‘Including who is defined as sane and insane?’
Emily’s expression hardened. ‘Don’t presume to speculate about my family, Mr Pyke.’
‘I was referring only to your father.’
‘Your point is made,’ she said, trying to appear unaffected. ‘And I commend you on your skills as an investigator, though I was not in any doubt as to your. . abilities.’ She smiled coldly.
Outside the prison, on Old Bailey, Pyke said, ‘If I said that’s just the way of the world, the fact that some prosper, yes, because of their inheritance but also because they’re ruthless or committed or just plain lucky, while others wither and die because they aren’t, would you think me hard-hearted?’
She touched his forearm and pulled him into her stare. ‘Is that you, Pyke? Are you ruthless and committed?’
‘I would hope so.’ He shrugged. ‘But I also believe we live or die ultimately according to the whims of chance.’
‘But what about those who aren’t ruthless or lucky? What happens to them?’ Her face was flushed with energy. ‘When you see pain and injustice, can you really just walk away?’
What she said caught him by surprise and he pulled away because he didn’t want her to see that he was capable of being moved.
Waiting for her footman to pull down the steps up to the carriage, Pyke asked her what she had been arguing about with her father during his visit to Hambledon. At first, she did not seem to know what he was talking about. Her eyes dulled a little and she seemed to withdraw into herself.
Emily shook his hand and while doing so pulled herself towards him and whispered, ‘People aren’t always who you imagine them to be.’ Her breath felt hot and sticky against his ear. ‘That applies to you and me as well.’
As she climbed up into her carriage, Emily was assisted by her servant, a young woman with a plump figure and a full, round face. Briefly, Pyke and the servant exchanged a glance, and in that moment Pyke was left with an uncomfortable sense they had met somewhere before, though he could not remember where or when this might have been.
Renovation work on number four Whitehall Place had already started, a sign perhaps that Peel was more than confident about his chances of forcing the police bill through Parliament. It was a sturdy, imposing three-storey red-brick building with ornately carved arched windows on the ground floor.
Pyke had perused the morning papers and all the editorials seemed to agree: the St Giles murders made the case for a centralised, uniformed police force even stronger. But the same editorials had not been so kind to the proposed Catholic Emancipation Bill. Only the Chronicle called for caution and circumspection and urged its readers to wait and see what the police investigation revealed. Others failed to denounce the wave of anti-Catholic violence that was sweeping the city and demanded, in varying tones of outrage, that the Catholic relief bill either be abandoned or put on hold until people had had the time to reflect on the situation. One had even called for Catholics to be forcibly converted to Protestantism or thrown out of the country. Pyke had read a letter in The Times written by Edmonton in which the old man had called upon his ‘fellow countrymen’ and ‘brother Protestants’ to ‘stand forward and defend our Protestant religion and constitution’ from ‘disgraceful attacks’ by ‘Tory turncoats, papal agents and lovers of Rome’.
Pyke found himself wondering how such sentiments would affect his investigation.
Finding the main entrance boarded up, he wandered around the side of the building, along a narrow passage leading into Great Scotland Yard, and tried the door that led into the old watch house.
Almost at once, he found himself confronted by the same surly man whom he had encountered at the lodging house. Pyke said that he wanted to see Charles Hume and was told, curtly, that he would have to wait a long time. The man explained there had been an important development in the St Giles murder investigation but he did not reveal what it was and Pyke did not ask.
Pyke asked to see the possessions of the deceased. At first, the man informed him that such a request was out of the question. It was only when Pyke threatened to solicit the help of the Home Office that the man relented and directed him, reluctantly, into a small room that looked out over the side alley. He pointed at a cupboard and told Pyke that what little they had removed from the room had been placed on the top shelf. The dust already gathered on top of the cupboard indicated that the Magennises’ possessions had not been regarded as important to Hume’s investigation.
He removed the few possessions from the cupboard and arranged them carefully on a wooden table. One at a time, he picked up both the Bibles and opened them. The first was a King James edition. It was marked and dated: Edinburgh, 1792. He idly flicked through it but found nothing of interest. The other was a Douay Bible. It was marked and dated: Dublin, 1803. The fact that they had owned two Bibles intrigued him, as did the different editions and, indeed, the different places of publication. Edinburgh and Dublin. King James and Douay. Pyke paused, to consider the name. Douay. Wasn’t that a place, too? He closed his eyes and racked his brain for an answer.
He heard Emily’s voice: People aren’t always who you imagine them to be. Who did he imagine Stephen and Clare to be?
What did he know about them? That they were poor, working folk from Ulster, Ireland. They were Protestants. .
Then it struck him: what had been bothering him all along. At first it was just the cousin’s name. Mary. The mother of Christ. The Virgin Mary. There were plenty of girls called Mary who had nothing to do with the Catholic faith but, then again, how likely was it that Protestant parents from Ulster would call their little girl Mary? Pyke did not know, of course, whether Mary’s parents were Protestants or not but the point was an intriguing one. What if Mary and indeed Clare were not, in fact, Protestant? What if Clare was Catholic and Stephen was Protestant? Douay, he now remembered, was a place in France. It was home to a Catholic monastery. One of them was Roman Catholic. That was what he had missed, what they had all missed.
Pyke sat at the table for a while and tried to consider how this new information altered the nature of his investigation. On its own, it did not explain or justify anything but it seemed to be a significant discovery, if only because of the ill-feeling that such a mixed attachment might have engendered in both families. Was that why they had fled Ulster in the first place? And had someone followed them to London and discovered that Clare was, in fact, expecting a baby? Was it possible that such news could have unbalanced a relation to such an extent that he had taken matters into his own hands? Did such hate exist, Pyke wondered, when directed at one’s own kin?
One thing was for certain, Pyke decided as he stared down at the two Bibles on the table. It meant that finding Mary Johnson was more crucial than ever.
Later, when Pyke was finally shown into Charles Hume’s office, the man did not want to hear about what he referred to as Pyke’s ‘fanciful notions’ about Catholics and Protestants. Rather, he glowed with self-satisfaction.
‘Listen, Pyke, I can tell you this much. We have now arrested someone and I’m almost certain he’s our man. I cannot tell you his name but he’s thirty years old, mentally ill, with a history of violence. He escaped from a nearby asylum two weeks ago. His sister lives in the street adjacent to the lodging house. We found a razor in his room and blood on his clothes. We’re questioning him at the moment. It’s only a matter of time before he cracks and when he does and we elicit a confession, that will be the end of it. The investigation will be closed.’
Pyke waited for a moment, allowing his anger at the man’s complacency to pass. ‘Tell me this, Hume, are you merely incompetent or is someone compelling you to arrive at a hasty and ill-judged conclusion?’
Hume put down his pen and stared at Pyke. ‘You dare to presume that I am corrupt?’
‘What motivation did this man have to kill these people? How do you explain that kind of hatred?’
‘You can’t apply rational logic to the deeds of the insane,’ Hume s
aid, as though the issue were beyond discussion.
‘Except that this wasn’t the work of a madman. A man blinded by hate, perhaps. .’
‘This city is about to tear itself apart and you’re proposing that we further stoke the flames by making it public we’re looking for some kind of religious bigot?’
‘I’m not proposing to make anything public,’ Pyke said. ‘I just don’t want to see a man go to the gallows simply to expedite the government’s political ambitions.’
That pushed Hume too far. He was a military man and didn’t understand the subtleties of political brinkmanship. He rounded his desk and stepped towards Pyke, as though preparing to strike him.
‘Take that remark back, sir.’ Hume’s neck was corded with veins.
‘When your man hangs and your puppet-masters pat you on the back, remember this conversation and think about how you feel.’
‘If and when he hangs, it will be because a court of law and a jury of his peers have found him guilty.’
Pyke made to leave. ‘Tell that to yourself when you are lying awake at night,’ he said, hesitating at the door without turning around to face Hume.
Behind him, Hume was now shouting: ‘This investigation is closed. Go back to Bow Street while you still have a position.’
EIGHT
The springs of the carriage groaned as the figure inside edged towards the window. The footman, an unsmiling man Pyke did not recognise, stood beside the carriage but made no attempt to pull down the steps, or open the door, either to permit the passenger to disembark or to invite Pyke into the carriage’s interior. Nonetheless, it was clear from the manner in which the vehicle was parked outside the gin palace, and from the general demeanour of the footman, that Pyke’s attention was being solicited. It was a windy night, and the visibility, impaired by swirling fog, was improved only slightly by a gas lamp that hissed noisily at one end of the narrow street. The unusual sight of a gentleman’s carriage in the vicinity of Bartholomew’s Field had already attracted the attentions of a gang of children who were prodding the unsettled horses, compelling the footman to round the vehicle and chase them away with an umbrella. Pyke took this opportunity to step forward and peer into the gloom of the carriage’s interior. Edmonton’s chalky face, slick with perspiration, stared back at him, like an apparition.
‘It’s always revealing and indeed gratifying to see creatures in their natural habitats,’ Edmonton said, glancing contemptuously at the entrance to the gin palace. ‘I thought the other day, when you visited Hambledon, that there is nothing more unpalatable than seeing vermin feast at the table of a gentleman.’
Pyke looked into the old man’s arid eyes. ‘Your servants seem to manage well enough.’
This drew a flinty smile. ‘Part of me wants to admire you, for your spirit, pathetic and misguided as it is.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel able to reciprocate your generosity.’
They eyed one another warily, like two beasts circling in a cage.
‘I presume you have followed Swift and that he has led you to my money,’ Edmonton said, eventually, settling back into his cushioned seat.
‘I have certainly followed him.’
‘But not found my money?’ It was Edmonton’s money now, not the bank’s.
Pyke heard a scream from one of the adjacent buildings and momentarily looked away.
Edmonton coughed up some phlegm into a large white handkerchief and then said, ‘You will, of course, know that Swift has vacated his position in the bank and disappeared, then.’
Pyke didn’t know but concealed his interest in this development. Again, he wondered what business Swift had in the lodging house.
Edmonton continued, ‘But since you have been keeping a close eye on him, you will no doubt know whereabouts the brigand has fled to.’
‘I have had other business to attend to.’
‘What other business?’ Edmonton’s face glowered with indignation. ‘Damnation, man, I’m paying you to work for me.’ He spat these words out.
‘You’ll remember that you haven’t as yet paid me a farthing.’
‘You’ve an answer for everything, haven’t you? Pray, tell me how you might yourself fare inside a prison.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘It is, if you don’t pull yourself together, find where this Swift fellow has gone and get my money.’ Spittle flew from his mouth.
‘And you’re in a position to make such terms binding?’ Pyke said, amused more than concerned.
‘I heard there’s a papist recidivist, Flynn, who’s been making certain accusations about you. Claims you’re no better than him: a dirty, dishonest thief.’
Now Edmonton had Pyke’s attention. ‘And?’
‘What if Flynn’s accusations could be substantiated? Corroborated, as they say.’ The old man’s grin revealed teeth as yellow as his skin.
‘Evidence can always be fabricated. In any case, it would be a foolish man who did not take advantage of all available circumstances to further his own interests. These sentiments are as true for a poor man who steals an apple as for a rich man who steals a whole estate.’
Edmonton seemed taken aback but Pyke was more interested in searching his own brain for an explanation of how Edmonton might have found out about Flynn.
Pyke had used Flynn to store items that he had recovered from thieves but which he could not claim any ransom on. Flynn had tried to defraud him by selling on some of these items without consultation and would pay the ultimate price for his dishonesty on the scaffold.
With some effort Edmonton leaned forward, almost so that his head protruded from the carriage, and whispered, ‘You know enough to make things awkward for yourself, boy, but not enough to make things awkward for me. Think on that before you do anything rash.’
Before Pyke could answer, Edmonton disappeared into the cab’s interior and left Pyke to ponder his threats.
Lizzie was drunk and agitated. That was part of the problem. It made her combative, whereas he was just tired. The skin around her neck was flushed and blotchy.
‘Thirty-seven messages, Pyke, and all from thieves and swindlers. You think I got the time to be your secret’ry?’ Lizzie tucked her straw hair behind her ears. ‘Why do you want to find this whore anyhow? Are you fucking her?’
Pyke could smell the bar on her clothes: the spiced gin and tobacco. He had once found her muscular forearms attractive but now they just seemed vulgar. He knew other men found her desirable, the kind who clung to the bar as though it were a lifeboat set adrift in the ocean. On occasions, the gin palace would attract doctors fresh from carving up human beings in St Bartholomew’s Hospital, but mostly their customers were men who traded and slaughtered animals. In either case, they smelt of fresh blood. This was the kind of man who lusted after Lizzie, but Pyke was as certain as he could be that she had been faithful to him, even though he could not claim the same thing.
It was unfair, expecting something from Lizzie he was not prepared to reciprocate, but he did not lose any sleep over his own double standards.
His room was kept warm by a plentiful supply of coal. There were a few ostensible trappings of wealth — a large Turkish rug, a feather comforter on the bed — and one of the walls was adorned entirely with shelves of books. It was an unremarkable room, one that aptly suited Pyke’s needs. Though he had in excess of three thousand pounds lodged in a City bank, Pyke did not like to draw attention to his modest wealth. Still, he sometimes enjoyed the envy money elicited in others and would show off his gold watch or a wad of banknotes simply in order to witness the stares of those less wealthy and fortunate than himself.
He asked whether Lizzie had heard anything from Polly Masters at the Rose tavern in Covent Garden.
‘Whoever left you a message, they’re all written out. I put the list on your desk.’
Later, in Lizzie’s room, as Pyke guided his erection into her, his face pressed into her pillow, he tried to picture Emily Blackwood’s e
xpression, the way she would close her eyes whenever she laughed or the looks she gave him, with eyes that were inscrutable and alluring.
Pyke felt himself harden and used the jolt of excitement to finish, so he could return to the comforting silence of his own room. But as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, Lizzie’s sadness was tangible.
‘What is it about me?’ There was no anger in her voice. Only regret.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes I think you despise me.’
Sighing, Pyke shifted away from her. ‘If I despised you, would I still be here?’
‘But you’re not here.’ She looked at the empty space next to her. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘Everyone has their problems.’
‘Everyone has problems. Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
Earlier Pyke had read through the list of names that Lizzie had compiled, but found no message from Polly Masters.
‘Am I just another woman to fuck?’
Pyke rolled over, out of the bed, and reached down to pick up his shirt, strewn across the floor. In the dimness of the candlelight he had to strain to see where he had left his shoes.
‘You’re right.’ He was by the door, with his back facing her. His tone was as soft as he could manage.
‘Right about what?’ There was hope in her voice. He hated himself for it.
‘I’m sorry.’ He pulled the door open but still did not turn around to face her.
‘Is that it? You’re sorry?’ She sounded angry. ‘What the fuck are you sorry for?’
‘You deserve better.’ He made to leave.
Lizzie exhaled loudly. ‘God, you’re a cold bastard.’ Pyke guessed she probably had tears in her eyes but did not turn around to see whether he was right.
Much later, when he could not sleep, Pyke ascended the staircase up to the garret under the tiles where George Morgan’s crippled form lay on the bed. Often, Pyke had wondered why Lizzie insisted upon tending her father, when he hardly seemed to know who or where he was, but equally he could not imagine casting the old man out on to the street or into an asylum.
The Last Days of Newgate pm-1 Page 9
