The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford

to honour his father’s memory.

      Amos stopped. Sniffed again. And decided to buy a meat pie. His mouth was watering so much he simply couldn’t resist.

      Within seconds he spotted the man with the cart and increased his pace. As he drew to a standstill the vendor touched his cap respectfully. ‘Evenin’, guv. Want a cornish or a meaty?’

      ‘A meat pie. With plenty of gravy, please.’

      ‘Best in Whitechapel me wife is, best cook is wot I means a’course.’ The vendor took a pair of tongs, clamped them on a pie and showed it to Amos. ‘See its crusty top? Bootiful brown, guv.’ As he spoke the man placed the pie in a small white paper bag, picked up a ladle of gravy and dribbled it over the pie.

      ‘How much is it?’ Amos asked, anxious to take a bite.

      ‘Tuppence, guv.’

      Amos paid, took the bag with the pie, bid the man goodnight and walked off; he was smelling the pie with pleasure, waiting for it to cool. A moment or two later Amos went and sat on a wall under a street gas lamp, and slowly munched on the meat pie, savouring every bite, enjoying himself more than he had in a long time.

      The pie was his supper, and such a treat. Much tastier than the slice of bread and cheese Lydia perpetually offered him, or her other mainstay, cold lamb on a bread bun. He sighed to himself, hating his sudden critical thoughts of his wife. She wasn’t well, really. Poor Lydia. It was her migraines which bothered her the most. And sometimes rheumatism. Poor Lydia. Full of aches and pains. Always miserable. Never a happy thought these days. Poor Lydia. Indeed.

      Amos had demolished the pie in short order, and now as he wended his way down towards Limehouse, he decided he needed a drink. Perhaps a pint to wash down the pie, he decided. Why not?

      The Black Swan was hereabouts…the Mucky Duck the locals called it. As it hove into sight Amos hurried his steps, was swinging in through the double doors within seconds.

      At the bar he asked for a pint of bitter, and swigged some of it down immediately it was in front of him, frothy, delicious. Good beer. He might even have another one.

      The bartender came back, peered at him in the murky gaslight. ‘Used ter be a copper round ’ere, din’t yer?’

      ‘That’s right.’ Amos smiled at him. ‘Retired now. Finnister’s the name.’

      The bartender chuckled. ‘I remembers now. Sinister Finnister we used ter call yer.’

      Amos laughed with the man, drank up his beer, put his money on the counter, said goodnight and promptly left. He set out again for Chinatown in Limehouse, an area filled with small shops where all manner of goods were sold, from silks, clothes and jewellery to medicines and herbs; Chinese laundries, Chinese shops, restaurants and even opium dens also dotted the streets. Amos loved the food the Chinese made, and had forgotten about it until this moment. He had fallen hard for the fragrant wafts of the pies of his youth, and had succumbed. Too late now to partake of the Chinese food. Another night.

      It was not long before Amos reached his destination. Mr Fu Yung Yen had a small shop set back from the street; the light was burning in the window as Amos hurried towards the door. After rapping several times, and proclaiming, ‘It’s Amos Finnister,’ the door was finally opened.

      Fu Yung Yen was dressed in a long black cotton gown with a small standup collar; he had long pigtails and a round porkpie hat was perched on top of his greying hair.

      He smiled when he saw Amos, and said in his whispery voice, ‘Come inside. Cold night.’

      The shop was dimly lit and there was a strong smell of spices, herbs and roots in the air. Mixed in was the whiff of camphor and perfumed oils. It was not an unpleasant smell, and Amos never minded coming to the shop.

      ‘How is wife?’ the Chinaman asked, smiling.

      ‘Bad migraines again, Mr Yung Yen. I need her usual headache powders, please.’

      The Chinese herbalist nodded and went behind the counter, began taking portions of white powders out of various pots. Finally, after pounding them together, he poured the mixture into a small paper packet, sealed it and handed it to Amos.

      ‘I need the ointment for her aches and pains…pains in the limbs.’

      ‘Ah yes. Understand. My balm.’ This too was quickly produced, already in its own small glass pot.

      Leaning over the counter, looking at Mr Yung Yen intently, Amos handed him a small piece of paper. ‘Do you happen to have this in stock?’

      The herbalist read it, and nodded. ‘How much you need?’

      ‘Whatever you think.’

      ‘For one good long sleep, yes?’

      Amos nodded.

      ‘Wait minute.’ The Chinaman disappeared through a door and it was a while before he finally returned. He put a small package wrapped in purple paper on the counter.

      ‘Thank you,’ Amos said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

      Smiling, Fu Yung Yen made out a bill.

      Amos read it, read it again, took out his money and paid without protest.

      After putting the various packets away in his overcoat pockets Amos nodded. ‘Good night, Mr Yung Yen. And thank you.’

      ‘Come back.’

      ‘I will,’ Amos answered, but as he left the shop he wondered if he ever would.

       TWENTY

      It was late when Edward Deravenel left Lily’s house, much later than he had intended. And now as he crossed Belsize Park Gardens and headed towards the main road he realized hansom cabs were scarce in this area. There was not one in sight.

      Glancing around again, noting that the road was almost devoid of traffic, he set out to walk, telling himself he would come across a hansom in no time at all.

      Striding out at a rapid pace, heading for Primrose Hill leading towards the centre of London, his mind automatically went to the numbers in the notebook and the conclusion he and Alfredo had finally come to earlier, that there was some kind of trouble with the mines producing gold and precious gems. The number for Burma had not been written in the notebook and so they both presumed the production of sapphires was continuing without problems as it had for some years.

      The man who approached him had sprung from up from nowhere, or so it seemed to Edward.

      ‘Egscuse me, guv,’ the man said in a guttural Cockney voice. ‘Can yer tells me ’ow to get ter ’ampstead? I be lost.’

      Edward shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I can’t,’ he replied, as polite as always. ‘However, if you keep heading north I think you’ll be going in the right direction.’

      The blow came from behind, the heavy truncheon striking him on the shoulder and then on the back. The brute force of the blows brought him to his knees, and he cried out, clutching at the air as he fell, almost as if he were reaching out for the stranger who had just spoken to him. The man was not there, Edward realized, he had disappeared.

      Another blow came down, this time on the crown of his head. Edward fell forward instantly, his face hitting the ground. He was knocked out, unconscious.

      There were three men altogether, the pedestrian who had distracted the target and the two giant bruisers who were armed with truncheons. The three men conferred for several seconds, then one of the assailants bent over Edward, peered at him, then straightened.

      ‘Don’t t’ink e’s breeving, mebbe e’s dead,’ the assailant whispered, and straightened. ‘Best we get goin’ afore the bleedin’ coppers get ’ere.’

      The men ran off down the road. It was so deserted