Townsend stared at Pyke for a moment, contemplating what he had said. ‘I was told she’s been locked up in an asylum in Portsmouth for the last fifteen years.’ He hesitated. ‘But if she wasn’t insane when she was placed there, I’m assured she is now.’
‘You’re suggesting she won’t be of use to me?’
‘I’m saying she won’t be in a position to furnish you with whatever information you’re looking for.’
Pyke picked up the satchel that contained his share of the money. ‘Who says I want information?’
‘Then why do you want to talk to her?’
‘I don’t want to talk to her,’ Pyke said, heading for the door.
‘Pyke?’
Something in Townsend’s voice made him turn around. ‘Yes?’
Townsend looked at him for a while and then sighed. ‘Do you need my help?’
‘This is highly irregular and most perturbing.’ Mr Ezra Kennett, who was not only the chief physician but also the administrator and general handyman of the establishment, waddled to keep up with Pyke, his round face and ruddy cheeks puffing with indignation. Dressed in a dark jacket, fitted trousers, black cloak and Wellington boots, Pyke had pushed past him into the entrance hall of the crumbling building, a row of terraces near the docks which had been haphazardly converted into an asylum. Interior walls had been knocked down to create space for a communal ward, but the construction work itself had been of poor quality and, even to an untrained eye, it was easy to see that the edifice was on the verge of collapse: walls were buckling, ceilings sagged and the unmistakable stench of rising damp saturated the air. In this higgledy-piggledy room no larger than a parlour, Pyke counted ten iron-framed beds, pressed so tightly together that even a skinny man would have struggled to navigate between them. In each, a pitiful specimen of humanity, little more than an amalgam of hair, skin and bones, was chained to the frame with hand-and leg-cuffs. The wails and cries emanating from their mouths collectively constituted a din that was so unpleasant Pyke was compelled to seek out Kennett’s private quarters. Townsend, who was dressed in the attire of a hospital porter, thrust a copy of the Chronicle into Kennett’s chubby hand as they walked, and pointed to an article, describing the work of Thomas Southwood Smith at the London Fever Hospital and drawing attention to a new treatise on fever he was about to publish. Pyke had come across the article the previous afternoon and formulated his plan accordingly.
‘A ship docked in the port last week from the East Indies,’ Pyke said, having barged his way into what he presumed was Kennett’s office, though the damp seemed even riper here than in the rest of the building. He placed his hat down on the table and tapped his cane against the stone floor, as though to chivvy a response from the physician.
Kennett seemed both befuddled and concerned by their unsolicited intrusion. He ran a private asylum that, Pyke supposed, had been financed by public money. The lunatics housed in the ward they had just passed through would not have come from poor backgrounds. Rather, wealthy patrons such as Edmonton would have paid handsomely for Kennett to take unwanted relatives off their hands and would not have concerned themselves with the conditions of care. Pyke was certain Kennett turned a considerable profit from the enterprise.
‘I was alerted to the possible manifestation of Asiatic cholera in one of the crew.’ Pyke wore a monocle and removed it to properly inspect Kennett. ‘Are you aware of this condition?’
The rotund physician wiped sweat from his brow. ‘I have heard stories of its relentless march across whole continents.’
Pyke nodded briskly. ‘It is a monstrous disease. The man in question was suffering from chronic diarrhoea and vomiting, severe dehydration and acute pain in the stomach and limbs. These are, indeed, the symptoms of Asiatic cholera. In addition, his ravaged skin had assumed a ghastly blue-grey complexion. But even more terrifying is its contagiousness; the speed with which it can spread across entire neighbourhoods. Entire cities.’ He sniffed the air.
‘You do not think. .’ Kennett was not able to complete his sentence, perhaps fearing that his concerns might actually be borne out if he spoke their name.
‘The docks, as you know, are within a half-mile radius of your establishment. I have been instructed to visit all such premises, in order to determine the precise nature of any risk posed to those living in the vicinity.’ Pyke replaced the monocle and looked at Kennett. ‘Are you aware of my work on fever?’
The physician reddened. ‘This is a modest practice and in my capacity as-’
Pyke interrupted. ‘It is my belief that diseases such as typhus or indeed cholera thrive on account of particular atmospheric and environmental conditions. The laws of diffusion mean that anyone within a certain distance of an infected person is vulnerable to the disease. But the likelihood of the disease spreading is greatly enhanced by poor sanitary conditions: damp and filthy interiors, proximity to open sewers, use of dirty water, inadequate food preparation. ’ He trained his stare on the rattled physician. ‘Only a fool or a blind man would say that these conditions do not exist here. Allow me to be blunt: this place is a disgrace and, in the current circumstances, I could have the premises vacated within the day and the establishment closed down.’
Kennett did not seem to know whether to be chastened or outraged.
Pyke continued, ‘I am not a vindictive man and I can tell from your response that concern for your own well-being, if not your patients, is evident. I am prepared, at this stage, to monitor the situation rather than advocate more drastic action. But I will need to examine the patients for early signs of the disease. .’
The chance that Pyke might leave him alone produced a change in the physician’s demeanour. ‘Of course, I would welcome your opinion and would be greatly honoured if you would permit me to accompany you and to assist your work in every way that I can.’
Pyke wondered whether he should lift up his boots so the man could lick them. He checked his fob-watch. Earlier, Townsend had visited the kitchen and bribed the cook to mix a plant extract Pyke had procured from a London botanist with Sarah Blackwood’s gruel. It would, the botanist promised him, temporarily induce sickness once the extract had been properly digested. The cook had also helped to identify which one of the fifteen patients was Emily’s mother. Not that the cook knew her name or any of their names; but having served under Kennett for as long as the asylum had been running, she was quite certain there was only one patient who had been there for as long as fifteen years.
Back in the ward, Pyke wandered along the row of tightly arranged beds and eventually came to a halt at the foot of one occupied by the figure identified by the cook. For a while, he studied her withered, bony face but saw nothing that connected her to Emily. What was left of her hair was parted in the middle to reveal a wrinkled scalp, and the bones in her arms and legs seemed so brittle that Pyke wondered how it might be possible to move her. Her stare was hollow and the stink of faeces and camphor emanating from her made him want to gag. Pyke could see that her whole side was covered in bed sores. A spool of vomit had congealed down the front of her gown.
Stepping forward, he inspected her in greater detail. This was largely for Kennett’s benefit, but Pyke also wanted some reassurance that this elderly woman was, indeed, Emily’s mother.
‘This patient will have to be isolated immediately,’ he said, without equivocation.
‘But I don’t have such facilities,’ Kennett stammered weakly.
‘Then we shall have to remove her from these premises forthwith.’ He turned to face the physician. ‘What’s her name?’
Kennett seemed panicked. ‘I can’t. .’
‘Her name, dammit.’ Pyke turned to Townsend and ordered him to fetch the trolley.
‘I can’t release her without the permission of her guardian.’
Pyke turned on him. ‘Have you any idea how quickly the disease can spread in these situations?’
‘I. . I. .’
‘Stop stuttering, man.’ Pyke shouted after
Townsend. ‘Quickly, man. We haven’t got a moment to lose.’
At this point, the old woman whom Pyke presumed and hoped was Emily’s mother groaned and from her mouth came a blast of frothy vomit. That seemed to put an end to the physician’s resistance.
‘Take the old bitch,’ he muttered, defeated.
Pyke had to rein in his desire to assault the pudgy doctor with every sinew in his body.
In the carriage that he had commandeered for the purpose of transporting the elderly patient back to London, Pyke arranged the stretcher carrying Emily’s mother in order to make the journey as painless as possible, but the turnpike was not smooth and the suspension on the carriage had been worn down. Each jolt and bump produced an exclamation of discomfort, and after each Pyke leaned forward, stroked the old woman’s face and offered words of reassurance. Townsend looked on, perhaps bewildered by Pyke’s attempts at tenderness. The woman had said nothing since leaving the asylum. It was a cool, overcast day but the interior of the carriage was not so gloomy that Pyke couldn’t make out the woman’s features. But it was only when she fully opened her eyes, after he had said Emily’s name, that he saw what he had been looking for: for the briefest of moments, she gave him a lucid stare. Emily had inherited her mother’s eyes.
Quietly, Townsend said, ‘She won’t be able to tell you whatever it is you want to know.’
Without looking up, Pyke continued to stroke the old woman’s head.
‘What do you plan on doing with her when we get to London?’
‘Do you mean where do I plan to take her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have made arrangements. She will be well looked after.’
Townsend nodded. ‘But what did we go through all of this rigmarole for?’
‘You mean how do I intend to profit from this action?’ This time, Pyke looked at his old acquaintance.
‘Exactly.’
Pyke glanced down at the old woman. ‘I don’t.’
Townsend stared at him as though he didn’t believe or couldn’t comprehend what Pyke had told him. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘I mean I don’t have any such plans.’
Edmonton had gone to work with impressive but, from Pyke’s point of view, alarming haste to propagate his own version of the robbery. By the following evening, the story had colonised the front page of the London Chronicle. The luridly written account announced that twenty thousand pounds had been stolen at gunpoint from a stagecoach transporting money to the provinces. It did not mention which bank the money belonged to. The report claimed that one of the robbers had been shot and killed but two accomplices had escaped and were currently being pursued by the new police. It identified Pyke as one of the suspects and announced that an unknown benefactor had posted a reward of five hundred pounds for information leading to Pyke’s capture and the return of the stolen money. Pyke was described in the report as an armed and highly dangerous convicted murderer who had stabbed and killed his own mistress and who should be approached with extreme caution. The report concluded with an inaccurate account of his criminal exploits and listed a number of addresses where he might be hiding.
Pyke was under no illusions about the magnitude of the task he now faced. It would be hard, if not impossible, to move anonymously through a city where every police constable and every man and woman — every coiner, dock worker, scavenger, canal digger, harvest worker, river pirate, embezzler, dustman, chimney sweep, butcher, swindler, publican, pickpocket, ballad singer and dog stealer — would be looking to collect the five hundred pounds reward.
Certainly he had not counted on Edmonton’s response being decisive, and he now wondered about the wisdom of revealing his identity to the brother. He had wanted the fat lord to know that he had taken his money, if only to engage his accomplice — Jimmy Swift — in a more direct confrontation. Now, though, he would have to contend with half the city as he did so.
Having arrived back in London and established Emily’s mother in a private apartment with her own nurse, Pyke travelled across the city under the blanket of darkness and was met at the gate at the bottom of the garden by Jo and ushered into the back of the Islington town house. Thankfully Jo did not try to engage him in conversation or discuss her recent visit to his garret, nor did he confront her with his own suspicions about her. These would have to wait for another occasion.
But something had changed.
In the upstairs drawing room, Emily did not embrace him, nor could she bring herself to look at him. Pyke stole a glance at Jo and wondered what the girl had told Emily about their encounter in his garret, once again kicking himself for his stupidity, and for having ruined his chances with Emily over what had amounted to the mildest of flirtations. He listened, chastened, as Emily described how news of the robbery had sent her father into the most violent rage she had ever witnessed.
Already, he had spoken with the new Metropolitan Police commissioners and had taken the step of employing his own private operatives.
‘I heard him and my uncle talking. My father is convinced that someone currently working in the bank supplied you with information about the transfer of money.’
‘Do you think that he suspects you?’ Pyke asked, wondering now whether Emily did, in fact, know about his indiscretion with Jo.
‘I am certain he has no idea about the extent of our. . liaison.’ Her mood seemed to darken. ‘But I had to fight him to allow me to stay here even for one night.’
On the table in the large bay window was the same evening-newspaper report that he had consulted. ‘Contrary to what the report claimed, there wasn’t anything like twenty thousand pounds.’ He removed a sealed envelope from his pocket. ‘That’s a small contribution for your charity.’
Emily stared at the envelope, as though it were a dagger. He thrust it into her trembling hands. ‘Here. Take it.’
‘I can’t.’ She allowed the envelope to drop on to the Turkey carpet.
‘Can’t or won’t?’
She exhaled loudly. ‘A man was killed. Two others, a guard and the driver, are grievously injured. The driver may never walk again.’ She looked up at him. Her eyes were dry. ‘Was he a friend of yours?’
‘The man who was killed?’ Pyke didn’t know whether to be relieved that she didn’t seem to know about his foolishness with Jo or concerned that something new had come between them.
Emily nodded.
‘He understood the risks. It was a robbery.’
‘Did the driver of the coach understand the risks, too?’
Pyke allowed a little of his frustration to show. ‘What do you want me to say? That I regret what happened to him? That I’m sorry for what we did?’
‘Perhaps,’ Emily said, staring down at the envelope on the carpet.
‘If I felt that way, then we shouldn’t have undertaken the robbery in the first place.’ It was as though he had punched her in the stomach.
For a while, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock. ‘Does it fill you with satisfaction,’ she asked, finally, ‘that I’ve now been initiated into your world?’ There was weariness rather than bitterness in her tone.
‘My world? And what exactly is my world? If you are referring to a place where one has to take hard decisions that, in turn, have unedifying consequences, then it does fill me with satisfaction.’
His remarks stung her, as they were meant to. ‘Do you really think the work I do is straightforward and doesn’t require having to make hard choices?’
‘Perhaps not, but surely this experience has softened your attitude to other people’s failings?’
‘When people are powerless and cannot help themselves, I am more than sympathetic to their plight,’ she snapped.
Pyke waited for some of her anger to cool. ‘Then you should understand that decisions, taken in rushed circumstances, sometimes lead to unpleasant outcomes.’
This didn’t entirely placate her. She laughed bitterly. ‘And in the end, one cannot tell righ
t from wrong.’
‘Perhaps right and wrong are not the absolute markers you imagine them to be.’
Emily’s gaze betrayed her disappointment. ‘Is it right that children as young as six have to work for fifteen hours a day in windowless rooms for only a few shillings a week?’
‘Or that an aristocrat arranges the slaughter of innocent people for no other reason than to satisfy his own bigotry?’
Emily stared with consternation but she did not know how to answer him.
‘What if punishing this person could not be achieved without hurting other people?’
‘You’re asking me to sanction the loss of innocent lives as a way of legitimising this feud between you and my father?’ She sounded weary.
‘I’m not asking for your sanction.’ Pyke walked across to the bay window. The curtains were drawn. ‘I’m asking for your understanding.’ He turned to face her. ‘You make it sound as though my reasons for hating him are entirely selfish.’
‘So you do hate him?’
‘Don’t you?’
Emily shrugged. ‘I have my reasons.’
Pyke peeked through the curtains and looked down at the empty street below him. He thought about Emily’s mother and wondered how she was settling into her new living arrangements.
Emily had followed him across to the window and when he turned around she was standing so close to him that he could count the freckles on her nose. He reached out and touched her face. Her smile was a sad one.
‘What is it that you want from me?’ he said, finally. His fingertip brushed across the top of her lip.
‘Who says I want anything from you?’
‘I seem to disappoint you.’ He shrugged.
The Last Days of Newgate pm-1 Page 26
