The Last Days of Newgate pm-1

by Andrew Pepper

  This line of thought was bolstered by his instinctive belief that the decision to murder Lizzie and frame him had been taken as a result of his meeting with Tilling and his casual reference to the name Davy Magennis and his stated theory that Magennis, who until recently had served in the very Royal Irish Constabulary Peel had established, was the St Giles murderer. It was of course possible that he had misinterpreted Tilling’s discomfort and that someone entirely different had been responsible for Lizzie’s death but, instinctively, he felt this not to be the case. All of which posed a larger and much more serious question: if Fitzroy Tilling was somehow implicated in Lizzie’s death, did it mean he had been acting on the orders of the Home Secretary?

  Pyke had no answer to such a question, but still believed that Peel was his only chance of winning freedom.

  Above all, Lizzie’s brutal murder filled him with a sense of sadness, outrage and guilt. Pyke had known her for eight years, and she had lived with him in the gin palace for three. His ardour might have cooled in recent years but he had not stopped admiring her: her toughness, her honesty, her blunt manner. In his own time, he would try to come to terms with her murder, and when the shock had abated, and he had avenged her death, he would face up to his grief, but in the immediate moment he knew such sentiments were beyond him.

  ‘Well, this isn’t too bad. Not too bad at all. In fact, it’s rather comfortable.’ Godfrey’s cheeks were the colour of ripe beetroots, perhaps because the prison infirmary was on the first floor and he had been forced to tackle the stairs. He walked with a limp, the product of a pain in his toe he always denied was gout. Dressed in a fustian jacket and moleskin breeches, he clutched a bottle of claret. Without being invited, he collapsed into the chair and picked up the copy of The Prince. ‘It’s a bit gloomy, isn’t it?’ Looking around the room, he said, ‘You’ve done all right here, m’boy. I brought you some claret but I see that you’re well stocked up.’ He reached across, picked up the gin bottle and sniffed. ‘Not the best, but I’m sure it helps. So how are you?’

  Pyke said he was bearing up, under the circumstances. He could see that his uncle was keen to tell him something, so kept his response brief.

  ‘You’re the talk of the town, especially among the ladies.

  Seems opinion is divided as to whether you killed her, but even your perceived guilt isn’t dampening people’s enthusiasm. The papers, they made the most of your attempts to evade capture. Embellished things a little, as they’re wont to do. Cruikshank did an illustration of you, appeared in the Morning Post. I should’ve brought it with me. It was rather flattering, actually. You’re one of these brooding, intense types and, you’ll like this, there’s a queue outside your cell, society ladies, waiting for their personal consultation.’ Godfrey chuckled. ‘Of course, there are poor folk who just want to string you up, but that’s just because they’re afraid of you.’ He picked up the claret and peered at the label. ‘What does one do in here if one needs a corkscrew? I take it that there’s no one to call.’

  ‘You mean, like a butler?’ Pyke raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Quite,’ Godfrey said, a little chastened, before carefully placing the bottle down on the table next to Pyke’s bed. ‘I have promising news. The other day I was taken to luncheon at the Athenaeum, no less. Delicious it was, too. Sweetbread au jus and the most tender lamb cutlets, with peas and asparagus, for the main course and an exquisite maraschino jelly with chocolate cream for dessert. All washed down with Madeira and champagne. Quite the banquet.’ Godfrey wiped a spool of dribble from his mouth. ‘My dining companion was a pleasant chap, too. Sharp as razors. Everybody says he’s one of the top barristers in the city. Geoffrey Quince, QC. I didn’t realise it, but he attended your committal hearing, out of interest, and he fancied he could drive a chariot through the Crown’s case. He’s even done a little preliminary digging and unearthed some promising material. Quince explained that the burden of proof always lies with the Crown and on the basis that all the evidence here is circumstantial, he didn’t think any jury in the land would convict, especially in a capital case.’

  ‘What’s in it for him?’ Pyke asked, trying to conceal his scepticism.

  ‘Your trial is a big draw, Pyke. Barristers like a challenge, you know that, putting one over on the Crown, but more than that, they like the spotlight. If he wins, the publicity could be advantageous.’

  ‘I would imagine he’s not cheap.’

  ‘Quince would not be acting for you out of the goodness of his heart, if that’s what you mean.’ Godfrey sounded a little hurt.

  ‘And I’m supposed to put my life in the hands of a man I don’t know and who I’ve never met?’

  ‘Here,’ Godfrey said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his breeches. ‘It’s what they call a retainer. Quince drew it up on the spot. Sign it and I’m sure he will come and visit. You’d like him, my boy. He doesn’t smile.’ He put the document next to the claret bottle and smoothed it down with his hands.

  ‘If I sign, I still want to pursue other options. And if I’m going to do this, I’ll need your help.’

  Godfrey held up his hands. ‘My expertise is entirely at your disposal.’ He paused for a moment and winced slightly. ‘Of course, that’s not to say that I wouldn’t perhaps benefit from some small remuneration, a few scraps thrown my way, but you know I’d do anything for you.’ This time he grinned. ‘Within reason.’

  Pyke nodded. ‘I want you to contact Townsend. He’s a Runner; ask for him at the Bow Street office. Offer him twenty guineas to look into the backgrounds of the turnkeys who work on the condemned ward. I also want to know who the judge at my trial is going to be. Ask Quince. He should be able to find out. I want a meeting with Foote, the Ordinary. You can arrange this. Foote won’t bother to come if I say I need spiritual guidance, so tell him I’m ready to make my confession. He’ll see the profit in it, for him. But the most important thing I want you to do is pass a note directly to Robert Peel. I don’t know how you’ll manage it, but it has to be given to Peel directly, not to one of his secretaries or servants. Like I said, it’s important. My fate could rest on Peel getting the note.’

  Godfrey stared at him, frowning. ‘What note?’

  Pyke produced a letter he had written earlier from under his pillow and handed it to his uncle. It read:

  The prince will be hated if he is rapacious and aggressive with regard to property and the women of his subjects. . He will be despised if he has a reputation for being fickle, frivolous, effeminate, cowardly, irresolute; a prince should avoid this like the plague and strive to demonstrate in his actions grandeur, courage, sobriety, strength.

  Pyke had chosen not to sign it.

  Scanning the note over Godfrey’s shoulder, he noticed that his handwriting was more ragged than usual. ‘You’ll see it gets to Peel himself? It has to be delivered to Peel in person.’

  Godfrey took the envelope and said he would do his best. ‘I’m happy to do what I can to help, of course.’

  Pyke eyed him carefully. ‘But?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, dear boy. I suppose I’m just worried about the usual. Money, the state of my business. .’

  ‘Your business has been suffering for the last twenty years.’

  This seemed to pain Godfrey. ‘Quite so. But you see, dear boy, I have just been reading Vidocq’s memoirs. Now Vidocq is a quite reprehensible figure and, to my mind, all the better for it. I don’t imagine, for a second, he actually wrote the book himself and, in my opinion, that’s the problem. There’s something missing. Don’t get me wrong; the formula is the right one. Send a thief to catch a thief. But there’s still too much moralising. If those elements could only be harnessed to writing that had the courage of its own base convictions it really would be something. .’

  ‘You know what I think about this, Godfrey.’

  ‘At least think about it. Like you just said, I haven’t published anything that’s worth a damn in over twenty years. The penny stories about ravaged vir
gins and demented monks are good fun — don’t get me wrong — but they won’t be read in a year’s time, let alone a hundred years’ time. I just think your story’s one that needs to be told. A simple man who’s doing what has to be done in order to. .’

  Pyke smiled. ‘Prosper?’

  ‘I was going to say survive or get by, but prosper works just as well.’

  ‘You think that I’m simple?’

  ‘Did I say simple?’ Godfrey feigned indignation.

  ‘What about ingenious?’ Pyke said, lightly.

  Godfrey looked at him. ‘You do understand I’m talking about a creation.’

  ‘You don’t think I am?’

  Godfrey studied him for a while. ‘You forget I know you as well as anyone, Pyke. I know for a fact that you can be a cold-hearted bastard. .’

  ‘Is there a but?’

  ‘Would I be here if there wasn’t?’ He reached out and patted Pyke on the arm. ‘This creation. He would just be a larger-than-life version of you.’

  ‘A man without morals,’ Pyke said, still trying to make sense of his uncle’s comments.

  ‘He would have morals. The story wouldn’t. There’s a difference.’ Godfrey hesitated. ‘Will you at least think about it, dear boy?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Really?’ Godfrey stared at him through bushy eyebrows. ‘Actually, I met this chap the other day, a young shorthand reporter, rents an office close to mine, at number five Bell Yard. I happened to mention I was your uncle and he was keen to meet you; expressed a real interest in your case. I said I’d see what I could do. He’s a novelist with big ideas.’

  ‘Let’s just deal with the matters at hand for the time being, shall we?’ Pyke said, gently.

  ‘Of course.’ His uncle nodded vigorously. ‘But you will give it some thought?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Godfrey slapped him on the back. ‘Now perhaps we might pull the cork on this claret.’ Then his mood seemed to darken and he looked up at Pyke and said, his eyes clear, ‘I didn’t say anything before but I just want you to know I’m sorry. Lizzie was a fine woman. As loyal and loving as they come.’

  Pyke could not hold his stare and said nothing, as he felt guilt and sadness building within him in equal measures.

  Two days before his trial was due to commence, Pyke was visited by Godfrey and the Reverend Arthur Foote. Both men reeked of gin, though Foote’s stench was particularly noxious, an acrid mixture of fungi, rank breath, stale alcohol and soiled clothing. He stumbled into the room, took a moment to get his bearings, pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles right up against his bloodshot eyes, and farted loudly before falling into the room’s only chair. Though Foote was maybe thirty years older than him and had a fuller girth, the two of them were of a similar height. Godfrey perched on the end of the bed, his chubby legs dangling over the edge. Pyke, meanwhile, stood by the door and listened while Foote waffled about his role in the case of prisoners awaiting execution.

  ‘Well, boy, I suppose now’s the time to unbosom yourself, ’ he said, finally.

  Pyke did not respond.

  ‘You see, as the Ordinary of this venerable establishment, it is incumbent on me — yes, it is my responsibility, nay prerogative — to elicit, at the behest of the condemned person, of course — elicit from him, at an appropriate time — yes, that would be right — elicit a confession in which the aforementioned unburdens himself to me of his sinful ways and waywardness.’ His leer revealed a set of teeth that resembled decrepit gravestones in their unevenness. ‘You’re not a sodomite, by any chance?’ He saw Pyke’s expression and mumbled, ‘Of course, I didn’t imagine that you were.’

  As Foote continued to ramble, Pyke studied him closely, making a mental note of the man’s mottled, vein-ridden face, the stubble, the large wart on the end of his nose, the calluses on his hands, the hunched-up way he carried himself.

  After Foote had departed, Godfrey stayed behind and Pyke asked whether he had heard from Townsend.

  ‘Indeed I have, my boy. There are two turnkeys on the condemned ward who might be amenable to an approach.’

  Pyke told Godfrey to instruct Townsend to make them an offer.

  Godfrey nodded. ‘Of course, if Quince were to win the trial, all these plans would be rendered null and void.’

  Pyke said he had finally met Quince, and had been impressed with the man’s capabilities. The lawyer had called at the prison that morning and Pyke’s favourable reaction to the man had surprised him. His uncle nodded warmly. Pyke explained that the judge was to be the Recorder of London himself, Lord Chief Justice Marshall. Godfrey asked whether this was good news or not. Pyke just repeated what he had been told by Quince: Marshall was ‘well liked’ by the Duke of Wellington’s administration. ‘Let Quince earn his money, Pyke.’ Godfrey didn’t bother to hide his concern. ‘He told me that we have a strong case.’

  ‘Would he say anything different?’

  Godfrey looked concerned. ‘Promise me you won’t try anything. . reckless until after the trial?’

  Pyke ignored the question. ‘Did you manage to pass on the note to Peel in person?’

  ‘Peel was in the Commons yesterday. There was a debate on the Catholic Emancipation Bill. Peel was presenting the case for the government. Knatchbull gave him a torrid time. They say the police bill will sail through next month but, as for Catholic emancipation, there’s still a lot of opposition.’

  ‘Did you give him the note?’

  ‘A friend invited me to watch the proceedings. During lunch, I made a point of bumping into Peel. I handed him the note, yes, and he took it and glanced at it in front of me. Certainly it registered, but then again I couldn’t exactly say what his reaction indicated. Peel’s a hard one to read. I’d say he’d be a devil to play cards with.’

  The tension drained from Pyke’s body. All he could do was wait for a response.

  The next morning Pyke awoke to find that an envelope had been slipped under his door. It was an unwelcoming day and a squally wind rattled the window frame. Pyke convinced himself he did not want to get out of his bed because of the icy temperature, but once he had retrieved the envelope from the floor he was still hesitant about opening it. Inspecting the envelope, he found that it did not appear to be a missive from Peel, at least not an official one. There was no name or seal attached to it. Upon smelling it he noticed a faint perfume. Eventually his curiosity overcame his anxiety and he tore the envelope open; the note was a short one. It simply said: Keep your spirits up. And it was signed with the letter ‘E’.

  It took Pyke a moment to work out who ‘E’ was and another moment to realise that he was not disappointed it was not from Peel.

  The prison governor, Hunt, had a glistening, hairless head formed in the shape of a large egg. He was by no means an old man but was sufficiently aware of his own lack of follicles to want to wear a brimless hat, even indoors. In other ways, Hunt was a more old-fashioned dresser, preferring a short double-breasted jacket when the fashion was for longer and slimmer garments and trousers rather than breeches. Though they were alone and the door to Pyke’s cell had been bolted from the outside, he seemed wary about moving any farther into the room than was necessary.

  ‘I wanted to say I hope they find you guilty tomorrow and decide to string you up. I don’t care for your type and I have to say it would be a pleasure to entertain you in our ward for the condemned, preferably just for a very short period of time.’ His look was contemptuous but concealed something else.

  ‘It didn’t stop you taking my money, did it?’ Without looking up, Pyke continued to read from The Prince.

  ‘I agreed to your request because I felt it would be in the best interests of the prisoners if you billeted on your own.’ Hunt smiled easily. ‘Less chance of contaminating others.’

  ‘How philanthropic of you.’ Pyke yawned.

  The governor waited for a few moments. ‘A rather unusual letter arrived for you th
is evening.’ He saw he had Pyke’s attention and smiled. ‘The book no longer interests you?’

  Pyke said nothing and waited for the governor to continue.

  ‘The letter was hand-delivered and sealed. It carried the personal seal of the Home Secretary, no less. It was delivered to me, with an attached note, from Robert Peel himself, instructing me to hand it to you without inspecting the contents. Which, I have to say, piqued my curiosity even more. I was concerned it might be a pardon, even though such matters are usually dealt with through official channels. Now I’m a respecter of authority and usually I would abide by the wishes of any Home Secretary without question. But this seemed to be such an unusual situation, and then I started to think about Peel and how the man has unfortunately disgraced himself in the eyes of his Protestant brethren, and I came to the conclusion that it was my duty, as a true believer, to open the letter and inspect its contents.’

  ‘Very honourable of you,’ Pyke said, half-raising his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure that St Peter is busy preparing a place for you around God’s dining table, even as we speak.’

  ‘Are you mocking me, boy?’

  ‘No, sir, but I am waiting to hear about the content of Peel’s letter.’ Pyke yawned again, in an effort to conceal his nerves. The letter would tell him much.

  This seemed to placate the governor. ‘Playing it calm, eh? Well, I have to say it’s not good news for you.’ He chortled, then his face turned serious. ‘But it was a strange note, nonetheless; a quotation, though I couldn’t tell from where or even what it indicates.’

  ‘The Prince.’ Pyke held up his book.

  ‘Oh?’ Hunt stared at Pyke keenly. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Why don’t you read me the quotation, and I’ll tell you whether I was right or not.’

  Hunt seemed confused and a little put out. ‘You correspond with the Home Secretary, then?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Hunt stared down at the letter in his hand. ‘It just says, “We can say cruelty is used well when it is employed once and for all, and one’s safety depends on it, and then it is not persisted in but as far as possible turned to the good of one’s subjects.” That’s all. Not even a signature.’ He looked up at Pyke. ‘It’s some kind of private message, isn’t it?’