Kill-Devil and Water pm-3

by Andrew Pepper

  The former bare-knuckle fighter could certainly take care of himself in a fight and Pyke didn’t want to antagonise him needlessly. ‘Do you mind if I question your guests, see if anyone else knew him?’

  ‘Long as you don’t upset anyone.’

  ‘I take it you haven’t seen or heard anything more about Arthur Sobers.’

  That drew a frown. ‘I thought you’d have heard about him.’

  ‘Heard about what?’ Pyke felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘I’ve been out of the country.’

  Thrale shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Peelers got him. Last I heard he was waiting to be tried.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A week, maybe two weeks ago. One of the lodgers remembered him, said they’d read about it in a newspaper.’

  By this time Pyke was halfway across the yard.

  It was only ten in the morning but already Saggers was too drunk to get up from his seat. The first thing Pyke noticed was the wet patch around the crotch of his tweed trousers. There was a plate of gnawed chop bones on the table in front of him and five or six empty pots of ale.

  ‘How can a man write when hunger gnaws at his tummy? Should a man of my talents be lying down in the same room as coiners and mudlarks?’ He was speaking to a man whose head was resting on the table next to him. ‘A man of my talents grubbing for a living when scriveners and compositors, with their sticks and frames, take home fifty shillings a week? Fifty shillings, I say. I used to think that making words was the noblest of all professions but now I see my reward — being denied the victuals that a man of my modest appetite requires to sustain him — and I wonder that I should ever see a bowl of stewed mutton again.’ He cast a stare in Pyke’s direction. ‘Or a half-buck of Halnaker’s venison.’

  Pyke tossed a five-shilling coin down on the table. It landed among the gravy and chop bones. Saggers ordered the pot-boys to fetch him another ale and a serving of steak and kidney pudding.

  ‘You’re darker than I remember,’ Saggers said, licking gravy from the coin. ‘I talked to your uncle. He at least was kind enough to tell me of your departure.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving. In the end I didn’t have the time.’

  ‘Luckily for you I’m the forgiving type,’ Saggers said, inspecting the silver coin. ‘I’ll be even more forgiving if you tell me about your travels and give me something nice and juicy I can slap on to Spratt’s desk.’

  ‘One day soon I will. I promise.’ Pyke waited. ‘In the meantime, how’s the story?’

  ‘How’s the story? he asks.’ Saggers’ voice boomed around the empty room. ‘And what story would that be? The one you abandoned without a word to your partner-in-crime?’

  ‘The last time we spoke, you were trying to persuade Spratt to publish the story about Lucy Luckins’ corpse. What happened?’

  ‘I found Mort, the surgeon at St Thomas’s, and he confirmed, in private, what the mudlark Gilbert Meeson told us. But, for obvious reasons, he wouldn’t give me the official confirmation that Spratt needed. So Spratt refused to publish the story and, since then, it has ebbed away to nothing.’ Saggers’ mood was momentarily lifted by the fresh pot of ale put down in front of him.

  ‘No further developments?’

  ‘Not from my perspective.’ Saggers emptied the contents of the pot in three gulps and let out a belch. ‘I had an idea there might be more bodies. I mean, if this man, whoever he is, has killed two women, why stop there? I left word with mudlarks like Gilbert Meeson to keep their eyes open for another corpse, pardon the pun. I even managed to persuade Spratt to part with ten guineas as an inducement. But I’ve heard nothing, and any interest that we managed to build up in the story has vanished.’ He shook his head. ‘We made all those boasts, Pyke; we made the police seem stupid. But who looks stupid now? The police have gone about their work quietly and methodically and now they’ve found this negro fellow, Sobers.’

  ‘I heard,’ Pyke said. ‘What else do you know about it?’

  ‘Just that the Peelers nabbed him a few weeks ago and now they’ve charged him with the murder. He’s due to stand trial in a couple of days.’

  ‘Do you know where they’re holding him?’

  ‘Newgate, I think.’ Saggers looked around for some sign of the steak and kidney pudding. ‘I should warn you that the Crown’s lawyer is going to play up the ritual aspect of the murder. Some of the newspapers have already carried stories to this effect. Spratt has asked me for something — assuming the chap is found guilty.’

  ‘Human ape runs amok in London because it’s in his nature?’

  ‘That kind of thing,’ Spratt said, wincing a little.

  Pyke shook his head but he knew such stories were inevitable. ‘I need you to go back to all the mudlarks you spoke to and ask them about a blind man, goes by the name of Filthy. I want to know if they’ve seen him recently and if so where can I find him.’ This time Pyke placed a half-crown down on the table.

  Saggers swept it into his lap and considered Pyke’s request, his chin wobbling slightly. ‘Would it be fair to say that you’ve been somewhat parsimonious with the truth regarding this investigation?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that would be a fair comment.’

  ‘But you see, old chap, it’s never easy trying to row a boat without oars.’

  ‘One day soon I’ll tell you everything I know. I promise.’

  ‘And until then, I’m supposed to live off your scraps?’

  Pyke looked at Saggers’ sprawling girth. ‘From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like you’ve made too bad a job of it.’

  An hour after Pyke had dispatched a young lad with a note to deliver to Fitzroy Tilling, the deputy commissioner of the New Police strolled into the Edinburgh Coffee House on The Strand carrying his hat. He looked older somehow, as though the job and its responsibilities had accelerated his hair loss and deepened the creases on his forehead.

  ‘If you were a policeman, you could be dismissed for drinking on the job.’ He pointed to Pyke’s gin and ordered a mug of coffee for himself.

  This was the first time they had met since the angry words they’d exchanged outside Mayne’s chambers and the atmosphere between them was palpable.

  ‘Then it’s lucky for me that I’ve got a mind of my own and an aversion to taking orders from people who think police work is moving pieces of paper from one side of their desk to the other.’

  It drew the thinnest of smiles. ‘When I got your note, I thought twice about coming to see you. I don’t owe you a thing, and if there’s any ground to be made up, it’s your job to do so.’

  ‘So why did you come?’

  ‘I suppose I was curious to know what, if anything, you managed to dig up in the West Indies.’

  Short of him talking to Godfrey there was only one explanation for Tilling knowing about his trip to the West Indies. Pyke decided not to pursue the question for the moment.

  ‘I hear you made an arrest while I was away.’

  ‘That’s right. Arthur Sobers.’

  ‘Has he made a confession?’

  ‘He refused to speak at his committal hearing. The trial is due to take place in a couple of days.’ Tilling took his mug of coffee from the waitress and put it down on the table. ‘If he continues to say nothing, he’ll be found guilty.’

  ‘Is the case against him strong?’

  ‘Circumstantial evidence mostly,’ Tilling said.

  ‘Has Pierce done a good job?’

  ‘In spite of what you might think, Pyke, he’s a solid investigator. Very methodical.’

  Pyke bit his lip. This description applied to Tilling but not Pierce, who cared only about advancing another rung up the ladder. ‘Where did they find Sobers?’

  ‘Sniffing around at the back of a property near Hyde Park. A neighbour didn’t like the look of him and fetched a constable.’

  ‘Let me guess. Pitts Head Mews.’

  Tilling looked up, unable to hide his surprise. ‘How did you
know?’

  ‘The property belongs to Elizabeth Malvern, daughter of Silas Malvern. I’m told she’s in the West Indies.’

  ‘But you didn’t come across her when you were out there?’

  Pyke shook his head. He wanted to find and speak to Elizabeth Malvern before he divulged anything further to Tilling. According to Alefounder, she had never made the trip in the first place.

  ‘You don’t think Sobers killed her, do you?’

  Tilling’s question sounded genuine rather than defensive. For a moment they stared at one another, trying to appraise each other’s views on the subject.

  ‘Silas Malvern went to see Sir Richard Mayne yesterday and Mayne talked to you. That’s how you know I’ve just returned from Jamaica, isn’t it?’

  Tilling nodded. He knew it was pointless to deny the accusation. ‘It would seem you didn’t exactly endear yourself to the old boy at an anti-slavery meeting at Exeter Hall.’

  They both looked up at a pretty woman who sat down at the table next to them. ‘I think he’s somehow involved in Mary Edgar’s murder.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  Pyke thought about telling Tilling what he’d found out in Jamaica but decided to keep it to himself for the moment.

  ‘Just so you know, and this comes directly from Mayne, Silas Malvern is not a suspect. From the beginning he’s cooperated with our investigation and what he’s told us has been thoroughly investigated.’

  ‘By Pierce?’

  ‘At the risk of offending you, let me repeat myself. Malvern is not a suspect. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Did Malvern tell you that Lord Bedford was godfather to his son Charles?’

  Tilling stared at him; he understood the implication of this immediately. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Charles made a private arrangement with his godfather for Mary Edgar, his fiancee, to stay with Bedford at his Norfolk Street residence because he knew his father wouldn’t approve of him marrying a mulatto.’

  A brief, uncomfortable silence passed between them. ‘Do you have any proof of this?’

  Pyke took out the letter he’d taken from the great house at Ginger Hall and handed it to Tilling.

  ‘It makes no reference to Mary Edgar by name,’ Tilling said, once he’d read it. ‘And from what I gather, Charles Malvern is now dead.’

  ‘But it establishes a link between Charles Malvern and Lord Bedford. And Malvern’s engagement to Mary Edgar was common knowledge in Falmouth.’

  ‘Falmouth?’

  ‘A port town on the north coast of Jamaica.’

  Tilling scratched his chin. ‘To take this farther, I’m going to need some hard evidence. Did any of Bedford’s servants know about the arrangement?’

  ‘Bedford’s butler knew. Apparently Mary Edgar stayed in a basement annexe, so as not to arouse the suspicion of the rest of the household. Morel-Roux told me he thought Bedford had a mistress.’

  A frown passed across Tilling’s forehead. ‘When did you speak to him?’

  Briefly Pyke told Tilling about the arrangements Godfrey had made for his visit to the valet’s cell.

  Tilling took a sip of his coffee and stared out of the window. Pyke could tell he was upset by what he’d just heard, even if his expression was outwardly calm. ‘I’m told the evidence against Morel-Roux was overwhelming. For God’s sake, the man didn’t even offer a defence. The jury took only a few minutes to return a verdict of guilty.’

  ‘In the same way that Arthur Sobers isn’t, for the moment, offering a defence?’

  ‘I can’t believe you actually think we knowingly seek to punish innocent men? Besides, the circumstances of these two cases are completely different.’ But for the first time the extent of Tilling’s unease was showing.

  ‘Are they? Mary Edgar was staying in Bedford’s house. Both Mary and Bedford were killed. How likely is it that Morel-Roux committed both murders? How likely is it that Sobers committed both murders?’

  Tilling contemplated this. ‘You said just now that Lord Bedford’s butler knew about the arrangement with Mary?’

  ‘I’m not saying he knew who Mary Edgar really was or that she’d been murdered. But he knew she was staying there.’ Pyke took out the charcoal sketch from his pocket and handed it to Tilling. ‘It probably isn’t an exact likeness, but show it to the man and see if he recognises her.’

  ‘Give me a few days,’ Tilling said, folding up the drawing and putting it into his pocket. ‘In the meantime, stay away from Silas Malvern.’

  ‘I want to see Sobers,’ Pyke said, hoping to take advantage of the rapprochement that seemed to be taking place between them.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’

  ‘I want to see him anyway.’ Pyke waited. ‘If he isn’t talking to anyone, what harm can it do?’

  Standing up, Tilling pulled his coat on. ‘I’ll see what I can arrange. Where can I contact you?’

  Pyke scribbled down his address on a scrap of paper and pushed it across the table. ‘What date has been set for Morel-Roux’s execution?’

  ‘Just over a week.’

  ‘That soon?’

  ‘Once the Home Secretary turned down his appeal, the judge didn’t see any reason to delay it.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Pyke said, thinking about the crowds that would gather to watch the hanging.

  ‘I’ve barely made a farthing out of the whole enterprise, dear boy, and that’s the God’s honest truth. Ever since the vultures in the cheap presses stripped my work of literature down to its carcass and sold it in roughly bound editions using the cheapest paper for a few pennies, I’ve lost a large chunk of my readership. It’s robbery, m’boy, and I don’t know why I should stand for it.’

  Pyke relaxed into the threadbare armchair and grinned. ‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but wasn’t that exactly how you made your money for much of your career?’ It was afternoon and they were sitting across from one another at the back of Godfrey’s gloomy basement shop.

  ‘A detail, dear boy. And remember that as a convert to the pursuit of artistic excellence, I have seen the error of my ways.’

  Pyke looked at his uncle, amazed not only that he was still alive, given his prodigious appetite for food and wine, but also that he still had the energy to care about what he wrote and published. ‘And great art can’t be reproduced on cheap paper?’

  ‘It can be printed on bum fodder for all I care, so long as I get what’s owed to me.’

  ‘You’re just sour because Harrison Ainsworth’s Jack Sheppard is still selling more copies than your book.’

  ‘Ainsworth is a crashing bore. Have you tried to read Jack Sheppard? I did and found myself drowning in his turgid prose. And as for Rookwood, I was asleep before I’d finished the first chapter.’

  ‘I don’t know these novelists. But I read Oliver Twist on the journey back from the West Indies.’

  ‘Much better but still too much moralising. Don’t tell me your heart didn’t sink when the point of view changed from Fagin and Sykes to Brownlow and the Maylies.’

  Pyke smiled because there was an element of truth in what his uncle had just said. But what he had liked about Dickens’s work was its lack of sentimentality, at least in its depictions of the underworld. Fagin and Sykes were presented as they were, nasty and venal, not to make some kind of political point. He knew people like that. It had once been his job to arrest them.

  ‘Didn’t you once tell me that the point of your book was to offend the sensibilities of the middling classes? In which case, what do you care if your words have been vulgarised for the purpose of appealing to the working poor?’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? The whole point of my book was to make as much money as possible.’

  ‘And not to offend readers who expect literature to give them clear moral guidance?’

  This was the nub of the debate raging in newspapers and periodicals about so-called ‘Newgate’ novels; that, wittingly or otherwise, they
celebrated criminality by presenting their rogue protagonists in a vaguely sympathetic light, and therefore encouraged the working poor to contemplate breaking the law.

  Godfrey considered this point for a moment. ‘I suppose I would like my readers to see some of the unsavoury and immoral aspects of my hero in themselves.’

  Pyke looked around the musty, untidy shop and realised that he had been going there to see his uncle for as long as he could remember. He also thought about their disagreements and their clashes over Pyke’s responsibilities as a father. They had always argued and Godfrey would say things that no one else dared to, but their fights were mostly short lived.

  ‘I’d like you to do something for me, Godfrey, but I’m afraid it involves Jemmy Crane.’ Pyke looked at his uncle and waited for a reaction.

  ‘Crane? Didn’t I tell you to leave that one well alone?’

  ‘I’d like you to persuade one of your acquaintances to play the part of a customer. Preferably the disreputable type, or at least the kind of man who wouldn’t blink at the sight of bare flesh, and having seen a little, might ask for something more risque. Rich and shambling would be ideal.’ Pyke waited. ‘You would be perfect but Crane knows of your connection to me.’

  ‘And you think that is the type of person I choose to associate with?’ He tried to appear hurt but Pyke could tell he was secretly delighted by the idea that he might appear to be rich and shambling.

  ‘I’m just asking that they play the part. I want them to go to Crane’s shop and ask for a daguerreotype, taken from life. I want them to offer an obscene sum of money but only on the condition that the daguerreotype is particularly low and offensive.’

  ‘How low and offensive?’

  ‘They’ll offer the usual copperplates depicting nude women but I want him to ask for something warmer and hence more expensive.’

  ‘Warm I like, expensive I don’t.’

  ‘Then I’d like him to be more specific. That is, I want him to pretend to desire women with facial deformities.’

  ‘Facial deformities? What is this, dear boy? You’re beginning to make me feel a little queasy.

  ‘You don’t need to know. Just tell your friend to make it clear that money is no object.’