‘Let us sing to the praise and glory of God,’ he said.
Everyone except Pyke stood.
The sheriffs and under-sheriffs in their gold chains and fur collars and their footmen sat on one side of the chapel. In the pews in the middle the general mass of the prison population took their seats. The schoolmaster and juvenile prisoners were arranged around the communion table opposite the pulpit. Pyke himself sat alone in a large dock-like construction in the centre of the chapel. It had been painted black. Pyke had been allowed to take his seat only once everyone else had taken their places. Shackled and gagged, he kept his head up and met no one’s stare.
‘This service is for the dead,’ the Ordinary bellowed from the pulpit, once the hymn had been sung. ‘The condemned man who is about to suffer the gravest penalty of the law will read from the prayer book and sing the lamentation of a wretched sinner.’
An elderly clerk shuffled across to the black pew and removed Pyke’s gag. Pyke stared down at the prayer book opened in front of him. He closed his eyes. The Ordinary reiterated his demand; Pyke looked down at the words in front of him. When it was clear that Pyke would not do as he was asked, the Ordinary began his sermon and a hushed silence fell over the dour chapel. He painted a grim picture of Hell, insisting that the time for forgiveness had passed and judgement would soon be upon Pyke. He described the brutality of Pyke’s crimes and reminded the congregation that Pyke had attacked a venerable man of the cloth.
Pyke looked around at the unfamiliar faces gathered in the galleries and pews around him.
It was six o’clock on Sunday evening. He would hang in a little more than twelve hours.
Pyke asked for food and porter but even as he did so it struck him as an odd tradition: eating in order to prepare for one’s death. He was not hungry, nor did he want to dull his senses with alcohol.
The victuals arrived about an hour after he had been returned to his cell: stewed mutton with carrots and barley and a jug of porter. Food and drink were also brought for the turnkey in his cell. Pyke picked at the food for a while with his cuffed hands but did not eat anything. Instead he watched, without interest, as the young man scooped the mutton from the bowl in front of him and shovelled it into his mouth, gravy dripping down both sides of his chin. Outside the cell the mood seemed almost festive. Everyone, it appeared, was looking forward to the hanging. Pyke listened as the turnkeys talked excitedly about the vantage points they were going to occupy in relation to the scaffold. One of the turnkeys said there were already thirty thousand people gathered in the streets outside the prison. Another reckoned there would be close to a hundred thousand by the following morning.
The young turnkey had an unnaturally thin face, as though his head had somehow been deformed in childbirth. He had tried to compensate for this deformity by growing an excess of facial hair, which meant that scraps of food and drops of porter gathered in his beard.
Pyke heard footsteps, hard-soled shoes clicking against the stone floor. They came to a stop outside his cell. He listened to voices and heard a jangling of keys. From outside, one of the turnkeys inserted a key into the lock, twisted it, slid the iron bolts back and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Candlelight illuminated the gloomy cell. Pyke looked up. Another turnkey issued an instruction, telling whoever it was out there that they would be searched on the way in and the way out as well. ‘Governor’s orders.’ The turnkey added, ‘Remember what we agreed, madam. The door remains open at all times and young Jenkins stays in the cell with you. To make sure there ain’t no funny stuff.’
Emily Blackwood stepped into the cell, removed her bonnet and looked at him. Her smile was warm but awkward.
‘Mr Pyke. I’m sure it is unnecessary for me to ask how you are.’ She stepped farther into the cell. ‘But I did want to see you before. .’ The words died in her mouth.
Pyke stood up and bowed. He smelled her perfume. Her face was composed but alert.
‘I have porter. I have food.’ He pointed at the untouched plate. ‘What more could a man ask for?’
‘It is barbaric, what they are planning to do to you.’
‘Is it?’ Pyke wasn’t absolutely sure but thought he saw her wink at him. ‘The last time we were in Newgate together I said that we live and die according to the whims of chance. This is merely confirming the truthfulness of that sentiment.’
‘But with chance perhaps comes hope?’ Emily seemed suddenly unsteady on her feet.
Pyke asked whether she cared for a seat.
‘No, I’m fine.’ But she did not seem to be well. Again she wobbled a little and when, a few moments later, she fell forward, Pyke instinctively reached out to break her fall. As he did so, he felt her press something cold and hard into his open palm. Jenkins did not seem to know what to do, but from outside the cell Pyke heard one of the older turnkeys say, ‘Step away from the visitor.’ Ignoring his demand, Pyke carefully laid Emily on the bed. The turnkey reiterated his demand and hurried into the cell. Pyke held up his hands, as if to protest his innocence. He had already transferred what Emily had given him into his mouth.
On the bed, Emily was sighing and holding her forehead. The older turnkey looked at Pyke, unimpressed. He asked Emily whether she felt better. Emily said yes, she did, but she couldn’t explain what had happened. All of a sudden she had felt faint and hadn’t been able to stop herself from falling. The turnkey nodded in a manner that suggested he did not believe her explanation.
‘Well, you’ve seen the prisoner now and said your farewell. Jenkins, perhaps you could escort the lady back to the keeper’s house.’
Gingerly Emily rose to her feet and took a deep breath. Turning to leave, she exhaled. ‘Who knows, Mr Pyke. Perhaps the governor may yet opt for clemency.’
‘I’m afraid the time has long passed.’ He looked at her for some indication of what she might be referring to but saw little in her blank stare. ‘And it is not in the governor’s powers to grant such clemency. Only the Home Secretary’s intervention will make a difference and I fear this will not be forthcoming.’
‘But surely the governor’s office is not entirely closed to you, even at this late stage?’
Pyke said that, unfortunately, it was. As he bade her farewell, he felt sickened by the idea that he might never see her again.
Once she had departed, the older turnkey folded his arms and said, ‘What was all that about, then?’
Pyke said nothing. The small key was hidden under his tongue.
‘Hands,’ the turnkey barked. ‘Show me your hands, prisoner.’
Pyke held out his palms.
‘Turn out your pockets.’
Again Pyke did as he was asked.
The turnkey edged closer to him. ‘Open your mouth.’
Pyke forced the small key as far back under his tongue as it would go.
‘Open your fucking mouth.’
The turnkey peered gingerly into Pyke’s open mouth but could not see much because of the poor light. He seemed reluctant to do more than this; doubtless the thought that Pyke might bite him had crossed his mind.
The cell door was bolted from the outside and the turnkey checked to see that Pyke’s handcuffs and leg-irons were secure and then settled down on a chair inside the cell.
An hour or so later, the man was asleep. While he dozed, Pyke spat the key out into his cuffed hand. It took him a while to find a way of manoeuvring it into the lock of his handcuffs, but upon doing so he was astonished to discover that the key not only fitted the lock but also released the cuffs. Freeing his hands, he set to work on the leg-irons. It took him less than five minutes to unshackle himself. For a few moments, Pyke sat on the bed, staring at the sleeping turnkey and then at his unlocked handcuffs and leg-irons, thinking about something Emily had said: But surely the governor’s office is not entirely closed to you, even at this late stage? What had she meant? Of course the governor’s office was closed to him. But what if he could arrange an audience with Hunt in his office? Might there be some r
oute of escape open to him from there?
The sheer granite walls that rose up fifty feet from the ground were impossible to scale, a task that was made even harder by a row of inward-facing iron spikes attached to the wall about three-quarters of the way up, and another row of even larger spikes that protected the top of the wall. But if he could drop down from the governor’s quarters on to the top of the wall, there might be a chance.
Carefully Pyke secured the cuffs and leg-irons and pressed the key into the palm of his hand.
‘Turnkey.’ The shrillness of Pyke’s tone startled the older man from his slumber.
‘Eh?’ He looked around the cell, still disoriented.
‘I want you to take a message to Governor Hunt. Tell the governor that I am willing to divulge to him the exact nature of my business with the Home Secretary but, and this is my one demand, only if he grants me a private audience in his office.’
The turnkey seemed unconvinced. ‘Why should I wake the governor at this time of night?’
‘The governor will want to hear what I have to say to him.’ Pyke shrugged. ‘And if, at some later point, he hears that you failed to avail him of the opportunity to hear my revelations, I can promise you he will not be happy.’
The turnkey still looked unsure so Pyke said, ‘If you pass on the message, and he refuses to see me, what have you lost?’
Later, when the old man had been replaced by another turnkey, all that was left for Pyke to do was wait.
‘This is a most unusual situation,’ the governor said, as he lightly tapped his fingers on his desk. His bald head glistened in the candlelight. ‘But I cannot pretend that I am not a little intrigued by the nature of your business with the Home Secretary.’
Pyke was separated from the governor only by his mahogany desk. The turnkeys had brought him into the room and checked his handcuffs and leg-irons. He had also been searched, once in his cell and again before he entered the governor’s office. The two of them were now alone. Pyke asked whether he might take a seat. The governor said that he did not see why not. With the desk to obscure Hunt’s view of his hands, he set to work with the key.
Outside, the skies were beginning to lighten. He was due to hang in less than two hours.
‘If I am honest, I am also curious about your motives for sharing this information with me, since there is nothing I can offer you in return.’
Pyke nodded, as though he had been expecting this response. ‘But you are no supporter of the Home Secretary, either.’
Hunt licked his lips. ‘And you feel this information might be damaging to his prospects, eh?’
‘Perhaps even more than damaging,’ Pyke said, nodding.
‘Is that so?’ Hunt seemed both pained and excited by such an idea. ‘You think it might even force Peel’s resignation?’
‘It might.’
‘That’s a grave assertion.’ He seemed to be weighing up what he might gain from such a situation. ‘But how can I attest to the information’s authenticity?’
‘Its authenticity would be legitimised by the reaction of the Home Secretary.’ Pyke freed his handcuffs.
‘I see,’ the governor said, nodding carefully. ‘Perhaps you might share this information with me now?’
Pyke looked around at the closed door and whispered, ‘Are you certain that no one will be listening?’
‘The turnkeys won’t be interested in our conversation.’
‘But the information is only valuable if it is wielded carefully and by the right people,’ Pyke said carefully.
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Since I cannot write while shackled,’ Pyke said, holding up his handcuffs, ‘perhaps I might venture a little closer, so that I can be sure we’re not overheard.’
The governor considered his proposal. ‘Your hands will remain shackled. But I can see no reason why you might not come closer, so long as you maintain a respectful distance.’
Pyke heaved himself up off the chair and shuffled around Hunt’s desk in his leg-irons and advanced a few paces towards the governor, until the man held up his hand and said, ‘That’s far enough.’ It was near enough too. Pyke let the metal handcuffs slip from his wrists and managed to catch them before they struck the floor by clutching the chain. In the same motion, he swung the chain upwards and directed the shackles at the governor’s uncomprehending face. The iron cuffs struck Hunt squarely on the head and he slumped forward on to the desk. Preparing himself for an invasion of turnkeys alerted by the noise, Pyke turned to face the door. Silently he counted to ten. No one appeared. He exhaled slightly and used the key to release his leg-irons.
The governor’s quarters occupied a separate building at the rear of the prison, set back from the main wards. The governor’s office, located on the second floor, looked down over the enclosed press yard which separated the prison from the condemned block. Pyke tried to open the window behind the governor’s desk; to his surprise, it was unlocked. Somehow, Emily had come through for him. He pulled up the sash and looked out into the misty dawn. Below was a sheer drop of fifty feet down to the yard. If he jumped, Pyke knew he would break both his legs, and would still have to scale a high wall protected by two rows of iron spikes in order to make it out of the prison. Better to climb upwards, on to the roof, if that were possible, and from there try to drop down on to the brick wall that ran the entire length of the press yard. The problem was that the wall was clearly visible from the governor’s office. Even if he made it that far, Pyke would certainly be seen by one of the turnkeys.
He needed an alternative plan.
On the governor’s desk he found a letter opener in the shape of a dagger. Taking the implement in his hand, and without giving it another thought, he thrust the sharp end into Hunt’s neck and felt the metal slice through sinew and muscle. He had to step back so the blood that spilled from the wound did not cover his hands and feet.
Moments later, the turnkeys burst into the room. Before them they saw the governor’s motionless body, slumped on his desk, surrounded by a thick pool of his own blood. The man’s head, as usual, was hidden under his black hat. Behind him, the window was open. Pyke was nowhere to be seen. When one of the turnkeys raced to the window and looked down into the yard beneath him, he saw what he thought to be Pyke’s unmoving body, splattered against the hard ground.
One of the turnkeys shouted, ‘Prisoner escaped.’
The other, by the window, yelled, ‘Prisoner fallen. Get someone down there. He looks to be dead.’
Another said, ‘How in God’s name did he do it? We searched him, didn’t we?’
Still another said, ‘I take it the governor’s dead.’
‘I ain’t touching him.’
‘Fetch a doctor.’
Another voice. ‘Get the Ordinary, not a doctor. Too late for that.’
‘Come on. Let’s see whether Pyke’s dead.’
Moments later, alone in the governor’s office, Pyke removed the hat from his head and used it to wipe the governor’s blood from his face and neck. He climbed out on to the narrow window ledge. Holding on to the stone arch that framed the window, he pulled himself up on to the building’s roof and lay there for a moment, staring up into the dawn skies. In the distance, he could hear the mass of people beginning to gather outside the prison to witness a hanging that would not now take place. Then he was up on his feet and scurrying across the sloping roof. Then he lowered himself on to the wall and traversed the press yard.
Far below, he could see the outline of the governor’s body, and he moved as quickly along the wall as its narrow width would allow. At the end of the wall, he dropped down into the garden of the Royal College of Physicians, as the first of the turnkeys reached the governor’s body.
The last thing Pyke heard the man say was, ‘It’s not him. It isn’t bleedin’ him.’ Then he shouted, ‘Prisoner escaped.’
PART II
Belfast, Ireland
JULY 1829
FOURTEEN
Pyke had no idea what type of dog it was, except that it was not a pure-bred. It possessed an unkempt coat and a deformed ear, and hauled itself along on three stubby legs, the fourth being entirely lame. It was no larger than a moderate-sized ferret, and was about as lovable, but for a reason Pyke could not explain the animal had developed a fierce loyalty to him in the short time since he had disembarked from the steamship. So much so that even when he retired to his room for the night, the dog would still be waiting for him the following morning. Finding this attachment irritating rather than endearing, Pyke had tried to shoo the dog away, to no avail. It did not seem to want his affection in any explicit manner, and Pyke was far too sensible to try to pet it. Rather, it simply followed him wherever he went in the town, happily trotting behind him on its three good legs. After a day or so of this, and when a firm kick to the dog’s groin had not managed to drive it away, Pyke had relented a little and deigned to address the animal merely as ‘dog’. It seemed content with the name.
The inn, if it could be called that, jostled for attention alongside the taverns, music halls and spirit shops of North Queen Street. The area also housed the town’s main infantry barracks, which perhaps explained the large number of brothels located in the immediate vicinity. In fact, it had taken Pyke a few hours to work out that his own place of residence offered more than simply room and board. It was the kind of place in which you could die and not be discovered for days. For one thing, there was the odour: the corridors were not just damp and musty but smelt of something riper and more obscene, as though human flesh in an adjacent room had turned gangrenous. For another thing, he never actually saw any guests. He heard them, though; heard them beg for sexual relief through the paper-thin walls of his room, which was no bigger than a coffin and much less hospitable. If he’d had the money, he would have stayed in one of the hotels overlooking the Linen Hall, but his funds — effectively what he had retrieved from Godfrey’s apartment in London — were running perilously low. Such a dilemma, unfortunately, necessitated prudence.
The Last Days of Newgate pm-1 Page 17
