The Last Days of Newgate pm-1

by Andrew Pepper

  Pyke could feel the old man’s animosity but there was something else in his stare, too. Fear, perhaps. Sadness?

  ‘You were askin’ about a church,’ the old man said, after about half a minute’s silence.

  Pyke nodded.

  ‘I don’t know about any church in particular but you could have a look for him in the vicinity of Market Hill.’

  ‘Does he have family or friends there?’

  Andrew Magennis crossed his arms and said nothing. ‘Is that where he went after he was thrown out of the constabulary?’

  Magennis stared at him without emotion.

  ‘Why might Davy have gone there?’

  The old man’s expression remained resolute, intent on concealing whatever feelings Pyke’s questions had provoked.

  But Pyke did not find Davy Magennis in any of the churches or meeting rooms in Market Hill. Nor did anyone in the town admit to knowing him. When he asked about churches in the outlying area, he was told of one about two miles north of the town, on the road to Hamilton’s Bawn.

  It had turned into a warm, sunny day. A cooling breeze blew gently off the lough and a few clouds drifted harmlessly across an otherwise unbroken vista of blue. The air felt light, even balmy, as Pyke led his black horse up to the perimeter of the old church. It was the kind of day that should have made him feel lucky to be alive, but Pyke was bothered by something he could not quite fathom.

  As soon as he stepped into the draughty old church, which was pleasantly cool out of the sun, he saw a young man kneeling down at the altar at the front of the building. It was a dour place, with clear rather than stained-glass windows and an unusually low ceiling.

  Pyke did not make any attempt to conceal his presence. He walked down the aisle and came to a halt only a few yards away from the place where the priest was kneeling. The man looked up at him, startled.

  He stood up, rearranged his cloak and dog collar, and smiled. ‘Simon Hunter.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He spoke in a crisp English accent.

  ‘Pyke.’ He shook the priest’s hand, not seeing any reason to conceal his identity.

  The priest continued to smile. ‘Well, Mr Pyke, what brings you to Mullabrack?’

  ‘I’m looking for a big man called Davy Magennis.’

  The priest’s good humour vanished. Lines of concern appeared on his brow. ‘Davy, you say?’

  ‘Big man. At least six and a half feet tall.’

  The priest continued to look at him, unsure what to say.

  ‘You know him?’

  Very slowly, the priest nodded his head.

  ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

  Again, the young priest nodded.

  ‘Well, can I speak to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid that would be impossible.’

  Pyke looked deep into the man’s concerned face and imagined the sheltered, comfortable upbringing that had produced it. ‘You might not believe it, but I think he might need my help.’

  ‘A few days ago, I would have agreed with you.’

  The priest ran his fingers through his wavy hair. He seemed upset, as though Pyke’s request had put him in a difficult position. Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally the priest told Pyke to follow him. Outside, the yard was dotted with graves. It was cool in the shade provided by giant oak trees. They came to a halt next to what appeared to be a recently filled grave. Pyke understood what the priest had been trying to tell him. He felt angry and cheated but managed to ask what had happened.

  ‘Davy showed up here about a week ago. He wouldn’t tell me his surname.’ The priest wiped sweat from his brow. ‘He didn’t make a great deal of sense. I could see he was deeply troubled by something. I let him stay in the church. I wouldn’t usually make such an allowance but he was insistent. He assured me he didn’t feel safe anywhere else.’ The priest looked away, faltering. He tried to gather himself. ‘The following morning, I came to see if he was still here, and ask if he wanted any food or drink, and, well, I found him. .’ Pyke could see tears building up behind the young man’s eyes. ‘I found him lying on the floor at the front of the church surrounded by his own blood. There was a knife on the floor next to his hand. He had cut his own throat, or so they reckoned. Two officers from the constabulary and the magistrate were here by midday. They asked me who he was. I told them what I told you, that I only knew him by the name Davy. None of them recognised him. In the end, they decided it was most likely a suicide and since there wasn’t any way of identifying him, the magistrate said it was probably best that we give him a Christian burial, even if what he had done was a mortal sin in the eyes of God.’

  Later, in the front room of a village tavern, the priest took a sip of ale and said, ‘Back in the church, you told me you were a friend of Davy’s?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Pyke had the feeling the man wanted to tell him something important.

  ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest with the magistrate and the constables. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I’m not certain I’m thinking straight even now.’

  ‘Finding a dead body can be a terrible shock,’ Pyke said.

  ‘Yes, it was.’ For a moment, the priest shuddered and looked down into his half-empty glass.

  ‘Davy told you something, didn’t he?’

  Still unable to meet Pyke’s stare, the young priest simply nodded his head.

  ‘He told you what he had done. Confessed his sins?’

  When the priest looked up, his eyes were clear. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you can’t tell me what he told you.’ Pyke waited for a moment, before he added, ‘Or can you?’

  ‘I’m not a Catholic minister, if that’s what you mean. I’m an Anglican. We’re not bound by the confessional oath.’ That drew a frown. ‘But that’s not to say I don’t have a moral obligation to safeguard what has been told to me in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’ Pyke tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. ‘But what if I already knew what Davy had done? What he confessed to you?’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘When I told you I was a friend of Davy’s I was lying. I’m a Bow Street Runner. Does that mean anything to you?’

  The young priest stared down at his trembling hands. ‘That’s like a London policeman, isn’t it?’

  Pyke nodded. ‘I was the one who found the bodies.’

  ‘Oh God.’ The priest’s face whitened. For a moment, it looked as if he might pass out.

  ‘I understand that, first and foremost, you serve God,’ Pyke said, as gently as he could, ‘but you also have an obligation to see justice served in this world.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘How about I tell you what I already know or think I know and, if I make a mistake, then you can perhaps point me in the right direction?’ Pyke smiled easily. ‘Does that sound acceptable to you or not?’

  The priest nodded and took a long draught of ale.

  ‘I want to talk about the man who Davy went to work for, after he’d been dismissed from the police.’ As he pointed his pistol at Andrew Magennis’s eye, Pyke cocked the trigger, as though about to fire. He had found the old man sitting alone at the table, staring into space.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ This time the old man’s expression seemed placid.

  ‘His name, for a start.’

  ‘I can’t remember. I’m not sure I even found that out.’

  Pyke brought the pistol closer to the old man’s eye. ‘The priest either didn’t know or wouldn’t give me his name.’

  ‘What priest?’

  ‘The one Davy confessed to,’ Pyke said. ‘He told me Davy’s former employer owns a few acres of land on the Armagh road just outside Market Hill.’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  ‘I went looking for the house today. I think I found it.

  It’s been boarded up. No one’s living there.’

  ‘Wha’s that got
to do wi’ me?’

  ‘I asked in the town. No one wanted to talk to me about him.’

  ‘Folk in this part of the world don’t much care for loose talk with strangers.’

  ‘I’m not a stranger to you.’

  Andrew Magennis shrugged.

  Pyke nodded. He had expected to be stonewalled. ‘Davy’s dead. He cut his own throat. They buried him in an unmarked grave outside a church in Mullabrack.’

  This was sufficient to break the old man’s resolve. ‘The big lad’s dead?’ His lip quivered. ‘My Davy?’ Tears welled up behind his glassy stare.

  ‘The man who Davy went to work for. .’

  A solitary tear rolled down the old man’s face.

  ‘Let me assure you of one thing,’ Pyke continued. ‘He was no friend to Davy.’

  Beaten now, the old man just nodded. His eyes were dark with exhaustion, his hair matted with sweat.

  ‘You met him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Once, about two years back,’ Magennis said, slowly. ‘I paid Davy a visit, when he was still workin’ there.’

  Pyke took his time. ‘I just need you to answer one question for me.’

  ‘Then you’ll leave us to grieve?’ The old man stared at him through bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Did this man have a brown mole on his chin?’

  Magennis seemed momentarily nonplussed.

  ‘Did he have a large brown mole on his chin?’

  ‘Jimmy Swift,’ Magennis said, nodding his head. ‘How did ye know?’

  Pyke closed his eyes. It was as though an anvil had fallen on his skull from a great height. He felt sickened. How did he know? God, the real question was: how could he have been so blind?

  PART III

  London, England

  SEPTEMBER 1829

  EIGHTEEN

  It started when a curmudgeonly black bear, with fur shaved from its head to make it appear more human, broke free from its shackles outside the Old Cock tavern in Holborn. Perhaps wanting retribution for years of humiliation and ill-treatment, the bear lumbered up the creaking staircase at the back of the building and forced its way into the crowded upper room where red-faced market vendors were screaming their support for a seven-foot man wearing full military uniform to resemble the duke of Wellington. The outfit would have been too small on a man half his size. The giant had placed a dwarf, dressed as Napoleon, in a headlock, and was squeezing his neck with such intensity that the little man’s eyeballs seemed as though they might pop out of their sockets.

  Pyke could not hear the dwarf’s chokes over the delighted cheers of the crowd, at least eight deep around every side of the gas-lit ring. That was until the bewildered bear paused briefly in the doorway to the upper room and surveyed the surroundings. It would have been a familiar sight: the tavern owner, Ned Villums, put the beast to work twice a week in that same ring, performing a version of Little Red Riding Hood, taking the part of the wolf. The crowd did not pay half a shilling each to watch the bear growl his few lines, though. They came for the ratting, bare-knuckle fights or a bout of wrestling. The bear sniffed the fetid air, saturated with the combined stench of cheap gin and unwashed clothes. The crowd gathered on the bear’s side of the room visibly parted and shrank into the room’s darker recesses, affording the bear a clear view of the ring.

  Without giving it a second thought, the bear shuffled on all fours, ignoring the silent and evidently petrified crowd, and hauled itself over the ring’s waist-high wooden wall, with more aplomb than might have been expected from a beast that weighed fifty stone. By that time, the giant’s grip around the dwarf’s neck had slackened enough for some of the dwarf’s colour to return to his cheeks. For a few seconds, the bear and the giant wrestler stood rooted to their positions, no more than ten feet apart, each silently contemplating the other. Later, Pyke was not sure how it had started: whether the bear had attacked without provocation, or someone from the audience had thrown an object at the animal, but the result was the same. Ignoring the dwarf, who was slumped on the ground gulping for air, the bear launched itself at the stricken giant, who, in an instant, was transformed into a taller version of the dwarf he had just been strangling.

  Almost at once, someone from the crowd cheered, either mistaking what was happening for part of the fight or simply enjoying the sight of the helpless giant being mauled by the powerful bear. These cheers produced a counter-response, this time in support of the giant, either out of patriotic duty, because the giant was dressed as the duke of Wellington, or because they had money staked on the outcome of the fight. Soon, there was bedlam. Villums himself was trapped by the baying mob on the far side of the room and was screaming at Pyke to take action — more to protect his tavern’s already dubious reputation than to save the giant. The bear was tearing flesh from the giant’s flayed torso when Pyke returned from Villums’s garret carrying a flintock blunderbuss with a long brass cannon barrel loaded with powder and ball shot.

  From a distance of fifteen yards, Pyke rested the butt of the blunderbuss against his shoulder and took aim at the bear, but before he could pull the trigger someone knocked him from behind and the projectile exploded out of the barrel of the blunderbuss; instead of hitting the bear as planned, it struck the recovering dwarf squarely in the belly, lifting him clean off his feet and almost cutting him in two. People tried to flee the room, but Pyke took his time and reloaded the weapon. The first shot hit the bear in the chest; the second shot blew off the entire right side of its head. Bone, cartilage, tissue, blood, chunks of fur and even an eyeball splattered those who had not managed to leave the room. The bear seemed not to have been affected by the double blast at first, aside from the obvious loss of body parts. On all fours, it surveyed the carnage: the mauled giant, the dwarf’s twitching corpse and the vast carpet of blood and intestines that covered the floor of the ring. It tried to open its mouth but, as it did so, its will to live finally leaked from its gargantuan frame, and it collapsed on to the floor with a thud. The remaining audience, such as it was, turned and watched the gruesome spectacle. As soon as the bear had stopped moving, one of them broke into applause. Others joined in. No one seemed to know whether the applause was for the bear, the dwarf or the giant, but since the giant was the only one of them left alive, he presumed it must be for him and hauled himself to his feet to receive the accolades. A flap of skin the size of a large book hung down from his bleeding neck.

  Once he had put the blunderbuss down, no one seemed to be interested in Pyke, just as no one appeared to have recognised him. But without his unkempt hair and bushy sideburns, this was to be expected.

  ‘I dunno whether to thank you or strangle you,’ Villums said later, while Pyke inspected his new outfit in the mirror. He had discarded his labourer’s clothes and changed into formal attire. ‘You don’t think it was too much of a risk, coming back to your old haunts?’

  In addition to running a sizeable gambling operation in the Old Cock tavern, Villums fenced stolen property. Pyke had employed his services in this latter capacity on more than a few occasions. He would not have described him as a friend but he trusted Villums as much as he did anyone, and he was paying handsomely for the garret that Villums provided for him.

  ‘Perhaps, but then again, I don’t have a choice.’ Pyke shrugged. He knew as well as anyone that he was only one step, or mishap, away from being recognised and arrested. ‘And I can blend in here just as well as anywhere.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question, Pyke?’

  They were in Villums’s parlour, drinking gin from pewter tankards. Pyke was preparing to go out for the evening.

  ‘In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you act like you’re scared or express any kind of remorse or nothing. ’ Villums looked puzzled. ‘Don’t you feel bad for the dwarf?’

  ‘I feel worse for the bear,’ Pyke said, allowing his gaze to settle on Villums. ‘Are you trying to tell me the dwarf would have been spared if the bear hadn’t interrupted the fight?’

  Villum
s shrugged. ‘The magistrates will have to investigate, write a report. They’ll want paying, too. Then there’s the dwarf’s family. They’ll certainly want something.’

  Pyke gulped back his gin. ‘I’ll need a loan, as well.’

  ‘How much?’ Villums stared at him, suspiciously.

  ‘Twenty or thirty ought to cover it.’ Pyke gazed at Villums, waiting.

  ‘Pounds?’ The older man had to loosen the collar around his bulbous neck. ‘You’re dressed up like a toff, to go to the opera, and you want to borrow money off a poor man like me? Look at these rags.’ He tugged at his tatty frock-coat.

  ‘You know I’m good for the money.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Villums sighed. ‘But you’ll have to make yourself scarce tonight. The place’ll be crawling with police. Don’t worry. No one’ll say a word to ’em and I’ll tell ’em I fired the blunderbuss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pyke said. ‘I suppose there’s no word about Godfrey?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear the news? He’s out. They let him go about a week ago. Dropped the charges.’ Villums scratched his vein-riddled nose and wiped his cheeks. ‘Very coincidental, I know. You don’t reckon someone knows you’re back in London?’

  The thought had already crossed Pyke’s mind. ‘If so, they’ll be watching Godfrey’s shop and apartment.’

  ‘Since they were sworn in at Coram’s Foundling Hospital, they’re fuckin’ everywhere, Peel’s blue devils. Everywhere that’s poor, anyway.’

  ‘There’s a reward, you know, for my capture. Quite a generous one, I believe.’ Pyke watched Villums’s reaction.

  ‘A hundred pounds, I’m told. But as poor and desperate as people are, no one will dare collect the reward till they’ve seen you swing.’

  ‘How reassuring,’ Pyke said, without smiling. ‘Maybe you could pass word to Godfrey that I’m staying here.’

  ‘You sure that’s a wise idea?’

  Pyke shrugged and thought about what Villums had said about not feeling remorse. ‘Do people think I’m a monster?’