The Devil’s Knave

I wrote the first draft of The Devil’s Knave for submission to an anthology. It ballooned beyond the allotted word count but their loss is your gain!

The Devil’s Knave will be completed, chapter by chapter, between June and November 2026, exclusive to my newsletter subscribers. You’ll get the final chapter just before Halloween!

Chapter 1. 1838: The Stranger

“Holy Mary, mother of God, what has he done to you, girl?” The door slammed before the patrons could hear the rest of Hettie’s outrage or the sobbing from within the room, but the horror in her voice did nothing to diminish the satisfaction on McKenzie’s face as he sat and uncorked the bottle that awaited him. The girl had learned a few things tonight. Painful lessons but the best always were.

“Another one ruined, Mac? Even Hettie has her limits.” The smile on his foreman’s face was for McKenzie’s benefit, the shake of his head for the rest of the table and any patrons who cared to take an interest.

It was all the judgement McKenzie expected to hear in this life or the next, and if he gave a damn, it didn’t show. He filled his glass and emptied it as fast, smacking his lips. “I pay enough to keep her in fresh girls and bedsheets. Plenty more where that one came from, in Liverpool and every shit hole from here to Barcelona.”

Avoiding eye contact, Tully picked up the cards and shuffled, a nervous habit that annoyed McKenzie. “Heard the young wan cursing you for your tastes. Bad luck on the Devil’s Night.”

“Keep your Halloween superstitions in the bogs and deal the cards, man, if you don’t want to be sent back.” McKenzie waved his glass at the empty brown bottles on the table. “Time for me to win back the pennies I’ve spent on your pleasures tonight.”

Tully muttered something about coming from Dublin, but he kept quiet.

“I’ll wager you’ve heard the same curses in every town, Mr McKenzie. And yet, good fortune seems to have followed you.” This accent was hard to place, but it was surely neither the Scouse or Irish that dominated Hettie’s bar. It was cultured, perhaps a wealthy American from the east coast.

McKenzie’s hand froze. The stranger lounged between the navvies at his table, as if he’d been there for the whole of the night. The man wore a waistcoat and pocket watch to rival McKenzie’s own, the two of them wealthy outliers amongst the dockside labourers who filled the room beneath a haze of cheap tobacco smoke.

“I could say the same of yourself,” said McKenzie. “And who might you be to question the diversions a man finds after his day’s work?”

Handsome and unscarred by manual labour, the stranger sipped the only other glass of wine on the table. “Naught but a man like yourself, in search of my own diverse pleasures and men with the strength for more than penny wagers.”

Tully’s anxious shuffling accelerated as he sensed his employer rise to the challenge. Both men knew that Hettie kept gin, whiskies, rum and beer, but neither had seen anyone else drink wine at her tables, save for McKenzie.

“Let’s see if you play as well as you talk. I’ll take your pennies first and we’ll see about shillings and pounds if you’ve the stomach for it.” McKenzie nodded to Tully, who dealt, starting as ever with his employer.

The pennies followed the luck of the cards and McKenzie’s talent for allowing his labourers enough to feel they’d leave the table without losing more than he’d spent on drink and Hettie’s cheaper doxies. He was used to controlling the table, his head clear after he’d satisfied himself, but the wealth flowed into two larger piles in front of McKenzie and the stranger, who began to toss shillings casually among the small change. One by one, the labourers made their excuses and eventually even Tully grunted and declared himself fit only to deal the cards.

McKenzie dismissed him. “Off you go, Mr Tully, I shall deal. Find that wife of yours and make her glad that you have Christian tastes, even if you are a Catholic.”

Tully nodded his thanks and rose to leave. “Thank you, Mac. Give my best to Mrs McKenzie.”

“Now there is a woman with Christian tastes, worse luck. Be off now, we’ve work to do on Monday.” The stranger watched the exchange intently. McKenzie was far from happy that this man had seated himself with neither introduction nor permission, but he couldn’t deny that the arrival had enlivened the evening. For that alone, he could extend a welcome. “May I refill your glass? This is a fine wine from the terroir about Rouen, imported at great cost.”

“It certainly seems to be to your taste.” If anything, the stranger was amused that McKenzie’s offer had sent a ripple of surprise through their audience. He drained his glass, shook the dregs onto the sawdust at their feet and slid it across the table.

McKenzie filled it generously. “I’m not given to sharing this pleasure but I struggle to find someone who will play for stakes that hold significance. I’d wager that you are such a man.”

The stranger sipped and nodded his approval. “That is a wager that I will gladly allow you to win. What form of stakes would you have in mind?”

“Let us reconvene away from the cheap seats.” McKenzie waved his glass at the onlookers, who groaned their disappointment. “Hettie,” he called. “A private parlour, if you please.”

“It’ll cost you.” The scowling proprietor waved at one of her floor girls to show them through. She wouldn’t meet McKenzie’s eye and he knew too well why that was, but she gave a smiling glance to the stranger. Another girl, this one unbroken but wary, followed them with a new bottle from McKenzie’s personal cache.

He clipped and lit a cigar as the women set their table, offering one to the stranger. “I didn’t catch your name, sir, and we have been playing too long for you to have me at such a disadvantage.” As he leaned forwards, McKenzie caught a waft that was less perfumed than simply clean, yet with a bitter note. Hettie’s patrons smelled of hard work and hard living, though McKenzie preferred it cut with the tang of young fear.

The man accepted the smoke and sat down. “Shall we make that our first stakes? My name and a hundred Pounds?” He took the light McKenzie offered and savoured the first drag as the host dealt, rolling it around his mouth in a compliment to the quality of tobacco that must have been cheap and plentiful where he came from.

With McKenzie a hundred Pounds better off, the stranger delivered his answer: “Mr Madison.”

“Mr Madison of where?”

“Another answer to play for. Your deal, Mr McKenzie.”

Chapter 2. 1838: The Wager

As the wine flowed and the cigars burned down, Madison remained little more than a name with vague connections to overseas investors, even as he wagered McKenzie into revealing the history of vicarious tastes that he had discovered while growing rich on Europe’s hunger for canals and railways. The stranger’s growing winnings were of less concern than what other secrets he might be induced to give up, but like every committed gambler, he was compelled to play on.

“Would care to wager a bottle of this fine wine?” the stranger asked.

This, then, was McKenzie’s limit. “I would not. It is one of the few things of which I enjoy both the consumption and the sharing, but I cannot bring myself to trade even a single a bottle. I love it more dearly than my wife herself, as she would no doubt tell you.”

“Finally, we have found a thing that you truly value. And what of your good wife, would you wager her before this fine vintage?”

If it were a jest, he would respond in kind. “I may spend my coin on flesh, yet I am not so debased as to trade in it. Unlike this—” He swirled his glass, admiring the play of light through the dark ruby liquid. “—I cannot say with honesty that Mary has improved her value with ageing.”

“And yet I discern that you value her in your own fashion, your actions in this very establishment safeguarding her from your less wholesome desires.”

It had never occurred to McKenzie that his private diversions might save his wife from experiencing any but the necessary marital intimacies, particularly since she had proven unable to deliver him an heir. He was flattered to believe that she might be grateful that he found expression for his bestial passions beyond her bedchamber. “You are a man of great perception. I could not debase a woman of Mary’s quality in the same manner as these Liverpool drabs.”

“Then let us wager on that value. A notional bet, if you like, against your Mary’s fine qualities. Her soul, if we are to give it a name.”

“Her soul? The law might name her my chattel but even I do not believe that my rights extend to her essential being.”

“Was Eve not given to Adam for such purposes as a husband commands?”

“Ha! And we know too well what that brought him! You have a fine wit, Mr Madison. What will you wager in return? What have you that is of comparable value to a fine lady’s soul?”

He would later swear to himself that it was the drink or the waft of opium from an adjoining room that fooled his eyes. Madison straightened up and fixed him with a gaze that felt as if he had slipped into a dream of endless falling, but when McKenzie broke away it was to see the embroidery on that fine waistcoat shift, as if golden worms writhed within the silk. He blinked, to find nothing more than Madison’s easy, confident smile, awaiting his attention.

“Our wager is my true name, a thing that you have begun to suspect but cannot know until it is given. A thing of great power.”

The wine’s warmth drained from McKenzie’s skin, but he was not a man to back out of a bet. “Aye, that would be a worthy wager. I shall deal, though, if you don’t mind.”

“I shall take only the cards that you give me,” said Mr Madison, “Trusting that you will deal with honesty.”

Honesty be damned, thought McKenzie, and congratulated himself on dealing a strong hand, yet he could no longer meet Madison’s eyes to either measure the stranger’s confidence or project his own. He began to understand how Tully looked on those occasions when their games threatened to make his employer the loser. Madison bet with unwavering conviction, a faint smile fixed to his lips, and McKenzie’s hand weakened with each round. He could bring himself to neither bluff nor call until Madison demanded of him to show his hand, and as McKenzie revealed his cards, his fingers trembled for the first time in his adult life.

“On any ordinary night, you might have taken my money, but your weak hand will not win my true name on this eve.” Madison’s tone was more pitying than victorious as he laid down a sweeping flush, each face card adorned with what McKenzie saw as leering grins. “I claim the soul of the only woman that you value, so much as you are able.” Madison stood, ignoring the notes and coins piled before him.

“I wagered in jest.” McKenzie did not recognise the desperate tone in his own voice. “Take your winnings.”

“Do not debase yourself, Mr McKenzie. You accepted my offer in good faith yet you dealt with none.” Madison chuckled at the blasphemous contradiction. “It was bold indeed, on this night of all nights. I shall collect before the shortest day of this year. Perhaps you should give those pennies to the other woman, the one whose curses brought me to your table.” Madison left before he could reply, his winnings on the table between them, and it was in disbelief that McKenzie left them to Hettie and her girls as he stumbled into the thick night air and summoned a cab.

The night seemed like a dream when he awoke the following day at home on Grove Street, and McKenzie redoubled his certainty that he had been affected by the opium which had become as common as gin in the slums.

A fortnight later, Mary complained of pains in her abdomen followed within hours by a descent to vomit and passing blood. Bruises appeared around her back and waist as though she had been beaten, yet McKenzie recognised those marks all too well. Mary could not explain them and if the doctor thought McKenzie the culprit, he liked his employer’s money too much to pass judgement but the female staff of the house gave him cold looks from then on.

Mary gave up her restraining garments on medical advice, but the sickness worsened into December, bruises flowering beneath her clothes as if she were beaten daily whether McKenzie were with her or not. The doctor could only propose that some tropical disease had migrated from a docked vessel and attacked one woman in the entire city of Liverpool, but his prescriptions were soon exhausted, save for what relief Mary found in the poppy.

McKenzie sought both the girl and Mr Madison, but she had left the city in ill health and the man remained a stranger to the memories of all who had visited Hettie’s on All Hallows Eve. Tully remembered the girl, as much he ever noted his employer’s diversions, but he could remember the stranger as no more than a well-dressed shadow who had matched McKenzie’s wagers as they soared from pennies to pounds.

Midwinter hastened and McKenzie all but abandoned his commercial duties into Tully’s care as he counted the days to December 21st and held Mary’s hand while she escaped her suffering for opium’s embrace. Just as Mr Madison had promised, the count ran short and Mary McKenzie died on December 19th, 1838.

Chapter 3. 1838: The Resolution

“Brother, you shall not pass. I swear it upon my life.” Edward McKenzie stood before the exit of the Grove Street residence, arms crossed and countenance grim. Though ten years his junior, Edward was a full hand taller than William and carried muscle where his elder carried the proof of his rich living.

“Will you deny me the freedom to mourn my dear Mary, though she is barely a fortnight cold in the ground?” McKenzie slurred his words, revealing that Edward had yet to discover every supply of alcohol in the many rooms.

“It is not mourning that you seek, dear brother, but the oblivion of the bottle and the distraction of the card table amongst your lessers.”

dward surveyed the subtle nods of the loyal house staff hovering in the background, assuring himself that they had secured all other exits against his brother’s escape.

“So you call them, but these lesser men will not judge me as though they pretend to holy orders.” McKenzie crossed his own arms, waiting for his riposte to provoke a reaction.

“The generosity of your purse might silence their judgement when the barmaid is taking orders, but they judge you enough that I might learn of the other distractions in which you dishonour your dear wife’s memory each night.” Edward warmed to his lecture. “You shame her not only in your time of mourning but when we ought be celebrating our Lord’s birth, that holy day itself not six days past.”

“Damn your holy pomposity!” McKenzie turned and marched towards his drawing room, but halted after three steps and faced his brother. “If you will drink with me to witness the passing of this damned year, I promise that I shall forswear the bottle, at least till the Epiphany.”

“Very well, good brother. Let us bid farewell to 1838 and welcome its successor with a more hopeful aspect.” Edward took his brother’s arm and nodded towards the butler, who scowled as he sought the key that would unlock his master’s cellar.

McKenzie sighed at the sight. “I pay these men and women a goodly wage, yet they defer to you as if you were the master of this house. What power is it that you hold over them?”

Edward laughed. “Why, only that we share the common goal of giving Mary the respect she earned from the household, of ensuring that you are fit to prosper and support them for many years to come.”

“Ha! That is the Edward that I remember before the Puritan cause found your favour. I had feared you an abstainer, so far from the friendship of our youth.”

“Fear not, I have discovered only moderation and a deeper faith, and that only because without the latter I might have lost myself to those pleasures you introduced, when I was a most impressionable young man.”

“I fear only that moderation is a struggle to achieve in these cursed times. In truth, I wish that my dear Mary’s terrible illness was but the worst travail to reach me in the latter part of this year. Misfortune has dogged ventures that I thought to be assured.”

Finding seats before the fire that burned in McKenzie’s drawing room, they paused in discrete silence as his butler poured port into crystal goblets.

Once alone, Edward continued. “I had thought your business robust?”

“In Great Britain and Ireland, yes, but these continental ventures ensnare me in negotiations with partners who obey their own rules. Damned perfidious Spaniards threaten to undermine my profits, and I make no jest when I say that these French ventures will be my own Waterloo, and I shall play Napoleon.”

Edward pressed his brother for further details, many of which concerned travels to instruct surveys and negotiate terms with suppliers, landowners and municipal authorities. He held his tongue when McKenzie could not help but hint that his distractions in wine and flesh had accompanied him, confirming stories which had reached Edward’s own ears.

He made a cautious venture: “Is it possible that the distractions placed before you in these foreign lands have exposed you to those who might take advantage when you were so diverted?”

Having drunk at a greater speed and volume than his sibling, McKenzie embraced the suggestion. “Exactly my point! A visitor ought be free to explore without fear the fine flavours of the cellars and brewhouses in an unfamiliar country, and to avail oneself of the unusual pleasures available from such establishments as will accept his coin.”

“I am not sure—”

“Why, it is thanks to my travels that I have instructed several Scouse bawds in the ways of the French harlots and Spanish putas. Some of the British tarts were most unwilling students until I applied suitable discipline, but I assure you that my fellow clients in those houses are now most grateful.” He grunted in remembered satisfaction as his gaze went to the fire.

Freed by William’s inattention, Edward gave his revulsion a moment of free rein before he began again. “William, I fear that we have lost our way.” He set his own glass down and took the goblet from his brother’s hand.

McKenzie blinked at the space between his fingers, then focussed with some difficulty on Edward’s face. “We have?”

“Might I suggest that teaching new tricks to the fine whores of Liverpool’s docklands is part of the present distraction?”

“Ah.”

“The amusement has become the occupation, so to speak.”

“If I am not mistaken, Edward, you have once again followed the path of moderation, even as I went to excess,” he slurred, but caught himself in the act and spoke with greater care. “Have you truly forsworn both the whores and the drink?”

“In moderation, as I say.” Edward smiled and tipped his head a fraction, which set off his brother in a fit of laughter that left him tearful and a touch more sober.

“And you suggest that I might follow your example, for my dear Mary’s sake?”

“If not for your own.” His smile continued, this time with a fresh confidence.

McKenzie looked at the clock hanging opposite the fireplace. “In that case, we should take tea and toast the New Year with increasing moderation.”

Edward nodded with enthusiasm. “Indeed, good brother. Let us drink — in moderation — to 1839!”

Chapter 4. 1839: A Thrice-Cursed Name

McKenzie’s gaze patrolled the room, barely alighting on the cards held loosely before him. Every man entering Hettie’s place was scrutinised but few met the most basic conditions for the particular man he was looking for.

“Are you in, Mac?” Tully asked, making a rare show of impatience with his master.

McKenzie barely glanced at his cards before tossing a coin to the centre of the table.

Tully leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What are you betting on, Mac? Every man but yourself’ll be leaving Hettie’s richer tonight if you keep on like this, and that’s far from the reputation you’ve built for yourself.”

Tully knew how to follow his employer’s lead at the card table and kept his pocket from growing light by doing so, but his advice was as sound here as it was on the work site. McKenzie nodded and studied his cards, but a gust of air soon drew his attention to the entrance admitting a new arrival.

“Some week we’ve had on the Manchester navigation, complications at every turn with the gearing for those locks. No wonder you’re distracted.” If Tully’s casual tone fooled the navvies at their table, the clumsy artifice irked McKenzie. “Can you not ease your tensions with one of Hettie’s girls as you used to do, what do you say, lads?” A round of saucy laughter followed.

“Lilah’s taken to that Spanish trick you taught her, guv. Made the hairs stand up on me balls the other night, she did.” The man’s laugh, echoed by his compatriots, revealed a gap-toothed maw, black with rot.

McKenzie recognised him as one of Tully’s trusted lieutenants and a keen patron of the upstairs rooms. He tossed a generous handful of coins across the table. “Be my guest, enjoy her again, but mind to use the change for getting those teeth pulled before they kill you.”

“You’re a gent, Mr Mac. Been so long since we’ve seen you here, weren’t sure you had the coin to spoil us after last summer. Very happy to see you’re in as good a form as always.” Grinning, the man took his unexpected bonus and made a bee-line for Hettie, who stood at the foot of the stairs.

When the game commenced, McKenzie allowed Tully the win, folding with no patience for the bluff it would have taken to dominate. As his foreman shuffled the cards, McKenzie told the rest to refresh their cups. His gaze was drawn to the door like a fly to dung.

“What has you this evening, Mac?” Tully asked. “You’ve all but forsworn the dockside houses these past ten months, but you’ve been here since breakfast. Hettie’s been diluting your wine and you’ve lost so much coin her tarts are worn out from the lucky men going up the stairs.”

“Does the wife know you spend so much time gassing with a dockside whore-keeper?” McKenzie fixed a cold gaze on his loyal foreman.

“Sure, the wife’s happy that you’ve found other diversions lately, but she knows that time spent at Hettie’s is time spent watching after your needs.”

“You’re no priest, eschewing the pleasures of the flesh yourself, Tully.”

“Ah but it’s a price we both agree is worth the cost.” Tully gave half a wink. “So what is it that has you in here on All Hallows Eve, watching that door like a hawk?”

“I’m waiting for him, the fancy bastard who got me into the mess that threatens us both.”

“Ah, what was his name again?”

“Madison, he called himself.” McKenzie had dwelled on the name until it had found a mythic quality, and he uttered it with both fear and hate. “Mr Madison.”

“I’ve told ye, Mac, the mess is nothing but a couple of bad deals and bad luck on the workings.” The sincerity told McKenzie that Tully wasn’t trying to flatter him. “They’ll pass with the season, and I say that as a man clothed in the superstitions of my people. Do not say that name a third time on a night like this, so, just to be safe.”

“Madison, Madison, Madison,” McKenzie growled.

“You should not doubt your superstitions, Mr Tully. They guard you well.” Both men turned to that indefinable accent. McKenzie had not forgotten it, though Tully knew only the way that his employer had described it, but there sat Madison, his fineries and cleanliness out of place yet unobserved by the other patrons, a glass of McKenzie’s wine already in front of him and a smile brightening his sharp features. “You would do well to keep this man in your employ, Mr McKenzie.”

Chapter 5. 1839: The Bargain

“I had not known that Mr Tully’s knowledge ran to summoning the agents of the devil,” said McKenzie.

“Agent?” Madison sniffed. “I merely stopped by on my way, hoping to see an old acquaintance.”

“Your way? To where?”

“I hardly know where to begin. I have so many respects to pay on this night. Mary sends her best, by the way. Quite the conversationalist and remarkably robust under the circumstances.”

McKenzie heard Tully’s gasp and the press of his foreman’s hand against his shoulder, but he had already resolved not to rise if Madison confirmed his worst fears. This was no unruly worker or defiant whore, and he was far from the careless inebriation that had lead him astray before. “You’ve meddled with more than my domestic happiness, beyond the limits of our damned wager.”

“I cannot take credit for the whole of your misfortunes, though it might be said that the loss of a single brick will weaken the wall.” Madison sipped his wine. “Oh, dear, is this watered down?”

“I did not summon you to enjoy my hospitality.”

“Ah, so you’ve invited me for a rematch? A chance to recover Mary from damnation? They do say the first year is the hardest but I think that speaks to a lack of imagination.” Madison reached towards the cards, which Tully had shuffled and stacked in the middle of the table.

It seemed to McKenzie that they sat in a bubble, as if apart from the bustle of Hettie’s clientele around them, unseen and unheard. What power could do this, that he was about to challenge? He brushed the cards aside. “I shall play no more at games of chance with you, Madison. An exchange, plain and simple, my eternal soul for Mary’s safe passage to Heaven.”

“What, Mr McKenzie? No sharp shuffles or sly deals? No bluff? Perhaps you have learned some wisdom.” Madison looked around restlessly, his eyes appearing to delve far beyond the smoky corners of Hettie’s establishment. “I should leave, so many prospects to collect on this of all nights and yet, your defiance entertains me.”

“You will free Mary and take me in her place?” Hardly believing his success, McKenzie sat up straight, barely prepared and rapidly sobering for his imminent descent into Hell.

Madison gestured for him to take ease. “Patience is a virtue, as your good brother might say. I shall continue to enjoy Mary’s soul for the Devil’s dozen and in that time you may live your life free from divine judgement or demonic punishment. I offer this boon to you, William McKenzie, for you belong to me in perpetuity and without exception. As witnessed by your loyal retainer, Mr Tully, I promise that before this day comes thirteen years hence, I shall collect your soul and deliver your Mary to the very gates of Heaven.”

Usually so reticent to intervene in his master’s business, Tully spoke with unexpected force. “I’ll do many things for ye, Mac, but I’ll make no contract with the likes of him and neither should ye. Accept your sins and the punishments due on your day of judgement.”

“I know to whence I am bound, Tully, even if your wife prays for us both,” said McKenzie, “but to do right by Mary would ease my soul when the time comes.”

“Listen to the deal you’re making, Mac. Thirteen years! She’ll damn ye for that, even if it puts the holy angels off their singing.”

Madison raised a hand. “If I might, given the suffering that she has endured in her passing and since, Mary has resisted with remarkable fortitude the temptation to damn Mr McKenzie for his culpability, not to mention the evidence of his vile personal tastes. Thirteen years of our attention will seem as nothing compared to his winning her an eternity within the celestial estate.”

“I had not hoped to achieve even this,” said McKenzie. The uncharacteristic sheen of wetness around his eyes melted Tully’s resolve.

“You’re damned either way,” said Tully. “I’ll stand witness for ye but I’ll not speak of this bargain with my wife or any other God-fearing soul and neither should ye.” He crossed himself, though Madison showed no sign that the gesture affected him.

“I am, as ever, indebted to your loyalty, Mr Tully.” McKenzie sipped his wine and drew a cigar from his breast pocket, keenly aware of the playful smile on Madison’s face. “What has you so amused? Am I not right to toast the end to my dear Mary’s torment?”

“Forgive my honesty, but I wager that your mind has turned also to the return of your own good fortunes. I would bet good money that Mary will not be the last woman to share the McKenzie name or your marital bed.”

“Keep your wagers to yourself, Madison. My future is my own, least for the coming thirteen years. Time enough for wife and family to ensure my legacy.”

“Ah, but the first year is already lost. Your time began the moment we laid our first wager.”

“See, Mac, how he twists the bargain towards himself,” Tully groaned.
“As for your legacy, I aim to collect your entire soul. A wife you may take to share your last living days but no part of your soul shall be reserved for a child to carry forwards. Make no mistake in this.” Madison sipped his diluted wine, grimaced and poured the remainder onto the floor.

The noise of the room washed over their table and seemed to blow Madison away as if he were no more than a phantom in the smoke.

Tully clutched his fingers to his chest, tight around the cross beneath his shirt, rose and left the bar in silence. McKenzie sat alone and the fury in his eyes ensured that no-one dared take a seat. Hettie was about to chance an enquiry when he summoned her: “Your newest girl, if you please.”

She glanced at a young woman flirting nervously with another patron and raised a reproachful finger at McKenzie. “Now Mac, you look like the devil himself tonight. You promised you’d never again leave my girls barely fit for scrubbing. I promise them hard work, not torment.”

“Name the price of your kindness, woman, double it and send two to share the burden of my wants.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of large notes. “I’ll satisfy your wants in paper if coin is not enough.”

Hettie didn’t smile but her eyes widened at the display of bills. “If it’s paper you’re offering, the girls are yours. Just mind them screaming, the other patrons say it puts them off.”

She named a sum that would have bought most men a night with her entire stable. McKenzie counted off the notes with a grim satisfaction. “You’re a fine businesswoman, Hettie, always have your clients’ best interests at heart. It’s why I can’t stay away.”

Chapter 6: 1841: The Confession

The parlour door closed on the doctor’s departure and McKenzie sat heavily in his favourite chair. Edward maintained his silence as he watched his older brother pour a full glass of thick burgundy wine, but waved away the offer of his own measure.

For a long time, McKenzie stared into the low fire as if conducting an argument in silence. Finally, he turned to his brother. “Sarah lives and I ought be grateful for that, but the doctor says that another pregnancy will surely kill her.”

At this, Edward regretted not accepting his brother’s offer of a drink, but summoned instead the courage of his filial affection. “It was a tragedy to lose the boy, but the good doctor was in no doubt that they would have been both lost if nature had been allowed to take its course.”

“Nature, hah. I am forty-five years old, Edward. A man of my age ought by rights to have a brace of children and heirs by marriage, if not by blood. Damn it, Telford and Brunel have their heirs; I too wish to leave some part of myself in this world.”

“Brother, look to your works. Your name is stamped upon the navigations and railway lines from Scotland to the Mediterranean. Good men give thanks for the rooves you have put over their heads in this very city and the Haymarket’s merchants will soon celebrate a new home constructed under your guidance and no small amount of generosity. Your alliance with Sarah was not only the blessing of two widowed souls bringing one another up from the depths of grief, it allied your fortunes and brought forth your most profitable association with her cousin, Mr Locke. The works you shall yet achieve will see William McKenzie remembered as a great ambassador of British industry. I say to you, brother, your legacy is in no doubt.” Edward was pleasantly surprised to have delivered this speech, not least because he was so tired from their anxious vigil over his brother’s second wife.

The homage lifted McKenzie’s spirits, but only for a minute. “I thank you, but I fear those are easy words for a man so blessed in fecundity. Why, it is as if your dear wife falls pregnant when you but look upon her and seems to suffer no cost for either the carriage or the delivery.”

“I cannot deny that I am blessed, but — if we are to speak honestly with one another — you have spent too much of your essence upon desolate pastures.” McKenzie began to protest, but Edward demanded his silence with a gesture of uncharacteristic dominance. “Whence did you abandon the commitment towards moderation, made in this room not two years past? I know that you kept it, better than I had thought you capable, for almost a year. When you met Sarah and began your courting last year, I saw your spirits lift and hoped that you would show her greater fidelity than Mary received, may she rest in peace. I fear that this has not been the case.”

McKenzie gestured for Edward to sit, but then stood and walked a circuit around the parlour before leaning over the back of his own chair. He stared into the fire again and then turned to his brother. “Your fears are justified. Sarah is a fine woman and our union brings advantage to us both, but I have no more cause to endure the prison of moderation.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I must confess to you, my dear brother, a revelation that will test the resolve of your Christian faith.”

“What damnable thing have you done?”

Each increment of apprehension that mounted upon Edward’s face brought to him a wicked amusement that the elder McKenzie struggled to conceal. “It was not my lack of immoderation that led to my dear Mary’s tragic demise. Nor, indeed, to her damnation.”

“Please God, do not say such things.”

“I must say them now, for I may never again find the courage. You see, it was the Devil himself, in the guise of a fine gentleman seeking amusement at the card table. I shared with him my finest French wine and Caribbean cigars, yet he repaid my generous nature with a cruel trick that took dear Mary for its victim.”

Edward was not given to Catholic gestures, but he could not help but make the cross and utter a prayer. “This is an abomination. You have gone too far, William.”

“I assure you, Edward, I have gone further than you can imagine. I have brought the Devil himself to an agreement that will release Mary’s soul into the care of the angels. And with the assistance of yourself and Mr Tully, I shall entrap the devil himself.”

“Good God!”

“No brother, just good honest British cunning and ingenuity.” In excited terms, as if he were once again a young man, McKenzie outlined a scheme that he had nurtured for the past two years as if it were his own child of flesh and blood. “If my name cannot live on in human form, it shall be set in stone amongst the city that I have helped raise to greatness.”

Edward asked many questions, in his careful way, and McKenzie saw the spark of intrigue kindle within him, for his brother had always loved an elaborate enterprise. When the time came to give his verdict, there was no question that it would be unwaveringly honest, though it was not in the execution that he found fault. “Brother, your ambition is the very definition of the sin of pride, rendered in stone, but that is not what gives me pause.” McKenzie only signalled for him to continue. “To challenge the Devil himself is surely blasphemy of its own, taking on the work of the Almighty? Not to mention avoiding your own moment of judgement. I would at the least be an accessory to this sin.”

“No, William, you would be doing your Christian duty, striking at the Devil for all God-fearing men and women. You will ensure Mary’s respite.”

Edward held his brother’s gaze with a candour that few other men would dare. “Remember that I love you, William, in spite of your endless, insatiable appetites. I cannot imagine the weight of guilt that you carry for Mary’s damnation. You have opened your heart to me with a revelation of staggering import, one that might be sufficient for most men to lay upon their brother after a day such as this.” He raised a hand to hold McKenzie’s reply at bay. “Yet, it is entirely in your character that this was merely the prologue to your invitation to an enterprise more audacious than anything I might have imagined. My heart would have me help you, but I must confess that I am exhausted by the turns this day has wrought. Dear brother, give me time, for I must pray on this.”

Chapter 7. 1851: The Temptation

McKenzie missed the rough characters of Hettie’s old place but he had to admit that his investment had elevated her to an altogether classier establishment. At the very least, his fellow clientele now shared his taste in wine and admired the cellar that the club maintained on his behalf.

“Take a seat, Mr McKenzie, it’s been too long.” As a girl collected his coat, McKenzie noted that Hettie had been sure to pick one who met his tastes. He would save that diversion for later.

“Business steals me to the Continent too often, Hettie, but it is always for your hospitality that I yearn.”

“Well, it’s grand to have you back and Mr Tully, too. A shame about the fog on the streets tonight but we’re not so far from the docks and it is October now.”

“I like to think that you can take Hettie out of the docks, but you can’t take the docks out of Hettie.”

“Well, if you find this place too fancy, my eldest’s keeping the old place now. I’m sure she’d find you a table and a girl or two, if that’s what you fancy. I made sure there’s one or two of your bottles in a safe place only she knows.”

McKenzie had observed Hettie’s stable as he’d entered, those who were not already working. “I have no doubt that your girls are as talented, willing and pliable as ever, with the additional pleasure of being clean and healthy now.”

He’d always enjoyed putting the emphasis on willing and pliable, and the slight twitch it brought to Hettie’s brow. His time away had not dulled the pleasure. “Always willing for our biggest investor.” Another of the girls placed a bottle of wine in Hettie’s hands, still dusty from its time in his reserve. He nodded and she began to uncork it. “Were you straight off the boat to us or did you stop in Grove Street?”

“Grove Street can wait. The lady of the house knows her place in the order of things by now.” McKenzie was surprised that Hettie had mentioned his wife, even tangentially, but this venue demanded more civilised conversation. After six months of Sarah’s company around Europe, continually expecting his presence and worrying over his gout, he was glad to have seen her take a separate carriage as they departed the boat.

The cork made a light pop as Hettie pulled it. “And will anyone be joining us? Mr Tully or your brother?”

“Mr Tully has business to attend to and I hardly expect Edward to join me here, no offence to your fine establishment.”

Hettie leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper, making an obvious effort to soften her normal accent. “Don’t want to be a gossip, sir, but Edward has taken care of your investment from time to time, if you take my meaning. I should not be surprised to see him.”

“Then it will be a pleasant surprise to enjoy his company, for both of us, I imagine. Until then, I would welcome some company at the table.”

“I’m sure there’ll be some gentlemen eager to play a few hands with Mr William McKenzie, saviour of Liverpool’s greatest thoroughfare.”

“And I shall not begrudge you the premium they pay for the introduction.” He allowed her a smile that said it was the least he could do for the personal liberties she had indulged.

“Oh, you’ve always been a sound lad to me, Mac.” This was too informal an address, but he was minded to excuse it as a sign of her affection.

The merchants and businessmen that Hettie brought to the table reminded him of fellow travellers aboard ship, obsequiously delighted to sit at the Captain’s Table. They treated him with the same reverence as his rough-handed workers in Hettie’s old place, though with such covetous glances to his favourite wine that he was forced to share it for appearances. As the evening drew on and his winnings grew, McKenzie took a cigar from his waistcoat and looked about the table for a light.

“Allow me, sir.” Her voice fell on his ears like silk and he turned to find her appearance doing the same to his eyes. Rich colours and fine cloth combined the height of contemporary fashion with a revealing cut more suited to a Parisian music hall. She leaned against the table at a distance only appropriate for a woman working in a place such as Hettie’s, but with the poise of one who was not paid for her time pleasuring the clientele. Older than the girls and boys he typically took, that was certain, but dark-haired and slender fitted his type, and she radiated a confidence that he would enjoy breaking.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, my dear. What’s your name?” He glanced towards Hettie, who maintained a discreet watch on the table to ensure that his needs were met. The presence of this woman, rather than one of Hettie’s own, attracted no displeasure. She was an intriguing curiosity.

“Madeline, sir. I’m back in the city not long myself.” She lifted the cigar from his grasp and sniffed the length with a relish that made him twitch in anticipation. A small blade glinted between her fingers and she cut the end with a relish that stilled him as fast. The blade disappeared with a flick of her fingertips that he found impossible to follow.

“That accent, I cannot place it.”

“Oh, I’ve been everywhere. France, Spain, you learn all manner of tricks when travelling.” She placed the cigar between red-painted lips, a smile playing across her face, and seemed to conjure a match between her fingers. McKenzie was about to warn her that these new things could be dangerous, but she struck the match and carried it without fear towards her face as the pyrotechnic chemicals flared and subsided. She filled her lungs and McKenzie found himself captivated as she held the smoke and released it above his head without a hint of discomfort. She handed him the lit cigar, making a point to wipe the ring of red lipstick from the moist tip.

“Thank you, Madeline. Will you sit?” He wasn’t certain that the chair beside him had been empty before she arrived, but it was vacant now.

She slid into the seat, crossing her legs to flatter his gaze with the high cut of her skirts. Without asking, she took the bottle, topped up his glass and poured for herself, then gestured to the cards dealt for him. “I would love to watch you play.”

“I am sure that desire is mutual.”

“Let us see if you earn that prize.”

Chapter 8. 1851: The Promise

Madeline’s boldness inspired McKenzie to show his prowess and social power, though it was almost too easy against a table so willing to indulge the master of the establishment.

Each man let it be known that he desired a favour, mostly for their business interests in the city. Without asking, Madeline made herself his accomplice, extending his generosity through wine and cigars, rolling her eyes at their boasts of commercial acumen and unadventurous ambitions for Hettie’s girls, all the while ensuring that her smiles and the risqué cut of her dress captured their desire and envy, for as she moved it was as though she danced only for his pleasure. As their wagers flowed his way, McKenzie signalled Hettie to ease their losses with drink or attention from one of her girls.

“Tell us, Mr McKenzie, what is it that your brother Edward and your man Tully have been constructing in the cemetery on Rodney Street?” asked a jeweller who sought a prime location for his new premises. He dandled a waiflike girl on his knee, young enough to be his daughter.

“Yes!” added the owner of several liveries, anxious for a preferential contract. “It has been shrouded in a hoarding the size of a small house. What sort of mausoleum are you building for yourself?”

“Is your dear wife to be a widow again? She will be quite the dowager!” The grocer realised that he had drunk too much and spoken too freely, and Madeline laughed softly as McKenzie allowed him to squirm.

“My lady Sarah will receive as much as the heirs she has given to our union, though I am sure that Edward will be kind enough to support her, knowing that he will take their place.” McKenzie smiled. “Fear not, there will be time enough to win back your own fortunes before she follows my dear Mary.”

The stable-owner was persistent. “Still, it must be quite a tomb to require Mr Tully’s expertise. I hope that we don’t have to wait until your death to see it.” His Rubenesque consort made a comedic show of horror at the suggestion.

“I assure you, gentlemen, that it will be a monument fit for the great Pharaohs of Egyptian legend,” said McKenzie, forcing both grocer and stable-owner to fold with a bluff that bore no match to the cards in his hand.

As the game reached a natural break, Madeline leaned forward to hand him a freshly lit cigar, smoke trickling from her nostrils as if she were a dragon of Eastern myth. “You play as if the money means nothing to you. Have you no fear of losing?”

“I’ve no fear of losing, my dear, not even in death. My wife shall not claim my wealth and the devil himself will return to Hell without my soul in his pocket.” He went to take the cigar but she held it tight in her fingertips.

Smoke wreathed her smile and she pursed her lips to puff a cloud into his eye, releasing the cigar to him as she did so. “I don’t know who to pity more, your wife or the devil.”

“Neither one of them deserves your future pity when I have pleasurable distractions in mind to divert you in the present.” He drew in a deep breath and held it as she had, smoke playing out into his finely trimmed whiskers.

“I had wondered if you intended to drink with your court until you were beyond further entertainment.”

He released a puff of smoke and she breathed it in as if he had blown her a kiss. He relished the impotent hunger of those other men for the promise that grew with each moment.

“I am certain, Madeline, that I have drunk only enough to focus my mind on those distractions.” Recent experiences hinted that the odds might not be in his favour on this, but McKenzie felt the supreme confidence of a man in control of his fate. “It is time that I sent these men away to their wives or to Hettie’s girls—”

“—a company in which you shall not find me employed.”

“Indeed you are far beyond Hettie’s best, even in this establishment. Hettie marks her staff quite specifically and you do not carry her livery.” He looked at her thigh, exposed beneath the table as if she were a Parisian dancer at the climax of her routine.

She gave the smallest nod of confirmation. “I owe loyalty to neither man nor woman. I lie where it pleases me.”

“And with whom? In that matter, I sense that we are of a like mind.”

“If it were so, I am sure that you can command a room in this place at any hour.” She leaned forward, inviting him to direct his gaze to her bodice and his thoughts to removing it.

He resisted the temptation and instead looked around the bust establishment. “What good is owning such a place if I cannot enjoy it at my leisure, with whomever pleases me?” He paused and she seemed ready to pounce on that invitation. “But would you not prefer to adjourn for privacy in a palace fit for a Pharaoh of this gilded age?”

“Some women, even in the profession you presume I conduct, would be less than charmed by an invitation to your mausoleum.” A playful look dared him to double down or abandon the invitation, but McKenzie knew that doing so would abandon the prize to which he was now fully committed. “I would not dare to guess upon your profession, dear woman, but as to your intention I am certain. The gambler in me is willing to wager that the notion of my grand mausoleum has piqued your curiosity.”

She took his cigar, leaned back and drew deeply, never breaking his gaze as above the table her chest rose with the intake of breath and below, Madeline pressed one stockinged leg against his trouser. Satisfied at his attention, she released her breath across the table. “William McKenzie, it is not my curiosity that you wager upon. Men and women alike are intrigued by your pharaonic edifice.” She put the cigar to her lips and drew breath again, daring him to laugh at her absurd double entendre and break the spell between them.

McKenzie saw her snare and expected to hear shock or amusement from their audience. It it seemed, though, that Madeline’s puff of smoke had blown away the interest of his fellow players and their companions. He was free to speak without consequence from any but the fascinating creature in front of him, yet could barely maintain his composure for the carnal ambitions writhing within his mind. He sipped his wine, savouring it as he sought control and watched smoke trickle from her nostrils. Such control, such composure, was more than an invitation; it was a challenge.

“You are correct, Madeline.” He savoured the feel of her name passing his lips, as if it were a second sip of that fine beverage. “Far more than your curiosity, I wager that I have piqued your desire.” She gave no response. “I wager too, that the location will inspire unconventional desires in a woman of your unique character.”

She at last exhaled, momentarily obscuring his view. Were it not for the pressure of her leg against his, he imagined that she would be gone when the cloud dissipated, but from within appeared her hand and she pressed the wet tip of the cigar between his lips.

“Unconventional? Oh Billy, you have no idea.” Were she a common whore, he would have slapped her for such insolence outside of the bedchamber, but from her lips it was already a lover’s pet name. Besides, no-one else had heard her amused response. “It is a wager as good as any you have made tonight.”

She broke their mutual gaze to survey the table, where McKenzie’s winnings had mounted before him so much as to embarrass the other players. With a grand gesture, she spread the notes and coins in an arc towards the others, and they seemed to to once again recognise the presence of their patron. “Leave these men your gold and we can discuss the particulars of your real winnings in the carriage to Rodney Street.”

McKenzie placed his still-burning cigar atop a pile of notes, as if daring any other man to take it before the mass of wealth caught fire. The waif shrieked and the men looked at one another, unsure how to respond. McKenzie chuckled as he pushed back his chair and took Madeline’s hand. “That, my dear Madeline, is a price that I will meet with pleasure.”

She rose and mock-curtseyed in farewell to the table. “We both shall, I am sure of it.”