would say was a pile of depraved rubbish and which ought never to have been published.
‘It was quite a nice cellar,’ Joe offered. ‘He gave me paints and things.’
‘Just drop it, Tournier, I know it’s you. I have your name and your description.’
‘Sir, I … far be it from me to tell you anything, but there are a thousand Joe Tourniers, and most of them look just like me.’
Herault stared at him for a long time. ‘I’m sure you’ll reconsider after a week in Newgate,’ he said. ‘And even if you don’t, Kite will come for you.’
Joe lifted his eyes properly. ‘Colonel, Captain Kite isn’t going to come for me. Captain Kite doesn’t know me.’
‘We’ll see,’ Herault said tightly.
Joe didn’t know what to hope for: that Kite would stay away, or that Kite would come.
All he could think of was two teams of horses waiting outside Buckingham Palace.
41
Edinburgh, 1807
There were fireworks on the deck, and a lot of rum going round. Kite had given up on keeping anything like a proper watch going. All of Edinburgh seemed be out on the docks tonight. There was music and more fireworks and the occasional squeak of someone too drunk falling in the sea, both from the jetties and the ships. And bonfires everywhere; people were burning the wreckage of the two French ships whose powder magazines had exploded.
They had taken a ship called the Angleterre, and given the atrocious state of Agamemnon, everyone had moved across, along with what must have been half the crews of the rest of the fleet. The hold, delightfully, was full of coal, so now there were braziers everywhere.
Kite felt hollowed out. There was nothing left to do.
He had nabbed the desk and the far end of the Angleterre’s stateroom before anyone else could, which was just as well. Over the other side of the room, around a mahogany table, a group of captains and officers from other ships were in the middle of an involved-looking card game, coats slung over the back of the ornate chairs. Some of them were snugged up under velvet throws. The French captain had been living quite a nice life.
Had been; Kite had shoved him in front of a firing squad, along with all the French officers. The man had seemed to think that was unfair, and remained unpersuaded even after all the English officers pointed out that a lot worse was waiting for them in London if ever they were caught. Kite thought that was boorish of him. If you were going to dismember people outside Buckingham Palace, it was silly to go round being surprised when someone shot you.
The French sailors had been pressed firmly into English ranks.
‘Wellesley! Almond croissant?’ someone called.
His insides constricted. He had been trying to avoid Wellesley.
He put the cross of his rosary back into the candle again. It was haematite, because the wooden ones always got burned or broken.
‘Have you seen Mr Kite?’ Wellesley’s voice asked. She sounded like she was halfway through a croissant.
‘He was here, we must have put him somewhere. Oh, bugger. Fold.’
‘I’m here,’ he called past the oriental screens. Cowardly to hide. Smoke rose delicately from his arm as he pressed the cross against the tattoo. There were already two burned crosses over most of the lines already.
He hadn’t really decided to get rid of it. He had just known he had to, as soon as he sat down. Normally he couldn’t be anywhere near open flame without dissolving into shuddering moronhood, but this was different, maybe because it was to a purpose. The important fact wasn’t that he was burning off a tattoo. It was that Joe was gone, and he wasn’t coming home again.
Wellesley came through. ‘Has Clay’s cat put something in the fire again? I can smell— Jesus Christ! What if that goes bad!’
‘I burned half my face off without too much difficulty, I think I’ll be fine,’ he said, half-smiling. ‘Are you all right?’
Wellesley stared at him. ‘You’re not even drunk.’
‘No?’
‘Can you drink something please, sir,’ she said, with a mix of rage and helplessness all battened down. She reached over to pick up the rum bottle from the edge of the desk, then froze when Kite flinched right back from her. He lifted his hands a little, trying to say without having to find the words that his nerves were frayed to oakum.
‘Just the bottle,’ she said carefully.
Kite gave it to her.
‘Look, I can see this must be Mrs Castlereagh-related, and I suppose in theory