McQuillan must have sensed Pyke’s line of thinking. ‘Look,’ he said, quickly, ‘I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s no. Sobers wouldn’t let any of the crew near her and I told my lads if I caught any of ’em within ten feet of her, they’d be flogged and thrown into the brig for the rest of the journey.’
‘Ten weeks at sea, perhaps longer, a beautiful woman on the ship. You can see how it might affect someone.’ Pyke waited. ‘For all I know, perhaps even you might have been tempted.’
McQuillan gave him a wary stare. ‘Perhaps you’re misunderstanding me. She might’ve liked the attention but she was educated, and in spite of her colour, she looked down on us, like we weren’t good enough for her. Any of the men tried to do anything more ’n look at her, she would’ve come screaming to me in a second.’
‘And perhaps you let her cry on your shoulder?’ Pyke said it but somehow he couldn’t see it.
McQuillan just laughed. ‘Have you seen the state of me? You think she’d have given me a second look?’ But this time, there was something in his eyes that made Pyke think otherwise.
Still, he nodded, deciding to let it go for the time being. ‘Did she say anything about her plans when she got to London?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘But she must have said something. Ten weeks at sea is a long time.’
‘She did ask a lot of questions about London; whether it was as cold and dangerous as she’d been told,’ McQuillan said, frowning. ‘I got the impression she was planning to settle here.’
‘I understand,’ Pyke said, frustrated. ‘But I suppose what I’m asking is whether she had any specific questions about particular parts of the city.’
McQuillan scratched his chin. ‘Not exactly, but she did mention Mayfair a few times, wanted to know what kind of a place it was.’
Mayfair? Why had she asked about Mayfair and then taken a room on the Ratcliff Highway?
‘Did she say why she was interested in Mayfair or whether she knew anyone who lived there?’
‘I don’t know.’ McQuillan thought about it for a moment. ‘But what I do remember was what happened when we docked. There was a carriage waiting for her by the quayside. I thought she’d be pleased that someone had come to meet her but this fellow and her had a right to-do in front of the carriage. She didn’t want to go with him and told him that in so many words. She had a tongue on her, that’s for sure. But he was insistent and in the end she agreed to go with him.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘The fellow?’
Pyke nodded.
‘About your height and build, your hair colour too except slightly greyer. Attractive, I suppose. Well dressed, olive skin. Slightly full of himself, I’d say.’
Pyke felt a spike of excitement rip through his stomach. McQuillan had just described Alefounder.
‘Did you hear her call him by name? William perhaps?’
‘No, afraid not,’ McQuillan said.
‘But you’re certain about the description?’ It would be something to throw back in the trader’s face.
One of the crew appeared on deck and McQuillan waved him over. They had a brief conversation, hushed so Pyke couldn’t hear them, and then the young man ambled off towards the gangway. McQuillan joined Pyke and apologised for the interruption. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘William Alefounder? Does the name ring a bell?’
The captain rubbed his eyes. ‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘What did Sobers do while all this was happening on the quayside?’
‘That’s the thing. He didn’t budge. The whole trip, he was protective of her. Some of the men got angry about it. Called him an uppity nigger and threatened to cut him. Then she gets into this big argument in front of everyone and he doesn’t lift a finger to help her.’
‘And when she went off in this carriage, what did he do?’
‘Took his case, said goodbye and wandered down the gangplank like nothing had happened.’
‘Anything else you can remember about them? However unimportant it might seem?’
McQuillan waited for a moment. ‘I did overhear them mention the word kill-devil on a few occasions. I asked her about it once. She told me it was the name folk give to rum.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
The captain just shrugged. ‘I got the sense it was something more. Like it was code for something.’
Pyke heard something in the distance and turned around. McQuillan looked, too, and said, ‘Seems you brought out a welcoming party.’
There was a pack of men, led by Rowbottom and the foreman, heading in the direction of the ship. Pyke thanked the captain for his help, but by the time he’d crossed the deck and negotiated his passage back to the quayside, they were nearly upon him. Looking around, Pyke picked up a piece of wood and turned to face his pursuers. Up close he saw that Rowbottom’s neck was bandaged where he’d pressed his knife into the flesh. There were ten men including Rowbottom and the foreman. None was armed, as far as he could tell, but Pyke didn’t doubt that if things didn’t go their way, there would fifty or a hundred men ready to step into the breach. No one liked to see blood spilled as much as a docker. He swung the piece of wood at one of the men and looked around for a possible escape route. None was forthcoming. Behind him was the ship and the water. The foreman grinned, as a hunter might do, snaring a wild beast. He took out a cudgel and wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘The cull here’s due a terrible beating.’ Tapping the cudgel against his open palm, he took a step forward; the others, except for Rowbottom, did likewise. They had almost surrounded him. Pyke looked behind him and saw McQuillan and some of the crew watching proceedings from the ship’s deck. They weren’t hostile but he knew he couldn’t count on their support. If it came down to it, they would be as quick to fight him as the dockers. He swung the piece of wood and forced the foreman back a step or two.
‘This is private property,’ Rowbottom said, ‘and you’re trespassing. We’re within our rights to defend ourselves as we see fit.’ Surrounded by his men, he was no longer the terrified clerk Pyke had encountered in his office.
Pyke did the only thing he could and retreated back up the gangplank to the deck of the Island Queen. Two men tried to follow him but he pulled the plank from under their feet and watched as they fell into the water. Rather than confront the remaining eight, Pyke ran along the length of the deck and clambered down the rigging back on to the quayside. The rest of the dockers were ten, maybe fifteen yards behind him; Pyke could hear them panting; he could hear their shouts. Other dockers heard the shouts and stopped what they were doing. Some tried to block his path. Pyke ran around the quayside as far as it took him and ducked into one of the warehouses. He had to push through a group of stevedores, one of whom tried to rough him up, but Pyke pushed the man backwards into the others.
It was a rum warehouse; row upon row of rum casks stacked on shelves that extended right up to the roof. Clambering up to one of the giant barrels, he waited until the stevedores had picked themselves up, and some of his original pursuers had entered the warehouse, before rolling the barrel on to its side and letting it fall to the ground to crush the men unlucky enough to be beneath it. The barrel cracked against the stone floor, a sweet, pungent smell filling the air. Pyke did likewise to the barrel next to it and then took out a box of matches, lit one and let it fall on to the liquid. The reddish flames raced across the floor, preventing any of the men from following him. Seizing the chance to put some distance between himself and his pursuers, Pyke retreated farther into the warehouse, paying no attention to the fast-spreading fire, and found a window that he was able to crawl through at the back of the room. From there, he clambered down on to the quayside again, where he was spotted by the foreman and a couple of his men. They chased him towards the high brick wall that surrounded the entire dock area.
The first man came at Pyke with just his fists. Pyke ducked inside the first punch and swayed back to avoid the second. Then he landed two of his own, a left-right combination to the man’s head, which put him down. Another man came at him but Pyke surprised him with a sharp kick to his shins; the man’s head fell and Pyke brought his knee up into his face. Then it was just the foreman and his cudgel. Others would arrive soon if Pyke didn’t finish this quickly. The foreman lashed at him with the cudgel, missing his cheek by a whisker, but Pyke caught him by the wrist, twisted it and forced the cudgel from his grasp. The blunt implement fell into Pyke’s outstretched hand and in the same movement he smashed it against the foreman’s mouth and felt the man’s jaw dissolve. He fell to the ground holding his mouth, blood rushing down his chin.