Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(63)

‘Yes please,’ said Beverley, and to my utter amazement she whipped off her jumper and bolero in one sinuous movement, stepped out of her leggings, and with a memorable flash of naked brown limbs, threw herself into the water. Isis and I had to step back smartly to avoid being drenched.

Oxley winked at me and looked at his wife. ‘Are you coming in too, my love?’

‘We have another guest,’ said Isis primly. ‘Some of us still have manners.’

Beverley surfaced and stood in the river up to her waist with a cheeky grin and bare breasts. Her nipples, I couldn’t stop myself noticing, were large and stiff. She turned her gaze on me, heavy-lidded and suggestive. If her mother had been like the undertow of the sea, then Beverley was as irresistible as a swift clear river rushing through a hot summer’s afternoon.

I’d already started unbuttoning my shirt when I felt Isis’s hand on my arm.

‘You really are the most extraordinarily gullible young man,’ she said. ‘What on earth are we going to do with you?’

Oxley ducked under the surface. Beverley looked at me with her head cocked to one side, a sly smile on her lips, and then she slipped down into the water.

Isis offered me a seat at the plastic garden table and then, muttering under a breath, collected up Beverley’s discarded clothes, folded them neatly and draped them over a drying rail by the back door. Oxley and Beverley had been out of sight for more than a minute. I looked at Isis, who seemed unperturbed.

‘They’re going to be at least another half-hour,’ she said, and made us tea. I kept an eye on the water as she bustled but there weren’t even bubbles. I told myself they must have swum out of the pool and surfaced beyond the trees somewhere but I wasn’t very convincing, even to myself. She gave me the now standard assurances as she poured and offered me a slice of Madeira – I said no thank you. I asked her if she remembered a Henry Pyke. She thought the name was familiar.

‘I’m certain there was an actor of that name,’ she said. ‘But there were always so many actors, so many beautiful men. My good friend Anne Seymour had a mulatto footman who could have been your brother. He was a terror for the kitchen maids.’ She leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. ‘Are you a terror for the kitchen maids, Peter?’

I thought of Molly. ‘I’d have to say no,’ I said.

‘No, I can see that,’ she said, and sat back in her chair. ‘He was murdered,’ she said abruptly.

‘The footman?’ I asked.

‘Henry Pyke. Or that was the rumour. Another victim of the notorious Charles Macklin.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A most terrible Irishman,’ said Isis. ‘But a splendid actor. He’d killed a man once already at the Theatre Royal in a dispute about a wig, stabbed him in the eye with his cane.’

‘Lovely,’ I said.

‘Had that Irish temper, you see,’ said Isis. Macklin had been a successful actor in his youth who retired in his prime to run a gin house which promptly went out of business. Forced back on to the boards, he was an ever-popular fixture at the Theatre Royal. ‘They loved him there,’ said Isis. ‘You always saw him in his favourite seat in the pit just behind the orchestra. I remember Anne liked to point him out.’

‘And he killed Henry Pyke?’

‘According to the gossip he did, for all that there were half a dozen witness said he did not,’ she said.

‘Were these witnesses friends of Macklin?’

‘And admirers too,’ said Isis.

‘Do you know where Henry Pyke is buried?’ I asked.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was just a bit of scandal at the time. Though I would have thought St Paul’s, since that would have been the proper parish.’

She meant St Paul’s Covent Garden, of course – the Actors’ Church. Things kept coming round to that one bloody spot.

There was a splash, and Beverley came running onto the wharf as if there was a set of stairs hidden under the water. She was as dark and sleekly naked as a seal, and you could have fired a shotgun past my ear and I still wouldn’t have looked away. She turned back to the river and jumped up and down like a kid.

‘I beat you,’ she said.

Oxley came out of the river with as much dignity as a naked, middle-aged white man could be expected to have. ‘Beginner’s luck,’ he said.

Beverley threw herself into the chair next to mine. Her eyes were bright and water was pearling on her arms and on the smooth skin of her shoulders and the slopes of her breasts. She smiled at me, and I tried to keep my eyes on her face. Oxley padded over and sat down opposite and, without preamble and ignoring a look from Isis, grabbed himself a piece of Madeira.

‘Did you enjoy your swim?’ I asked.

‘There are things down there you wouldn’t believe, Peter,’ she said.

‘Your hair’s wet,’ I said.

Beverley touched her straightened hair, which was beginning to frizz. I kept watching as she suddenly remembered she was stark naked. ‘Oh shit,’ she said, and gave Isis a panicked look. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Towels are in the bathroom, dear,’ said Isis.

‘Laters,’ said Beverley, and ran for the back door.

Oxley laughed and reached for another slice of cake. Isis slapped his hand. ‘Go and put some clothes on,’ she said. ‘You appalling old man.’ Oxley sighed and went into the bungalow, Isis watching him fondly as he went.