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
