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
