The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith

Twenty years ago, my grandfather gave his life defending your company’s shipping from pirates. Now, all I ask is some preferment, an opportunity to join the Company’s service and prove my worth.’

      Childs stared at him as if he were a ghost.

      ‘Leave us,’ he ordered his men.

      They withdrew. Childs studied the boy. For decades, now, he had governed the East India Company as his personal domain, stretching out his tentacles from this office in Leadenhall Street to the furthest corners of the globe. Kings and Parliaments had come and gone, some of them claiming the Company was too powerful, that its monopoly should be withdrawn. He had seen them off, broken his competitors and outlived them all.

      Courtneys, too, had come and gone. For a time, they had been useful servants and helped him build up the Company fortune. When that ceased to be the case, he had dispatched them as easily as he had done his enemies, with never a prick of conscience. From his home at Bombay House, he had sent Tom Courtney to be murdered by his brother William. To his surprise, Tom had sprung the trap and turned the tables on William, but that had not troubled Childs. Tom had fled, a wanted murderer, and William’s seven per cent holding in the East India Company had passed to his infant son. Childs had had little difficulty persuading the widow to sell it to him on the most advantageous terms, cementing his control still further. He had all but forgotten young Francis Courtney.

      Now the boy stood before him, grown almost to manhood. A livid welt coloured his neck where the men had choked him; his face was pale, but firm with the unyielding pride Childs had seen twenty years ago in his grandfather Hal. He thought that this was a lad who could be useful, or dangerous.

      ‘My boy,’ he adopted a more kindly and avuncular tone, ‘come closer where I can see you better.’

      It was an act: his body might be failing, but his blue eyes remained as clear and sharp as his mind.

      Francis took a few hesitant steps forward.

      ‘I am sorry you were so roughly handled,’ Childs said. ‘My enemies have many spies, and will stop at nothing to thwart me and this noble company. I trust you were not seriously hurt?’

      Francis rubbed his side. He could already feel the skin tightening as the bruises formed.

      ‘I am a little hungry, your lordship.’

      ‘Of course, of course.’ Childs rang a hand bell that stood on the corner of his desk, and bellowed for the servant to bring food. ‘Now, my boy, take a chair and tell me everything. How do you come to be here? If you had written, I could have given you a kinder reception.’

      Francis lowered himself painfully into the chair. ‘My stepfather died last week. He left me nothing but the golden lion.’

      Childs mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I am sorry to hear it. Your mother probably never told you, but I always took a keen interest in your upbringing. The way your father died – I am afraid I feel some guilt for it. You see, I was the last man to see your uncle Tom before he committed the murderous deed. I have always asked myself, was there something I could have said or done to change his course? Could I have discerned what he intended, and taken steps to prevent it?’

      He broke off in a fit of coughing, dabbing his mouth with the handkerchief. It came away dabbled with specks of fresh blood.

      ‘I’m sure you are beyond reproach, sir,’ Francis protested.

      A troubling thought nagged him as he remembered those last frantic moments with his mother.

      ‘May I confide in you, sir?’

      ‘Of course, my boy. As your own father.’

      ‘Before I left home my mother made a most outlandish suggestion. She said – she believed – that my uncle Tom may be innocent of the crime. She said he only killed William in self-defence.’

      Childs shook his head so hard, all his chins wobbled. ‘She is mistaken. Grief has addled her wits, poor woman. I saw William Courtney in the House of Lords the day he died. The concern he expressed for his brother, the love and affection he bore him – no man could doubt it. That very day, he told me, he intended to advance Tom ten thousand pounds to fit out an expedition to rescue their brother Dorian, who had been seized by pirates – though it later transpired that the boy was dead. But that was not enough for Tom Courtney. He ambushed William on the Thames path late at night, demanding a greater share of their father’s inheritance, and when William refused Tom cut him down without mercy.’

      Francis shuddered as he imagined the scene. ‘You are sure of it?’

      ‘I had a full report from a boatman who witnessed the entire tragedy. Even after so many years, I remember every detail.’

      A servant knocked and entered with a silver tray. He set out the dishes on Childs’ desk, mounded platters of roast meats, and poured two glasses of claret from a crystal decanter. It was all Francis could do to wait until the servant retired before he fell upon the food.

      Childs ate almost as ravenously as Francis did. Gravy dribbled down his chins and dripped onto his shirtfront.

      ‘Do you wish to avenge your father?’ Pieces of food sprayed from his mouth as Childs asked the question. He went on without waiting for a reply. ‘Of course you do. You are a Courtney, and I know well what blood runs in those veins of yours.’

      Francis took a gulp of wine. ‘Yes, sir. But I do not understand—’

      ‘Your presence here today is most auspicious; it is almost as if fate guided your footsteps. You see, a week ago a ship from the Indies docked at Deptford. The Dowager, under Captain Inchbird. He brought a most remarkable tale. Twenty-two days out from Bombay, near the coast of Madagascar, he was attacked by a pirate and nearly taken. It was a fierce fight by all accounts, but while he was gallantly fending off the enemy a small sloop joined the fray. Her captain was none other than Tom Courtney.’

      Francis felt the room spin around him. The pictures on the wall seemed to press in on him, and the wine throbbed in his head. ‘That cannot be, sir. Tom Courtney died in Africa while I was a child. My uncle Guy confirmed it.’

      ‘Your uncle was wrong. Tom Courtney is alive and well, trading along the coast of Africa. Inchbird believes he resides in Cape Town, when he is not at sea.’

      Childs put down his knife and fork. ‘You asked me for a position in the Company. For the love I bore your grandfather, and our long association with your family, I will gladly give you a clerkship with your uncle Guy in Bombay, and free passage on one of our ships. But I can give you more. The vessel will call at the Cape en route to Bombay. It may be there some weeks, provisioning and watering. If you wish, you will have time to disembark. You could find your uncle, if he is there.’

      Francis chewed a piece of pork, struggling to take in this latest intelligence. Childs leaned forward. Wine stained his lips the colour of blood.

      ‘When Tom Courtney fled England, we offered five thousand pounds for his capture. I, personally, guaranteed the reward. It still stands. Five thousand pounds,’ Childs repeated. ‘A princely sum for any man, let alone a youth of your age just starting to make his way in the world. And if you invest it wisely in Bombay, you could double or triple the sum by the time you return.’

      Francis tried to imagine that much money. He imagined returning to High Weald in a coach and four and taking possession of the house. Establishing his mother in her own apartments, scrubbing off the years to make it the bright, happy place he remembered from his youth.

      The wine was hot inside him. He knew he should not drink so fast on a famished stomach, but he couldn’t resist. He felt sure there was more he should ask, important questions about Guy and Tom and his inheritance, but Childs’ tone brooked no discussion. When he poured more wine, Francis drained it gratefully.

      ‘This is the revenge you have waited for your whole life,’ said Childs. ‘A chance to settle unfinished business for both of us.’

      The St George medallion still lay on the desk, half