Ahead of them, at the end of the alley, Megan and the dog were waiting for him, but instead of joining them Pyke forced open a nearby back gate and pushed Arnold roughly through it and into the yard of a derelict house.
It was a cool, starless night. The ground under their feet was soggy and riddled with puddles. In the near distance, Pyke heard the angry shouts of men spilling out of the tavern. One said, ‘Let’s kill ’im.’ Another said, ‘No fuckin’ mercy.’
Pyke prodded the pistol into Arnold’s throat. ‘How did you know my name?’ In the darkness, he could see the whites of the man’s eyes. ‘Speak.’
‘After you escaped from prison, I received a letter from Tilling. The man warned me that you might try to contact me. I didn’t think anything of it. Then when you mentioned Tilling’s name, I suppose I knew. I should a’ dealt with ye then but I wanted to have some fun. I figured — wrongly, it turns out — you weren’t a threat.’
Pyke digested this news and wondered what it indicated. That Tilling wanted to conceal a trail of complicity that led back to him?
‘You know the Magennis family of Loughgall? Yes or no?’ Pyke jabbed the pistol into Arnold’s Adam’s apple.
‘Andrew Magennis is the Grand Secretary for County Armagh.’
‘A few years ago, he contacted you, asked if you could put in a good word for his son, Davy. You arranged for someone to visit Loughgall in person, to enlist Davy in the Royal Irish Constabulary.’
‘If you say so.’ Arnold’s voice sounded as though it had been flattened with hammers.
‘You went to see Tilling. Later, Tilling paid Davy Magennis a visit and recruited him into the new force.’
‘You’d have to ask Tilling about that.’
At the far end of the alleyway, Pyke heard voices, a scuffle of footsteps. He had less time than he needed.
‘There were three murders earlier this year in London. A man, a woman and a baby. I found the bodies. Magennis killed them. One of the victims was Magennis’s brother. I saw the cut to his throat. It was so deep the man’s head had practically been severed from his body. Magennis throttled the baby with his bare hands, with his bare fucking hands, and then dumped it into a metal piss-pot.’ Pyke took a breath and tried to calm himself.
Arnold waited for a moment. ‘You have a powerful way wi’ words.’ In the street, his brogue was stronger.
‘Magennis is hiding somewhere in Ulster.’
‘What’s that got to do wi’ me?’
‘I think you know where he might be.’ Pyke raised the pistol and aimed it at Arnold’s forehead.
On the other side of the gate, two men hurried past. He heard one of them say, farther along the alley, ‘Archie reckoned they must be around here somewhere.’ Pyke pressed his finger to his lips. Seconds later, they had moved on.
‘I’ve never met the man.’
‘But you know where he might be hiding.’
‘I know he’s got family in the town. That’s all.’ Arnold seemed irritated enough to be telling the truth.
‘Family? Where.’
‘A house on Sandy Row.’ Arnold let out a heavy sigh.
‘You know, if you shoot me, they’ll send the whole garrison after you.’
‘Except they won’t know where I’ve gone.’ Pyke thought about it for a moment. ‘And if I let you live, you’ll send a warning to Andrew Magennis in Loughgall. Perhaps arrange for an ambush along the way.’
Pyke heard footsteps and saw the gate open. He felt something brush against his boot, heard a yap. The little dog brushed against his leg and wagged its tail.
‘No one else knows who I am, do they?’
Arnold didn’t speak but, for the first time, Pyke sensed his discomfort. He was a canny man and understood the precarious nature of his own situation: the garrison would be looking for a man called Hawkes, not Pyke.
‘That was a mistake, telling me you knew who I was.’ Arnold seemed to shrink before him. His eyes darkened with fear.
That settled it: Pyke knew what he had to do.
Megan appeared, silhouetted against the frame of the gate. The dog was licking his boot. Pyke told her to wait for him at the far end of the alleyway. She said they had to move; that all the streets were crawling with armed vigilantes. Pyke heard a shout at the other end of the alleyway. He decided he could not wait any longer, so he raised the pistol and shot Arnold in the middle of his forehead. The blast was drowned by Megan’s scream.
SIXTEEN
The first time it had happened, Pyke was not even certain whether he had killed the man or not. He had spotted him, a forger who had returned illegally from transportation, in a crowded pub in Clerkenwell and pursued him through labyrinthine back alleys and courtyards, across traffic-choked streets, through bustling warehouses and eventually up on to the roof of an abandoned lunatic asylum. Cornering the fugitive, Pyke had advanced slowly, hands in the air, to show that he was not carrying a weapon, and backed the terrified man towards the edge of the roof until he could go no farther. Afterwards, when it was finished and the man was dead, Pyke had not been able to tell, with any conviction, whether he had pushed the man or whether he had jumped, but in the end it did not seem to matter: the man was still dead. Later, he would become accomplished at constructing whatever moral justification his actions seemed to require, but in that moment, as he stared down from the roof of the building at that unmoving figure sprawled on the stone floor, Pyke had been struck both by the pointlessness of the man’s death and by his own culpability in it.
Pyke had no time to explain his actions to Megan, who was looking at him, her hands covering her mouth. Taking her hand, he pulled her into the yard and, from there, into the derelict house. Others had heard the blast, of course, and were converging on where they thought it had come from. Safely inside the house, he took Megan in his hands and shook her, to stop her from wailing. ‘I didn’t plan to kill him, but in the end I didn’t have a choice. I need you to understand. I also need your help. Do you live with your family?’
At his feet, the little dog was panting and wagging its runty tail. He reached down and patted the dog on its head.
‘Megan?’ He shook her shoulders harder this time.
‘I got my own room,’ she said, finally.
‘Whereabouts.’
‘The Pound.’
‘Is it far?’
‘Eh?’ She seemed distant, still in shock.
‘Megan. Is it far?’
He heard more voices, outside in the back alleyway. Pyke knew it was only a matter of time before they were discovered. They had to find a better place to hide. Through the broken windows at the front of the house, he looked out on to the main square. In the darkness, it made for a miserable view. There were four or five taverns, in addition to the Royal, which overlooked the square, and with the news of the shooting all of them had emptied and the square itself was now bustling with vigilantes.
‘No, it’s not far at all,’ Megan said, in a quiet, almost childlike voice.
In the ebbing candlelight, Pyke sat down next to her and tried to say something that was appropriate to the situation.
Megan’s room was located on the ground floor of a brick-built terraced house. It had a solitary window that looked out on to the street, and a pile of damp straw for a mattress.
‘I was just a wee child when Mammy died.’ She was still shaking. ‘To this day, I don’t know what from. We all knew she was powerful sick but one morning, me da tol’ us the fairies had come in the night and taken her away. Course, even then we knew the fairies were made up but it helped, in a way.’
Pyke touched her face, felt the wetness of her tears on her flesh. She flinched, though not enough to discourage him entirely.
‘Wha’ makes ye think ye can just kill a man and get away wi’ it?’ Her tone was flinty, even aggressive. ‘Ye can’t just shoot a man as powerful as Arnold and get away a’ it.’
‘Rich men bleed the same as poor men.’ As soon as he said it, Pyke knew the rem
ark was facile.
‘Wha’? That’s supposed to make everything all right?’ She sounded angry. ‘I got ye the pistol. As good as killed the man myself.’
‘I’m sorry for involving you, Megan.’ Pyke touched her gently on the cheek. ‘You don’t deserve this. I didn’t plan on shooting him and I didn’t take any pleasure from it. I did it because I had to. That makes me sound callous, I know. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I have to be.’
This time she turned to face him. ‘Couldn’t ye have shown him mercy?’
‘And left him in a position to threaten or kill me later?’
Megan stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘I’m a Bow Street Runner in London. Do you know what that is?’
Megan shrugged.
‘Like one of the constables in green here.’
She looked at him. ‘Ye think they’d shoot a man in cold blood?’
‘Five or six years ago, I knew a man, not a wholly bad man, you understand, but troubled in his own way. He was a thief and would provide me with useful bits of information. He was a jealous man with a violent temper and he liked to drink. I would visit him in his lodgings, which he shared with his wife and three young boys. One night, I interrupted a terrible fight; or rather, he was inebriated and chasing after his wife and his three boys with a bottle in one hand and a leather belt in the other. He was accusing her of cuckolding him. The oldest boy couldn’t have been more than three. It was a brutal scene. I broke things up and warned the man if he ever touched his wife or his boys again, I would find out and I’d track him down and kill him. I showed him mercy. Two months later, a Bow Street patrol was called to the lodgings. The woman had been beaten so badly that her face was no longer recognisable. I was told her eyeballs hung from their sockets. She was dead by the time the patrol arrived. The three young boys had been drowned in a metal tub.’ Pyke stopped himself, not wanting to add to Megan’s woe.
But in a hushed voice, she asked, ‘What became of the man?’
Pyke turned away so she could not see his expression. ‘It took me a year to find him but, when I eventually did, I wasn’t as merciful.’
For a while, neither of them spoke. ‘You know they’ll come after ye with everything they got. Police, soldiers, everyone.’
Pyke nodded. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t know whether I’ll be back.’
‘Oh, aye.’ Something — anxiety, fear, pain — registered in her expression. ‘Have ye got a woman a’ home?’ In her sadness, Pyke saw a reflection of his own unfulfilled desires. He thought of Lizzie’s body, two stab wounds in her abdomen.
‘I don’t guess you’d allow anyone to get too close to ye.’
‘I’m sorry I involved you in this.’
‘Sure you are.’ As she said it, some of her bitterness seemed to ebb away. ‘Will you take me wi’ ye, Mr. .?’
‘My name’s Pyke. There are people who’d pay a lot of money for this information.’
‘Just Pyke?’
He nodded and for a while neither of them spoke. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘will ye or not?’ She stared at him, both angry and forlorn, as though she didn’t require an answer.
Later, as Pyke wrapped his arms around Megan, he was vaguely aware he was using her in some undefined manner. But such was his own nocturnally magnified sense of melancholy that he couldn’t help himself. As he pressed himself against her and kissed her ear lobe, he could not tell whether or not her murmurs were signs of grudging approval.
It was still raining the following morning. Billowing clouds clung to the peaks of the hills that ringed the town and dumped their rainwater on to an already saturated landscape. Still, the streets were choked with ordinary people going about their daily business and dead-eyed groups of males silently congregating on street corners carrying brickbats, knives and even swords. It was a Catholic district, Megan had told him, and some of the men there were fixing themselves up for a fight with the Orangemen who were planning their own twelfth of July celebrations. On one corner, men wearing red ribbons attached to their coats were gathering together piles of bolts and half-bricks. On another, someone was scribbling ‘No Cooke’ on the wall in chalk.
Barrack Street was thronging with uniformed soldiers and armed police dressed in dark green. It was also crowded with slow-moving traffic. The sound of horses and carts rattling over the uneven cobbles was drowned only by the excited chatter of a thousand conversations; shopkeepers told their customers in hushed tones about the shooting; road sweepers swapped embellished tales of murder with anyone who cared to listen. Everyone was nonplussed and excited by the news of Arnold’s death. The question that most people seemed to be asking was: had the mill owner been killed by papists? If nothing else, the shooting promised to further spice up an occasion already made fraught by Catholic emancipation.
Disguised as a mill labourer, Pyke moved carefully but unhindered through the crowds. At his heel, the dog panted with excitement. Megan had left by the time he awoke. He found the clothes next to him. Briefly he wondered whether she would be angered by the money from the card game that he had left for her, and whether he had done so in order to appease his own guilt.
While he ate his breakfast, an undistinguished meat pie, he watched as an older man wrapped a leather grip around one end of a four-foot brickbat. Alongside him, soldiers, shopkeepers and ruffians mixed uneasily on the narrow pavements. The cobbled street was awash with manure. From hand-held barrows, vendors sold fruit and fresh fish.
At the end of Barrack Street, Pyke turned on to Durham Place and the neighbourhood deteriorated further. Pigs, sheep and goats roamed freely in and out of brick terraces, whose makeshift windows were constructed from hessian sacks. Underfoot, the track itself was flooded with human effluvia and water that had broken the banks of the nearby river. The whole area seemed to be ripe for a cholera epidemic. From gloomy doorways, men and women dressed in ragged clothes stared at him without smiling and talked to one another in hushed voices.
The previous night, Megan had told him Sandy Row was so called because, at one time, the tidal waters of the Lagan had met the fresh waters of the Blackstaff to form a small sandy cove where mill workers had once washed their clothes. In the cold light of day, however, it was hard to detect any such cove. The area surrounding the river was boggy: an unclaimed scrub of land between two warring communities. A few slovenly thatched cottages hovered in the shadows of the giant linen mill. Farther back along the road, a group of mill workers attacked an unarmed coal carrier. A soldier looked on without interest, making no effort to intervene, even when the coal carrier fell to the ground clutching his knife-wounded belly.
Ahead of him, on the other side of the bridge, he could see more terraced houses. A crowd had gathered outside one of the terraces and someone was addressing them from a first-floor window. Pyke could not hear what was being said, but many in the crowd were supporting orange banners, fringed with gold lace. He decided to hold back, to allow the mob to disperse or go about its business. Eventually, after much whooping and pistol-firing, the crowd began to shuffle off in the opposite direction. At his feet, even the small dog seemed chastened by the whiff of violence.
On the other side of the river, he stopped a woman and asked whether this was Sandy Row. ‘Depends on who’s askin’,’ she said, with ill-concealed suspicion. Pyke enquired whether she knew which one the Magennis house was, but she ignored the question and disappeared into her front room. Others were similarly obstructive. It was only when the dog befriended a young girl that his luck turned. While the girl patted the dog’s head, and the dog wagged its little tail, she said, ‘Second house on the right, before the road takes youse up to Grimshaw’s mill.’ Pyke thanked her and handed her a shilling coin.
The house the young girl had identified was typically bleak. It was a small edifice with soiled walls. Its windows were sealed up with paper. The door was open and Pyke stepped into the hallway. ‘Hello?’ He dug into his pocket and felt the reassuring touch of the pistol. It
took him a few moments to readjust to the darkness. In front of him, the staircase rose precariously to the upper floor; all the balustrades had been used for firewood. He entered the front room. There, a barefooted old woman tended to a young baby. In the back room, Pyke heard the clink of pots, and a voice shout, ‘Who is it?’ A younger woman, wearing a dirty cotton dress, joined them at the front door. She formed a protective barrier in front of the baby.
‘I was looking for Davy.’
‘An’ who are ye?’ the old woman said, staring at him through grizzled eyes. Her white hair was tied up in a bonnet. In her arms, the baby was crying.
‘A friend,’ he said, without conviction.
‘Oh aye, sure ye are.’
Finding her voice, the young woman said, ‘Aye, the big man’s gone, mister.’ She was a small woman with pale, freckled skin and curly red hair.
‘Ann,’ the older woman snapped.
‘Wha’? We don’t know where he’s away to, Mam.’
‘But he was here?’
‘Aye,’ the older woman said, still suspicious. ‘Left about a week ago, so he did.’
‘Why did he leave?’
The old woman studied him carefully. ‘Ask a lot of questions, don’t ye?’
‘I think he might be in danger.’
The young woman shrugged. ‘Big man just said something about the grim reaper comin’ for him.’ She looked across at her mother. ‘Mind, he’d been in an odd way, the whole time he was stayin’ here. Wouldn’t sleep inside. Said he was happy with the yard out back. He didn’t show much interest in food and no interest in going to work, even though da fixed him up with a job in the mill. See, my da and his are brothers. Didn’t know what Davy did with his days until one of the lasses followed him to the church on Fisherwick Place.’
‘A church? What was he doing in a church?’ Pyke asked, certain now the women were telling the truth.
The Last Days of Newgate pm-1 Page 20
