‘And that it has nothing to do with the matter you came to talk to me about the other day?’
‘Field heard I’d been to your shop and decided I was the right man for this job.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘He didn’t want to send one of his men in case you recognised them. If he finds out that I’ve told you this, he’ll kill me, no question. He doesn’t want you to know he’s interested in your business.’
Crane’s stare was like a lizard’s. ‘And why do you think he is interested in my business?’ He glanced down at Bessie Daniels’ semi-conscious form.
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He just ordered me to bring her back to him.’
‘You don’t know, eh?’ Crane ran his teeth over his bottom lip, eyes narrowing to slits. ‘But you could find out, couldn’t you?’
‘Perhaps.’
That made Crane smile. ‘Well?’
‘Are you suggesting I switch horses halfway through the race?’
‘I could be.’
‘What would be in it for me?’
That seemed to be what Crane expected, and wanted, him to say. He grinned. ‘I like a man who knows how to think for himself.’
A silence passed between them. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Pyke said. ‘If I find out why Harold Field is interested in this woman, you can tell me why you went to see Mary Edgar and Arthur Sobers at Thrale’s lodging house.’
‘Back to that, eh?’
‘That’s what I’m offering. Take it or leave it.’
‘I’m the one with the pistol and you’re trying to make a deal?’ Smiling, Crane shook his head, as though both irritated and impressed by Pyke’s bravado.
Pyke looked into his flinty eyes. ‘Do we have an agreement?’
‘How will I know you’re telling me the truth, not just making up any old story?’
‘I suspect you know exactly why Field might be interested in your affairs. But what you don’t know is how much or little he knows — and you need to know because Field is not a man to be taken lightly.’ He hesitated. ‘And if that’s the case, you’ll know if I’m telling the truth, won’t you?’
This time Crane’s smile appeared genuine. ‘You’re really quite remarkable. A few moments ago I was ready to kill you.’
But Pyke wasn’t quite ready to shake the man’s hand. ‘We still haven’t decided what to do about her.’ They both looked down at Bessie.
‘She stays with me.’
Pyke shook his head. ‘I want to take her with me.’
‘And hand her on a plate to Field, pay off your debt, just like that?’
‘I don’t doubt you’ve already had your money’s worth from her.’
Crane folded his arms. ‘She stays here for the rest of the day. Tomorrow I will pay her what I owe her and let her go home. How does that sound for a compromise?’
Pyke looked into Crane’s face for signs he might be lying. ‘I have your word on that?’
‘You have my word.’
As they shook hands, Crane smiled slightly, an act that later seemed both mocking and sincere.
Harold Field was playing whist in an ostentatious private room adjoining a gin palace he owned in Holborn; the thick red carpet, red velvet curtains, striped flock wallpaper and the gilt-panelled ceiling put Pyke in mind of a Roman bordello, the kind of place where Caligula might have abused little boys while being fed grapes by half-naked prostitutes. Across the table from him, Field’s partner, a fat, bald, pig-like man whose face was slavered in his own sweat, was deliberating on which card to put down. On either side, their opponents shielded their hands and waited for the fat man to make his move. They swapped a brief look but their expressions remained inscrutable. Field placed his hand face down on the table and whispered something into the ear of one of his mob. Pyke couldn’t tell whether Field had noticed him or not as he’d made no effort to acknowledge his presence. From the gin palace, Pyke could hear the shouts of drunken revellers over the wailing of a badly tuned fiddle. On the table itself was a pot that looked to be in excess of a hundred pounds, if the growing pile of coins were all sovereigns, as they appeared to be. Briefly Pyke entertained the thought of someone walking in and trying to steal the pot at gunpoint, and of Field’s reaction, and he wondered whether there was anyone in London brave or stupid enough to attempt such an exploit. His attention was brought back to the game by Field’s partner, who had tentatively laid down the queen of hearts, to a murmur of disapproval from Field; the fat man’s mistake in playing the wrong card was obvious to everyone in the room. One of the opponents picked up the card and laid down his hand, taking care not to appear too triumphant. Both players eyed the pot but neither dared touch it. Field looked at the one who’d laid down his hand and whispered, ‘Go ahead. Take it,’ then stood up and stretched his legs. In the chair opposite him, the fat man’s face was flushed and his eyes darted wildly around the room. He seemed desperate to explain himself, yet too afraid to speak.
‘ Take it.’
Field walked across to the mantelpiece, where one of the candles had just burned out; and, taking care not to scald himself, he picked the stub out of the brass candlestick, tossed it to the floor, and barked at one of the servers to fetch a replacement.
No one in the room spoke.
One of the players gathered in the pile of coins and Field nodded, as though gratified by this development. The server returned with a candle but Field insisted that she give it to him, rather than placing it in the candlestick herself. Field then took the tall brass object in one hand, the candle in the other, and wandered back to the table. Carefully he placed the candle down on the card table and smoothed his ginger hair. The fat man gave him a pleading look and was about to say something but Field put a finger to his mouth and shook his head. The fat man held his silence and watched as Field circumnavigated the table, still carrying the brass candlestick.
He put it down on the table and retrieved his partner’s hand.
‘If you’d actually been concentrating and played this card,’ Field said, holding up the seven of diamonds, ‘then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, how something apparently quite trivial can have grave consequences.’ The fat man nodded dumbly, unable to bring himself to meet Field’s gaze.
Without saying another word, Field retrieved the brass candlestick and, in the blink of an eye, he swung the heavy end through the air and slammed it against the side of the man’s head, which seemed almost to disintegrate under the force of the blow. Holding the instrument with both hands now, Field raised it above his head and brought it down against the top of the fat man’s already shattered skull. The man slumped forward on to the table, and was quickly surrounded by a pool of his own blood.
Field wandered over to the mantelpiece and put the candlestick back where he’d found it. ‘You can all go now,’ he said in barely more than a whisper.
The room cleared almost immediately. Field’s opponents opted to leave their winnings on the table.
Only Pyke and another man remained. He was tall and boyish with a smooth complexion and dimples on his cheeks but he was staring at the blood spilling from the fat man’s head with curiosity rather than revulsion. Field looked over at Pyke, acknowledging his presence for the first time.
‘I’ll need you to clear this mess up,’ Field said to his younger assistant. Then, turning to Pyke, he added, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Matthew Paxton. He used to cut meat for a living, as I once did.’
Pyke and Field’s assistant regarded one another warily, like two animals squaring up for a fight. Paxton wasn’t afraid of Field — Pyke could see that much — and Field’s introduction, as florid an account of another human being as Pyke had ever heard coming from the man’s lips, indicated that he both trusted and respected Paxton. Pyke could smell the younger man’s ambition.
‘Looks like you need a new whist partner,’ Pyke remarked, once Paxton had left them.
‘I appreciate your effort, however misgu
ided, to lighten the atmosphere.’ Field smiled weakly. ‘That being said, I hope you have good news for me.’
‘I went to the address you gave me but the property was deserted.’
Field assimilated this piece of information without visible reaction. The pool of blood had spread across the table and had started to drip on to the carpet. ‘Can I ask you a question, Pyke?’
‘Do you imagine I’m going to say no?’
‘If people ever stopped fearing me, I might as well kill myself because someone else would soon do it for me.’ It was said, Pyke thought later, as a simple declaration of fact rather than as an explanation for what Field had just done.
‘Then, rest assured, you stand to live for a long time yet.’
That drew the faintest trace of a smile. ‘Come and work for me. I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘Next you’ll be inviting me to play cards with you.’
Field shrugged. ‘Do you think I’d have done that, if he’d been of any practical use to me?’
‘That puts me greatly at ease.’
‘I’m not such a philistine that I can’t detect the irony in your voice, Pyke. I also suspect you don’t much care for me and you certainly don’t respect me. I sometimes wonder whether you even fear me, but I find the idea that you don’t hard to fathom.’ He held up his hand, to stop Pyke from replying. ‘Allow me to finish. Personally I find you arrogant and entirely untrustworthy. I don’t like your manners or your easy charm. But at the same time, and in spite of myself, I have to admit a sneaking admiration for you. Isn’t that strange? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’
Pyke remained silent.
‘Now please don’t insult my intelligence.’ Field wetted his fingers and smoothed the ends of his moustache. ‘What did you really find at the place in Bethnal Green?’
For a moment, Pyke considered continuing with the lie. ‘I found her. She was addled on laudanum — posing nude for one of Crane’s copperplates. She didn’t know her own name let alone what day it was. I heard footsteps. Someone came into the room. I had to fight my way out of there.’ He considered telling Field about Bessie Daniels’ reference to the Swiss valet but decided against doing so, at least until he’d had a chance to work out in his own mind what it meant.
Field leaned back in his chair, took out a cigar from his pocket and lit it on one of the candles. ‘So why didn’t you tell me that to begin with?’
Pyke looked towards the door. He didn’t doubt that if Field clapped his hands, there would be five or more men in the room, all willing to do whatever Field asked them. ‘I didn’t want you to think I’d failed you.’
‘You’ll go back there tomorrow.’ It wasn’t put as a question.
‘I tried to ask her what she knew but she didn’t seem aware of what I was talking about. If I knew a little more about your interest in Crane’s affairs and what I should ask her…’
Field put the cigar into his mouth and took a few puffs. ‘You’ll be told only what I want you to know. Is that clear?’
Pyke remained silent.
‘Right at this moment I’m trying to find a reason why I shouldn’t have you killed.’ Field blew a smoke ring into the air and watched it drift upwards and dissolve.
‘She was laid out on Crane’s sofa, naked, like a slab of meat.’ Seeing her like that had made Pyke think of Emily, who had devoted her life to fighting exploitation in all its guises, and had died, or been killed, for it. And yet what had he done? He’d left the woman in Crane’s ‘care’. Trying not to think about what Emily might have said to him, Pyke refocused his attention on Field.
‘Are you trying to rile me?’
Pyke waited for a moment. ‘Neither of us likes men who exploit members of the fairer sex for their own profit.’
Field’s irises contracted and his expression became very still. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’ As he puffed on his cigar, the hot ash glowed an intense red. Field waited for the smoke to dissipate. ‘I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told a living soul.’
Pyke licked his lips but didn’t say a word.
‘My mother was killed by violent men when I was just a babe. I’m told she was beaten and raped before they strangled her and left her body in a cattle trough.’
Field sat there, his expression implacable. Finally he opened his eyes and rubbed them. ‘There must be a hundred pounds there on the table,’ he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. ‘Take it. It’s yours.’
Pyke looked at the coins and banknotes on the table. They were covered with the fat man’s blood.
‘What? You think those two cowards who won it, fairly and squarely I should add, would dare set foot in this room again? Go on. Take it.’
Pyke went to pick up one of the gold sovereigns. He got as far as touching it, the gold slick with blood. In the chair next to him, the fat man’s body had slumped farther forward.
At the door, he turned around and studied Field’s expression, which was a mixture of incredulity and interest.
‘Can I just ask why you decided to throw what I offered you back in my face?’ The coins and notes were on the table where Pyke had left them.
‘I owe you enough as it is without wanting to add to my debt.’
Field shook his head. ‘You do know that if you’d answered that question differently, I would have killed you with my bare hands?’ He motioned for Pyke to go and added, ‘You still have a job to do for me. I’ll expect to hear back from you by the end of the week.’
But Pyke’s long, exhausting night wasn’t quite over. When he got back home, he found Saggers waiting for him. Copper lay sleeping at his feet. As soon as he saw Pyke, Saggers rose, his cheeks damp with excitement.
‘There’s another body,’ the penny-a-liner kept on saying, ‘there’s another body.’
ELEVEN
The next day was the first really hot one of the year and even by nine in the morning the air was warm and filled with insects and the sky was hazy with soot. The sun was well up above the warehouse roofs and church spires, although it was hard to see it through the miasma of dust, and the surface of the river at Shadwell shimmered in the light breeze. In the distance Pyke could see people picking through the viscous sludge left by the river at low tide, looking for pieces of rusted iron, frayed rope and lumps of coal. Their poverty was an abstraction, something Pyke could not begin to appreciate in spite of his own precarious circumstances. But it wasn’t what they were doing which appalled him; it was the stink of the river produced by the sewage that gathered on both banks. Pyke loved the river, the sheer size of it, how it made him feel when he came upon it after the narrowness of the nearby streets, but he never got used to the smell, so he told Saggers he would wait for him in the Bunch of Grapes. There, he ordered and paid for a mug of ale rather than his usual gin because he was thirsty. He was surprised at how busy the place was at this hour in the morning. He sat at a table next to the window and watched the light streaming through the smudged panes, but there was no getting away from the stink. The floor had been sprinkled with sprigs of rosemary as well as sawdust, and baskets of lemons hung above the counter, yet all he could smell was the raw sewage from the river.
Pyke had just finished his second ale when Saggers joined him, this time accompanied by a mudlark, Gilbert Meeson, who from the look and smell of him had just waded out of the sludge, and a nervous coal-whipper who shook Pyke’s hand and introduced himself as George Luckins. Pyke bought drinks for all of them and Saggers helped carry them back from the counter.
George Luckins, it turned out, had read the column about Mary Edgar’s murder in the Examiner and had got in touch with Saggers through the newspaper. His own story was as sad as it was unexpected. The previous year, his daughter, who had worked as a servant and seamstress and who, as he later revealed, had also been arrested a few times for street-walking, had gone missing just as it seemed she was pulling her life back together. Someone had helped her to find a job, working in an East E
nd factory as a seamstress, and she’d sworn to Luckins that she would never again sleep with men for money. A week after her disappearance, Luckins had been to see the police, who told him that since a crime hadn’t actually been committed they couldn’t help. After a month, he had become desperate. That was when he took up the search for his missing daughter himself. For another two months, in between loading and unloading crates of coal, he had searched for her in vain. He had looked everywhere: brothels, taverns, gin palaces, lodging houses, hospitals, even the Bedlam asylum for the insane. Nothing. He had been on the verge of giving up when a friend told him about a mudlark who’d apparently found a corpse in the river near St Katharine’s Dock. Luckins had paid the mudlark — Gilbert Meeson as it turned out — a visit, to discover that Meeson had sold the corpse to a surgeon from St Thomas’s hospital. But from the mudlark’s description of an unusual birthmark on the corpse’s neck, Luckins had been able to identify the body as his daughter.
Saggers had told Pyke Luckins’ story, and throughout it the coal-whipper just sat there, mute and unmoving, his eyes not blinking and his lips cracked and blistered.
‘If I’d known who she was, I wouldn’t have gone and sold her to the doctor.’ Gilbert Meeson’s skeletal face was criss-crossed with thick, purple veins and covered by warts the size of shilling coins. ‘But by the time I fished her out of the water, to be honest, there weren’t a whole lot left of her.’
Luckins stared down at the ground, as though the subject of their conversation was too painful for him.
‘But you’re certain she’d been strangled?’ Pyke asked.
‘I’ll tell yer what I told Mr Saggers ’ere.’ Meeson glanced over at the penny-a-liner and nodded. ‘I saw the marks around her neck. There was no question about it, and when the doctor seen it, he said the same.’
‘But we want to know about the eyes,’ Saggers said, breathless with excitement. ‘Tell him about the eyes.’
Meeson sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘There weren’t none.’ He said it so matter-of-factly that it took Pyke a moment to comprehend what he’d just been told. Luckins, meanwhile, started to hum, a low tuneless noise that Pyke couldn’t help but feel was the last defence of a man who’d already succumbed to his fate.
Kill-Devil and Water pm-3 Page 13
