The card game was taking place in the cellar beneath the taproom. It was a stuffy, low-ceilinged room, and even though it was July, a turf fire smouldered in the grate. Above them, in the taproom itself, the fiddle-playing had started up and the resulting foot-stomping caused flecks of dust and plaster to rain down on the makeshift card table. On the floor was spread a generous layer of butcher’s-shop sawdust. As he introduced the other two players, Archie Tait, a former pugilist who owned a small whisky distillery, and Bill Campbell, who taught moral philosophy at the Academical Institution, Arnold himself took no notice of the disturbance. Lining the walls around the cramped room were a motley assortment of hangers-on: shipyard builders and brick-field labourers in working clothes, with dirty fingernails, drinking Dublin stout from chipped pots, staring with silent envy at the small pile of money gathered on the table.
As he sat down on a wooden chair, Pyke glanced up at the shaking ceiling and said, ‘Dancing without women.’ No one reciprocated his smile.
‘You’ll excuse our unfamiliarity with your more sophisticated tastes,’ Arnold said, pouring himself a fresh glass of whisky. ‘We’re hard-working folk, not necessarily inured to the effects of alcohol like the rest of Ireland. But you see, tomorrow is a holiday, a celebration to commemorate smashing the papists, and so we’re giving our moral diligence a rest for the night.’ With feigned sentiment, he held up his whisky glass. ‘A toast to King Billy.’ A murmur of approval rippled around the room, followed by a chink of ale pots. Pyke left his own glass on the table.
‘Ye don’t care to join us in a drink?’ The ex-pugilist stared at him fiercely. He was an ugly man made uglier by the visible scars of his former profession.
Pyke picked up his glass and poured its contents down his open throat. That seemed to satisfy the gathered crowd, if not the pugilist.
Campbell laughed nervously. He was unctuous but appeasing. ‘So what do you think of our wee town, Mr Hawkes?’
Pyke told him that, so far, he’d found it cold, wet and dreary. Campbell smiled genially but Tait and Arnold met his flippancy with stony faces.
‘It’s a liberal Presbyterian town,’ Campbell said, ‘or at least it used to be, back when people read Paine and Franklin as avidly as they did Knox and Calvin. Of course, the Anglicans always held the purse-strings, still do’ — he glanced nervously at Arnold — ‘but for a while, at least, people were calling us the northern Athens, with their tongues only half in their cheek. These are darker times, though. The good Reverend Henry Cooke will soon have us dressing in sackcloth and reading nothing but the Good Book. Wouldn’t that be a good thing for all of us, John?’ His tone dripped with sarcasm.
Arnold shrugged and picked up the playing cards. ‘As long as the mills continue to make a profit and the papists are kept on the rack, the Reverend Cooke can say or do what he likes.’ He turned to Pyke and said, ‘We were playing Primero. I’ll presume ye have enough money to cover whatever debts you accrue.’ He cracked his knuckles and began to deal the cards. ‘As you might readily believe, things could turn ugly for folk who canna settle their debts.’
Pyke lost steadily over the course of the following hour but limited his losses to a few pounds by betting frugally and folding often. Quickly, the other players came to regard him as an irrelevance. Even Arnold seemed to relax his guard.
They talked in clipped sentences about people they knew in a way that was designed to exclude him. When it was his turn to deal, Pyke used the opportunity to slip himself an additional card, the six of clubs, which he dropped into his lap and, later, shunted up his sleeve. Even the onlookers had ceased to notice him.
Now slightly drunk, Arnold was rhapsodising about the prosperity his new mill would bring the town.
‘I saw some of that prosperity on the streets surrounding the mill.’
‘Did ye now?’ Arnold eyed him cautiously.
‘More cripples than you could shake a stick at.’ He held the mill owner’s stare.
Arnold smiled, not rising to the bait. ‘I suppose your own labourers don’t suffer from leg injuries or chest diseases, Mr Hawkes?’
This time Pyke returned the smile.
‘Which part of Lancashire did you say you were from?’ Campbell asked.
‘Bury.’ Pyke waited for a moment. ‘The town that gave us our fine Home Secretary.’ He fixed his gaze on Arnold.
‘That would be a matter of personal opinion,’ Arnold said, folding his arms.
‘What? That Peel and myself share a common heritage?’
‘That he’s a fine man,’ Arnold replied, through gritted teeth.
‘Oh?’ Pyke tried to sound appropriately bemused.
‘He did a good enough job while he was here, I’ll give him that.’ Arnold filled up his whisky glass. ‘Makes it harder to believe he could turn papist and live with himself.’
‘You knew him when he was the Chief Secretary here?’
Arnold’s eyes narrowed. ‘Of him, aye.’
‘Then you must have known a friend of mine who worked for him. Still does, I think.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Fitzroy Tilling.’
But Arnold’s stare gave nothing at all away. ‘Aye, I know the man.’
‘Well or not?’
‘He’s a friend a’ yours, ye say?’
‘We haven’t spoken to one another in a while.’
‘I never much warmed to the man myself.’ Arnold took a sip of whisky and tossed a guinea into the pot. ‘Any of you interested in playin’ a game of cards?’ he said, this time avoiding Pyke’s stare.
Earlier in the day, Pyke had considered holding a knife to Arnold’s throat and asking him about his relationship with Tilling. On reflection, though, he had ruled out such an idea. From experience, he knew that people didn’t necessarily provide truthful answers when confronted with physical violence.
It had been his plan to see how Arnold reacted when Tilling’s name was mentioned. Now, though, he felt confused and disappointed. At the very least, he had hoped that Arnold might be thrown off kilter, but the man had responded as though he barely knew him. Pyke took a moment to organise his thoughts. He knew that Tilling had once acted as Peel’s eyes and ears in Ulster. He had been told by Mary Johnson, in London, that Davy Magennis had been drafted into the Royal Irish Constabulary because his father, Andrew, had asked Arnold to recommend him. Mary had insisted that, on the strength of this recommendation, someone had travelled to Armagh, in person, to offer Magennis a position in the new force. For some reason, perhaps because of Tilling’s reaction to his mentioning Davy Magennis’s name, Pyke had assumed that Tilling was the person who had travelled to Armagh. Now, though, he was not so sure. On the evidence of Arnold’s tepid response, it didn’t seem the two men were even on friendly terms.
Pyke wondered whether Tilling was as important to his investigation as he wanted to believe.
For the following two rounds, Pyke waited in vain for another six, to add to the one he had hidden up his sleeve. He betted moderately and lost unspectacularly. The game was a little under two hours old when Pyke dealt himself a hand that included the six of hearts and the six of diamonds. Together with the hidden card, it gave him a very strong hand. Seated to his left, Arnold opened the betting and pushed five guineas into the pot.
Meanwhile, Pyke had steered the conversation on to the subject of the marches.
‘The rank and file will march tomorrow, in defiance of what the Grand Master has instructed them to do,’ Campbell muttered, as though he did not approve.
Arnold shook his head vigorously. ‘I’m giving my workers a holiday. Good luck to ’em if they decide to march. Fact is, I’ve told ’em that if they can walk, then they should bloody well march.’ That drew an approving murmur from the gathering. Then Arnold added, mostly for Pyke’s benefit, ‘You’ll see blood spilled tomorrow, that’s for sure.’
Campbell winced. ‘We’re not a violent people, Mr Hawkes. But you must understand, we regard the Roman C
atholic religion as little more than idolatry; they worship symbols, the crucifix, statues of the Virgin Mary, rosary beads, while we worship Christ himself. For us, it’s about developing an interior relationship with God.’
‘And if God happens to instruct you to beat a Catholic man nearly to death with your bare fists?’
Campbell appeared shocked by such a notion. Arnold smirked. ‘That might happen in England. .’
‘But not here?’
‘We’re law-abiding people.’
Removing his wallet, Pyke took out a crisp ten-pound note and tossed it into the pot. ‘Your five and another five.’ Without missing a beat, he turned to Arnold. ‘You’re saying that kind of hate doesn’t have a place here?’
‘What? Around this table?’ Arnold said, mocking. Laughter filled the small room.
Pyke’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know what I meant.’
‘And things were fine here till Cromwell turned up and slaughtered folk in their thousands. Believe it or not, Mr Hawkes, we can sort out our problem without the help of the English.’ He looked again at his hand. ‘Another five, eh? Yes, I think I’ll have some of that,’ he said, throwing a pile of coins into the mounting pot.
‘I’m out,’ Tait said, folding his hand.
‘A pugilist with no stomach for a fight,’ Campbell chided.
‘I’ll see the both of you.’
Arnold wanted one fresh card, Campbell two. Pyke discarded a jack and a queen and dealt himself two new cards. Turning them over, he found himself staring at the six of spades and the ace of clubs. Together with the two sixes already in his hand and the six of clubs up his sleeve, it gave him an all but unbeatable hand.
He just needed to find a way of retrieving the hidden card and discarding the ace.
‘I’m surprised you don’t see Cromwell as something of a hero,’ Pyke said, feeling for the card up his sleeve.
‘How can an Englishman be a hero?’ Arnold smirked.
‘Anyway, the English have never understood what it’s actually like, having to live with the papists.’ He consulted his hand. ‘Would anyone object if I were to raise the bet to fifty pound?’
The mood quickly intensified. The gathered crowd murmured excitedly. This was more money than any of them would earn in ten years. Briefly, Pyke wondered whether someone might lose their head and make a grab for the whole pot.
‘Bet too rich for you, Bill?’ Arnold said.
Campbell winced. ‘Aye. Damn.’ He folded his hand.
Arnold’s stare returned to Pyke. ‘Hawkes?’
‘Fifty pounds, you say?’ Pyke had another look at his hand. ‘How about we raise the bet by a further hundred?’
‘Pounds?’ The word seemed to catch in Tait’s throat. Campbell stared at him without emotion.
Arnold weighed up the offer. ‘You’ve got the money to cover any losses, I presume?’
‘You can presume.’
‘On your person?’
Pyke raised his eyes to meet Arnold’s gaze. ‘You can check my wallet, if you don’t believe me.’ But he did not retrieve it from his jacket because he did not want Arnold to see how thin it was.
Arnold wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘A hundred, you say? That’s a powerful bet.’ He allowed a smile to ripple across his lips.
Until now it had not entered Pyke’s head that he might lose the hand. For Arnold to beat him, he would need to be holding four sevens. The odds of two such hands emerging from the same round were practically impossible. No, he decided, Arnold might be holding a strong hand, a flush perhaps, but nothing that would beat his four sixes. He glanced down at the pile of coins and banknotes on the table.
‘Aye, I’ll see your bet,’ Arnold said, his hands trembling a little. ‘Let’s see what you’re holdin’.’
Concealed by the table, Pyke let the ace slip out of his hand into his lap. He then placed the four cards face down on the table and turned them over one at a time. ‘One six, two sixes, three sixes.’ He waited for a moment before turning over the final card. ‘Four sixes.’ He permitted himself a smile and, as he did so, took a moment to slide the discarded ace up his sleeve.
‘Good hand,’ Campbell murmured, glancing nervously at Arnold.
‘Aye,’ Arnold said, staring drily at Pyke.
As casually as he could manage, he threw his hand down on the table, as though to concede defeat.
‘Would ye away a’ that.’ It was only then he smiled.
‘Four sevens.’ He motioned at the cards. ‘Check ’em if you don’t believe me.’ Now the grin had spread across his face. Addressing Pyke as though the others were not even in the room, he said, ‘That’s one hundred and fifty pound ye owe me.’ An excited cheer erupted from the onlookers. ‘Make no mistake, mister, I plan on collectin’ the money, too.’
That Arnold might also have cheated was indicated by the man’s general demeanour and the sheer mathematical improbability of two such strong hands appearing in the same round.
But since Pyke had not even considered the possibility he might lose, it was only once he had actually lost, and had been seen to lose, that the seriousness of his situation became apparent.
He had gambled unnecessarily, allowed his dislike of Arnold to cloud his judgement, and now, since he could not pay what he owed, his prospects were bleak. He estimated there were ten or twelve labouring men in the room, in addition to Arnold and the ex-pugilist, who would relish the opportunity to work him over with their bare fists. As a man with no acquaintances or allies, his life was marginally more valuable than that of the crippled dog that had followed him to the tavern. And any of those men would have killed that dog and given it less thought than whether to order an ale or a stout from the bar.
Briefly, Pyke considered his options, or lack of them. Without a weapon, he could not hope to fight his way out of the tavern. Nor could he simply bolt for the nearest exit. The only way out of the cellar was up the staircase and into the waiting arms, and brickbats, of the mob gathered in the taproom.
To compound his discomfort, it was now unbearably hot, because of the turf fire and the sheer number of bodies packed into the small room. Pyke’s armpits were leaking sweat and his throat felt scratchy. Arnold wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket for the third time in as many minutes, before declaring that the time was right for Pyke to settle his debt.
Pyke took a breath, removed his jacket, making sure to retain his wallet, and asked whether it might be possible for him to visit the privy before he attended to the matter in hand. Initially Arnold baulked at such a suggestion but eventually relented, once it was agreed that the pugilist would accompany him as far as the privy door; this was as much of a plan as Pyke had formed.
The outdoor privy was much darker than Pyke had expected. In fact, it was so dark he had to place himself over the privy itself before he could relieve himself. The stench was vile. Outside, he heard Tait tap on the door and ask whether he was done, but he did not hear the movement inside the privy until it was too late; a shuffle of feet and then a click. Something hard and cold — the barrel of a pistol — was pressed into his head.
For a moment, he was stunned at the inappropriateness of it; that he should be killed in such a place, in such a pointless manner. It seemed almost comical. He braced himself for the shot.
‘So how did ye do?’
Pyke heard Megan’s voice but still could not see her in the darkness.
Outside, Tait rapped on the door. Pyke could hear other voices now, too.
‘They tell me it’s loaded but, to be sure, I didn’t check,’ Megan whispered.
‘How did you know I. .’
‘I figured that sooner or later you’d need to visit the privy.’
Pyke was momentarily overwhelmed with gratitude. ‘Why have you done this for me?’ He tried to retrieve the pistol from Megan’s hand but she was not about to give it up.
‘What?’ she said, sounding amused. ‘Ye think I’d just give it to ye for nothing?’
‘But I’ve already paid you for it.’
Tait banged on the door, harder this time. Thirty seconds and I’m breakin’ the door down.’
‘And now the price has suddenly gone up.’
‘I don’t have any more money.’ He took out his wallet to show her.
Megan took what little he had left and said, ‘Bet there’s plenty more on the table you been usin’ to play cards.’
‘You want more, I’ll get it for you,’ he spat. ‘But can I please have the pistol?’
‘Here.’ Megan handed it to him. ‘But hear me, mister, I want whatever’s on that table.’
One shot. That was all he had. One shot for ten or fifteen men in the cellar; another fifty or so upstairs in the taproom.
Pyke was alongside Arnold when he removed the pistol from his shirt and jabbed the end of the barrel into the man’s left temple. For a moment, no one moved. No one even breathed. Pyke used the opportunity to position himself behind Arnold, to use him as a shield, all the while keeping the pistol aimed at his head. Arnold ordered the men in the cellar to remain calm. From behind him, Pyke explained what was going to happen; explained that if anyone tried to prevent him and Arnold from walking up the stairs and leaving via the rear door, or tried to warn people in the upstairs room, then he would pull the trigger and take his chances. As he spoke, and with one hand holding the pistol to Arnold’s head, he gathered up the pile of coins and banknotes from the table with the other hand. The stares of those gathered in the room left Pyke in no doubt what they had planned for him.
Halfway up the staircase, Arnold said, ‘Don’t be thinkin’ you’ll walk away from this, Pyke.’
It was only once they were outside, moving quickly through the back yard and along a narrow passageway that ran between two rows of terraced houses, that Pyke realised what Arnold had said.
The Last Days of Newgate pm-1 Page 19
