The Last Days of Newgate pm-1

by Andrew Pepper

  It did not cross Pyke’s mind that the man himself might open the door, particularly given his earlier sighting of at least one servant. That said, even before the door was opened, he heard the man mutter angrily, ‘I wondered if you might reconsider,’ as though he believed the visitor to be Emily.

  Up close, the mole on his chin was purple rather than brown.

  ‘You’re a formidable man, Pyke. Formidable indeed,’ Peel said, without bothering to stand up or shake his hand.

  Tilling had ushered Pyke into his front room and pointed to one of the horsehair chairs. Pyke assured him that he was more comfortable standing.

  Peel was much as he remembered: tall, elegantly dressed, with a long angular face and reddish hair.

  ‘I think Fitzroy has already told you of my regrets at not being able to do more for you. It was with a heavy heart that I permitted your execution to proceed.’

  ‘What about the man who was hanged for the St Giles murders? Was it with a heavy heart that you permitted his execution to proceed?’

  For a moment, Peel seemed flummoxed. Then irritation and anger appeared to take over. He stared at Pyke and asked, ‘Do you think I am immoral?’

  ‘I think you are a politician. The two are perhaps not unrelated.’ Pyke sighed, not really wanting to further provoke the man.

  This seemed to irritate Peel. ‘Servants of the state who are responsible for enforcing the law are justified in taking certain actions only if, as a whole, they result in greater freedom and happiness for the state’s citizens.’

  ‘I’m sure the top brass who dispatched troops to quell the working poor at Peterloo said much the same thing as they quaffed their cognac.’

  Peel was outraged. Springing to his feet, he spluttered, ‘Take that remark back, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps it was just tea they quaffed.’

  Tilling shot him a hard stare. ‘I’m sure Pyke didn’t mean his flippancy to cause serious offence.’

  Peel sat down, a little sheepish at his outburst. ‘Well.’

  ‘What I’m suggesting is that when virtue is defined by its consequences, it is possible good intentions can be hijacked for other purposes.’ Pyke shrugged, as though the matter were of no consequence.

  Peel nodded, calmer now. ‘Nonetheless we have to make decisions — difficult decisions, sometimes — because we feel that they are in the best interests of the majority.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure you have been compelled to make such decisions too.’

  ‘But if the innocent are slaughtered and the guilty go unpunished only because it better serves the greater good, is that morally acceptable?’ Pyke said, surprised he had proposed this argument.

  ‘But morality and real politics are sometimes strange bedfellows.’ Peel shook his head. ‘As a follower of Machiavelli, I would have thought you might be sympathetic to this dilemma.’

  Pyke nodded amiably. ‘I am well aware that people such as yourself have to make difficult decisions at every turn, but my point is simply that the very nature of those decisions makes it difficult for you to be wholly good.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I am somehow not good?’ This time, Peel seemed puzzled more than angry.

  ‘Neither good nor bad,’ Pyke smiled. ‘Like me.’

  ‘I would hope and pray I am nothing like you,’ Peel said coldly.

  ‘No.’ Pyke was suddenly weary of the sound of his own voice. ‘You are much more powerful.’

  ‘And now you want me to use my power to grant you clemency?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pyke said, folding his arms.

  The ginger cat strolled into the room and curled itself around Peel’s leg. Tilling went to shoo the cat from the room but Peel shoved it away with the end of his boot. The cat scurried over to where Pyke was standing. Pyke bent over to stroke it. The cat arched itself around his leg and began to purr.

  ‘I know what you intend to ask me but I am afraid nothing can be done in this instance.’ Peel’s smile had no warmth. ‘Given the extent of your own lawlessness and the rather odd and disrespectful manner in which you conducted yourself at your trial, I am not in a position to grant you a pardon.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, because it will force me to place the contents of this document in the public domain.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced an envelope.

  Peel’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what, pray, is this document?’ Pyke removed the first page from the envelope. ‘It’s an affidavit sworn by Andrew Magennis, the father of Davy Magennis, before a solicitor in Armagh.’ He passed it to Peel. ‘In it, he describes how Tilling rode to Armagh in person in order to recruit Davy into the Irish Constabulary.’

  ‘So?’

  Pyke felt the coldness of Peel’s stare. ‘On subsequent pages, he recounts a confession Davy made to him shortly before he took his own life. Davy admits to having murdered his brother, his brother’s mistress and baby.’

  ‘May I see the rest of it?’

  ‘Not at this juncture. What would be the point? I have no promise of goodwill on your part.’

  Peel glanced nervously at Tilling. ‘If it could be proven this man was responsible for the murders. .’

  Pyke nodded, as though giving this notion serious consideration. ‘I’m still not minded to let you see the rest of the affidavit. I would, though, like to make you aware of a man called Simon Hunter, a rector from a church in Mullabrack, County Armagh. Hunter also heard Davy’s confession and said that, if he was instructed to give evidence in court and was placed under oath, then he would corroborate this assertion.’

  ‘That Magennis committed the St Giles murders?’ Tilling sounded sceptical.

  Pyke nodded.

  ‘Then why not let us see the rest of this affidavit?’

  ‘I might do, but not before I have received an official pardon from the Home Office.’ This time he looked at Peel.

  ‘You will not receive any such pardon without revealing the contents of that document.’

  Pyke shrugged. ‘Then I shall take my chances with the press.’

  ‘This is most vexing. Most vexing indeed.’ Peel was scowling. His face had reddened. ‘It is even more vexing in the light of the robbery and unwanted disturbances on land owned by Lord Edmonton.’

  ‘I had no hand in the Shoreditch robbery,’ Pyke said.

  ‘For some reason, I find that difficult to believe,’ Tilling responded.

  Pyke shrugged. ‘If someone were to steal the crown jewels from the Tower, I would no doubt be blamed for that, too.’ Pyke walked over to the bay window and looked out at the view over Hampstead Heath. ‘But the disturbances on Edmonton’s land are a different matter. What if I could arrange for them to cease?’

  ‘And how could you manage that?’ Peel demanded.

  ‘The point surely is, if I could manage it, and in light of the damage I could potentially cause you by revealing that you knowingly executed the wrong man for the St Giles murders, then wouldn’t it seem appropriate to come to some kind of arrangement with me?’

  Peel still seemed unconvinced. ‘You have the ear of this particular mob?’

  ‘I think it is fair to assume that Pyke has played some role in fermenting and channelling their unhappiness,’ Tilling said, arching his eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t have any control over their righteous anger, but at present their grievances are limited in scope. I could perhaps broker an agreement to ensure fairer conditions of service and a slightly improved wage.’

  A long time ago, Pyke might have comforted himself with the notion that he was not, nor had ever been, part of the system of rule and law enforcement that he occasionally served, but his belief in his own independence had long since been eroded.

  Peel frowned. ‘But surely that would mean having to negotiate a deal with Edmonton, wouldn’t it? And from what I hear, you would be unlikely to elicit a favourable response from him.’

  ‘Leave Edmonton to me,’ Pyke said, walking over to the fireplace. ‘But if I can placate the mob, with or without Edmonton
’s assistance, would I be right to think that we have an agreement?’

  Peel glanced at Tilling. ‘I have given no such assurance.’

  ‘But you will.’ Pyke smiled amiably. ‘Because you don’t have a choice.’

  Tilling looked at Peel, and then at Pyke, and shrugged. ‘Pyke would seem to be holding a strong hand.’

  Peel’s face reddened further.

  ‘So we have an agreement?’

  In the end, Peel gave him a grudging nod. But he did not stand or offer to shake Pyke’s hand.

  Later, as Tilling followed Pyke to the front door, he patted him on the shoulder. He was smiling. ‘You handled yourself well.’

  Pyke accepted the compliment. ‘But you’ll make sure Peel’s true to his word?’

  ‘You still don’t understand, do you? Peel is not your enemy here.’ Tilling started to shake his head.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Pyke said, buttoning up his jacket.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The last time we met, you said something about Vines and Sir Richard Fox, the two of them being closer than I thought.’

  ‘So, ask them about it. Not me.’

  ‘I can’t ask Vines. Apparently he’s in Scotland at a family wedding.’

  The interest in Tilling’s face faded. ‘Scotland? I saw him the other day walking down the street.’

  They shook hands and Pyke wandered down the steps towards the heath. It was only then that the implication of Vines being in London finally struck him.

  It was after midnight when Pyke made it back to the Old Cock tavern in Holborn. He entered the building through the back door and went straight down to the cellar. He lit a candle, jammed it into a tin sconce and carried the flickering light carefully through to the room where Villums had built a cage for the creatures used in the ratting contests. Villums paid sewer hunters sixpence per rat; the hunters themselves worked in pairs, for if they worked alone they ran the risk of being overwhelmed by their venomous prey. Villums preferred sewer to water-ditch rats because he reckoned they were meaner and hence posed more of a challenge to the dogs. They were certainly ravenous; the three hundred or so creatures that currently occupied the wooden cage had stripped the fifty-stone carcass of the dead bear in less than five minutes.

  Earlier, Pyke had bound Swift’s wrists and ankles to the outside of the cage with rope; below Swift’s tethered form was a seething carpet of sinew, wet black fur, whiskers, beady eyes, pincer teeth and ribbed tails the size of horsewhips.

  In the end, it had simply been a matter of who had responded quickest. Since Pyke’s reactions had been sharper than Swift’s and Pyke had reached for his knife before Swift could decide what course of action to take, it was Pyke who had triumphed in their skirmish. Pyke had forced the blade of his knife deep into the flesh of Swift’s thigh and immobilised him. He had then transported Swift from Russell Square to the tavern in Swift’s carriage.

  Lifting the candle up in order to throw some light on Swift’s unmoving body, Pyke inspected his adversary for a while. He was nearer forty-five than thirty-five, Pyke decided, with bushy, sandy-coloured hair and a gaunt, almost oblong face. He was by no means an attractive man, but there was something arresting about his features; his taut, weathered skin, his slate-grey eyes, his pursed lips and his almost translucent eyebrows gave the impression of someone who had been mummified. But it was his mole that attracted one’s attention; it was an ugly purple mark, almost as large as a half-shilling coin, located in the middle of his chin.

  Swift seemed barely alive so Pyke opened a bottle of gin and sloshed it liberally into his eyes. When that did not rouse the man, Pyke took out his knife, heated the metal blade over the flame of the candle for a few moments, steadied himself, sliced the mole from Swift’s chin and then daubed the open wound with gin.

  For an instant, Pyke was worried the man’s agonised screams might have attracted the attention of those upstairs in the tavern.

  He tossed the remains of the mole into the cage and watched as the long-tailed rats fought one another for the fleshy morsel. Blood poured from the wound and dripped into the cage, sending the rats into an even more heightened state of anticipation.

  Pyke rested the candle on top of the cage, next to Swift’s head, and unbound his gag. Swift’s mouth sagged open; his stare was uncomprehending, as though he had not yet adjusted to his new fate.

  ‘Jimmy Swift. Or should I call you James Sloan?’ Pyke spoke in a soft whisper.

  Swift stared at Pyke for a while.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sloan was my mother’s name. I adopted it when I left Ireland and came to London. Funny, I didn’t want my past catching up with me. The very last thing I did as Jimmy Swift was lead you to St Giles.’ He spoke in a gentle, nasal tone. ‘You walked straight into that one.’

  Pyke nodded, ‘I visited your old house in Hamilton’s Bawn. It’s comfortable but a little run down perhaps. Nothing compared to your Russell Square residence. Or Hambledon Hall.’

  Pyke’s taunt registered in Swift’s eyes but he said nothing.

  ‘A seat in Parliament. The daughter’s hand in marriage. And the prospect of one day inheriting a country estate. That’s quite a reward, particularly from someone as ungenerous as Lord Edmonton.’

  For a moment, Swift was distracted by the sound of the rats. He was tied to the cage in such a way that he couldn’t see them, but he could hear them.

  ‘You’re going to kill me anyway, so why should I tell you what you want to know?’ His face betrayed some of the dread that he was, doubtless, feeling.

  Pyke took out his pistol and fired a shot into the sea of rats. He must have wounded or most probably killed one of them because the others began to swarm around its twitching form and feed on its carcass.

  ‘You hear that sound?’ he said to Swift. ‘There are three hundred rats in the cage, three hundred sets of pincer-like teeth. Can you even imagine what short work that many teeth would make of your flesh? You would be dead in a matter of seconds, of course, but imagine those final moments of your life, rats crawling on your face, chewing out your eyes.’ He aimed the barrel of his pistol at Swift’s head. ‘But if I felt you were telling the truth, I might consider simply shooting you.’

  Swift watched him carefully but said nothing. He was listening to the rats beneath him.

  ‘Perhaps I might outline what I think took place,’ Pyke said. ‘You can interrupt me if I have made a mistake or if I require your assistance.’ Again Swift did not respond.

  Pyke began by indicating how he believed Swift’s relationship with Edmonton had started. He said they had probably met through the Orange Order and the Brunswick Club and corresponded regularly over issues of mutual concern. The unappealing prospect of Catholic emancipation had certainly been one such issue, and Edmonton had asked Swift to be vigilant for anything they might use to thwart or disrupt the smooth passage of the Catholic Emancipation Bill through Parliament. This had taken place some time in October or even November of the previous year. Six months earlier, Swift had employed the services of Davy Magennis to tend his small plot of land. Magennis had been dismissed from the Irish Constabulary for violent misconduct but had been recommended to Swift by someone in the order. Swift had never particularly liked Magennis but his interest in the big man was piqued by a story he told about his brother, Stephen, who had fallen in love with a Catholic girl and had absconded to London. Magennis had spoken about his brother’s betrayal with an anger that bordered on mania. When Magennis had also revealed that he had once been personally recruited into the constabulary by Tilling, Peel’s emissary in Ulster, Swift had seen an opportunity that was too good to pass up, especially as Peel was openly talking about changing his position on the Catholic question and throwing his support behind the push for emancipation.

  But Swift had had to move quickly. He had contacted Edmonton in London and explained what he had discovered and how this information might be used in such a way as to further their cause. Edm
onton had been delighted by the idea: that Swift would accompany Davy Magennis to London and talk him into, if any talk were required, killing his brother. For their plan to work, any subsequent investigation would have to establish a connection between Peel and Magennis. They could then claim that Peel had staged the murder in order to bolster support for the police bill that he was attempting to push through Parliament at the same time as Catholic emancipation. In any case, if it could be leaked to the newspapers that a Protestant man from Ulster had been murdered, seemingly by a Catholic, then such news would, no doubt, spark a wave of anti-Catholic protests that might end up blowing Peel’s plans out of the water. Edmonton had assumed responsibility for planning events in the capital. He had paid someone to track down Stephen Magennis and his mistress and given some consideration to how he might ensure that the subsequent investigation into the murders would unearth the connection between Davy Magennis and Peel.

  This was the moment when Edmonton had struck upon the notion of using Pyke. He had known, for a fact, that Pyke was a formidable investigator. If it could somehow be arranged that Pyke discovered the dead bodies, he would have to be a part of any investigation, and given his tenacity and contrariness, he might begin to suspect some kind of conspiracy. If not, he could always be pushed in such a direction once the investigation had commenced. In any case, Pyke could be used and then discarded once his purpose had been served.

  Pyke paused for a moment. Swift seemed to be more preoccupied by the sound of rats. Pyke continued with his narrative.

  Swift was, by no means, a papist sympathiser. After all, he had grown up in the Orange Order and had been initiated into a way of thinking that saw Catholics as both a threat and a menace. Nonetheless, he was not a rabid Catholic-hating extremist like Edmonton. For him, there had to be prospect of significant personal and material advancement to compensate him for the dangers he would have to face in actually executing the plan. Hence Edmonton’s generous offer of a parliamentary seat, his own daughter’s hand in marriage and the prospect of one day inheriting the family estate. The unpredictable element had been Davy Magennis. For the plan to work, Swift would have to prime his anger and transform the big man’s violent threats into something tangible.