonging to a variety of venerable clubs, learned institutions and government offices. Edward could not help but be impressed. I’ve harnessed myself to a real rocket here, he thought; Pall Mall, the seat of power, on my very first morning! This post in the Colt Company was his great chance – an opportunity of a kind granted only to a few. To prove your worth to a man such as Colonel Colt was to set yourself upon a sure path to advancement. He checked his necktie (his best, claret silk, knotted with special care) and caught sight of his reflection in a panel of the Colonel’s mustard-yellow barouche. Possibly the largest private carriage Edward had ever ridden in, it stood out among the clattering cabs of London like a great lacquered beetle in a parade of ants. Upon its glossy surface he was reduced to a near silhouette, a smart, anonymous professional gentleman in a black frock-coat and top hat, his face obscured by shadow.

The Colonel glanced over at him. ‘Right here, Mr Lowry – the Board of Ordnance,’ he said, nodding curtly towards one of buildings. Then he bounded up the flight of stone steps before it, surprisingly swiftly for someone of his size, and shoved his way through a set of tall double doors.

Edward went after him, feeling both admiration and a little amusement. The American entrepreneur went about his business with a single-minded vigour far beyond anything he’d seen during his six years in the banks and trading houses of the City. This promised to be interesting indeed.

The hallway beyond the doors was every bit as magnificent as the building’s exterior, its floors covered with thick carpets, its walls lined with marble columns and its lofty ceiling positively groaning with gilded plasterwork. Portraits of British generals hung wherever one cared to look, their grizzled faces arranged into expressions of proud confidence as they stood to attention or leaned against cannon, conquered enemy citadels burning behind them. Pervading this sumptuous environment was an official hush so deep and still that it was almost accusatory. This is a place of the very highest importance, it seemed to say, where decisions are made that affect nothing less than the future of Great Britain; what the deuce are you doing here?

Entirely indifferent to this oppressive atmosphere, Colonel Colt strode up to the main desk and bade the smart clerk behind it good morning. The stare that met this salutation told Edward at once that they were not expected; no appointment had been made, and the clerk’s stance in such situations was abundantly clear. Unabashed, Colt went on to ask if he might drop in on Tom Hastings, an old friend of his who he believed was currently the Storekeeper of the Ordnance. He was informed that Sir Thomas was fully engaged that morning, and would not receive visitors without prior arrangement in any case.

‘So he’s in the building, at least,’ the Colonel interrupted with a hard smile. ‘Will you be so kind as to tell him that Sam Colt is at his door, and wishes to have a word? He’ll be interested, I guarantee it.’

The clerk would not cooperate, though, not even after Colt had introduced the possibility of a five-shilling note being left right there on his counter, to find whatever owner pleased God. So this is it, Edward thought. We are to fall at the first hurdle. It wasn’t quite the result he’d expected. The Colonel looked down at the carpet for a full minute, still smiling but growing red in the cheek. Suddenly, he barked out an impatient curse and lurched away to the right, cutting across the hall to a stairwell and sprinting straight up it.

Instinctively, Edward fell in behind him, ignoring the clerk’s protestations and the heavy footfalls that were soon gathering at his heels. Together they dashed through the corridors of the Board of Ordnance, skidding around corners and thundering down flights of stairs. Colt threw open doors at random, demanding directions to Hastings’s office from the startled scriveners within – a good many of whom, Edward noticed, were occupied with newspapers and novels rather than government business. In the end, as the crowd of their pursuers grew in both numbers and proximity, Colt simply bellowed out the name of his contact as he ran in the vain hope that this might draw him forth.

They were finally cornered in a remote lobby. A part of Edward was convinced that the police would now be fetched and they’d be led from that place in chains; but he also found that he had an unaccountable faith in Colonel Colt’s ability to rescue them from difficulty. Sure enough, instead of arrest, their detainment was followed by a brief and intense negotiation, during which the Colonel imparted his expectations with considerable forcefulness. A more senior figure was summoned, who in turn sent off messengers to several different regions of the building; and soon afterwards Colt was told that an audience had been granted with Lord Clarence Paget, Secretary to the Master-General of Ordnance, in a mere twenty minutes’ time. They were then taken to a vestibule on the second floor and left to wait.

There was a row of chairs against one wall, but as Colonel Colt showed no inclination to sit Edward felt it best that he remain on his feet as well. The two men removed their hats, and for the first time that day Edward was able to take a proper look at his employer. The Colonel must have been about forty, fifteen years older than Edward himself. He stood in the centre of the vestibule with his feet placed apart like a Yankee Henry VIII; he also shared the famous king’s imposing, barrel-chested build, and had the same small, sharp features set into a broad expanse of face. This was combined in Colt with the mottled, scarlet-shot complexion of the serious drinker, a reddish, close-trimmed beard and a head of dense brown curls which a generous lashing of hair oil had done little to order. His clothes were all the very best, and new. The bottle-green coat he wore was square-cut at the bottom in the American fashion, and had a lining of thick black fur which evoked something of his enormous, untamed homeland; of bears and buffalo, of great snowcapped mountains and rolling plains, of gold-panning and Red Indians; a place of fortune-seeking and wild adventure, very far indeed from the mud and grit of grey London.

Colt started to shake his head slowly, his mouth forming the beginnings of a scowl. They had done astonishingly well, in Edward’s opinion, but the Colonel was clearly far from pleased. Adjusting the case beneath his arm – it was rather heavy, in truth – he asked if anything was amiss. The gun-maker took what appeared to be a twist of tarred rope from his coat pocket, along with a small clasp-knife. Opening the blade, he cut off a piece about the size of a thumbnail and pushed it inside his lower lip. It was chewing tobacco, Edward realised, the great Yankee vice.

‘I know Paget of old, Mr Lowry,’ he muttered, his jaw working away ill-temperedly. ‘This’ll come to nothing.’

Lord Clarence Paget was in the later part of middle age, long-limbed and plainly dressed with a large, squareish forehead. He was seated behind a desk, finishing off a letter with a fastidious air. His office had two wide windows that looked out over the treetops of the Mall and St James’s Park; the branches, bare a fortnight earlier, were now dusted with budding leaves. The room was sparsely furnished – just a white marble fireplace, a couple of chairs and some mahogany bookcases – but it was packed with evidence of the work conducted within it. Framed prints of artillery pieces lined the walls, mechanisms from a multiplicity of firearms were arranged along the mantelpiece and the bookshelves, and scale models of cannon stood upon the desk, weighting down piles of official-looking documents and incomprehensible technical sketches.

Paget did not stop writing as they entered. ‘You have forced this conference upon me, Colonel, so you must forgive my ignorance of what brings you here today. I don’t claim to know how things are conducted in America, but in Great Britain it is customary to write first and arrange a meeting time that is convenient for both parties.’

‘Guns, Paget.’ Colt drawled out the name, biting off its end – Paa-jit – a pronunciation that had a distinctly belittling effect. The man’s high birth clearly meant nothing to him at all. ‘That’s what brings me here. What else could it be?’ He took a seat without waiting to be offered it, indicating that Edward should sit in the chair beside his. Then he extended a hand for the case, waving it over with a twitch of his fingers. ‘This here’s Mr Edward Lowry, my London secretary.’

Paget put a flourishing signature on his letter, scattered some sand on the ink and then laid down his pen, finally giving them his full attention. ‘Your London secretary, Colonel?’ he asked pointedly.

Colt did not answer. Instead, he flipped the catch on the front of the case and opened it up. He paused for a moment, an expert, showman-like touch; Edward caught a glimpse of mulberry velvet inside, fitted around a piece of polished walnut. Almost reverentially, the American gun-maker lifted out a revolving pistol, raising it before him for Paget to inspect.

Edward shifted slightly, feeling his pulse quicken. This was the closest he had yet come to one of the Colonel’s creations. It was a fine thing indeed, beautiful even, over a foot long with a sleek shape very different from the artless contraptions that cluttered Paget’s shelves. Some parts around the trigger had been cast in bright brass, but the main body of the weapon was steel, finished to a hard, lustrous blue so full and dark that it was close to black. An intricate pattern of leaves and vines had been pressed along the barrel, curling onwards into the corners of the frame; and a line of ships, sails full, cruised in formation around the cylinder.

‘The Navy,’ declared Colt with great satisfaction. ‘Named for the Texas Navy, my very first customers of any note, who used my guns to crush the Mexicans at Campeche. This here’s the third model, and the best by some distance. Thirty-six calibre – it’ll punch a hole clean through a door at five hundred yards.’

Paget regarded the gun for a moment or two and then looked back to his letter. Edward could scarcely believe it: he was unimpressed. ‘The British Government is perfectly aware of your revolvers, Colonel. I fail to see why this warranted my attention so urgently.’

The Colonel took this in his stride. ‘I’m showing you this particular piece, Mr Paget,’ he replied with heavy emphasis, ‘as it will serve as the mainstay of my Pimlico factory.’

This regained the official’s interest. His eyes flickered back up to his visitors. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What you see here is a Connecticut gun,’ Colt enlarged, chewing on his plug of tobacco, ‘hence these bits of brass, which I know John Bull has no taste for. Within the month, though, my premises down by the Thames will be turning out London Colts – pistols made by English hands, and from English materials. The machinery employed is of my own invention, and fully patented; the system of labour is entirely unique; and the combination of the two will lead to a gun factory without equal in the civilised world. Certainly nothing this country has at present comes close. It’ll be able to produce hundreds upon hundreds of these peerless arms,’ here he raised up the Navy once again, rotating his thick wrist to give a complete view, ‘in the blink of an eye – fast enough to meet any order your Queen might see fit to place. And you can be sure that my prices will reflect this ease of production.’ Colt sat back, adding carelessly, ‘Bessborough Place is the address.’

Edward had seen this factory. It had been the site of his first meeting with the Colonel, in fact, when he’d won his position with some assured talk of past dealings with the steel-men of Sheffield – and a spot of bluster about how deeply impressed he’d been by the Colt stand in the Great Exhibition two years before. His enduring memory of the pistol works itself was of the machine floor, a large, open area occupied by Colonel Colt’s renowned devices, smelling strongly of grease and raw, unfinished metal. These machines had a functional ugliness; spindly limbs, drill-bits and elaborate clamps were mounted upon frames in arrangements of mystifying, asymmetrical complexity. Everywhere, laid out across the floor like giant tendons, were the canvas belts that would eventually link the machines to the factory’s engine, via the long brass cylinder that hung in the centre of the machine-room’s ceiling. A handful of engineers had been attempting to connect one of these belts to the cylinder, cursing as it slipped free and fell away. Edward had overheard enough of their conversation to realise that they were encountering some serious problems in setting up the works. Colt’s sweeping claims to Paget were therefore largely false – but the secretary nodded in support of them nonetheless.

Once again, however, Paget would not supply the desired reaction. He was neither intrigued nor delighted to hear of Colt’s bold endeavours; if anything he looked annoyed. ‘Perhaps, Colonel, you would be so good as to tell me why Her Majesty’s armed forces might possibly require your blessed pistols in such absurd numbers.’

At this, Colt’s easy charm grew strained. ‘My guns are in great demand throughout the American states,’ he purred through gritted teeth. ‘Countless military trials have demonstrated their superiority over the weapons of my competitors. They are credited by many veterans with securing our recent victory over Mexico. But what might interest you particularly, as a representative of Great Britain, is their effectiveness in battle against savage tribes – against the infernal red men with which my country is plagued. I witnessed it for myself against the Seminoles down in Florida, and the Comanche have been put down quite soundly around the borders of Texas. Small parties of cavalry have seen off many times their number. And this is to name but two theatres. There are dozens more.’

Images of slaughter came unbidden into Edward’s mind. He suppressed them immediately. You are a gun merchant now, he told himself. Such claims are your stock in trade.

Paget was looking back at the Colonel in utter puzzlement, not understanding the connection he was attempting to make. ‘What the devil does this have to do with –’

‘I’m telling you all of this because of your country’s current travails in Africa, at the Cape,’ Colt clarified, a little sharply. ‘Your unfortunate war against the rebellious Kaffirs. The savage, for all his lack of Christian feeling and mental sophistication, has learned one important thing – our rifles fire but once. This is how their tactics against us have developed. They feint, and we shoot; and then, while we scrabble to reload, their main force charges at us from the opposite direction, gutting our helpless soldiers with their spears, or dragging them off into the bush to meet horrible fates in some bloody pagan ritual.’

Edward found that he had something to add here – something that would aid their argument. ‘Excuse me, my lord,’ he said with careful courtesy, ‘but my cousin is serving in Africa with the 73rd. He has written to me at length of the terrors of Watercloof Ridge, and the sore need for repeating arms. He believes that they would force an unconditional surrender.’

Colonel Colt leaned forward. ‘There we have it, Paget, straight from a soldier on the front lines. The tomahawking red men, seeing a company of Texas rangers firing at them not once but six times, break in crazy panic.’ He slapped a hand against his thigh. ‘Your Kaffirs could be made to do the same!’

Paget was sitting quite still. He remained unpersuaded. ‘Regardless of the experiences of your secretary’s cousin,’ he began sardonically, ‘it is generally understood that the Kaffir war is coming to a close. Both the tribes and the rebels have been dispersed, and the violated land has been reclaimed for the Crown. There is no need for revolving pistols or any other nonsense.’

This threw Colt for a fraction of a second; then he began shaking his head irritably. ‘Wars against savages are never finished so easily, Paget – trust me on this. They’ve chosen to leave off for now but they’ll be back. True victory lies only in the complete extermination of the aggressors. You’ll have to hunt ‘em down, and the revolver is the finest tool for that piece of work. An army supplied with revolvers, with six-shooting Colt revolvers, is the only way it’s to be done.’

The noble official chose to respond only with resolute, uncooperative silence. This silence lengthened, growing decidedly tense. Edward glanced at his employer. The Colonel was staring at the mantelpiece. Without speaking, he handed the Navy and its case back to the secretary and got to his feet. Rising to his full height, the gun-maker seemed to expand, to fill the office, his wild curly head brushing the brass chandelier and his back pressing against the bookshelves behind him. He crossed over to the fireplace in two crashing steps and scooped something up, a black frown on his face.

Edward twisted in his chair; the Colonel was holding another revolver, hefting its weight with a critical snort. The secretary saw immediately that this second pistol was no Colt. There were only five chambers in the cylinder, for a start, and it was the colour of old iron. It had the look of a mere instrument, rough, angular and artless, wholly lacking the craftsmanship of the Colonel’s six-shooting Navy. Also, even to Edward’s inexpert gaze, it was clear that the mechanism was different. There was no hammer – this pistol did not need to be cocked before it could fire.

Colt returned his gaze. ‘This here, Mr Lowry,’ he said, ‘is the latest revolver of my chief English rival, Mr Adams of London Bridge. And it is an inferior device in every respect.’ He turned to the nobleman behind the desk. ‘It pains me to discover such a thing in your ownership, Paget. It seems to suggest that agreements have already been reached, and government contracts drawn up for our Mr Adams – that I may be wasting my breath talking with you right now.’ Angling his head, the Colonel spat his plug into the grate; it made a flat chiming sound as it hit the iron. Then he raised the Adams pistol, pointing it towards the nearest window as if aiming up a shot.

‘Colonel Colt,’ said Paget, rather more quickly than usual, ‘I must ask you to put down that weapon, this instant. It is still –’

‘I invented the revolving pistol, Paget,’ the Colonel interrupted. ‘I invented it. Even you must accept that this Adams here is little better than a goddamn forgery, and a second-rate one at that. We went over this in fifty-one, during my last sojourn in London – must we go over it again?’

Paget opened his mouth to make an acerbic riposte; but before he could speak, Colt rocked back on his heel, swinging the Adams’s hexagonal barrel about so that it was directed straight at the centre of the official’s chest. Edward gave a start, nearly dropping the Navy to the floor. This was a clear step up from bloodthirsty banter. He looked from one man to other, wondering what was to happen next.

The Secretary to the Master-General of Ordnance leapt up from his chair with a shocked exclamation, moving around the side of the desk. All colour was struck from his pinched face. Calmly, the Colonel followed his progress with the Adams, keeping him before it.

‘The main spring in these double-action models is just too damn tight, y’see,’ the gun-maker went on, his manner aggressively conversational. ‘It requires such pressure to be applied to the trigger that a fellow’s aim is thrown off completely. Now, watch the barrel, Paget, and watch it closely – you too, Mr Lowry.’

The ordnance official lifted up his hands. ‘Colonel Colt, please –’

Colt pulled the trigger. There was a shallow click; and sure enough, as the cylinder rotated, the Adams’s barrel jerked down by perhaps an inch. To stress his point, the Colonel repeated the action, with the same result. ‘You both see that?’

Paget staggered, almost as if he had actually been shot, leaning against his desk for support. ‘It is loaded, by God!’ he blurted. ‘One of the – the chambers is still loaded after a demonstration earlier in the week. I was waiting for a sergeant-at-arms to come up and empty it for me. Put it down, sir, I beg you!’

Colonel Colt, magnificently unperturbed by this revelation, examined the pistol’s cylinder for a moment before knocking out a ball and an issue of black powder into the palm of his hand. ‘Hell’s bells, Paget,’ he growled, ‘are you such a fairy prince that you’re unable to remove the charge from a goddamn revolver?’

Edward exhaled, the blood humming through his trembling fingertips, trying to work out if the Colonel had known for certain which chamber the bullet had been in. Surely he must have done. He was sauntering back across the room, continuing to act as if nothing whatsoever was wrong – as if he was, and always had been, the master of the situation.

‘My point is made, I think,’ Colt pronounced. ‘If you honestly wish to equip Her Majesty’s troops with such an unsound weapon – troops who are battling savage Negroes to the death even as we speak – well, Paget my friend, that mistake is yours to make.’

The gun-maker poured the powder and bullet onto the desk, the tiny lead ball bouncing twice against the wood before disappearing onto the carpet. Laying the Adams revolver stock-first before the still-petrified Paget, he looked at Edward and then nodded towards the door. Their audience was over.

The Colt carriage was waiting for them on Pall Mall. Edward climbed inside and recoiled with an oath, almost losing his balance. A man was tucked in the far corner, dozing away peacefully with his hands folded over his chest; woken by Edward’s entrance, he stirred and let out a massive yawn. Completely unconcerned to have been so discovered, this intruder then heaved himself up, bending back an arm until he elicited a loud crack from one of his shoulder joints. In his mid-thirties, he had a long, horse-like face, a Roman nose and languid, greyish eyes. His clothes were fine but worn, and looked as if they had been slept in the night before. There was an air of gentlemanly entitlement about him, despite the clear signs of dissipation and financial hardship. He looked over at Edward and smiled sleepily.

‘You must be the new secretary,’ he said. A good deal of the polish had been scraped from his voice, but it was still plainly that of a well-born Englishman. ‘So pleased to make your acquaintance.’

Before Edward could demand to know who this character was and what the devil he was doing in the Colt carriage, the Colonel climbed in, having given the coachman his directions. ‘Alfie, you goddamn wastrel,’ he muttered to the man by way of greeting, sitting down opposite him, ‘I was wondering if you’d honour us with your company today.’ He took off his hat, setting it upon his knee. ‘Mr Lowry, this here’s Mr Richards, my London press agent. He was supposed to accompany us in to the Board of Ordnance this morning, but clearly did not deem it worth his precious time.’

Edward sat next to the Colonel. There was an old familiarity between his employer and Mr Richards. This was an unwelcome development.

‘My apologies, Samuel,’ said Richards with a shrug, settling on the carriage’s full cushions and refolding his hands. ‘My schedule simply would not permit it.’

Colt looked at him disbelievingly, pulled off one of his calfskin gloves and then laid his naked hand against his brow. ‘By Christ, my head,’ he grumbled. ‘I could surely use an eye-opener about now.’

Immediately, Richards produced a slim bottle from his frock-coat and tossed it across the carriage – no mean feat as they were moving by now, cutting back out into the traffic. Colt caught it with similar dexterity, gratefully tugging out the stopper and taking a long drink. This simple but well-practised exchange laid bare the nature of their relationship. Both were devoted to drink, and had no doubt shared a series of adventures about the city during the Colonel’s previous visits. Richards had thus managed to earn the Colonel’s indulgence, if not his trust.

‘You still have today’s pistol, I see.’

‘I was disinclined to make a gift of it on this occasion.’ Colt took another slug of liquor, sucking it through his teeth. ‘We saw Paget.’

Richards was aghast; he too clearly knew Lord Paget. ‘Was no one else available? What of old Tom Hastings?’

Colt shook his head, saying that it had been Paget or nothing. He gave a brief summary of the meeting, failing to mention his practical experiment with the Adams revolver but admitting freely that the door had been pretty much slammed in their faces.

‘Mr Lowry here fought his corner, though,’ he added. ‘A cousin soldiering in Africa, saying my guns would force the savage foe to surrender! Why, he came at it like a seasoned operator. Nothing of the greenhorn about our Mr Lowry! Potential there, Alfie, real potential – like I told you.’

Edward grinned, well pleased by the gun-maker’s praise. Colt plainly thought that he’d invented the cousin at the Cape to help win over Paget. This he most definitely hadn’t – Sergeant-Major Arthur Lowry was very real, although in truth the half-dozen letters Edward had received from him contained only a single passing reference to revolving pistols and gave no indication of Arthur’s opinion of their merits. He decided to keep all this to himself. Why risk spoiling the Colonel’s contentment?

Richards was looking at the new secretary again. There was laughter in his eyes, and a certain opposition too. He sees me just as I see him, Edward thought: as a potential competitor, an adversary within the Colt Company. Edward found that he was unworried by this. Let the dishevelled fool try to knock me down, he thought, and see where it gets him.

The press agent stretched out luxuriantly, placing his muddy boots on the seat beside Edward, just a touch too close to the edge of the secretary’s coat. ‘He certainly seems like a sound fellow – a good London lad.’ Richards paused to pick something from between his large, stained teeth. ‘Not actually a cockney, I hope?’

Edward met this with careful good humour. ‘No, sir, I hail from the village of Dulwich. My father was a schoolmaster there.’

Richards inclined his head, accepting the bottle back from Colt. ‘So you are seeking to rise above this rather humble background – to improve your lot under the guidance of the good Colonel. No doubt you expect that before too long you’ll be at the head of one of his factories.’ He took a lingering drink. ‘A Colt manager or somesuch.’

This was exactly the future that Edward had predicted for himself a couple of nights before, while out celebrating his appointment with his friends; he’d declared it nothing less than a blasted certainty, in fact, standing up on a tavern stool, liquor spilling from his raised glass and running down inside his sleeve. The secretary looked over at his employer. Colt was staring out of the window at the elegant townhouses of St James Square, oblivious to their exchange.

‘I have my professional goals, Mr Richards, of course,’ he replied, ‘but my only concern at present is to serve the Colonel’s interests to the best of my abilities.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have long been a sincere admirer of both the Colonel’s inventions and the dedicated manner in which he conducts his business.’

One of Richards’s eyebrows rose by a caustic quarter-inch. ‘And how did you come to hear of the position? It was not widely advertised.’

‘Through an interested friend,’ Edward answered lightly, ‘that’s all. No mystery there, Mr Richards.’

The secretary thought of Saul Graff, the fellow who’d passed on the tip to him. Graff was like a voracious, information-seeking weed, his tendrils forever breaking out across fresh territories; God alone knew how he’d found out about this particular vacancy, but his timing had been faultless. He was owed a slap-up dinner at the very least – although he doubtlessly had his own reasons for wanting Edward Lowry placed with Colt.

‘An interested friend. How very deuced fortunate for you, Mr Lowry.’ Richards held the bottle up to the window, trying to ascertain how much spirit was left inside. ‘Sam tells me that you know a thing or two about the buying and selling of steel.’

‘I do, at a clerical level at any rate. I was in the City – the trading house of Carver & Weight’s, to be exact.’

This jerked the Colonel from his reverie. ‘Goddamn City men!’ he snapped. ‘Scoundrelly rogues, the lot of ‘em. I do believe that I’ve saved you from a truly ignominious existence there, Mr Lowry.’ He gave his secretary a grave, forbidding look. ‘A life lived among stocks and shares, generating money for its own sake alone – why, you’d better blow out your brains at once and manure some honest man’s ground with your carcass than hang your ambition on so low a peg. You get hold of some steel for me, boy, and we’ll damn well do something with it, not just sell it on for a few measly dollars of profit.’

It gladdened Edward to hear this. While at Carver & Weight’s he’d grown tired of the abstractions of the trading floor and had felt a growing hunger for what he came to think of as real business, where manufacturers innovated and improved, and communicated directly with their customers – where things were accomplished beyond speculation and self-enrichment. He was fast reaching the conclusion that Colonel Colt, with his masterful inventions and determination to win the custom not only of men but of entire nations, was the best employer he could have wished for.

The gun-maker cut himself a fresh wad of tobacco, effectively closing the topic of his secretary’s regrettable early life and moving them on to other matters. He’d resolved to send off a letter to Ned Dickerson, his patent lawyer in America, concerning Robert Adams, and began to dictate in an oddly direct style, delivering his words as if Dickerson was seated before him – telling him angrily that the ‘John Bull diddler’ would not make another cent from his goddamn forgeries, not if there was a single earthy thing that they could do about it. As he took all this down, Edward got the sense that the campaign against Adams had already been a long and bitter one, with no resolution in sight. Alfred Richards, meanwhile, devoted his attentions to what remained of the bottle.

Some minutes passed, Colt’s language becoming bafflingly technical as he detailed the precise matters of engineering that the lawyer was to direct his attention towards; then he stopped speaking mid-sentence. Edward looked up to discover that they were on Regent Street; a long row of shining, plate-glass shop windows offered disjointed reflections of their mustard-coloured vehicle as it swept around the majestic, stuccoed arc of the Quadrant. After only a few moments they turned again, heading off towards Savile Row. Colonel Colt was putting on his hat, preparing to disembark; and seconds later the carriage drew up before the frontage of one of London’s very smartest tailors.

‘New waistcoats,’ said Colt by way of explanation. ‘I’m out in society a good deal in the coming weeks, and thought it a prudent investment. You two gentlemen remain here. I shan’t be very long.’

The press agent’s grey eyes followed the Colonel all the way to the tailor’s counter. Edward watched him closely, certain that battle was about to begin. It was only when Colt’s arms were outstretched and a tape-measure was being run across his back that Richards finally spoke.

‘So how large exactly,’ he asked, ‘were the perimeters of the explosion?’

This was not what Edward had been expecting. He begged Richards’s pardon, pleading ignorance of any such blast.

The press agent responded with a small, whinnying laugh. ‘Why, Mr Lowry, I refer of course to the explosion of our beloved master when Paget first mentioned the name of Robert Adams!’

Somewhat patronisingly, Richards revealed that throughout the Colonel’s previous sojourn in London at the time of the Great Exhibition in 1851, when he had made an initial, more modest attempt to establish a European outpost, Clarence Paget had been an energetic partisan for the cause of their chief English rival. He had (they suspected) encouraged opposition to Colt at every level within the British Government, rigged various official tests and leaked negative reports on the American’s weapons to the press.

‘Since returning, the good Colonel has not so much as mentioned Adams revolvers before today; but after an unplanned meeting with Paget he’s sending vehement missives on the subject straight back to his legal mastiff in America. It don’t take a detective genius to piece it together, Mr Lowry.’

Edward put away the unfinished letter. ‘The subject was raised, certainly.’

‘And what, pray, was said?’

Realising that Richards would learn about the incident sooner or later anyway, Edward related what had happened up in Paget’s office as neutrally as he could manage.

The press secretary was heaving with mirth long before he’d finished. ‘Well, Mr Lowry,’ he wheezed at the tale’s conclusion, ‘that’s our Colonel, right there. His defence of his interests is quite unflagging. You’d better get used to such forcible tactics, old chum, if you are to stand at his side.’ Richards wiped his eyes; something in his manner told Edward that a card was about to be played. ‘The Colt family has an impulsive streak in it so broad that it borders on madness. I’m sure you’ll know to what I am alluding.’

And there it was, a veritable classic: the dark secret, casually touched upon to unnerve the callow recruit, to fill him with doubt and prompt a confused re-evaluation of his position. Edward found that he was smiling at this unsubtle piece of manipulation. ‘Mr Richards, I assure you that I do not.’

Richards feigned surprise. ‘You mean that you haven’t heard of John Colt, the axe-murderer of New York?’

The smile slipped a little. ‘I – I beg your pardon?’

Richards dug a bent cigar end out of a coat pocket and made a great show of getting it alight. ‘Killed a fellow with a hatchet back in forty-two, in Manhattanville,’ he said as he struggled with a match. ‘There was a disagreement over money, apparently. They were in business together, you understand – and as you’ve seen already, a Colt will really go the distance when business is involved. Victim’s name was Adams, coincidentally enough.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘And that’s not all. Dearest brother John went on to chop the body up, if you can imagine such a thing. The mad blighter then stuffed the parts into a packing-case and sent it by steamer to New Orleans.’ Richards sucked on the cigar, quickly filling the carriage with smoke. ‘But the case started to pong halfway down the Mississippi. It was an unusually hot summer, I’m told, and the killer had scrimped somewhat on the salt. The gruesome contents of the case were duly discovered, and traced back to John within the week.’ Richards stopped his tale here, deliberately savouring his bent cigar.

He has me, Edward thought with mild aggravation; I must ask. It seems that I might have underestimated the Colonel’s press agent. ‘What happened to him? Did he hang?’

Drawing in his long legs, Richards grinned around his cigar in wolfish victory. ‘Ah, well, that’s where it gets really good. On the eve of his execution, as they were putting up the gallows in the prison yard, he stabbed himself through the heart. It is said that our own dear Colonel, eager to spare the family the shame of a public hanging – and thus protect his own emergent business interests – both brought him the knife and talked him into this last desperate act.’ He took the cigar from his lips. ‘These Colts are a ruthless lot, Mr Lowry – as merciless with each other as they are with the world at large.’

Down in the street, a door opened; Richards looked towards the tailor’s shop and then quickly opened the window on the carriage’s other side, tossing out his cigar. Colonel Colt was coming back.

The yard of the Colt factory was a narrow, cobbled valley between two block-like buildings. A week earlier, during Edward’s first visit, it had been almost deserted; but now it positively thronged with people, as many as three hundred of them by his estimation, replacing the empty silence with an incessant, excited chatter. They stood in a ragged line that stretched along the flank of the right-hand building and ran all the way back to the main gate on Ponsonby Street. Of both sexes and all ages, this multitude formed a great specimen box of the London poor, ranging from well-washed working folk keen for honest labour, through the dry drunkard and the hard-up gambler, to various incarnations of beggary. Edward realised that Colt’s London machine operatives were to be drawn from this unpromising pool. Even the best among them seemed a long distance from the skilled artisans traditionally charged with the manufacture of firearms. This, he saw, was the principal secret of the Colonel’s revolutionary method of production: his patented pistol-making machines needed only the most ignorant and inexpensive of workers to run them.

The Colt carriage halted next to the stone water trough that stood in the centre of the yard, the Colonel jumping out in what the secretary was coming to realise was his customary fashion. He followed as quickly as he was able; Richards, who had somehow contrived to fall asleep once more during the twenty-minute journey from Savile Row, showed no sign of waking.

Down on the cobblestones, Edward took in the factory for a second time. It was an unlovely place, to be sure, given over completely to the efficient fulfilment of its function. The two buildings – the manufactory itself on the right, where the engine and the machines were housed, and the as-yet vacant warehouse opposite – were entirely undecorated, the walls blank brick, the windows small and grimy, the many chimneys nothing but crude stacks. Yet the enterprise had a sense of scale about it, of sheer purpose, that was unmatched by the other factories that clustered around the reeking thoroughfare of the Thames. Turning to face the gates, Edward looked across the river to the collection of potteries and breweries scattered along the southern bank. These squat brown structures seemed little better than shacks, at once ancient and impermanent, fashioned from the muck of the shore. The premises of the Colt Company, by comparison, seemed a site for truly modern industry – the kernel of a mighty endeavour.

Beside him, the two chestnut mares who were pulling the Colt carriage snorted impatiently, eager to be unharnessed so that they could drink at the trough. Edward noticed that a dozen or so of the American staff Colt had brought with him were standing by the large sliding door that opened onto the forge, surveying the line of potential recruits. Dressed in corduroys, flannel waistcoats and squat, round-topped hats, and liberally smeared with engine grease, they appeared less than impressed by the noisy English crowd hoping to join their revolver factory. The Colonel was going over to them, walking rapidly as if keen for the company of his countrymen after a half-day spent with Edward and Alfred Richards.

A whisper of recognition went up from the queue of applicants as Colonel Colt strode over the yard. All rowdy conversation stopped; every head turned towards the famous Yankee gun-maker. Hats were doffed and curtseys dropped, as if in the presence of a great lord or clergyman. A handful of the bravest bade the Colonel a very humble good afternoon.

Colt ignored them. Reaching the forge door, he beckoned to a huge brute of a man, larger even than he was, with the blunted, leathery face of a prize-fighter; Edward recognised him as Gage Stickney, the factory foreman. A good-natured exchange began, the Colonel asking for details of the morning’s enrolment. Soon all the Americans were shaking with hard, masculine laughter. Looking on, Edward became rather conscious of the smart Englishman’s top hat and frock-coat that set him apart from both the pack of chortling Yankees and the shuffling mass of aspirant Colt operatives. The pistol case was still under his arm. He wondered what on earth he was to do with it.

There was a colourful curse behind him, the ‘r’ of ‘bugger’ slightly slurred; Richards, in descending from the carriage, had caught a button on the door handle, one side of his coat lifting up from his gangling frame like a fawn-coloured bat wing. In a doomed attempt to pull it free, the press agent ripped the button away completely. He grunted with satisfaction, as if this had been his aim.

‘Don’t know what they’re looking so deuced pleased about,’ he declared, nodding towards the Americans. ‘The last I heard our engine was barely strong enough to animate a sideshow automaton, let alone a sufficient quantity of machinery to occupy this blasted rabble.’

Edward considered the press agent for a moment, thinking with some distaste that this wretched fellow was actually the closest thing he had to an ally at the Colt Company. ‘I’m sure that the Colonel is not given to displays of undue confidence, Mr Richards.’

Richards showed no sign of having heard him. ‘You see that Yankee over there,’ he murmured archly, angling himself away from the Americans, ‘standing a little apart from the rest?’

It was immediately obvious to whom he was referring. The man was smaller and leaner than the others, and the oldest of the group by a clear decade, his skin scored with scar-like lines that bisected his hollow cheeks and spanned his brow in tight, straight rows. He was dressed in a dark blue cap and tunic, creating a distinctly military effect that was augmented by the high shine of his boots and the precise cut of his greying beard. While his companions laughed with the Colonel he continued to regard the ragged assembly of applicants with the fierce focus of a terrier.

‘Mr Noone,’ Edward replied. ‘The factory’s watchman, I believe.’

‘And a chap with the very blackest of reputations. I’ve heard it said that the Colonel risked losing several of his most trusted people back in Connecticut when he took the villain on – threatened to walk right out, they did, so low is the regard in which our Mr Noone is held among certain of his countrymen. But the Colonel wanted him – said he was right for the post, a fellow who could be counted on to defend one’s interests at all costs.’ Richards paused significantly. ‘At all costs, Mr Lowry.’

Edward fixed the press agent with a probing look. The scoundrel wants me to beg for more information again, he thought, as I did with the Colonel’s axe-murdering brother. Well, I shan’t; I won’t hear any more of his plaguing stories. He stated that he was going to take the pistol case back up to the factory office, walking past Richards towards the tall sliding door that served as the main entrance to the factory block. Before he’d taken more than a couple more steps, however, there was a flurry of rough shouts from inside the building. Three men, Scots from the sound of it, marched out to the centre of the yard, bawling curses against Colonel Colt and his Yankee contraptions. All three were drunk, and from what they were yelling had just been turned away by those enlisting the factory’s personnel. Seconds later Mr Noone, the watchman, was upon them, backed by a couple of other Americans. They collared the malcontents and hurried them over to Ponsonby Street, administering hard kicks to their behinds as they reached the gate.

This spectacle was greeted with laughter from the line; as more people turned to take it in, Edward noticed a lively-looking young woman in the plain yet respectable clothing of a domestic servant away from her place of employment, waiting in the queue with several others in similar dress. She was smiling wickedly at a remark made by one of her companions – a smile that made him smile as well to behold it. In the middle of her left cheek were two small but distinctive marks, side by side and oddly even. As she turned back towards the factory door, her smile fading, their eyes met. For a single clear moment they both stood in place, contemplating each other.

Then Colonel Colt called out his name, clapping his hands together as he headed back to the carriage. Edward smoothed down a twisted lapel and went over to join him.

## [2]

Sam took the steps of the American embassy three at a time. Ignoring the grand brass knocker, he hammered on the door with his fist. It opened just an inch or two, as if in caution, so he gave it a hearty push, causing it to connect violently with the forehead of the unfortunate footman on the other side and send him staggering back into a floral arrangement.

‘Ice, right now,’ Sam instructed as he strode past, flicking a shilling at his victim. ‘That’ll see you right.’

The servants were coming at him, taking little bows, their eyebrows raised all the way up in that queer English manner, but he would have none of it. Deftly, he weaved around them and loped up the main staircase, arriving in an emerald green hall with the doors to the main reception room directly ahead. It was an apartment designed to make a man not born to splendour feel small and worthless: columns, chandeliers, fancy pictures, gold leaf by the yard. Nonplussed, thinking that the effect was rather aristocratic and decidedly un-American, Sam turned his attention to the other guests. His mood improved immediately. The crowd was a grey one, and sombre-looking. This, he knew well, tended to denote the presence of some serious political authority. He also registered a handful of smart naval coats and crimson jackets, adorned with medals and sashes of various hues. Generals, admirals and politicians, rounded up in one place: prime hunting ground for a sharp gun-maker.

A voice bleated at his shoulder. Irritably, Sam turned to see a persistent flunky asking for his surtout, his hat and his name; he supplied them, not bothering to disguise his impatience. He was announced to the company, and met their attention with a scowl.

‘Take it in, you blasted Bulls,’ he muttered under his breath as he attempted to flatten his curls. ‘I shall have you yet.’

Mr Buchanan, the newly appointed American minister in whose honour the reception was being held, approached to welcome him, looking pretty damn distinguished with his neat white hair and high starched collar. ‘It pleases me greatly,’ he declared, ‘that such a singular personage as Colonel Samuel Colt, perhaps the most famous American presently in London, can find the time to attend this modest gathering.’

Sam knew Jim Buchanan a little from Washington and their handshake was cordial enough. The minister was no businessman, though, and could not disguise his personal feelings. That oblong face with its prominent chin and small, mild eyes was easy to read: he considers me vulgar, Sam thought with some amusement, and is concerned that I might put lordly noses out of joint with my brash manners. They exchanged a few words about Buchanan’s new post.

‘I was on good terms with Mr Lawrence, your predecessor,’ Sam said. ‘He was a man prepared to extend whatever help he could to an honest American trying to achieve something in this damnably slow-paced country.’

‘Indeed,’ Buchanan replied carefully.

Sam saw at once that the fellow didn’t want to give any sense of an understanding between them – to put himself in a position where he might be asked to overstep some invisible barrier of diplomatic protocol. This was a predictable attitude. The new minister was renowned for his aversion to risk, to anything that might attract critical attention; a general habit of life that had been fostered (or so it was rumoured) by his secret preference for male companionship in the bedchamber.

Taking Sam’s arm, Buchanan guided him over to a large group of men and women whose colourful dress and openness of manner marked them as Americans. There was a round of introductions, and not a single name Sam recognised. Binding them all was the false sense of familiarity that one so often encountered among countrymen brought together abroad. Their conversation was concerned entirely with Franklin Pierce, the new president, and the tragic accident which had befallen his family between the election and his inauguration; they were relating the details, Sam couldn’t help but think, with a certain ghoulish pleasure.

‘Crushed to death, the boy was, within the president’s sight!’ one lady pronounced, her eyes open wide. ‘The railway carriage rolled over onto its side, you see, and the child had been leaning from the window – oh, I can’t bear to think of it!’

‘Pierce is a broken man, they say,’ opined the fellow next to her. ‘Barely made it through his oath. Sits in the Oval Office all day long with the curtains drawn, paralysed with grief for his lost son.’

Sam quickly concluded that none of these blabbering fools was of any use to him. He looked over at the silver-bearded John Bulls conferring in other parts of the room and prepared to break away.

Another of the ladies, moved almost to tears by Pierce’s tale, intercepted him. ‘How can a man recover from such a blow, Colonel Colt? Can he at all?’

His departure checked for a moment, Sam paused in thought. ‘Of matters concerning dead children, ma’am, I really cannot say,’ he answered. ‘But it’s going to be a tough time indeed for those of us that might have been intending to do business with our government. That’s one reason why you find me here in London, setting up a new factory. Speaking frankly, though, my hopes for a Pierce presidency were always low. I’ve known the fellow for a number of years, from his army days. Far too fond of the bottle – and I reckon he’s reaching for it now, with a new dedication, in order to take the edge off his sorrow.’

Buchanan, a close ally of the Pierce administration, pursed his lips in disapproval, and tried to jog the startled group on to a fresh subject – some vacuous fixture of the London social season about which he’d developed a sudden fascination. Sam took this opportunity to move off. Refusing a flute of champagne – the stuff played merry havoc with his gut – he sauntered to the centre of the reception room.

The gun-maker had made ample preparation for occasions such as this. Just before leaving Connecticut he’d furnished himself with a folio of portrait engravings of the foremost British politicians. On the voyage over, with time on his hands, he’d memorised the various configurations of thinning pates, furrowed brows, bushy white chops and belligerent jowls; and by the time he landed in Liverpool he could put a name and role to every aged face. It had irked him to discover that they had all switched their posts about since his last visit. Lord John Russell, scourge of the Catholics, was no longer Prime Minister, but Leader of the House, whatever that meant; disappointingly, Lord Palmerston, a man about whom Sam had heard many good things, had lost the Foreign Office and was now Home Secretary. The Earl of Aberdeen was currently at the helm, and a dull dog he appeared. Sam got the sense that the present British Government was an uneasy coalition of men who would trample each other down in a flash if the chance arose. It hurt his head to think about this for too long, though, and he wished that these scheming nobles would just stay put for a while and see if their achievements didn’t rise accordingly.

For perhaps half a minute he saw no one of consequence. Then it struck out at him – one of the first half-dozen portraits from his folio, coloured and brought to life. A sober-looking fellow, bald as a knee but oddly childlike about the face: it was Lord Clarendon, Palmerston’s replacement as Foreign Secretary. And by God, the person beside him, fat-cheeked and jovial, was none other than Lord Newcastle, the Secretary of State for War. These were the very men he needed. Sam was considering how best to introduce himself when they shifted about, in response to the arrival of someone else behind them; and there was his friend Tom Hastings, the elusive Keeper of the Ordnance, addressing Clarendon with obvious familiarity. Sam’s blood stirred; his nostrils flared. This was a proper piece of good fortune, and he would seize it with both hands.

Hastings, a stooped old turtle decked out in a naval uniform, saw him approach and smiled warmly. Sam noticed for the first time that he had the most enormous ears, from which greyish hair sprouted in bunches. There was little in his thoughtful face that hinted at his distinguished naval past; Commodore Hastings had served under Nelson, had taken Bonaparte into his last exile, and had been single-handedly responsible for every major scientific advance in British naval cannonry since. Sam didn’t know too much about any of this. It was enough for him that the aged Commodore had influence, a passion for all things gun-related and a demonstrable predisposition for Colt.

‘My dear Colonel, what is this I hear about you and Clarence Paget?’ Hastings whispered discreetly, moving away from his companions to greet Sam. ‘You pointed a pistol at him, in his own rooms? Can this be true?’

They shook hands. Hastings was plainly delighted to think of Paget being threatened with a gun; the two men were fierce rivals of long standing.

‘Not exactly, Tom,’ he replied. ‘We disagreed, is all.’

Hastings grinned. ‘A subject best saved for another time, perhaps.’ He directed Sam towards the ministers. ‘Here, come and meet these fine gentlemen.’

Clarendon and Newcastle were somewhat reserved, as might have been expected, but they proved open enough to Sam’s conversation and soon became curious to learn more of the revolver factory at Bessborough Place and its many innovations. Sam invited both to take a tour, thinking that he would send them each a pair of the finest engraved Navys that same night. It was looking good, in short, very good indeed; then an English lady, clad in black silk and lace, appeared between the ministers.

‘Excuse me, Lord Clarendon – Lord Newcastle – Commodore Hastings,’ she said with an incline of her head, her voice surprisingly deep and full of confidence.

Sam was immediately vexed. Could she not see that business was underway? Was such a thing beyond her cosseted mind to perceive? He almost ordered her to leave them alone, to get back to her gossiping, but managed to restrain himself and turn towards her with terse civility. This lady was perhaps fifty and more heavy-featured than he usually cared for, but not without allure. There was an appealing energy there; was she a widow, he wondered, who had devoted herself to charitable works? She was looking back at him coldly. Although she had not yet said his name, it was plainly him that she had come over to speak with.

‘Lady Wardell,’ said Newcastle with a bow.

‘Cecilia,’ murmured Clarendon. ‘How very nice to see you.’

There was definite apprehension in the Foreign Secretary’s tone. At once, Sam knew that this Lady Wardell was the campaigning sort. She was there to confront him.

‘And you, sir,’ she announced sternly, ‘must be the American gentleman who plans to flood the streets of London with repeating pistols.’

The skin around Sam’s right eye tightened with irritation. These people were always so goddamn self-important; every one of them seemed to believe that he’d never heard their particular line of garbage before. ‘I am Colonel Colt, ma’am, certainly,’ he said. ‘What is it that you have to say to me?’

The woman lifted her nose in the air; as with so many of these rich Bulls, haughtiness came to her as naturally as drawing breath. ‘Only, sir, that you are quite unquestionably a merchant of death!’

This remark was made bluntly and bitterly, less as an accusation than a statement of fact, and it killed all other conversation within a wide radius. Newcastle and Clarendon glanced about in furtive embarrassment, as if they’d been caught smoking cigars without their host’s permission and were looking for somewhere quietly to dispose of their butts.

Sam, however, was a picture of unconcern. ‘Only that, ma’am?’

Her lips formed a resolute line. This was a veteran, a sturdy old cruiser with a long record of skirmishes behind her, and she would not be easily vanquished. ‘Your dastardly wares are designed to kill, and to kill in greater numbers than ever before. This cannot be denied. How can you possibly reconcile this with your Christian conscience, sir? How can you bear to profit from such copious bloodshed?’

‘Ma’am,’ said Sam with a sigh, readying his standard defence, ‘I think we can agree that the people of this world are very far from being satisfied with one another. I call my guns peacemakers: yes, peacemakers. They are tools expressly designed for preserving the peace. If every man had a revolver on his belt, who on earth would dare draw one?’

Hastings, God save him, made a low sound indicating concurrence; the ministers, however, were drifting off like untethered barges on a canal, slowly distancing themselves from the gun-maker and the attention he was attracting.

The fractious noblewoman was unconvinced by Sam’s solid reasoning. ‘You cannot honestly believe that, Colonel. Surely you must understand that firearms generate violence in the exact way that liquor generates drunkenness. Put a revolver in a man’s grasp and he will long to use it at the very first opportunity!’

There was no curtailing her now. On and on she went, enlarging on her theories about Sam and his business with furious vigour. Growing more angry, he considered mentioning the Kaffir War, and how much easier it might have been on the British Army if they’d had his revolvers; or perhaps the efficacy of the Colt six-shooter in the ongoing American struggle against the barbarian red men. He thought better of this, though. It was pretty certain that the self-righteous drab before him would not be won over by talk of proficient savage-killing.

‘You must agree, somewhere within you,’ she was saying now, almost imploringly, ‘that it is the religious duty of men of ingenuity and engineering skill – men such as yourself, Colonel Colt – to aid the peoples of the world, not provide the means for them to destroy one another.’

The ministers were gone now, swallowed up by the company; Sam’s speedy path to the higher levels of government, such an unlikely stroke of goddamn luck, had closed. Hastings had stuck loyally by the gun-maker’s side, but was entirely cowed by this lady and therefore useless. Colt’s tolerance for his aristocratic adversary, this creature of England’s grandest houses and rolling private parks, suddenly left him.

‘Unfortunately, precious few of the world’s troubles will find a solution in these fine sentiments alone,’ he declared with an air of curt finality. ‘As I’ve said, ma’am, my revolvers are tools, that’s all, designed and manufactured to the best of my ability, and intended to help disputing parties reach a condition of peace as quickly as possible.’

The woman stared back at him in horror; Sam thought for a second that she was about to strike him with her fan. ‘The only peace to be attained by revolvers will be due to one of the parties being dead!’ she spluttered. ‘How on earth can you stand here and –’

‘It’s all very well and good for you to take issue with me,’ Sam interrupted again, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, ‘but I’ll wager that you ain’t never had to really struggle for anything. You’ve never reached your end through sheer perseverance, have you, ma’am, or earned your due through honest goddamn effort? I am a businessman, and guns are my business. And that’s all there is to be said.’

The lady had nothing with which to counter this thumping rebuttal, her pale, wide-set eyes registering her defeat. She was clearly not used to being addressed with such simple honesty. Sam felt a certain shortness of breath, and hotness around his ears. He noticed the bank of staring faces behind her, every one slack-jawed with shock, and realised that he might have been shouting. That milksop Buchanan was drawing near, no doubt to rush in and mollify the blasted woman – to apologise for the unspeakable rudeness of Colonel Colt. Sam decided that he wouldn’t stay to witness this. He wouldn’t be made to feel shame for defending himself.

Hastings was standing very quietly at his elbow.

‘Enough of this, Tom,’ he said, turning away. ‘I’m leaving.’

The gun-maker’s exit from the reception room and descent down to the entrance hall passed in a wrathful blur. Only the form of a short, blond, neat-looking Englishman, inserted directly in his path at the base of the stairs, prevented him from storming straight out into the night. Sam drew up, taking in the fellow irascibly. He was no servant, but no lord either. Was he a lackey of one of the ministers, come to upbraid him – or an embassy man, laden with the Ambassador’s chidings? Not caring to hear either, Sam made to push past, bellowing for his surtout and hat, wishing to God that he had some whiskey.

‘That should not have been permitted, Colonel,’ this blond man said, ‘the way you were treated up there. Lady Wardell should not have been allowed to have been so impertinent towards a businessman of your standing. Mr Buchanan really should have intervened.’

This won him another moment of Sam’s time. He stood, wordlessly challenging the man to hold his interest.

‘She is something of a fanatic,’ he continued dryly, ‘always toiling in the service of some great cause or other – and only content when raising funds for the religious education of the poor, or the dispatching of missionaries to distant cannibal isles. You are most fortunate, as an American, that she did not also take you to task over the dreadful unwholesomeness of slavery.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot help but suspect, in fact, that she only came here tonight in search of trouble.’

‘Yes, well, some women ain’t all maple sugar,’ Sam answered warily. ‘What the devil d’you want?’

The blond man made no reaction to this hostile tone. ‘My name is Lawrence Street, Colonel, and I am a long-standing admirer of your inventions. I was deeply impressed by the pistols included in the display of the Great Exhibition, and have followed your fortunes closely ever since.’

Sam’s surtout and hat arrived. He put them on, thanking this Mr Street for his kind remarks, genuinely welcoming the approbation after his mauling by Lady Wardell.

‘I wished to say, also, that you must not fret over the loss of your chance with Clarendon and Newcastle,’ Street went on. ‘You must realise that our government, like your own, is rather out of sorts at present. The Earl of Aberdeen, although a fine man by all accounts, is a most unsatisfactory Prime Minister, and he has staffed his cabinet with men as ill-suited to their posts as he is to his. Not, of course, that those two upstairs would be particularly suited to any; but they certainly have no notion whatsoever of the pressures of the international stage, or of the changing nature of modern conflict. Many feel that when a war of any magnitude arrives – and the sense among us is very much that it will, before too long – Great Britain will be found sorely lacking, thanks largely to the glaring inefficacy of our Lords Clarendon and Newcastle.’

This speech was delivered swiftly and softly, and heard only by Sam; Street had made it inaudible even to the servants standing directly behind them. It had the clear ring of expertise. This was an operator of the smartest variety. Sam regarded his companion anew. Mr Street was about his age, with cold, rather inexpressive eyes and a head of the most astonishing white-blond hair. There was something jerky and puppet-like about him, which his small stature served only to accentuate; he was plainly a political, desky type who’d spent his years within the cramped confines of the city, well away from wood, field and stream. But his calm, calculating face, framed by the full whiskers of an intellectual Englishman, told Sam that Lawrence Street was also someone with whom he could talk seriously – and who might well prove useful.

They walked together towards the embassy doors. Sam’s mind was occupied now by a vision of a vast marching army, of two or three marching armies in fact, thousands upon thousands of men, each and every one of them wearing a new Colt Navy upon his belt.

‘Mr Street, did I hear you say that there is to be war in Europe?’

Street nodded. ‘It is believed so; in Europe or on her fringes. And Great Britain will not be ready. We need your guns, Colonel, and soon. Yet you have just seen for yourself how lightly our ministers wear their duty – and how easily they are distracted from it.’

‘I’ll regain their interest soon enough.’

They went outside. Sam welcomed the evening’s chill; it felt like fresh freedom after the stifling ordeals of the embassy. He left the surtout unbuttoned as he descended to the pavement of Grosvenor Square.

Street had stopped at the top of the steps. He was shaking his head. ‘Forgive me, Colonel, but I must say that such a course would be a poor use of your time. There are others of equal standing and influence who have a true interest in your endeavours. They see the potential of your factory and your weapons, and the advantages they offer over anything already produced in this country – over the pistols of Mr Adams, say. They would have you succeed here, supplying our forces with all the revolvers you could manufacture. Don’t take any further trouble with Clarendon and his ilk.’

Sam realised then that Street was at the ambassadorial residence that evening with the express purpose of meeting with him and having this talk. He was a proxy, most likely; a plan of some sort was being put into motion. ‘By thunder, Mr Street, who are these people?’ he exclaimed. ‘And how do they propose that this is to be achieved?’

A faint shadow of amusement passed over Street’s features. ‘First of all, we need your factory to work properly. The main engine, I hear, is underpowered, and causing the machinery to drag most terribly.’

Sam frowned. His orders were that no one outside the Colt Company was to be told of the factory’s troubles, but word had obviously leaked out. He opened his mouth to dispute Street’s confident assessment, but said nothing. The man was utterly sure of his information – and furthermore, it was correct. This is a devious critter indeed, the gun-maker thought. He’s trying to unbalance me, to set me on the back foot so that I will fall more easily into his wider scheme.

‘Once the factory is running your friends can help you,’ Street continued. ‘Commodore Hastings upstairs, for instance, and also those to whom I have already alluded. All will be in a better position to make your case, and at the very highest levels.’

‘Who the devil are these men, these mysterious friends of mine?’ Sam demanded. ‘This cloak-and-dagger horseshit don’t butter no parsnips with me, Mr Street! I will know, damn it, or I will forget we’ve ever met!’

The little blond fellow crossed his arms, taking in the dark square, unmoved by Sam’s show of anger. ‘May I ask you a question, Colonel?’

Sam glanced up at the embassy windows. Someone was looking out at them; they pulled back abruptly. He gestured his assent.

‘Why did you decide to establish your factory in London? Why not Paris, or Berlin, or Amsterdam?’

Rather impatiently, Sam began to reel off the list of reasons for his choice – the reputation he had acquired at the Great Exhibition, the frequent steamers crossing between New York and Liverpool, the common tongue that meant his engineers could quickly train up new operatives – when Street stopped him.

‘Was it not because of the bond that you feel between my country and your own? The powerful sense that we are brethren, sprung from the same Anglo-Saxon stock, not only speaking the same language, as you say, but possessing the same enlightened feelings – the same civilising impulse? Did you not wish specifically to endow Great Britain’s armed forces with the spectacular advantage of your revolver?’

Colt considered this for a moment. He could see the angle, and it was a damn sharp one. ‘I…was conscious of such a bond, yes – an Anglo-Saxon bond, exactly as you describe it.’ He felt himself warming to the theme. ‘The Colt Company is in the process of taking on English hands as we speak. It has always been my goal, Mr Street, to give this venture of mine a transatlantic character. Why, two of my closest London employees, my personal secretary and my press agent, are Englishmen, taken on for their knowledge of how things are over here.’

Street seemed to approve of all this. ‘You must repeat these sentiments often, Colonel, and loudly. It will detract from those who cite your nationality as the primary reason to reject your inventions – and they will remain our most tenacious opponents, I promise you.’

This unaccountable man then looked back briefly at the embassy doors, which were being held ajar for him; he’d got what he wanted from Sam and was about to go back inside. He came halfway down the steps, jerking along in that peculiar way of his, and extended his hand. Sam went back up to meet him and they shook firmly.

‘Know that you have your London allies,’ Street said, producing a card and laying it across Sam’s palm. ‘We shall speak again when your cause is more advanced. Good night to you, Colonel.’

The doors shut solidly behind him. Sam muttered in bemusement, pulling on fine calfskin gloves as he turned towards the square. Carriages lined the black oval of lawn in its centre, their lamps out, waiting for the reception’s end. He spotted his own quickly enough, despite the sooty gloom; its superiority was apparent even among the conveyances of Buchanan’s noble guests. His coachman was not expecting to be called for at least another hour, and would probably be dozing on his box.

The gun-maker took out a screw of Old Red and cut a generous plug. As he ground it between his teeth, feeling the rich tobacco set his mind afire and his fingers tingling inside his gloves, he ran through what had just transpired on the embassy steps. Something satisfactory had been achieved, of that he was certain; although now he thought hard about it he couldn’t say exactly what it might be. It had to be admitted, also, that he’d allowed himself to be put off the scent. Street had sidestepped his demands for information with professional efficiency. The identity of the Colt Company’s unseen supporters, of these men who supposedly watched his progress with such close interest, remained unknown.

Starting over to his carriage, Sam paused beneath a street lamp and flipped over the card. Hon. Lawrence Street, MP, it read; Lord Commissioner of the Treasury, Whitehall.

## [3]

Bolted down in its brick cradle, the engine was like a captive whale exhausted after a long struggle with the harpoon, emitting great sighs of white steam and the occasional high-pitched ping. It had been idling for the past two hours, but was still scalding hot; Martin heard Mr Quill curse as he brushed against the shining side of its copper boiler. The time was almost upon them. He looked over at Pat, Jack and the rest. They were hefting their shovels, ready to work. The warmth and closeness of that engine room was something devilish, and it was filthy too, grease, sweat and coal-dust mingling on every face and pair of arms to form a slick second skin. Darkness had fallen outside, and the factory lamps were lit. To Martin’s right, through the short passageway that led from the engine room to the forging shop, he could see a shadowy row of drop-hammers, standing before their clay ovens like so many giant corkscrews. The mass of operatives had been gone now for over an hour, and away from the wheezes of the engine the building was quiet. Martin had stayed on, as he did every night. Mr Quill welcomed this diligence, and he was pledged to do whatever was necessary to secure the chief engineer’s trust.

This campaign, in truth, was already pretty well advanced. Martin had been appointed as Mr Quill’s assistant on the basis of his easy aptitude with the drop-hammer – something that had taken him quite by surprise, as he’d never so much as touched a forging machine before being taken on at Colt. Quill had told him that he had a natural knack for machine-work, and would not hear his protestations of ignorance.

‘Learning is over-rated, Mart,’ he’d said in his Yankee burr. ‘Diligence is what’s required, in the first instance – diligence in the service of a willing spirit. We’ll soon have you up to speed.’

The foremost task before them was the engine, and it was a pressing one. Colonel Colt himself would come by regularly to see how they were progressing, and remind Mr Quill in strikingly straightforward language that the whole London enterprise was dependent upon his success. The engineer had talked Martin through the contraption’s main fault: the stroke was wrong for the diameter of the driving cylinder, he’d explained, which set the pulleys out of true and prevented the machinery from working anywhere close to as well as it could. Remarkably, Martin found that he could not only follow what he was being told, but apply it usefully to his labours. Mr Quill soon pronounced him invaluable, and took to asking his opinion as well as issuing instructions. They’d worked on the engine side by side, cursing the inept English makers who’d put the damned thing together.

A critical point had been reached, and Mr Quill had asked him to form a team of stout-hearted bravoes who would stay on after hours with them to help with some final modifications. Martin had promptly nominated the half-dozen of his bonded brothers who’d secured themselves a place in the American factory. At first, Pat Slattery hadn’t been best pleased. His view of their task at Colt was a determinedly simple one.

‘Why the hell,’ he’d spat, ‘should I give one o’ these Yankee bastards a second’s more dominion over me than he already damn well has?’

But Martin had reasoned with him, arguing that the more they learnt about the place, and the more trust they could earn from the Yankees, the better their chances would be. Eventually, even Pat had to admit the sense in this. The Irishmen had stepped forward as one, and started tightening pistons and adjusting valves under Mr Quill’s kindly, unsuspecting direction.

The chief engineer emerged from behind the engine, a large wrench in his hands. He was grinning fiercely, his hair sticking up like a crazy pagan crown, his leather apron stretched tight over his round belly. The black grease on his forearms almost obscured the chequered snakes that had been tattooed there, twisting down from his elbows. After giving Martin an assured wink, he turned towards Mr Stickney, the giant of a foreman, who lingered out in the foundry passage.

‘We’re just about ready here, Gage,’ he boomed. ‘Are the machines prepared?’

‘Sure are, Ben,’ Stickney replied. ‘Set your micks to work. I’ll head upstairs.’

Mr Quill gave Stickney a cheerful salute and opened the boiler hatch. Taking up his own shovel, he joined Martin and the others beside the fuel bin. Together they stoked the engine, the coal hissing off their shovels onto the wallowing fire within. Once it was up and roaring again, Mr Quill slammed the hatch shut and turned his attention to the engine’s valves. Slowly, the pistons stirred, gears and pulleys started to move, and the revolver factory creaked into life around them. Straight away Martin noticed that there was a new pace to the engine, a regular smoothness that had not been there that afternoon. The engineer and his assistant smiled at each other. The labour of the past week was paying off.

‘Sounds pretty goddamn good, don’t she,’ cried Mr Quill.

Soon the engine was really pounding along, the driving cylinder above them humming as it spun. For a minute or two the men took their ease, lulled into a strange kind of peace by the engine’s thunder; then Mr Stickney reappeared, lumbering through the shadowy forging shop. There was a part in his hand, a pistol frame from the looks of it. Mr Quill went forth to meet him, and a detailed examination began. Both men had been with Colonel Colt for many years, and knew his arms inside out. Their verdict was a good one.

‘By God, Gage,’ exclaimed Mr Quill, holding the part up, ‘this is damn near perfect. You couldn’t hope for a cleaner bit of shaping than that – the drag is quite gone. I do believe that this here frame is ready to be jointed. The Colonel’ll be cock-a-hoop when he hears.’ He looked around. ‘Christ Almighty, I’ve half a mind to fetch him here right now!’

With sudden boyish excitement, Colt’s chief engineer rushed back past the boiler and clanged his wrench repeatedly against one of the engine’s sturdy wrought-iron supports, letting out a triumphant huzzah. The Irishmen joined in, taking off their grubby cloth caps and tossing them upwards so that they slapped against the chamber’s low ceiling.

Pat Slattery, however, did not cheer. He sought out Martin’s eye and held it, his thoughts stamped clearly on his thin, hawkish face. The Irish in that room were all brothers, united by a sacred oath; and Slattery, the closest they had to a leader, never lost sight of their purpose. This was a moment for their mistress and namesake – the maiden Molly Maguire. Who she was, or who she had once been, no one could say for certain, but it didn’t matter. Molly was their mothers and daughters, and everyone else they’d lost in the Hunger; the blighted fields and the famished animals; the dismal workhouses and the mass graves. She was the Holy Virgin’s dark-hearted sister, watching over them always with her teeth bared.

Back in Roscommon, it was their pledge to Molly Maguire that had sent them out against the landlords and land-agents and bailiffs, fighting those who sought to evict them from their homes and starve their families, her families, from existence. It was Molly who’d set them rioting in streets from Boyle to Tipperary, smashing windows, breaking limbs, burning barns and worse besides. The others spoke of her often, of their loyalty to her; she was as real to them as the saints and angels, and every bit as beloved. For Martin, though, it went beyond this. He didn’t know if it was lunacy or some form of sickness in his soul, but from time to time – when his heart beat fast and thick and his brain ached – Molly Maguire would come to call on him. He could see her right then, in fact, moving through the Colt engine room, slipping in among the men gathered there like a current of cold air. She was holding aloft loose handfuls of her dusty copper locks, singing one of the old songs in that scratched whistle of a voice; he saw the awful whiteness of her skin, and the way that tattered gown allowed a glimpse of the ribs standing out so painfully beneath.

The first of these visitations had occurred in the spring of 1847, just after he’d collected his youngest sister’s body from the Athlone workhouse. As he’d sat slumped beneath a tree, half-mad from the poteen he’d drunk, Molly had slid across the borders of his vision like a figure from a dark, dreaming vale, beyond all wakeful reason; yet even through his stupor he’d known at once that she was there to protect and encourage him. From then on, when he was out doing her work with his brothers, he would sometimes sense her flitting around nearby, and hear her voice whispering in his ear. On the night when they’d broken into the manor house of Major Denis Mahon, who Slattery had proceeded to beat to death with a threshing flail, she’d laughed and trilled with joyful approval. This act, the righteous slaying of the worst of their oppressors, had been celebrated throughout Catholic Roscommon – but it had forced all suspected Molly Maguires to flee the county or risk the gallows.

Martin, Slattery, their friend Jack Coffee and a couple of others had travelled to London, trying to fashion new lives for themselves among the impossible numbers of Irish who’d also been forced to start over in the heaving rookeries of the city. The Mollys had thus established an outpost of sorts in Westminster, in the dank lanes of the Devil’s Acre. A series of cockeyed plans had been devised, spoiled and abandoned. Years had passed. Molly Maguire herself had stayed well away, and Martin had started to think that she was done with him. He’d begun portering at Covent Garden; he’d even found a wife. Then Colonel Colt had settled just up the river in Pimlico, and back Molly came, rising once again to the shallows of Martin’s mind. As always, she wanted vengeance for the suffering of Ireland; and now, at last, there was a way for her faithful lads to get it for her.

‘Lord John,’ Slattery had declared on that first night, after they’d all made it through the Yankees’ quizzing and were employees of the Colt Company. ‘Lord John Russell. He’s our mark, brothers. He’s the one what must die at the first bleedin’ opportunity. There are others, o’ course there are. Clarendon, that was viceroy; that damned Labouchere as well. But it’s the Prime Minister, him that was in charge, who must fall ahead o’ the rest.’ He’d struck his callused fist against the tavern table. ‘It’s Lord John that would not give sufficient aid to a famine-stricken people, for fear that it might prove a burden to England. That stopped the public works, the railways and suchlike, which would have given many thousands o’ Irishmen an honest living wage, and presented them instead with a charity soup so thin it wouldn’t sustain a bleedin’ farm cat.’ His voice had begun to buckle, his rage twisting him up into a bitter ball. ‘That could not overcome his bigot’s hatred of the Catholic Irish even as he was given the power of life and death over us – that chose to let us die!’

The Molly Maguires had nodded, a couple growling their agreement.

‘I’ve a name for you, brothers,’ Slattery had continued. ‘Daniel M’Naghten. Ten years ago this brave Celt went after Sir Robert Peel with a pair of flintlock pistols. He chose poorly – the man he shot was only Peel’s private secretary, and he was brought down by the crushers before he could load another bullet. Well, thanks to the Yankee Colt, this sad result can be avoided by us. We’ll be sure of our man – sure of his much-deserved death. And we’ll fight our way out as well. All we need are a couple o’ dozen of these repeating arms.’

Now, just over a fortnight later, the Mollys were gathered in Colonel Colt’s engine room, being led by Mr Quill in a second cheer, and a third, as he kept on banging away with his wrench. After a minute or so of this, Stickney intervened. Martin thought him a bad-tempered bastard, and a bully as well; he frowned a little at the sound of the foreman’s voice.

‘Calm yourself, Ben, for God’s sake,’ he shouted over the engine, stopping Quill’s arm as it was being raised for yet another blow. ‘We’re still some distance from our best. We could be getting thirty-five horses from this thing, and it’s giving us eighteen at the very most.’

Mr Quill, red-cheeked and exuberant, regarded the foreman with something close to pity. ‘Gage, if there were another seasoned Colt engineer within a thousand miles of where we’re standing then, yes, I confess that it might be possible to wring some more life out of this here contraption. But look around you, friend! The London factory is working! We can make a goddamn gun!’

‘Full production’s a good way off,’ Stickney countered. ‘A distant prospect.’

Mr Quill would hear no more. ‘The Colonel wants a London revolver, as soon as it can be made, and we’ve put this within reach. Sure, our work ain’t done, Gage, but when is it ever?’

Having said this, the chief engineer threw open the valves, releasing a deafening flood of steam from the charging engine. With Martin’s help he set about disengaging the pulleys from the cylinder. Once this was complete and the engine had finished its steady, rhythmic deceleration, he proposed that the company head off for a celebratory drink in the Eagle. The sulking Mr Stickney declined, saying he had letters to write and stalking away into the factory. The Mollys agreed readily enough, though, Pat included. Together, they headed for the washroom, recently established in the warehouse across the yard.

Mr Noone was standing outside the factory’s sliding door, smoking a cigar. He looked at first glance like a soldier, a grizzled cove with a private, unfriendly air about him. Mr Quill, open-hearted as always, invited the watchman to come along with them, but after taking a glance at the engineer’s companions he refused. This was to be expected. Whereas most of the American mechanics and overseers viewed the London recruits with varying degrees of contempt or indifference, Noone saw them as nothing less than the enemy, seeming to believe that the single greatest threat to the factory under his guard came from within. Martin thought this uncommonly quick. He was pretty certain that Noone had nothing on him and his brothers, but he’d spread the word that the watchman was someone the Mollys should keep a close eye on.

Mr Quill continued on towards the warehouse, peeling off his filthy apron. ‘Another time, p’raps,’ he muttered.

The Spread Eagle stood not twenty yards from the river’s edge, on one of the few stretches of solid embankment that the City Corporation had seen fit to construct. It was a working man’s tavern, drawing custom from the Colt factory, the Pimlico gasworks and every other site of industry along the Lambeth Reach. However, the main body of regulars came from one place only: the vast construction yard of Thomas Cubitt, the man who was building up Pimlico from nothing, street by street and square by square. These masons, labourers and joiners had put up the Eagle itself not two years previously. Now they stood about the bar and slouched in the booths, smoking, joking and arguing as they took their refreshment. This tavern was very different to the flash houses and tumbledown gambling dens that the Mollys frequented back in the Devil’s Acre, and Martin liked it all the more for this. He savoured the newness of the place, the evenness of its construction, from the gleaming brass of the pumps and fittings to the smooth, level surface of the bar. As yet it was untouched by the London rot that crawled out of the Thames and seeped slowly into everything. You could still smell the river, of course – a window had not been made that could shut that out – but amid the welcome odours of tobacco, honest sweat and fresh beer, it was easily endured.

His brothers didn’t agree, and drifted away after only a drink or two, to Mr Quill’s very vocal disappointment. Martin remained, though, thinking that his being on the right side of the chief engineer could well prove a boon to Molly’s cause. Amy wouldn’t like this one bit – she’d be worn out and cross, the babies would be screaming, and strife would surely be waiting for him when he returned to the Devil’s Acre – but for now, Molly Maguire had to come first. He stayed where he was, leaning across the bar to order another pot of dog’s-nose for him and Mr Quill. The two men drank deep, shivering a little at the keen edge the gin gave the beer, and refilled their pipes.

‘You’ll do well at Colt, Mart,’ said Mr Quill wisely, putting a match to his bowl and then passing it to Martin. ‘I feel it – Christ, I guarantee it.’

This was said at least once a day, and often more. Martin assumed a humble smile. ‘Ah, I’m nothin’ much.’

Mr Quill shook his head, puffing out smoke. ‘You have a fine mind – an engineering mind. I see it. The Colonel sees it.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed at Martin with its well-chewed stem. ‘Many of those let in through Colt’s doors in the past weeks will be with us for a few months only. But you’re with us for the duration, Mart. I can tell.’

Turning around, Martin swallowed more of his drink and took a hard drag on his pipe. ‘I do feel my confidence growing some, Mr Quill, I will admit.’

Quill raised his arm, the sleeve of his canvas jacket pulling back; for an instant Martin could see the diamond-shaped head of a serpent etched on the underside of the engineer’s wrist, its forked tongue licking at his palm. Then he brought his hand down emphatically against the bar’s top.

‘Exactly,’ he declared. ‘That’s it exactly. Confidence. All else will follow, Mart. Take my case. I started out in the engine room of a Collins steamer, criss-crossing the goddamn Atlantic three times a month. Now I’m one of Colonel Colt’s senior engineers, making upwards of five dollars a day. This is what an ordinary fellow can achieve if he puts his mind to it.’

Martin nodded. ‘Aye, I see it, Mr Quill, honest I do. This post I have with you, well…’ He let his voice trail off. ‘It is far beyond anything else that a Roscommon lad such as meself might hope for in this wretched Saxon city.’

There was sympathy in Quill’s round, ruddy face as he sucked reflectively on his pipe. ‘Well, Mart, there are no such barriers in America. None of these stale old hatreds. It’s a land where a man can live without fear of intrusion or interference. It’s the place for men like us, and by God, once the government of this mouldy old country has finally seen sense and made us both rich, I shall show it to you.’ He grinned, slapped Martin on the shoulder and then drank down a good deal of his dog’s-nose in one pull.

Martin smiled as well. This here was a decent man. It made him regret the deception he was working, but he knew that there was no other way. He had to do right by Molly Maguire. He had to get her some justice.

There was a loud peal of laughter from around the corner of the Eagle’s L-shaped saloon, followed by a burst of song. Martin looked over; squeezed into a snug at the tavern’s rear was a large group of factory workers, men and women, several of whom he recognised from the Colt works.

‘You’re certain that we’ll succeed here in London then, Mr Quill?’ he asked.

The chief engineer put his empty tankard on the bar indicating to the pot-boy that he would have it refilled. ‘Sam Colt has been plying his trade for a good long while, Mart. He has the greatest bodies in Washington tame as little white mice. Government men, soldiers, lawyers even – he conquers ‘em all in the end. He can’t fail here. These Bulls that seek to compete with him, or to confound his purposes, are in for an unpleasant surprise.’ Quill sized up his new measure of dog’s-nose and took another mighty gulp; he drinks harder than a bloody Irishman, Martin thought. ‘Did I ever tell you how he broke the back of Eli Whitney?’

Martin had heard this tale before, twice in fact. It was one of Mr Quill’s favourites. He shook his head, though, and settled down to listen to how the Colonel, after years of savage rivalry and manoeuvring, drove the Massachusetts Arms Company (of which poor Eli was the proprietor) out of the revolver business altogether. Long before the story’s dramatic courtroom conclusion, however, someone called his name. He recognised the voice; it was Caroline, Amy’s younger sister. She was walking towards them from the snug. Martin noticed that she was wearing the plain garments of a factory operative. The last he’d heard she was a chambermaid in a smart house in Islington, the residence of an important gent in the City. Something had changed.

Martin and Caroline had never been particularly friendly. He knew that she didn’t much like her sister being married to an Irishman, and living off in the Devil’s Acre. Amy and her had been close when they were small, there only being a year between them. The two girls looked alike, it had to be said, sharing the same broad cheekbones and pretty, slightly crooked mouth. Amy’s hair was darker, though, and her eyes larger, and her thoughtful manner was replaced in Caroline by an argumentative, trouble-making curiosity that Martin found difficult to warm to. He asked her what she was doing in the Eagle, keeping his tone pleasant, knowing as he spoke what her answer would be.

‘Why, Mart, I am an employee of Colonel Colt,’ she replied, flashing Mr Quill a bright, saucy smile. ‘I daresay I’ve been under his roof for almost as long as you have, though of course I ain’t yet reached the same level of favour. I’m in here now with some of my new pals from the machine floor, enlarging our acquaintance, as they say.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Martin introduced her to Mr Quill, explaining their connection. He beamed back at her, utterly charmed. She already knew exactly who the chief engineer was, and had a series of questions lined up about her employer which it pleased him enormously to answer. After a minute, he turned to the bar to buy them all new drinks.

‘Will you have some dog’s-nose, Caroline?’

‘Just gin for me, sir, if you please,’ she said with a mock-curtsey. ‘You may leave out the ale.’

Martin felt a pang of irritation. ‘How did you know of the factory, then?’ he asked. ‘How did you know that the Colonel was hiring?’

She moved in a little closer, angling her hip towards Mr Quill as she took her glass of gin from his hand; the two moles on her cheek, distinct marks a neat inch apart, stood out like an adder-bite against the liquor-flushed skin. ‘My sister told me that you were thinking of joining, Martin.’ She hesitated. ‘Along with some of your friends, them coves what was in here earlier, Pat Slattery and the rest. I’d just lost my position – through no fault of my own, Mr Quill, I assure you – so I thought I’d try gun-making for myself. I find that I rather like it.’

‘It’s fine work indeed for a strong, smart girl,’ said Mr Quill approvingly, ‘until a good husband comes along, at least.’ He removed his worn sailor’s cap, exposing his unruly thatch of hair. ‘Don’t suppose you’d consider the chief engineer, Caroline, scoundrelly old wretch tho’ he be?’

Martin made a show of joining in their free, boozy laughter, just managing to hide his annoyance at the thought of this infernally nosy girl having placed herself within the gun factory. Molly’s work could still be done, of course, but his sister-in-law’s presence was something else he’d now have to take into consideration.

Caroline knew not to outstay her welcome. After exchanging a couple more playful remarks with Mr Quill, she polished off her gin, bade them a good night and went back to the snug. The engineer watched her go before drinking down his dog’s-nose and ordering them both another.

‘So,’ he said when the drinks had arrived, ‘you’re married to an Englishwoman.’

Martin’s self-control left him. He would not be rebuked or teased for this now, and certainly not by Ben Quill – a Yankee, for Christ’s sake. ‘Mother o’ God,’ he snapped, ‘can a man control the workings of his heart? He cannot, Mr Quill – he cannot.’ Surprised by this outburst, by the honesty in his voice, he quickly lifted up his pot again, hiding himself behind it as he took a long swallow.

There was a pause; then Mr Quill, with a sad shake of his head, knocked his pot solemnly against Martin’s. ‘By Heavens, Mart,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll surely drink to that.’

The Eagle closed its doors at twelve. Martin and Mr Quill, both well-oiled, started wandering up the Belgrave Road, through the eerie silence of Pimlico’s southern end. It was a warm night, a taste of the approaching summer; the two men puffed on their pipes, ambling along with no particular purpose in mind. Caroline had departed the tavern some time before. Thankfully, Mr Quill’s interest in her had shown itself to have been light-hearted and of the moment only. After she’d left them, in fact, the engineer had seemed to forget her existence altogether. He was now engaged in some slurred philosophising, rambling on about the role of the machine in what he termed ‘manifest destiny’. Martin wasn’t really listening.

After a while, they left the main avenue, lurching onto a side-street. Identical apartment-houses, four storeys tall, built with red brick and fringed with stucco, loomed on either side of them in two long lines. Only recently completed by Cubitt’s men and still unoccupied, the windows of these houses were as dark and smooth as tar pools. The sounds of London – the yelping of dogs, the rumble of coach-wheels over on the Vauxhall Bridge Road – were but faint ghosts of themselves, banished to the distant background. The street was as clean as it was quiet. Not a trace of mud or dung could be seen on the cobblestones, their fish-scale pattern catching the dull moonlight; and even the stench of the river was masked by the mineral smell of fresh cement and stone.

They reached the end of a row. The next block along was still under construction, swathed in scaffolding, the shadowy road before it piled with whatever materials Cubitt’s foremen had judged too heavy for thieves to make off with. Through the many gaps in the unfinished buildings, across an expanse of barren land, Martin saw a night-site at work, a tower of light and action in the surrounding darkness. Labourers scaled the ladders of the scaffold, heavy hods of stone balanced on their shoulders; bricklayers slowly built up walls, inserting each new piece with steady concentration. The jokes and curses of both echoed along the empty streets. Martin stopped to take it in, smoking reflectively, leaning against a covered mortar-barrel.

A footstep crunched nearby, from inside one of the incomplete apartment buildings further along the row – a man’s footstep, heavy and sure, stepping on a bed of gravel. Martin felt a distinct, sobering nip of wrongness. He knocked out his pipe. Quill was further down the street, pointing into the air and gassing on like a true taproom orator. Martin whispered his name, gesturing for silence.

‘What’s up?’ the engineer called back, as loudly as ever, stretching out his arms. ‘What’s the problem, Mart?’

There were more footsteps, and some muttering; Martin went over to Quill’s side. ‘Someone’s here with us, Mr Quill.’

Quill drew on his pipe, making the tobacco in the bowl crackle and glow. ‘Footpads?’ he asked, speaking excitedly through the side of his mouth, as if eager to fend off such an attack. ‘How many?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ Martin replied, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Why would such people be out here? There’s none about but us. Pretty slim pickings. No, this is different.’ He met Quill’s eye: this was worse.

The engineer wasn’t alarmed. ‘What should we do, then?’

Martin nodded towards the night-site, its lamps twinkling between the scaffold poles and slabs of masonry. It suddenly seemed very far away. ‘Best bet’s to head over there, I reckon. Straight through these buildings here – towards the light.’

Before they could act, however, the trap was sprung. Three men appeared from behind a stack of planks, dressed in working clothes. All three were solidly built and had short, stout sticks in their hands. Martin turned; four more were approaching fast from the opposite direction. They’ve been stalking us, he thought, from the moment we left the Eagle, waiting for the right moment to strike. He cursed himself for all the pots he’d sunk – for stumbling so unsuspectingly into this crude snare. How could he have been so bloody stupid?

‘What is this?’ he demanded, his eyes darting around, scanning the street for an escape route. ‘What d’yous want?’

The little pack started to laugh with the nasty confidence of men who believe their victory to be guaranteed. The tallest of them lifted up his stick and opened his mouth to speak.

His words were never heard. With a wild roar, Mr Quill suddenly charged forward, butting the fellow like a bull and sending them both tumbling into the shadows. The engineer’s pipe cracked against the ground, releasing a tiny spray of orange sparks. There was a second roar, and a loud shout of pain. Their assurance rocked, the gang lunged at Quill, trying to drag him off their friend – a difficult task in the murky street. Gritting his teeth, Martin threw himself upon them, landing squarely on someone’s back. They went over together, slamming down hard against the newly laid pavement.

From then onwards all was confusion, a virtual blind-fight. One of their attackers was shrieking as though he was bleeding out his last. Martin realised that these men, although determined, had definite limits to their bravery. Searching around in the gutter, his fingers found a single loose cobblestone. Thinking of Molly Maguire, her green eyes alive with animal rage, he lashed out with it.

This drew forth a yell, followed by the urgent scrabbling of hob-nailed boots; then a blow fell across the back of Martin’s neck, sending a dazzling blaze across his sight. He slipped, losing his footing, swinging the stone around again but hitting nothing. They were circling him, keeping their distance, reduced to black shapes only. Off to his left, he heard Mr Quill swear and then exhale with pain. Martin recognised what was happening. He’d been in this situation many times before. The two of them were being overwhelmed.

A powerful kick drove in from nowhere, catching Martin on the jaw. Reeling, he dropped the stone; it struck the pavement with a metallic, ringing sound. The gang were on him immediately. Before long, the blows lost their distinctness, blurring together, his foes’ grunts mingling with the thumps of their fists and sticks against his flesh. All pain ceased. It felt only as if he was curled up on an open hillside, being buffeted by a powerful wind, Molly’s mocking laughter rattling in his ears.

After a time – a minute? two? – something disturbed them. ‘Come, lads,’ said one, speaking in a twanging cockney accent, ‘let’s be off. They’ve ‘ad enough for now.’

There was a final kick to Martin’s stomach, and the beating stopped.

‘Don’t you bleedin’ forget this, you Yankee bugger!’ hissed another. ‘We ain’t about to stand by all ‘elpless and just let this ‘appen!’

A strong beam of light was approaching through the gloom, chasing the men away. Martin tried to fix his eyes on this beam; but it dipped and faded, becoming lost in a smothering, thickening sensation close to sleep. His clenched limbs relaxed and he flopped over onto his back.

The next he knew he was being helped to sit up, a bull’s-eye lantern in front of him. Gagging, he rolled to one side, his pots of dog’s-nose coming up in a long, unbroken jet, splashing hotly across the Pimlico pavement. He gasped for breath, spitting out bile, feeling a great many aches awaken across his bruised, bleeding body. A party of night-watchmen had come to their aid, Cubitt’s people from the sound of it, those charged with weeding out the beggars who sought shelter in the empty buildings. He heard them assessing his injuries, and deciding that they were not too grave – nothing broken, at any rate. They already knew that he was from the Colt works, a fact they could only have learned from Mr Quill. Gingerly, Martin turned his head the smallest fraction; his neck felt as if it was being twisted to breaking point, and a flaming claw gripped at the back of his skull.

The engineer was sitting on the steps of an apartment block, streaked with fresh blood, slowly rotating his right arm around in its socket. A grin and a pained wince were struggling for control of his features.

‘Christ above, Mart,’ he laughed, coughing, ‘who the devil were they?’

## [4]

Crocodile Court lay near the middle of St Anne’s Street, squarely within the Devil’s Acre, and it was filled with rowdy conversation. Almost every window in the close lane was open, with lamps and candles set upon their ledges, like the boxes in a shabby theatre where the curtain would never rise. Roughly-dressed women, the majority of them Irish, leaned out in twos and threes, gossiping and quarrelling with each other. As Caroline entered she overheard talk of the evening’s arrests, a mysterious murder over on Tothill Street, the rising price of milk – anything that came into the women’s heads, in short, and all at the same time. Bottles were being passed from window to window, and even lobbed across to the opposite side. The Court had once been home to the wealthy, back in the age of powdered wigs and sedan chairs, but had long since been given over to the very poorest. Hundreds now lived in residences designed for a single family – residences that were on the brink of collapse. Beams bent and cracked like dry rushes, and plaster dropped from walls in huge chalky sheets. Caroline could never look upon the parliament of Crocodile Court without imagining these ancient piles suddenly overbalancing due to the great weight on their sills, and toppling forward into the lane with an almighty, screaming crash.

She was a visitor to the Devil’s Acre, marked out by her clean face, neat straw bonnet and new boots, and had been pursued by a throng of ragged children from the moment she’d crossed Peter Street. Fending them off, picking her way through the darkness, past the stinking puddles, mounds of rotten vegetables and decaying house-fronts, she’d cursed Martin Rea for bringing her Amy to this godforsaken place. It nearly broke her heart to think that this was where Katie, her little niece, was taking her first steps.

As she started along the Court, very glad to be nearing her destination, a great scornful shout went up. Heart thumping, she looked around, thinking for an instant that she must have provoked this somehow; but no, a drunken, filthy husband had staggered in behind her, returning home after a debauch. The women showered him with hoots and bitter catcalls. He waved a dismissive arm in their direction before vanishing through a sagging brick archway.

About half of Crocodile Court’s paving stones had been prised up and stolen, creating an irregular chequered pattern and making it impassable for all but the lightest of carts. Caroline hopped from slab to slab, past the rusting water-pump and the rag-and-bone shop, heading resolutely for Amy’s building. A game of rummy was underway on the steps, with much swearing and spitting. She took a breath and pushed straight through its middle, slipping quickly through the door.

The stairwell was heavy with snoring, belching, coughing bodies. People were everywhere, overflowing from the rooms onto corridors and landings. Of all ages, they sprawled semi-clothed across the floorboards, lost to liquor; perched upon the stairs, taking their meagre suppers; or huddled quietly in corners, trying to sleep. This was the result of the Victoria Street clearances, which had begun again in earnest, leaving many hundreds without homes. Caroline could not help but kick a few of them as she passed, clutching at the rickety banister. Most did not even have the energy to curse her.

The numbers had thinned a little by the time she reached the third floor. She went to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked three times. Someone came to the other side. Caroline said her name, a bolt slid back and she walked forward into a dell of flowers. Crocuses, lilies, tulips and carnations were gathered into loose bunches, and laid out in baskets and bowls. Their colours were all but lost in the dimness of the room, and there was no perfume beside those of the dyes and inks; but these clean, chemical odours were a definite improvement on those mingling in the musty corridor outside. Caroline shut the door behind her.

Amy was already back in her seat by the fire, a large silk rose in her hands. She was stitching wire-trimmed petals to its cardboard stem by the meagre light of the few coals that smouldered in the grate. The lines on her face deepened as she squinted down at the flower, pushing dark strands of hair behind her ears, searching for the right place to poke in her needle. She looked thin and desperately old for a woman of only four-and-twenty. It seemed to Caroline that her sister, once so strong and clever, was being worn away before her very sight; that life in the Devil’s Acre was killing her by degrees.

On the rug between them, rolling around in the weak firelight, lay Katie. The child was trying to rise onto her knees, plump legs wobbling as they took her weight. Hearing the door close, she looked up, mouth open; and seeing her aunt standing there, she cried out with pure delight, lost her balance and tumbled back down onto her side. Caroline felt a sudden rush of love; a tear, a bloody tear for Christ’s sake, pricked at the corner of her eye. She swooped in on the giggling infant, taking her up into her arms and spinning her around.

‘Why hello, my precious darling,’ she said. ‘And how are you tonight?’

Amy gave them both a quick smile but did not stop working. Caroline knew that she had four hundred flowers to deliver to her current employer, a milliner on Bond Street, first thing in the morning. Failure to meet this deadline would certainly mean the loss of the business, and the five shillings it brought in every week. Amy would not let this happen if she could possibly prevent it. Caroline sniffed the top of Katie’s head; the girl’s skin was sour, her chestnut curls clammy with grease. Once again, Amy had been too busy to bathe her. She glanced over at the cot in the corner that held Michael’s tiny form. He was quiet, at least, unlike the three or four other babies who wailed away nearby, somewhere along the corridor. Whether this was a good or a bad sign she dared not consider.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Caroline took a small paper parcel from her apron and unfolded it on her knee, revealing half of a slightly wilted ham sandwich. Katie grabbed out for it, gobbling down a mouthful with such hungry haste that Caroline feared she might choke. There had plainly not been much food around that day either. She looked at the grey marble fireplace, a remnant from one of the cramped room’s previous, more prosperous lives. The wide central slab bore a relief of a pheasant, spreading its wings as if taking flight from a hunter’s hound; an old crack in the stone, black with dirt, ran through the middle of the bird’s outstretched neck.

‘So I’ve joined the gun factory,’ she announced brightly. ‘Mrs Vincent’s letter of recommendation did the trick, like you said it would. And it’s decent enough work, I s’pose – one and six a day, which ain’t half bad. Better than what I was getting before.’

Amy said nothing; her brow creased as she pulled a needle through the rose. Something was troubling her. Caroline took the sandwich back from Katie and tore off a small piece, placing it carefully in the child’s outstretched fingers.

‘It’s a pleasant thing to be out of service, I must say,’ she continued, ‘and in a new part of town. I’m grateful for you passing on word of this to me, Amy. I mean it. After Mr Vincent done what he done, ending himself in the public road, we all thought we’d be in the workhouse for sure before the month’s close. Blind panic, there was, down in the servants’ parlour.’

Caroline had witnessed her former master’s demise – prompted by a shocking loss on the money markets, or so it was rumoured. Early one cold Wednesday morning at the start of March she’d been on her knees scrubbing the front steps, cursing the butler who’d given her the job, welcoming the warmth of the water on her freezing fingers as she rinsed the brush in the bucket. Mr Vincent had stepped over her, dressed for the City but lacking his coat and hat. The Times was in his hand, held limply by the spine, spilling out pages as he wandered to the gate. Reaching the street, he’d stood on the edge of the pavement, peering back and forth, craning his neck as if searching for a cab. A huge coal wagon had passed by, heading up towards Highgate. Mr Vincent had walked out alongside it, crouched down in the muddy thoroughfare and placed his head beneath one of its rear wheels. It had run on over him without so much as a bump, squashing his skull flat; Caroline’s first reaction, watching incredulously from her soapy step, had been to let out a yelp of manic laughter.

Amy’s needle halted. ‘I am glad you have found a position, Caro,’ she said quietly.

Caroline fed another piece of sandwich to Katie. ‘I saw your Martin, in a tavern near the works. He was drinking with this Yankee engineer. Quill was his name.’

Amy set down her rose. ‘He’s mentioned Mr Quill to me.’

‘A harmless old cove, that one. Likes to talk. Loves his Colonel, this Colt fellow. And he’s really taken a shine to Mart. I’m told that he’s looking to train him up – turn him into a proper engineer.’

This was surely good news, but Amy made no reaction to it. She looked at her daughter for a moment, and then stared blankly into the fire.

‘There were other paddies there as well,’ Caroline went on. ‘Roscommoners like Mart. Friends of his, from the looks of things. Those I work with said that they’re employed in the forging shop, and keep mostly to themselves. One is making a name for himself, though, as a regular hard customer – Pat Slattery, he’s called. Word is that he’ll serve out any Englishman who dares look his way.’

Amy sighed sharply, her head dipping forward.

‘D’you know him?’ Caroline asked.

Her sister rubbed at her eyes with a bony, needle-scarred knuckle. ‘He was a porter with Mart and Jack in Covent Garden,’ she replied, ‘but they’re old pals. From Ireland. There’s a whole group. I – I was hoping that Mart had broken with them, by moving to Colt and all, but I had me doubts.’ Amy hesitated. ‘It’s just that Pat Slattery is – is – he’s –’ Merely saying the name made her slip on her words and lose her way. She was frightened.

‘D’you think they’re up to something? Planning mischief – or thievery?’

Amy shook her head. ‘No. No. Martin wouldn’t. He’s a good man, Caro. He’s never been nothing but kind to Michael and Katie and me.’

Caroline scowled, made immediately impatient by this unconditional loyalty. ‘Oh Amy, for Christ’s sake, listen to yourself! Where is he right now, if he’s such a saint? It’s the dead of night, you’re alone with your babies in this wretched place with no coal and no food even, and where is your precious Martin? Out drinking up his wages, that’s where, propping up some bar with the legion of the bloody useless!’

Katie caught the heat in her aunt’s voice and gazed at her questioningly. The girl’s almond-shaped eyes – the same eyes as Caroline and Amy – were open wide, her lower lip starting to tremble. Caroline made a shushing noise, bounced Katie up and down rather briskly, and then gave her another piece of the sandwich.

Amy, too, grew annoyed. ‘He is gentle,’ she said. ‘Not once has he so much as raised his hand to any of us. And he is true – do you have any notion of how rare that is, Caro?’

Caroline rolled her eyes; her sister would often resort to this tactic. ‘How could I possibly, Amy, unmarried as I am?’

This sarcasm was ignored. ‘Neither does he pay any notice to the many spiteful things that are said out in the Court. They call him a traitor to Ireland, to his people, as he is bound to an Englishwoman with half-English issue. And he does not pay them any notice at all.’ Her pale cheeks were colouring, and her voice becoming yet more insistent. ‘He is my husband, Caro.’

‘Only in the eyes of Rome,’ Caroline retorted. Her blood was up now. ‘Where was it you was betrothed? A chapel in an old potter’s shed on Orchard Street, weren’t it, by some crack-brained boggler of a priest? You ain’t no Catholic, Amy. Your union with Martin Rea is founded on a flaming lie.’

Amy didn’t respond. She fell quite silent, in fact, reaching over to pick at her artificial rose. Caroline itched with shame. Yet again, she’d gone a step too far; she’d said things she hadn’t meant, regretting them even as they passed through her lips. She didn’t, in truth, give two farthings for religion of any kind, yet here she was coming on like some doorstep Evangelical raging against Papist heresy. This was often the way between the sisters these days: an almost accidental battle, with the victor plunged into miserable remorse the second it was concluded.

‘I’ll bet you’re right, anyway,’ Caroline said at last, as if making a concession, attempting to mask her guilt with breezy cheerfulness. ‘Lord, you couldn’t steal from the bloomin’ Yankees even if you were stupid enough to try. They’re far too careful. I ain’t so much as seen a complete pistol in all the time I been there.’ She cast a look around the tiny, dirty room. ‘We stand to turn a decent penny off this Colonel Colt, Amy – your Mart in particular, what with this Mr Quill looking out for him. You’ll be leaving the Devil’s Acre, I should think, before this year’s out. I’ve found lodgings just along the river, in Millbank, in a new terrace next to a lumber yard. You could do very nicely over there.’

Katie had finished the sandwich but wanted more. Whimpering, she tugged at the front of Caroline’s apron. When nothing else was produced, the whimper grew into a low, continuous moan, the infant’s smooth little berry of a face crumpling with distress.

Amy stood, wrapping a thin shawl around her shoulders. ‘This is our home, Caroline,’ she said coldly. ‘We ain’t going nowhere.’ Then she crossed the room and took back her child.

London dirt coated the window beside Caroline’s drilling machine like a sheet of cheap brown paper. She had to lean up close to the pane to see anything much through it at all. Her ears had not misled her; down in the courtyard were the thirty or so men employed in the forging shop. Released to take their dinner, they were wandering towards the river, over to the row of costermongers and victual-sellers that had set up on the near side of Ponsonby Street to snag custom from the new Colt factory. All had removed their caps in the April sunshine and were smoking hungrily after their morning’s labour. After passing through the tall factory gates, most simply selected a stall, made their purchases and walked back into the yard, eating as they went. A small number lingered, however, taking time to choose or trying to haggle down the price.

There was an angry, affronted shout from the direction of a boiler-cart selling steamed potatoes. Caroline squinted, looking closer. A dark, fierce-looking man, quite short and thin but utterly fearless, was cursing loudly in a strong Irish accent, making an energetic complaint to the stallholder. It was Pat Slattery, the fellow she’d seen with Martin and Mr Quill in the Eagle – whose name alone had caused her sister such alarm. A handful of others, his Roscommon boys, rushed to his side, raising their voices along with his. Martin’s stooped, broad-shouldered form was not among them. Caroline supposed that he must be off somewhere doing the bidding of the chief engineer.

Slattery and his friends started rocking the cart back and forth, and a dull clang rang out as one of them struck the boiler with his fist. The rest promptly followed suit, and soon the squat iron tank was under a prolonged, noisy attack. The stallholder did not try to weather this battering for long, driving his dented boiler-cart off towards Vauxhall Bridge in a hail of oaths and stones, whipping his braying mule for all he was worth. The Irishmen patted each other’s backs, nodding with the curt satisfaction of a job well done. They paid visits to a couple of the surrounding stalls – which served them quickly, waving away payment – and then came back through the factory gates, joking with each other as they settled against a wall to eat. These were creatures from the Devil’s Acre, Caroline thought; that was their natural place. What could possibly have lured them out to this Yankee’s factory in Pimlico? It wasn’t just the daily wage, that was for certain. Amy was wrong – something was going on here.

Nancy, the girl across from Caroline, cleared her throat pointedly. This could only mean that Mr Alvord, their overseer, was approaching. Abruptly, Caroline turned from the window and reapplied herself to her labours. The drilling machine was about the size of a household mangle, but far more intricate and weighty in construction. Everything centred on the pistol part held in its middle by an elaborate clamp. This particular part was called the hammer, but to Caroline it looked more like a small twig or a wishbone. It was certainly hard to imagine this delicate piece of steel fitting into anything as deadly as a gun; hang it on a length of chain, she’d thought when first she saw it, and it would make a pretty pendant. Two different-sized holes had been run through the hammer presently fixed in the machine, which meant that there was one more left to do. The rotating head suspended before her held three drill-bits. At that moment, however, she couldn’t for the life of her remember which bit to use.

Compared with other factories that Caroline had seen – a few mills and potteries, glimpsed from the street – the machine floor of the Colt works was almost disturbingly quiet. The labour done there largely involved making adjustments, aligning clamps and so on; the machines were actually engaged for a few seconds only, and would emit no more than a high, rasping whine. There was the slapping of the belts, and the constant background hum of the brass driving cylinder overhead, but for much of the time the floor was swaddled in a schoolroom hush. The sound of men’s boots coming up behind her was thus clearly audible, and she stiffened at it; there were at least five pairs of them. Chancing a backwards glance, twisting momentarily atop her stool, she saw that the chubby, bland-faced Mr Alvord was surrounded by numerous others, more than she had time to count. They were all following an imposing bearded fellow, thick-set and tall, who looked like he knew his way around a gaming room – Colonel Colt, her employer.

Frowning in concentration, knowing that she must make a convincing display for the Colonel’s sake, Caroline turned the drill-head to the left. It slid around easily, with a heavy, well-greased clunk. She leaned over to pull the lever that would connect her machine to the spinning cylinder ahead.

‘Mr Alvord,’ said a deep Yankee voice at her shoulder, ‘if I’m not mistaken, this girl is just about to sink a second bolt-cam hole through that there hammer.’

This voice, of course, belonged to Colt. Caroline cursed her luck. Alvord was at her side the very next instant, smelling of bad teeth and root ginger, disengaging the belt, rotating the drill-head, apologising profusely for her stupidity. She looked around, thinking to assume her best servant’s manner and assure the Colonel that it wouldn’t ever happen again.

A small, hard eye was scrutinising her from beneath the brim of a strange Yankee hat. ‘That hammer is the most vital part of a Colt pistol, young miss,’ the Colonel said, not entirely unkindly. ‘It’s what marks us out from our main rivals in this city. You be sure to learn how to drill it properly.’ He swivelled on his heel so that he faced the overseer. ‘And Mr Alvord, p’raps you might like to deliver your lesson again. Although it is true that even the most slow-witted of humans can be trained in the operation of my machines, the rate of success does depend a little on the quality of the goddamn instruction.’ With this, the gun-maker strode away in the direction of the jiggers and the lock-frames – the heavier devices that shaped the central parts of the revolver.

Alvord, enraged and humiliated, pointed to the drill-head. ‘Start at position one, turning anticlockwise.’ He indicated each bit in turn. ‘That’s the hammer spring; the bolt cam; the main spring roller. If you don’t have it by the end of the day we’ll be replacing you in the morning, understand?’

Caroline nodded, repeating the names of the drill-bits. Alvord had already left, though, starting after Colonel Colt. She became aware that one of the Colonel’s followers had become detached from the train, and was lingering by her machine. Hands on the drill-head, she aimed a sly sidelong look in his direction. There stood a young man in an English frock-coat and top hat, a junior office type of the sort you saw perched up on the roofs of omnibuses bound for the City, smoking their cigars and surveying the streets below as if they were the rightful owners of all London. She supposed that this particular fellow was part of Colonel Colt’s English establishment. He had a cool quality about him, though, a watchfulness, that held an undeniable appeal. He was studying her closely. Pausing in her work, she put a hand on her hip and met his gaze, thinking to embarrass any ignoble intention that might be lurking in his mind.

Caroline recognised him – the straight, short nose and smooth brow, the neat, coppery whiskers, the faint quizzical cast to his lips. It was the gentleman she’d seen in the yard on that first morning, a fortnight previously. He tipped his hat to her and went after Colt.

‘The Colonel’s starting to fret,’ whispered Nancy knowingly. ‘That’s what it’s all about. Word is that he’s looking to show the factory off as soon as he can, to the Army and some government toffs most likely. But now, just as he’s got the engine running nicely at last, his chief engineer goes and gets hisself knocked senseless.’

Caroline met this rather absently. ‘What are you on about, Nance?’

Keen to be the bearer of gossip, Nancy leaned in closer, poking her flat, snub-nosed face between the raised parts of her machine. ‘The beatings, Caro – ain’t you heard? Mr Quill the Yankee engineer and his paddy assistant. Got served out something proper last night in Pimlico, up on one of Mr Cubitt’s sites near Warwick Square.’

The smart young man left Caroline’s mind at once. ‘What?’

Nancy was well pleased by this response. Nothing gave this sturdy factory veteran more satisfaction than to adopt the guise of the wise old hand with privileged information to share. ‘They’ll be all right, best anyone can tell,’ she said casually. ‘In a week or so, anyway. The Colonel’s got ‘em laid up in the Yankees’ lodging house over on Tachbrook Street. Brought in a doctor and everything. No one knows who done it. There’s stories aplenty, o’ course.’

This was why Martin hadn’t been down in the yard with Slattery. He was lying all bashed up in a Pimlico lodging house. Amy would be going mad with worry. Would he have thought to get word to her? Would he have been able to? Helplessly, Caroline looked around the long, dingy machine room; at the Colonel’s greasy metal contraptions, their operators hunched over them as if they were being slowly devoured; at the complex cat’s-cradle of machine-belts, flapping and tensing with the shifting of the levers. It was only late morning. There was no chance of her being able to get away before seven. When she’d been taken on, the foreman had stressed that any unexplained absence from your machine during factory hours would see you slung straight out the gate.

Caroline tried to return her attention to the drill-head, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Martin – of what had befallen him and Mr Quill after she’d spoken with them in the Eagle. Why would anyone attack them like that?

She could only come up with one possible answer. It had to be something to do with Pat Slattery.

All fifty of Colt’s female operatives were employed in the same region of the works, on the lighter machines, and they took their dinner together. They sat by the water trough in the centre of the yard, chattering and laughing as they ate. Caroline stayed apart from them, having no wish to listen to their excited speculation about the beatings. She’d bought a white onion and a piece of cheese, but frustration and worry had taken away her appetite completely. Pacing the factory’s boundary, she peered out through the railings, along the wide river in the direction of Westminster.

The bell rang, summoning them inside. It occurred to Caroline that she could just walk into the forging shop right then, confront Slattery and demand that he reveal everything he knew, for the sake of Martin’s wife and children. This was a tempting notion indeed. Crossing the yard to the sliding factory door, preparing to file in behind the other women, she imagined herself simply doing it: turning away from the staircase, weaving between the drop-hammers, approaching the Irishman as he stoked his fire and saying her piece with righteous, unchallengeable anger.

But there was no time; and besides, one of the Yankees would be sure to see her, Mr Alvord would be informed, and she’d be dismissed before you could say ‘main spring roller’. Caroline went back up to her machine and drilled hammers all through the grey, everlasting afternoon, fidgeting with agonised boredom. When the final bell eventually sounded she was the first down the stairs and out into the deepening darkness. She left by the pedestrian gate at the rear of the works, intending to learn what she could of Martin’s condition and then go to Amy. This gate led onto Bessborough Place, the shadowy, featureless lane that lined the factory block’s north-eastern side. From here it was only a short walk to the Americans’ lodging house on Tachbrook Street. A large corner residence at the street’s southern end, it had the grand, fresh-made look common to all of Mr Cubitt’s Pimlico; the Colonel clearly believed in ensuring the comfort of his senior staff. She could see a couple of them through the windows, lounging in a gas-lit sitting room, laughing over something they’d read in a newspaper.

Caroline straightened her bonnet, screwed down her courage and knocked at the front door. It was opened by an elderly male servant who studied her with a knowing leer, no doubt assuming an unsavoury reason for her call. She was about to explain herself when she noticed two people sitting on a bench across the hall, directly opposite the doorway. One of them was Martin. He had a blanket over his shoulders and a wide, blood-spotted bandage wrapped around his brow. His ribs, too, were bound, as was his right wrist; in all, he looked more like a stricken soldier than an apprentice engineer.

Pushing past the servant, Caroline started towards him. The other person on the bench rose to meet her, and she realised that it was the fellow from the machine floor – the smart young man with the coppery whiskers. He was holding his top hat in his hands, as if about to go out; his hair was thick and straight, combed back from his brow in a neat, dark diagonal.

‘You are acquainted with Mr Rea, miss?’ he inquired.

Caroline nodded. ‘He’s my sister’s husband, sir. She’ll be worried half to death.’

Martin hadn’t reacted to her appearance in the lodging house. This wasn’t so unusual. Her brother-in-law was prone to strangeness, his gaze icing over as he became sunk in his own private thoughts. That evening, however, he appeared to be barely conscious, swaying slightly where he sat as if drunk.

‘My name is Edward Lowry,’ the man said. ‘I am the Colonel’s London secretary.’ He spoke in a clear, polished voice, by the standards of the Colt factory at least – this secretary plainly had education, if not wealth or breeding.

‘Caroline Knox, sir,’ she replied, dropping a small curtsey.

Mr Lowry looked back at Martin. ‘The doctor says that Mr Rea here took several rather brutal kicks to the head, and remains seriously disorientated. He is set on returning to his home, though, as soon as possible. At once, in fact.’

‘Martin is a determined fellow, sir. Mulish by nature.’

‘The Colonel is upstairs, talking with Mr Quill. He has instructed me to honour Mr Rea’s wishes – to discover his address and put him in a cab. I was going to take him over to Moreton Street and flag one down.’

Caroline shook her head. ‘No cab will go where this cove lives, Mr Lowry. Let me ride with him. I’ll get the driver to drop us on Broad Sanctuary. I can get him back from there.’

‘Very well, Miss Knox.’ He smiled, rather pleasantly Caroline had to admit, meeting her eye for just a second longer than necessary; then he turned to the injured man on the bench and put on his hat.

Martin glanced up at them both, seeming to understand what they’d been discussing. His face looked wrong, lopsided and red, and scratched all over with angry cuts; the bandages had gathered his bushy black hair into a single unruly clump. He winced as if the dim lamp on the wall behind Caroline was painfully bright. ‘Let’s be off, then,’ he managed to croak.

The three of them tottered out into the street, Martin leaning heavily on Mr Lowry. They’d progressed about thirty halting paces along Tachbrook Street when there was movement somewhere behind them – rapid movement. Caroline felt a quiver of fear. Was it Martin’s mysterious assailants, come to finish the job, along with any who might be with him? But no; before she even had time to turn, she heard the muttering, the accents, and knew immediately who it was.

The Irishmen came from the direction of the factory. There was an odd, monkish detachment about them. They did not speak to or even look at Caroline and the secretary, closing around Martin like so many pallbearers and all but hoisting him from the pavement. Mumbling something, Amy’s name it sounded like, he barely noticed the change.

‘All right, men,’ announced Mr Lowry from his new position on the edge of this group, recognising the new arrivals as Colt workers and trying to take charge, ‘we’re moving him up to Moreton Street, just a few yards ahead. There I shall secure a cab, and instruct the driver to transport this poor fellow to his –’

Disregarding him entirely, the Irishmen started off in the opposite direction, back towards the factory. Caroline recognised one of them, a tall, bearded fellow named Jack Coffee, and called out to him. She’d met Jack on a couple of occasions when visiting the Devil’s Acre and had found him to be a mild, peaceable soul; a little slow-witted, perhaps, but friendly. Right then, though, he was in no mood to talk to her.

‘We’ll take him home, Caro,’ he replied quickly. ‘Don’t you be worrying none.’

‘I’ll come too.’

‘Come tomorrow. Our boy here needs t’ sleep.’

‘What of Amy and the children? I’ll –’

‘Leave ‘em be, will ye?’ spat another voice, higher and more nasal than Jack’s. She realised it was Pat Slattery’s. Half a head shorter than the rest, he was over at Martin’s other side. ‘Jesus. Don’t you have a life o’ your bleedin’ own?’

They picked up their pace, carrying their friend off at some speed. Caroline stood watching as they disappeared around a corner, heading in the direction of Westminster, smarting at Slattery’s harsh words. He knew who she was, although they’d never spoken before then. She guessed that he’d been given an unflattering report by Martin; he certainly didn’t seem to like her. Was he annoyed that she was also at Colt, perhaps, thinking that she’d interfere somehow in whatever they might be up to? She cursed herself for not returning his scorn in kind, and swore that she wouldn’t let him get away so easily in future.

‘It would seem that we are both surplus to requirements, Miss Knox,’ Mr Lowry said with a grin, taking a cigar from his pocket. He lit it, tossing the match in the gutter; then he turned towards her, considering something. ‘Would you have me walk you home, since I am already out here in my hat and coat? Whereabouts do you live?’

Caroline remembered the look they had exchanged up on the machine floor, and before that, out in the factory yard; and how both had been terminated. ‘Won’t Colonel Colt want you, sir?’

‘We have an appointment at eight,’ he answered, ‘which leaves me the better part of an hour. Besides, the Colonel instructed me to see a Colt employee to safety, and that is exactly what I would be doing. Pimlico has revealed itself to be a rather dangerous place of late, as you well know.’

Caroline found that she welcomed the thought of some company. Seeing her brother-in-law so reduced, and then being shooed away from him so curtly, had left her feeling a little odd; jarred, almost. She went over to Mr Lowry and took his arm, telling him that she had a room in Millbank, a short way past the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Together, they walked up to Moreton Street. He asked her how she’d come to be at the Colt factory.

‘Believe it or not, sir, it was down to those Irishmen back there,’ Caroline replied. ‘My sister told me that they’d found work at a new American pistol factory by the river, and that the Yankees were still hiring operatives for their machines. I was in urgent need, you see, having recently lost my position up in Islington.’ She paused. ‘I was a housemaid.’

‘I suspected as much,’ the secretary remarked, puffing on his cigar. ‘You have the diction of a good servant, Miss Knox, if I may say, and the bearing as well.’

Caroline glanced at him. ‘But not the temperament, Mr Lowry – or so they liked to tell me. When the family took a hard knock and half of us were made to go, I was the very first one they picked out of the line. My mistress wrote me a letter, but that was only so I’d leave without a fuss.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’d had enough of service anyway, to tell the truth. I wanted a change, and Colonel Colt seemed to fit the bill nicely.’

They arrived at the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Bright and noisy after the stillness of Pimlico, it was blocked by the usual unmoving chain of evening traffic. Fog was growing in the damp air, creeping around buildings, lamp-posts and carriages like soft mould. Caroline and the secretary stepped from the pavement, slipping between the stationary vehicles and the snorting horses reined up before them. As they reached the opposite side, Mr Lowry asked her who she’d worked for in Islington. She gave him a brief account of the end of the Vincent household. He recalled the case clearly, it turned out; it had even informed his own decision to join the Colt Company.

‘Four decades of unstinting labour and that is the fate that befalls you. Everything stripped away in an instant. A sudden plunge into despairing destitution, with suicide the only possible release.’ He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t prepared to take such a chance with my life. Like you, Miss Knox, I resolved to move on – to apply myself to something with a sense of real certainty about it.’

Caroline considered the sheen of Mr Lowry’s top hat, the crisp whiteness of his collar, the cigar smoking in the corner of his mouth; and she thought, you ain’t quite like me, though, are you, sir?

The wall of Millbank Prison came into view between two low terraces. Steeped in noxious fog, the monstrous building beyond was like a distant black cliff, forbidding and unreachable.

Mr Lowry looked over at it. ‘You live next to the prison, miss?’ he asked, the smallest trace of disquiet in his voice.

‘A couple of streets past it,’ Caroline replied. ‘Sometimes, from my window, I can hear those locked up inside,’ she added mischievously, ‘ranting and raving, and calling for help. They’re kept completely apart, you know – alone in their cells for all but one single hour of the day. Drives some of the poor beggars clean out of their minds.’

‘Good God.’ The secretary took a long drag on his cigar.

She led him on towards the lane that held her lodgings. ‘You think our Colonel is a certain bet, then, Mr Lowry?’

He returned gladly to his previous subject. ‘As near as is possible, Miss Knox, I’d say. The Colonel’s wares are peerless, as is his method of production. There’s demand for repeating arms at present – a vast, international demand. We’ve all been given a singular chance to improve our lot.’

Caroline was sceptical. ‘You’ve been given a chance, Mr Lowry, that I don’t doubt – but I can’t see the Colonel doing very much more for the likes of me.’

‘You cannot know that, Miss Knox. If you prove yourself a steady worker, you will rise. That’s the Colonel’s policy. Other departments will open in the coming months – a packing room, for instance – that an intelligent woman such as yourself could easily be placed in charge of.’

She studied his smile as best she could in the gloomy lane. He was perfectly sincere. ‘Hark at you,’ she murmured, giving his arm a teasing tug, ‘Colonel Colt’s little organ-monkey, dancing away to his tune.’

Smiling still, Mr Lowry inclined his head. ‘A fair description, I suppose.’

They had arrived at the plain mid-terrace house in which Caroline rented her room. Half a dozen other young, unattached women also resided there, mostly shop-girls from the West End; the landlady, Mrs Patten, would be sitting in the back parlour as usual, keeping up her watch on the comings and goings of her tenants.

Caroline released Mr Lowry’s arm and went through the gate, rather sad that their conversation was about to end. Taking a walk with a handsome, well-dressed gent who held a clear liking for you would generally be pleasant, of course, but there was more here than that. His hopefulness, his absolute conviction that things would soon get better for them both, was heartening indeed; Caroline wasn’t sure that she believed any of it but it was good to hear. Missing the warmth of him at her side, she drew in her shawl and thanked him for escorting her home.

The secretary bowed. ‘It was my pleasure, Miss Knox. I can only hope that we will see each other again soon, around the pistol works. And please, do not allow the events of last night to upset you unduly. No lasting damage has been done. Mr Rea will be back in the engine room before you know it.’

Caroline hesitated, thinking of Amy and the children; she would go over to Crocodile Court later on, Pat Slattery be damned. ‘Will they try to find out who did it – and why?’

Mr Lowry took a last puff on his cigar and flicked the end into the road. ‘I can’t imagine that Colonel Colt will just let it pass.’

Caroline nodded, then bade him good night and walked up the path to her door. He was still standing at the gate when she closed it behind her.

## [5]

‘What in blazes happened, Mr Quill?’ said Sam, leaning down towards the bandaged figure sprawled on the bed. ‘What goddamn sons of bitches dared to do this to you?’

The engineer shifted in the amber gaslight. One entire side of his round face was covered by a continental map of angry bruises. His right forearm had been splinted and bound across his chest, the old sailor’s tattoos mostly hidden beneath his dressings. ‘I counted ten – no, twelve of ‘em, Colonel,’ he wheezed through his swollen lips. ‘Sticks, they had – and great labourin’ boots…’

Walter Noone turned from Quill’s bedside. ‘The bottle’s done for this dumb bastard as much as any goddamn beating,’ he muttered, straightening his military coat. ‘He won’t be right for a couple of days, more’n likely.’

Sam stood back up, unable to disagree. He stalked across the room to the window. It gave a clear view of the Colt premises, slotted neatly between Bessborough Place and the rusting iron cylinders of the Pimlico gasworks, with Ponsonby Street running across the front. The machines had stopped for the day but lamps still twinkled at the windows, and barrows of coal were being wheeled in through the factory door from a barge moored over at the wharf, ready for the following morning. At last, after countless setbacks, it was starting to look like a decent operation – a viable prospect. But just as there was a chance of some real progress, this had to go and happen. Sam didn’t have the time for it, quite frankly, not when there was so much pressing business to attend to. A raw ache of vexation pulsed through him; it felt as if his forehead was about to burst open like a ripe boil.

Noone was at his side, arms crossed, a trusted lieutenant ready to draw up a plan of action. ‘It was no robbery,’ he said. ‘Ben Quill ain’t the sort to have anything of value on him – leastways, nothing that’d warrant a working-over like this. Any thief worth his salt would see that.’

‘So what’s your theory, Mr Noone?’

‘Ben and his Irishman were targeted. Hunted down.’ Noone’s voice was insistent. Sam realised that despite his usual stony composure, the fellow was angry; fire-spitting furious, in fact. ‘This is a message, Colonel – these cocksuckers knew exactly who they were beating on.’

Sam almost asked who might do such a thing, but found he could easily summon several suspects to mind. ‘I’m inclined to agree. We’ve been denied the one man who is vital to the factory’s continued operation. They just about got the engine going this morning without him, but any problems to be seen to or fine-tuning to be done and…well, to be blunt, Mr Noone, we’d be in a proper goddamn fix.’ Struck by a notion, he turned to address the engineer. ‘Were they Bulls, Mr Quill? Were your attackers Englishmen?’

Quill attempted a nod, and tried to lift his unbandaged arm. ‘Aye, Colonel, so I believe. They knew I was an American, too, and cursed me for it.’

‘Adams,’ Sam pronounced. ‘Has to be. He’s trying to trip us up.’

‘We must meet this, Colonel,’ said Noone. ‘It can’t go unanswered. You give the word and I’ll gather up some men – pound these motherfuckers flatter’n hammered shit.’

Sam eyed the watchman carefully. This was where the trouble could start. One poorly chosen word and Walter Noone would be out breaking skulls on the streets of London, gratifying that well-known taste for inflicting pain. The Colt Company would be made to leave London in disgrace, and the nay-sayers back in Connecticut would be proved entirely correct. It was a crucial moment, in short, and a firm hand was required.

‘Don’t you be telling me what I should or should not do, Mr Noone,’ he snarled. ‘And keep your poundings to yourself. Such measures ain’t necessary just yet.’

Noone remained impassive. He wasn’t best pleased, but he was still a soldier at heart and could take an order. ‘Then we must at least permit our Yankee boys to wear their own pieces when they’re outside the works. They must be allowed a fighting chance should they be attacked as well.’

Sam shook his head, growing impatient now. ‘I’ve been making pistols for long enough now to know that if you let our men wear ‘em in the streets of London they’ll damn well get used. It surely don’t need to be pointed out to you that should a Colt Yankee gun down a half-dozen Bulls in their own capital city it’ll go very badly for us, regardless of the circumstances. I’ve been telling these people that the Colt revolver is a peacemaker, Mr Noone. I can’t be seen to be wrong on that.’

The gun-maker rubbed his brow, trying to relieve the pressure beneath. It was useless; bourbon whiskey was required as a matter of urgency. He lowered his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the stiff screw of Old Red that lay within.

‘Stay alert,’ he instructed. ‘Patrol the lanes around the factory and this lodging house. If you see anyone skulking about, you chase ‘em off with my blessing – but hold your goddamn horses, d’you hear? There’ll be a better way to manage this than the spilling of blood.’

The Colt barouche cut across two lines of traffic, sweeping up to the pavement. Sam wiped at the window with his glove, clearing a small rectangular block in the film of condensation that covered it. They were on the edge of Leicester Square, a region of the city which he knew well. During the Great Exhibition two years previously he was to be found there on an almost daily basis; it housed several of London’s largest and most popular shooting galleries, and was thus the prime spot to give practical demonstrations of a gun-maker’s wares. The building he was looking out at now, however, was an unfamiliar one. They’d come to halt before a set of smart double doors, flanked by glowing gas-lamps and sheltered beneath a striped awning that was fast filling with rainwater. An ornately engraved brass plaque identified this as the entrance to the Hotel de Provence – the designated meeting place.

Sam glanced across at Mr Lowry, who was sorting papers in the barouche’s shadowy confines with his customary air of keen efficiency. The gun-maker was pretty satisfied with this young fellow – yet more testimony, he thought, of my skill when it comes to selecting my people. The London secretary was possessed of a cool, understated cleverness, and was already quite committed to the Colt Company. He was prime manager material, in short, the sort who might be given a serious post a few years down the line. Of course, there was still a fair bit of shaping and schooling to be done before then.

‘Now you stay sharp in there, Mr Lowry,’ Sam told him as he prepared to exit, raising his voice over the steady drumming of rain against the carriage roof. ‘I don’t know quite what to expect from this fellow, but I’ve yet to encounter a politician who ain’t a slippery shark. You be sure to make a damn close record of what’s said, for our future reference. And I needn’t tell you that if he so much as hints at what befell our Mr Quill and his mick last night, you’re to deny everything.’

‘Naturally, Colonel.’

Hopping out across an overflowing gutter, Sam rushed up to the hotel’s doors and pushed his way through. Someone took his coat and hat and directed him towards the restaurant. It was a long, warm saloon, overlooking the illuminated frontages of the various exhibition rooms and billiard halls that fringed Leicester Square. Lively conversation buzzed all around, much of it in French; Sam recalled that the southern part of Soho was home to a great many citizens of France, displaced by the revolutionary upheavals in their own country. An effort had been made to create what he supposed was an authentically Parisian atmosphere, which meant plenty of polished brass and plush crimson upholstery, well-groomed, supercilious waiters with tiny moustaches, and large paintings of idyllic country scenes across the walls. A number of the diners caught sight of Sam; heads turned, and that familiar ripple of recognition ran through the room.

The Honourable Lawrence Street, MP, was waiting at a table at the rear of the room, that weird white-blond hair of his shining against the restaurant’s biscuit-coloured wallpaper. The little man was working his way through a newspaper with a cold, systematic air, a pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose. As Sam approached he folded it away and stood – awkwardly puppet-like as before – to shake the gun-maker’s hand.

‘And who is this?’ he inquired, eyeing Mr Lowry with some suspicion.

‘My private secretary,’ Sam replied, ‘one of the Colt Company’s Englishmen. I hope you don’t object.’

Street made no comment. He removed his glasses and tucked them inside his waistcoat.

A yellow rectangle appeared in the corner of Sam’s sight; the Colt barouche was cruising past the restaurant’s wide windows, its mustard panels glittering in the wet evening.

‘That is quite a vehicle, Colonel,’ the Honourable Member remarked as he sat back down, gesturing towards the other chairs set around his table. ‘It would be a lie to say that I’d seen a finer one this year.’

‘I spend more time in that there carriage than I do in my bed, Mr Street,’ Sam said, signalling for a waiter. ‘An uninterrupted ride across this city is an out-and-out impossibility, what with the omnibuses and the hackney cabs and all the goddamn livestock, so I feel it’s best to be comfortable while I wait. Now, would you kindly tell why you wished to see me?’

‘Straight to the business at hand, as always.’ Street compressed his lips into a tight smile. ‘Very well. A couple of matters recommend themselves to your attention. Firstly, I feel it is my duty to inform you that your enemies, alarmed by the great leaps of progress recently made within your factory, have begun to organise themselves.’

Sam sat up. ‘Not that bastard Bob Adams?’

Street paused thoughtfully for a second, as if making a mental note. ‘No, Lady Cecilia Wardell. You remember her from the reception at the American embassy? She has gathered several supporters around her, Evangelicals I’ve heard, and aims to cause you whatever difficulty she can.’

The gun-maker snorted dismissively. A waiter had arrived at his side. ‘What’s it to be, then, Mr Street? Champagne, ain’t it, with you Bulls?’

‘My thanks, Colonel, but I require nothing.’

Sam ordered bourbon for himself. After the waiter had retreated, he asked to know what the other matter was.

The Honourable Member made a small adjustment to his shirt-cuffs. ‘I have heard, Colonel, that you are a great believer in the power of endorsement by a famous name. It has come to my attention that a prominent foreign celebrity is in London – someone whom I believe it would benefit you to befriend.’

Now this was more interesting. ‘Who is it?’

‘A freedom-fighter in the true American mould,’ Street said, delaying the disclosure for a few seconds – attempting, in his low-key way, to build a bit of anticipation. ‘Lajos Kossuth, the rightful regent-president of Hungary.’

The gun-maker made no effort to hide his disappointment. Was this meeting to be a complete waste of his time? ‘Well, how about that,’ he muttered, pushing back his chair and crossing his arms.

Street was unconcerned by this reaction. A flicker of insight passed across his features. ‘You know him already.’

Sam sneered up at the ceiling. ‘I met Mr Kossuth in the Turkish town of Vidin, Mr Street, shortly after he’d been obliged to flee his homeland and the vengeance of the Austrian Emperor. I was travelling around Europe at the time, acquiring patents and the like, when it came to me that I might find a customer in the Sultan. That gaudy little parrot turned me away – a decision he’ll live to regret. Anyways, I had a week or two to spare, there was talk of trouble on the Hungarian border, I had some guns to shift, so I decided to head on over and see what was what. One day I happened to find myself in the same place as the renowned Lajos Kossuth. Naturally I paid him a call.’

Street was wearing that tight smile again. ‘You wander the world a good deal, do you, Colonel?’

‘Such is the lot of the gun merchant. Conflict don’t come to him, most of the time, so he must go to it – sniff it out as best he can.’ The whiskey arrived in a cut-crystal decanter, accompanied by a single squat glass. Sam reached for it and poured his first drink. ‘At any rate, I quickly came to realise that Mr Kossuth and I could do no business together. All he had to offer in exchange for my arms was some fine ideals and a good deal of long-winded speechifying. This is often the trouble with revolutionaries and freedom-fighters, Mr Street, in my experience. They just ain’t a decent prospect for custom.’

The Honourable Member nodded. ‘Well, poor Mr Kossuth is still rather impecunious, I’m afraid. I’ve heard that he is obliged to reside at present in a barrack house in Clerkenwell, in fact, as the guest of a chapter of Chartists.’ This was said with a measure of both pity and disgust, as if it was akin to setting your bed in a sewer. ‘Nevertheless, Colonel, I feel that it could be useful for you to give him a private tour of your factory.’

Sam fixed this queer little man with a long, careful look. Had Street been making promises to the Hungarian exile? Was Kossuth perhaps under the impression that discounted or even free weapons would be offered to him by the Colt Company, so that he could arm his scattered cohorts and reestablish his vanquished republic? This was something that would have to be set straight right away.

‘Much as I respect Mr Kossuth and his struggles,’ the gun-maker said slowly, ‘I must point out that such tours are only worthwhile when there’s a chance of a goddamn sale as a result of it.’

Street set his hands together on the tabletop with the air of someone about to embark upon an explanation. ‘I take it, Colonel, that you are aware of the ever-increasing belligerence between Russia and Turkey, and the bullying conduct of Russian diplomats in Constantinople?’

Sam indicated that he was. His interest in the grievances that lay behind this deepening dispute was limited – something to do with the supposed entitlement of Orthodox Christians living within the Ottoman Empire to Russian protection. It all sounded entirely contrived to him, a mere excuse for a bit of the sabre-rattling of which these ancient empires were so very fond. He was keeping a close watch on it, though. From where he stood, it was a pretty promising situation.

‘Great Britain has taken against Tsar Nicholas,’ the Honourable Member continued, ‘as he is unquestionably the aggressor, and every Briton shares an instinctive loathing of oppression of all kinds.’

For a moment, Sam considered saying a few words about the British and oppression, but managed to hold his tongue.

‘Lajos Kossuth, also, is a notable victim of Russian antagonism. It was the Tsar’s alliance with the Emperor of Austria, and the assistance of his massive armies, that enabled the easy rout of Mr Kossuth and the dismantling of his young republic. The regent-president remains a famous and popular man. If he were to visit your pistol works, the press would be certain to attend, and in significant numbers. A great many Englishmen would read of your support for him. It would serve as an effective demonstration of the Anglo-Saxon bond we discussed at Buchanan’s.’ Street met Sam’s eye. ‘In addition, you would find that Mr Kossuth has allies of real influence. Being seen to show sympathy for his plight would send out a clear message to these people. It would show them that they can trust you – that you are their kind of fellow.’

Sam knocked back his drink. Something else was going on here, for certain; the Colt Company was being used for some deeper purpose. He looked over at Mr Lowry. The secretary was studying Mr Street with subtle distrust. Street was working a scheme – they both saw it. But whatever the Honourable Member might be plotting, Sam got the sense that the success of his factory was part of the plan. It was worth playing along for now.

‘Very well, Mr Street,’ Sam said, reaching for the whiskey, ‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

## [6]

‘He’s a pretty slick son of a bitch, ain’t he, that Lawrence Street. Lajos Kossuth – Lord Almighty, that would never have occurred to me. Not in a thousand years.’

The Colonel picked up the cut-crystal decanter he’d removed from the restaurant, took another swig straight from the neck and then went back to loading the Navy revolver that hung from his right hand. The pint or so of whiskey that he’d already imbibed was making this rather difficult, however; Edward had already been obliged to chase several dropped bullets across the sand-scattered floorboards.

The secretary was sitting beside his employer, smoking a penny cigar. They were in Marchant’s Shooting Gallery, on the opposite side of Leicester Square to the Hotel de Provence. It was a rough-edged establishment, a whitewashed vault with a gun-rack at one end and an assortment of lime-lit targets at the other. A split log had been laid out about twenty yards from the targets to mark the firing line. All of the customers were male, mostly of the sort you’d expect to find clustered around a cock-fight – battered hats, loud chequered trousers and well-patched jackets were present in abundance. There was some money mixed in there too, though, a conspicuous minority of dissolute-looking gentlemen taking an evening away from Society. Rifles were the near-universal choice of weapon. Due to the effects of liquor and a general lack of expertise, the fire across the gallery was intermittent and less than accurate; but several spirited contests were underway nevertheless, with cash changing hands and victors crowing in triumph.

Colonel Colt, with his revolver, his crystal whiskey decanter and his outlandish, fur-lined attire, was attracting the usual amount of attention. He’d been unimpressed by Marchant’s at first, declaring it a poor example of its kind and discoursing at some length on the inferiority of the guns on offer. But now, settled on the periphery with his belly full of strong liquor, a wad of tobacco in his cheek and a presentation case of pistols open on his lap, he looked about as comfortable and content as Edward had ever seen him.

They’d left the hotel about half an hour earlier. A waiter had pursued them outside, attempting to reclaim the purloined decanter from the Colonel’s grasp; tucking a banknote in the fellow’s waistcoat and waving him away, Colt had run an eye around the coloured lights of the square, soon settling upon Marchant’s. The mustard-coloured barouche had drawn up beside them. Opening the door and leaning inside, the Colonel had retrieved a box of Navys from the small stock that was kept on board and headed over to the shooting gallery. Following close behind, Edward had imagined that he wished to fire off a few shots with one of his inventions to dispel the aggravation he’d doubtlessly accumulated during his conversation with the inexplicable Mr Street – who’d remained seated at his table, unfolding his newspaper and returning his glasses to his nose almost before they’d risen from their chairs.

The secretary knew that he had witnessed something important in the Hotel de Provence. This Mr Street seemed to be going out of his way to further the interests of the Colt factory. There could be no doubt that hidden forces were working towards the achievement of their own ends. He’d decided that he would learn more.

‘Who would’ve thought it, though,’ Colt drawled, picking up the Navy once more and taking a bullet between thumb and forefinger. ‘Kossuth, a committed opponent of tyranny, held up as a hero by the British!’

‘Excuse me, Colonel?’

The gun-maker laughed nastily. ‘You forget that you’re talking with an American here, Mr Lowry! We can still recall fighting our way out from under your tyranny, my young friend.’ He looked around the gallery with jolly ferocity. ‘Why, not ten years ago I myself was occupied with designing weapons – undersea mines of extraordinary power – expressly to keep our American harbours safe from the threat of your goddamn ships.’

Edward picked a shred of tobacco from his lip, curbing a smile. This seemed a pretty blatant refutation of the so-called ‘Anglo-Saxon bond’ mentioned by Street in the Hotel de Provence – and which the Colonel had taken to inserting into his correspondence with British military figures and politicians at every opportunity. The Colt mind was clearly broad enough to encompass the odd contradiction.

Finally managing to slot the last bullet into his pistol, the Colonel worked the loading lever and then set the hammer against one of the cylinder pins. Lifting the revolver up to examine it, chewing slowly on his plug, his meaty face assumed a look of almost reverential appreciation. ‘This arm here,’ he declared, ‘is so much finer than the wretched Adams I held in the office of that idiot Paget as to make any comparison downright odious.’

The shining blue and brass Navy was starting to draw notice, as was surely Colt’s intention. Slowly, he turned his head and released a long spurt of tobacco juice onto the range’s sandy floor.

‘Mr Kossuth is not admired by everyone, Colonel,’ Edward volunteered. ‘His boldness in attacking emperors and tsars in his public addresses has made him many new enemies in the palaces of Europe. Louis Napoleon wouldn’t let him so much as set foot in France – and over here, during his last visit a couple of years ago, the few government men who extended a friendly hand found none other than Queen Victoria herself seeking their removal from office.’

‘Queen Victoria herself, eh?’ the Colonel mused. He took another drink, smacking his lips; and then casually spat out his plug, sending the little brown projectile sailing away into a far corner. ‘Perhaps that right there is Lawrence Street’s design, Mr Lowry. Colt revolvers may be out of poor old Kossuth’s reach, but the spectacle of this fearless republican touring my factory – just taking a friendly interest – might be enough to make your Victoria sit up on her goddamn throne and have a hard think about how long her soldiers can really afford to be without my arms.’

Edward coughed hard on his cigar, somewhat startled by this easy talk of rattling the monarch. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the Colonel’s concise strategic summary, and was pleased to have been included in his confidential deliberations. Beneath Colt’s coarse, colourful exterior lay a canny businessman – one who would consider a situation in depth, seeking the advantage. But what could Mr Street possibly be looking to gain from all this? Why would he, a member of Her Majesty’s Parliament, want it to seem that there was an understanding between Colonel Colt and the Hungarian revolutionary? Who was this person?

Before he could frame another query, the Colonel picked up the Navy by the barrel and offered him the stock. Distracted by his ruminations, the secretary accepted it without comment. The weight – and the pistol felt heavy indeed – made him realise what had happened. He looked at his employer enquiringly, but the gun-maker was already up on his feet, hands cupped around his mouth.

‘Mr Marchant!’ Colt yelled above the chatter and the gunfire. ‘Where the hell are you? Mar-chant!’

Seconds later, a squat man with a velvet eye-patch was standing before the American, regarding him dubiously. ‘What is it?’

‘D’you know who I am?’

The man – Mr Marchant – nodded. ‘I ‘ad a suspicion, sir, and upon ‘earing you speak I would say that you’re the Yankee what’s set up a pistol factory down by the river.’

‘Colonel Samuel Colt is my name, and that there in my man’s hand is the latest model of my patented six-shot revolver. You ever had a revolver in this place before, Mr Marchant?’

A small crowd had gathered around them. I am to play the squire, Edward thought wryly, rising from the bench. The Colonel will swagger to the firing line, survey the targets and then hold out his palm with steely nonchalance; I shall approach, obediently place the loaded Navy in it, and retire. Colt was having a fine old time. A rich seam of showmanship ran through him, Edward saw – he plainly relished being up in front of the public with just his wits and his product, making his pitch.

Marchant’s doubtful manner had not been altered by confirmation that he had a globally renowned gun-maker on his premises. ‘We ‘ad one a while back – British made, a five-shooter. Prone to misfiring, it was. I sold it on.’

Colt glowered impressively, his chest swelling beneath his patterned waistcoat. ‘The work of an inferior goddamn imitator, Mr Marchant,’ he roared, ‘and nothing whatsoever to do with me. That there six-shooter of mine don’t damn well misfire, and it has power like nothing you’ve ever seen.’ He paused, gesturing towards the secretary. ‘Mr Lowry here will oblige you with a demonstration.’

Edward barely managed to mask his alarm. There was an expectant murmur from the crowd, and a passage swiftly cleared between him and the firing range. Was this some manner of drunken Yankee joke? The Colonel knew full well that he was the very greenest of gun novices. This had been openly confessed when he’d applied for his position, and had even been accepted as a virtue of his candidacy; he’d argued, rather eloquently he’d thought, that he would be able to see the factory’s proceedings as business only, unhampered by the distortions and prejudices of the enthusiast. No one had contradicted him.

Colonel Colt was retrieving his whiskey from the bench, his expression unreadable. In any other circumstances Edward would have considered protesting his lack of expertise, but he could hardly do so now without embarrassing both himself and his employer. A challenge had been laid before him, he realised, and he could not hesitate. The performance must be flawless. He looked down at the long black pistol that jutted from his fist, regarding it anew. You have in your hand the means to kill a man, he thought, this very instant, as easily as pointing.

Clearing his throat, Edward walked over to the firing line. He placed a boot upon the split log and raised the gun. Although heavy, the weapon was perfectly balanced, the dark walnut stock sitting well against his palm. The mechanism was straightforward enough. He’d watched it enacted on unloaded pieces countless times, but had never once considered picking up a revolver and trying it out. This had plainly been noticed.

The secretary cocked the hammer with his thumb. There was a locking noise in the body of the gun, a sound like the passage of gears rotating towards a decisive, irreversible conclusion. Edward ran his tongue quickly over his top lip. The trigger was tense now, the catch on a coiled spring; he settled it into the first joint of his index finger. He could feel the pulse of his blood against the tempered iron. A cold bead of sweat rolled down his neck. Shutting one eye, taking aim as best he could, he squeezed.

The Navy jolted back against his hand, sending a tremor up his entire arm. The report was deafening, double the volume of every other weapon on the range, with a solid slam to it that was a world away from the weak fizz and pop of Mr Marchant’s ageing rifles. Edward did not dare to lower the pistol, in case he dropped it or discharged a bullet into the floor, nor did he attempt to see whether he had hit the large circular target that was mounted before him. Instead, pulling back the hammer, he fired again, and again, until the cylinder was empty and the pressure of his finger produced only impotent clicks. The six shots had gone off impossibly fast, more rapidly than the eye could blink, and without the slightest hint of a misfire; the staggering advantage of the Colt revolver had been ably displayed. Mr Marchant and his customers were completely silent, stunned by the close succession of blasts. As the haze of gunpowder smoke drifted aside, Edward saw that a couple of black dots had even been punched in the outer rings of the target.

‘There we have it,’ said the Colonel, stepping forward and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘He ain’t exactly a great marksman, is he, but did you see the speed at which he got those bullets off? Could you feel the raw power behind the shots?’ There was a general mutter of agreement. Colt caught Marchant’s eye and nodded towards the bench. At one end, the second Navy from the presentation set lay in its case. ‘That there six-shooter,’ he pronounced, ‘entirely virgin and unfired, is now the property of Marchant’s Shooting Gallery, with the compliments of its inventor. Which of you fine gentlemen, I wonder, will be the first to shoot six straight bull’s-eyes with it?’

The move towards the pistol could only be described as a clamour. Marchant made it first, luckily for him, grabbing the Navy from the case and holding it in the air, shouting for order as he did so. Colt looked on with grave satisfaction, loudly imparting the address of his London sales office and some of his current prices.

Edward stood fixed to the spot, his feather-light guts fluttering around inside him. He brought the Navy down, breathing hard. He’d passed the Colonel’s unexpected test. Firing the revolver – reaching out across such a distance and delivering a series of impossibly swift, piercing blows – had been a truly astonishing experience, filling him with an excitement so pure it was almost not to be trusted. The sense of destructive strength as he’d worked through those six shots was dizzying, invigorating; yet also numbing somehow, laced with blackness, utterly devoid of reason. Edward found that he wanted both to set the pistol down for good and reload it immediately for another try.

‘Nice work, Mr Lowry,’ Colt said with an approving nod. ‘Orders’ll be the certain result of this little display, from both Marchant and a few of his wealthier regulars. Not worth much in the grand scheme, but it keeps people talking.’ He took a last slug from the crystal decanter and then dropped it carelessly on the floor. ‘Come, we must be off. We have to unearth that sottish stick-insect Alfie Richards from wherever he’s buried himself and start putting together a show for Mr Kossuth. Right this minute.’

Edward looked at the weapon in his hand. A thin line of smoke still twisted from the cylinder. Dazed and a little disappointed, he started towards the crowd at the bench, intending to give it to Mr Marchant.

Colt stopped him. ‘I want you to keep that there pistol, Mr Lowry.’

‘Pardon me, Colonel?’

‘I want you to keep it, I said. Hang it on the wall, take it to ranges, show it off to your sweethearts.’ The gun-maker slapped his shoulder again. ‘Consider it a gift.’

‘Lawrence Street is his name. He’s in the Commons – a Whig, I should think. D’you know him at all, Saul? Chilly little cove with white-blond whiskers – wears eye-glasses.’

Saul Graff did not answer for almost a minute. He sucked on the cigar Edward had given him, absently pushing a last morsel of devilled kidney around his plate with his fork; then he cast a look around the low brick cavern in which they sat. The Cider Cellars on Maiden Lane, chosen largely for its proximity to the Hungerford Bridge Pier and the steamer to Pimlico, was occupied by the usual early evening crowd, an eclectic assortment of literary, governmental and legal types. It was formidably noisy, a close, smoky basement in which the drinkers and diners were packed together like figs in a drum. Their table was in one of the cellar’s furthermost corners, tucked away in a small alcove beneath a candle-blackened archway. Edward leaned back against the wall behind him, feeling the thudding, grinding vibrations of the early evening traffic up on the Strand.

‘This is exactly what I imagined might occur in that factory,’ Saul said at last, grinding the cigar out in a pool of congealing gravy. ‘Manoeuvring. Offers of interested friendship. Back-room deals. And I should have guessed that it would come from the likes of Street. What a blasted idiot I am!’

Edward sipped his sherry. ‘So you do know of him.’

Saul loosened his necktie, sitting back in his chair. A rather thin, large-eyed creature, dressed as always in a dark costume a little like an undertaker’s, he had a dense black moustache and a light manner that he used to hide the deeper analytical workings of his mind. ‘I do, Edward, yes. Of course I do. He’s a whip on the Liberal side, and something of a tin-pot Machiavelli. Should Lawrence Street come knocking upon your door, there’s a fair chance it’ll be to do with an intrigue of some kind. They say that his first loyalty is to Lord Palmerston – who in turn places great value in Street’s endeavours.’ He gave Edward a meaningful look. ‘Your Colonel has caught an interesting eye there, and no mistake.’

So there it was: the link with Lajos Kossuth. The famously brazen Lord Palmerston had been the Hungarian’s most prominent supporter during his previous visit to England, even going so far as to invite Kossuth to Broadlands, his country seat. This was done in open defiance of the Queen’s wishes, leading her to seek his dismissal as Foreign Secretary; only fear of public outcry at the removal of an enduringly popular minister had prevented this. Two governments had fallen since then – events in which Palmerston had not been uninvolved – and he was presently Home Secretary in the coalition cabinet of the Earl of Aberdeen. It was rumoured, however, that he took little interest in his duties there, occupying himself instead with plotting and the careful undermining of his rivals – thus making his current ministry as weak, compromised and ineffectual as every other part of Aberdeen’s administration.

‘Are you implying that Street is courting Colonel Colt on Lord Palmerston’s orders, Saul?’

Graff smiled slyly, knitting his eyebrows into dark diagonals. ‘Perhaps. Involvement with an arms manufacturer would be well outside Pam’s official jurisdiction as Home Secretary – but then, he’s not exactly known for respecting such boundaries. Still sticks his nose into the affairs of Clarendon’s Foreign Office without any hesitation whatsoever, from what I hear. The old dog’s far more concerned with the goings-on there than in his own department. They say he’s making a proper nuisance of himself over this unfortunate business between Russia and Turkey – insisting that our navy intervene and so forth. It’s hard to see quite what his angle would be in this affair, though…’ Saul became lost in strategic musings, poking at the softened wax around the rim of their candle with his forefinger.

Edward finished his drink. He did not have much longer. ‘What might your man make of it all?’

Snapped from his meditations, Saul blinked; then he laughed. ‘The Honourable Mr Bannan is a committed radical, my friend. He has dedicated his political life to securing the vote for the many thousands of our working men presently denied their rightful voice in the Commons. Our noble Home Secretary is an implacable and very powerful enemy to this particular cause. Mr Bannan therefore welcomes any information I can bring him that may pertain to Lord Palmerston’s latest piece of scheming. And this – Lawrence Street seeming to make introductions for the Yankee gun-maker Samuel Colt – will certainly get his attention.’ He pushed away his plate. ‘You have my thanks, Edward. I wasn’t sure, in truth, if you would be prepared to talk with me about matters such as these. It was never my intention that you should become my eyes in the Colt factory, or anything of that nature.’

Edward smiled thinly at this flagrant falsehood. ‘I’ve told you this, Saul, because I’m seeking an explanation myself. I’m coming to learn that Colonel Colt explains his actions only up to a point. If I’m to get on in his firm then I feel that I should at least be able to make an informed guess about the rest.’

Saul laughed again. ‘My word, how well you’re taking to this new world of yours! Such ambition, such initiative! You, old friend, are a natural man of business.’ He raised his glass in an amiable salute. ‘I am happy to oblige, and look forward to any future exchanges of information – mutually beneficial and entirely innocent, of course – that we two might make.’ After drinking down the remainder of his sherry, Saul hesitated, leaned in a little closer and asked, ‘What of the women?’

Edward rolled his eyes. The question did not surprise him. In contradiction to his rather cerebral appearance, Graff had always been a keen and active admirer of the fairer sex. Back when both men had been junior clerks at Carver & Weight’s, before Saul left for his current career as a parliamentary aide, Edward would regularly be recruited for pursuits over great stretches of London, after a group of dressmakers or governesses or even gay women who’d caught his friend’s undiscriminating, ever-vigilant eye.

He looked impatiently at his pocket watch. ‘The factory girls, you mean?’

‘Several dozen, are there not? Under your very roof?’

‘I believe the number is close to that. Most are rather ugly and unkempt, as you’d expect.’

‘But not all, eh?’ Saul was grinning. ‘You blasted rogue, Lowry.’

With a small grimace, Edward relented, telling of how he had walked Miss Knox home a couple of nights previously. He kept his description fairly brief. It did not seem necessary to mention that he’d found himself thinking of her several times since; that he’d taken to imagining her hand slipping around his side, pulling him closer, and her head tilting back to receive his kiss. He was a little embarrassed by this, in all honesty – by the fact that despite all his professional poise he could be so easily affected by a pretty face and an engaging manner.

‘And have you sought her out since?’

Edward shook his head. The meeting he was due to attend at the factory that night – with the American staff, after the operatives had been discharged – would be the secretary’s first stop in Pimlico in nearly a week. Lajos Kossuth’s crowded calendar of engagements had obliged the Colt Company to agree to conduct his tour of the works the very next Tuesday, only four days after the conversation with Street at the Hotel de Provence. Edward’s every waking hour since had been spent bound to the Colonel, under the somewhat haphazard stewardship of Alfred Richards, travelling between the offices of various publications, buying drinks and meals for Richards’s extensive circle of acquaintances and generally doing anything the press agent or gun-maker could think of to secure some last-minute coverage of the Hungarian’s visit in the newspapers. Edward had thus been denied all opportunity to arrange a second encounter with Miss Knox. This was both a frustration and a relief. He wanted to see her again, very much; but he was acutely aware that a dalliance with a drill operator might well hinder his ascent to the Colt Company’s upper reaches. On balance, it was best left alone.

Saul was visibly disappointed by this lack of progress. ‘Edward, did you learn nothing while we were together at Carver’s? It never pays to linger. You must be bold, my friend. This is a factory girl, for God’s sake, not some curate’s daughter who requires a ring on her finger before she’ll even take your hand. You must act.’

Edward rose from the table, tempted to point out that Saul’s pursuits had almost invariably ended in some form of humiliation for them – and that his friend had met the woman to whom he was currently engaged through the exertions of his mother. Instead, he simply ducked out under the blackened arch, directing a sardonic, sidelong look at Graff as he went.

‘I must catch a steamer to the factory,’ he said. ‘The Hungarian is due at ten tomorrow, and there’s a good deal still to arrange. But I thank you sincerely, Saul, for your interest.’ He nodded towards their plates. ‘I’ll let you stand for this one.’

Colonel Colt, clad in a powder-blue Yankee coat, stormed before the bandstand that had been erected over the factory’s water trough and threw his arms in the air, urging the dozen musicians perched upon it to play louder. They tried their best to obey the gun-maker’s impatient command, blowing hard on flutes and coronets and banging away at drums, but this still wasn’t enough to drown out the party of protesters that had gathered outside the Ponsonby Street gate. These people were singing a hymn – the Lord’s Prayer set to a rather turgid tune – and held aloft placards on which they had painted biblical passages. The largest read: The Righteous One takes note of the house of the wicked, and brings the wicked to ruin. At their head was a pale, majestic lady in a costly emerald-green dress and a black shawl and bonnet. Watching from across the yard, Edward realised that this must be Lady Wardell, the committed enemy of Colt that Lawrence Street had spoken of. Those around her had the upright deportment and sober clothing of city Evangelicals, the kind that one might see taking aristocratic Sabbath breakers to task on Rotten Row or performing missionary work within London’s foulest rookeries. Their hymn ended, and one among them, a man of the cloth from the look of him, started to rail against the evils of the weapons trade in a deep, imposing voice. He appealed to the Colt operatives to leave the American’s clutches and seek decent Christian labour instead.

‘The Apostle Matthew teaches us to love our enemies, not destroy them with revolving pistols!’ he cried. ‘To bless those who curse us, to do good to those who hate us, and to pray for those who persecute us, that we might be the sons of our Father in Heaven! My brothers and sisters, you must turn yourselves away from this infernal factory and the instruments of death it will produce!’

Edward stood with Alfred Richards in front of the factory block’s sliding door, beneath a hastily painted banner that proclaimed ‘Col. Colt Welcomes Kossuth’, and pictured the Old Glory, the Union Jack and the gaudy flag of the short-lived Hungarian Republic intertwined in everlasting friendship. Beside them was the American staff, plainly uncomfortable in coats and neckties, swapping obscene remarks about Lady Wardell and her protesters. Half a dozen newspapermen, all loose stitching, scuffed elbows and four-day beards, were positioned a little further towards the gate, their notebooks at the ready. The main body of the London workforce, numbering around one hundred and fifty, had spread itself across the yard before the warehouse, bunching around the bandstand, chattering loudly. Instructed by Gage Stickney to clean themselves off in the factory washroom before coming outside, they presented a slightly less grubby aspect than usual, but this wasn’t saying too much.

It looked, in all, like the setting for some kind of popular ceremony. The visit of Lajos Kossuth was being made to serve as the public unveiling of the factory – the event that would announce Colt’s arrival in London to the world. Despite the unruly workers, the Colonel’s evident peevishness and the disruptive efforts of those at the gate, Edward was growing excited. This, he thought, is the proper start of it.

Richards wore a frock-coat the colour of old Madeira with a ruffled shirt, and appeared surprisingly well. There was still something tarnished and moth-eaten about him, though, as if he was a rather neglected stuffed peacock instead of the actual living bird. Glancing over at the demonstration he let out a theatrical groan. ‘It would seem that we are this week’s cause,’ he declared, his nasal voice dripping with contempt. ‘How confoundedly tiresome.’

As the street sermon continued, intruding upon the jaunty music of Colt’s band, the tolerance of the assembled workers was soon used up. They started to heckle, telling the sermoniser to get himself back to church or shut his trap. When this did not deter him they started up a steady barrage of mud, dung and stones. A direct hit to the forehead with a jagged pebble effectively ended the lesson; the preacher stepped back unsteadily among his companions, accepting a handkerchief from Lady Wardell herself with which to staunch the blood that trickled across his face.

Even before this unexpected protest had commenced the morning had not been going smoothly. From the moment it had opened the factory had been alive with talk of a second beating, this time of three English operatives from the shaping machines. It had occurred on Lupus Street, significantly closer to the Colt premises, and limbs had been broken; one of the victims was said to be so badly hurt that he would not be able to return to the works. The general reaction to this news had been fearful, but some among the Americans were angry. Walter Noone, in particular, had been positively incensed, taking the attack as a personal insult. He’d insisted on a private conversation with the Colonel in the factory office, during which he’d no doubt laid out the case for immediate vengeful action. It was fair to assume that this hadn’t gone as he’d hoped, however, as he’d emerged from the office even more enraged than he’d gone in. Right then, in the minutes before Kossuth’s arrival, the watchman was marching intently along the perimeter of the factory, drawing nervous glances from protesters and Colt workers alike. His weathered, inexpressive features were visibly straining, like a door about to break open before some great force pushing against it from within.

‘So, Mr Lowry,’ said Richards, chuckling at the smart cessation of the sermon, ‘I understand that you were present when this little visit was conceived.’

‘I was, Mr Richards.’

The press agent grunted cynically. ‘He does very well indeed, this Mr Kossuth, for such a wretched failure. Forced to abdicate, driven into penniless exile, sent trailing around the globe like a bloody mendicant – yet still hailed as a living saint by the plebeian million wherever he damn well pokes his head up.’ He crossed his arms, leaning back against the sliding door. ‘Really rather depressing, is it not?’

Edward was attempting to refute this assessment when he was interrupted by a loud clatter of hooves over on Ponsonby Street, and the sudden flash of yellow panelling. The Colt barouche, sent to collect Kossuth from his Clerkenwell boarding house some hours earlier, cut swiftly past Lady Wardell’s party and drove across to the bandstand to hearty cheers; on cue, the musicians struck up a brisk version of ‘Hail Columbia’. Colonel Colt strode over to take his place before his men. He turned to Edward and muttered that Mr Kossuth was to be presented with a pair of their finest Hartford Navys if he took to the stand and addressed the factory.