‘But money is an object, isn’t it? Who’s going to fund this enterprise of yours?’
‘I was hoping I could persuade you to dip into the profits you’ve already accrued from the book.’
‘ Profits? God, dear boy, weren’t you listening to a word I said? And now the Lord Chancellor has banned any theatre shows based on my book for fear that they might incite young boys to criminality. That Morel-Roux has a lot to answer for. His arrest and trial might have helped sales in the short term but now the authorities are terrified that others will follow his lead and turn on their masters.’
‘But if Morel-Roux was shown to be innocent and he therefore wasn’t executed next week as planned, that might revive interest in your book?’
‘Not executed? What are you talking about? He’s due to hang in just over one week.’
‘He didn’t kill Bedford.’ Pyke didn’t know this for certain — the valet could always have been paid by someone to kill his master — but, in light of what he’d found out in Jamaica, he would have bet money on the man’s innocence.
Godfrey sat forward in his armchair and removed his glasses. ‘Do you know that for a fact?’
‘I can’t prove it yet. But I’d swear on Felix’s life that he didn’t do it.’
‘That’s terrible. An innocent man going to the gallows. It can’t be allowed to happen.’
‘Will you help me or not?’
‘Anything, dear boy, anything.’ Godfrey wiped the perspiration from his forehead. ‘But how are you going to stop the execution?’
‘I don’t know.’
Godfrey seemed dazed. Like everyone, he had laboured under the assumption that the valet was guilty. But now this certainty had been thrown into doubt, he didn’t know what to do.
Later, as Pyke was preparing to leave, Godfrey went over to his desk and riffled through a stack of papers. ‘I had a visit from one of your old acquaintances, Ned Villums, while you were away. This would have been about three weeks ago. He left me his address and asked me to tell you to contact him when you returned.’ Holding up a piece of paper, Godfrey added, ‘I knew I hadn’t lost it.’
Pyke took the address. ‘Did Ned say what he wanted?’
But Godfrey’s expression had darkened. ‘Field, Crane and now Villums. You’re keeping illustrious company these days, aren’t you, dear boy?’
TWENTY-TWO
Early the next morning, before Jo, Felix or even Copper had risen, Pyke walked from the house in Pentonville to Clerkenwell and the address Godfrey had given him. It was warm, despite the earliness of the hour, but the air felt pleasant rather than muggy. The mist that had hung over the city for the past few days seemed to have lifted and there were just a few high clouds in the otherwise clear sky. Though the shops hadn’t yet pulled up their shutters, the streets were surprisingly busy; drays and barrows mostly, costermongers and other tradesmen already preparing for the new day. There was also a steady trickle of commuters heading towards the City, grabbing breakfast from the street vendors and eating it as they walked.
Pyke had known Ned Villums for more than half his life. As the former landlord of the Old Cock Inn in Holborn, he had presided over a large gambling and bookmaking operation. He had also fed Pyke — then a Bow Street Runner — with snippets of information which had, in turn, damaged the interests of his rivals; and he had been well paid for doing so. Latterly, he had become one of the underworld’s most successful receivers, largely because he was very careful about what he agreed to handle. Mostly he dealt with specialist, expensive items, often stolen to order. His success could be measured by the fact that he had never been arrested, let alone spent any time in prison. Indeed, the New Police didn’t seem to know he existed. He worked with a small group of loyal associates and took as few risks as possible. That he could also be as ruthless as someone like Field was another reason for his success. Pyke had seen Villums kill a man with his bare hands then sit down to eat a meal with the corpse still at his feet.
Pyke knew that Villums was an early riser and found him in his office on the corner of St John and Compton Streets. He hadn’t been there before but it was as bare as he’d expected: a wainscoted partition, a shelf or two, a large oak desk, a couple of stools, a clock on the mantelpiece above the fire and a map of London on the wall. Villums had never been one to draw attention to his wealth.
Perhaps ten years older than Pyke, Villums was slow and heavy on his feet, with a poor complexion and a hatchet-like profile. In his torn velveteen coat and corduroy trousers, he still dressed like a tavern landlord rather than a man who, when Pyke had last asked him, earned fifty thousand a year. They greeted each other warmly and Villums invited him to take one of the stools while he uncorked a bottle of whisky and poured out two generous measures. For a few minutes they talked about the old days and the people they’d once known who were now either dead or in prison.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I left a message for you,’ Villums said, pouring them another drink.
Pyke nodded.
‘Would I be right in thinking that you’ve got yourself mixed up with the likes of Harold Field and Jemmy Crane?’
‘How did you hear that?’
‘What I’m going to tell you goes no farther than these four walls.’ Pyke gave him a hard stare. ‘Of course.’
‘All right. Good. So, a few months ago, I had a visit from Crane. He wanted to know whether I’d be interested in fencing a large quantity of gold.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I asked him to tell me more about the gold.’
‘And?’
‘He talked about bars, plenty of them. His references were quite specific. I told him I needed some time to think about it. I looked into the matter, then went back and told Crane I wasn’t interested.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘That the gold bars are, even as we speak, being held in the bullion vault at the Bank of England.’
Pyke exhaled loudly.
‘Exactly my point,’ Villums said, taking another drink of whisky. ‘After I told Crane I wasn’t interested, I gave him my word I wouldn’t tell a soul about it.’
Pyke saw the concern in his old friend’s eyes. ‘So what happened?’
‘I also owed Harold Field a favour. Don’t ask me how I got into the man’s debt. It’s a long story and I don’t want to bore you with the details.’
‘I see. So you told Field about Crane and the gold.’ It was starting to make sense now. Pyke thought about Field’s attempts to infiltrate Crane’s organisation.
‘With hindsight it wasn’t the most intelligent thing to do.’ Villums shrugged. ‘Crane finds out Field knows about the gold, who’s he likely to blame?’
‘So you went back to seek certain reassurances from Field and he told you about my involvement in the matter?’
Villums nodded. ‘That’s right. Look, you have my word that nothing we say here will go beyond these four walls.’ He paused. ‘But does Crane actually know about Field’s interest in him?’
‘He knows Field has been sniffing around him but, as far as I know, he doesn’t believe that Field knows about the gold.’
Pyke watched Villums take another sip of whisky; he’d never seen the man this anxious before. It was testament to Field’s reputation that even someone like Ned Villums was afraid of him. ‘You’ll tell me if the situation changes, won’t you?’ Villums asked.
‘I’m as keen as you are to leave the whole mess behind.’
‘Course you are.’ Villums tried to smile but his eyes lacked any trace of warmth. ‘If the Peelers nab you with gold bars taken from the Bank of England, they may as well lead you straight to the gallows.’
Pyke contemplated the idea. ‘Are you quite sure Crane’s target is the Bank of England?’
‘Seems unlikely, doesn’t it? I mean, how do you break into the bullion vault for a start, and then make off with five hundred gold bars?’
‘That many, eh?’
V
illums nodded. ‘No way could you try going over the wall, you’d be dead within minutes. The bank has its own garrison.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t know. I’m at a complete loss.’ He scratched his face. ‘But I don’t want to know, either.’
‘Perhaps Crane has connections inside the bank?’
Villums didn’t seem convinced. ‘What can one man do? Like I said, the bank’s vaults are guarded by a regiment sent there each night from the Tower.’
Pyke took his glass and stared down at the last drops of the amber-coloured liquid.
The offices of the Vice Society were a short walk from Villums’ building but when Pyke presented himself to a clerk at the front desk and asked to speak with Samuel Ticknor, he was told that Ticknor had been called away on a family matter and wouldn’t be back for a few days.
‘I’m looking for information about Lucy Luckins,’ Pyke said. ‘One of the women you helped to find work.’
The young clerk gave him a bored look. ‘Was Mr Ticknor the agent responsible for this particular woman?’ It was the name Pyke had been given by Alefounder in Jamaica.
‘I think so.’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until he returns.’ He offered an apologetic smile. ‘We don’t keep records of such matters.’
‘How long did you say he would be away?’
‘A few days. A week at most.’
Pyke spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon looking for the blind mudlark on the Ratcliff Highway and along the northern bank of the river. It was a warm day and the dry weather meant the bank had become encrusted with pools of slime and raw faeces. The stink was almost unbearable and, on a few occasions, he had to take refuge near street vendors who were cooking food on hot coals to give his nostrils temporary relief.
‘I know ’im,’ a bone collector said. He was dressed in rags and was wearing a crushed billycock hat. ‘Least, I talked to ’im from time to time.’
As it transpired, he hadn’t seen or spoken with the man he called ‘Filthy’ for more than three months.
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Filthy? I didn’t know ’im well but he seemed like a nice man, gentle. I’d say he ’ad a good heart.’
Pyke thought about his suspicions regarding Filthy and Phillip — that they were the same person and had somehow been involved in the mutilation of Mary Edgar’s corpse. In light of this description, it didn’t seem likely or even possible that Phillip was the murderer. More to the point, whether he knew it not, Mary was his daughter. But at the same time, the similarities between the manner of his blinding at the hands of his brother, Silas Malvern, and the facial mutilations suffered by Mary Edgar and Lucy Luckins were impossible to ignore.
‘You talk about anything in particular?’
‘He liked his women dark, if you know what I mean.’
‘Dark as in black skinned?’
‘We ’ad a conversation in a tavern, that’s all. He told me what he liked and I told ’im what I liked. As far as it went.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Was a demon at catching rats, so he was. Preferred the sewer ones, he told me. Meaner, they were. Reckoned the landlord at the Duke of York in Saffron Hill would pay ’im threepence a rat.’
Later in the afternoon, Pyke asked for the landlord of the Duke of York at the brass-topped counter in the taproom. A few moments later, a squat, ugly man with no neck and square shoulders appeared behind the counter. He said his name was Johnny Flack. Pyke explained why he was there.
‘Yeah, I know the cull. Folk called ’im Filthy but I knew ’im as Phillip. He brought me plenty of the biggest, nastiest sewer rats I ever saw. Creatures the size of small dogs with tails like leather whips. Would give even the best dog a run for its money.’ The Duke of York was well known as a ‘ratting’ pub; twice a week, rats and dogs fought for their lives in a wooden enclosure and drinkers would bet on the outcome.
Pyke tried not to show his excitement. ‘You’re quite certain about his real name?’ This was the confirmation he’d been looking for.
‘Course I’m sure.’ Flack scratched his arm. ‘But I ain’t seen ’im for a while. To be honest, I’m disappointed. No one brings me rats like Phillip.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Two, three months ago.’
‘And before that, would he come here on a regular basis?’
Flack nodded. ‘At least once a week.’
Pyke considered this for a short while. ‘Did he ever tell you where he found his rats?’
‘He trawled the sewers, I’d say, from the smell of ’im. That’s how folk came to call him Filthy.’
After he left, Pyke stood at the counter, listening to the harsh, guttural accents and the casual obscenities, and wondered whether Phillip Malvern was still in London or, more to the point, whether he was still alive.
It was just getting dark when a hackney carriage dropped Pyke off at the end of Pitts Head Mews just across from Hyde Park. The air was humid with just a hint of rain and there was barely a breath of wind. He walked along the street as far as Elizabeth Malvern’s house, looked up at the drawn curtains for any sign of light or movement behind them, then knocked on the front door. No one answered. He tried again, to no avail. There was a break in the terrace about halfway along the mews and Pyke made his way around to the back of what he thought was Elizabeth’s house and looked up at the windows once more. The curtains were drawn but this time what looked like a light or candle was burning in one of the upstairs rooms. He climbed over the wall and dropped down into the back yard. Waiting to be sure no one had heard him, he removed his picklocks, trying to make as little sound as possible. The lock wasn’t a sophisticated one. Pyke had the door open in less than a minute and stepped into the house.
She was carrying a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. She moved towards him quietly and carefully, like a cat, keeping the pistol aimed at his chest. She wore a cotton print dress and her dark hair was gathered up and held by a comb. It took him a few moments to realise how beautiful she was, with her smooth complexion, the colour of milky coffee, and her dark, staring eyes, like pools of liquid.
‘You’re Elizabeth, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t move a muscle, sir. Tell me your name, why you’ve broken into my house, and why I shouldn’t shoot you here and now.’ She spoke in a polished, elegant tone that put him in mind of Emily.
‘My name is Pyke. I was charged with the task of finding Mary Edgar’s murderer. I’ve just returned from Jamaica.’
It was the last piece of information which seemed to soften her resolve. She lowered the pistol and held up the lantern so she could see his face better. ‘Do you often break into other people’s houses?’
‘Only if they persistently refuse to answer their doors.’ Pyke waited. ‘I came here just before I sailed for the West Indies. I think I saw you in one of the upstairs rooms at the front of the house.’
‘Oh, that was you.’ She seemed both curious and unmoved by this revelation.
‘Can I ask why you’ve decided to turn yourself into a prisoner in your own house? And why you feel it’s necessary to possess that thing?’ He pointed at the pistol.
‘I thought my father might have sent you.’ She hesitated, wondering whether this explained it, and then added, ‘He thinks I’m in Jamaica.’
‘Why would he think that?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘And the pistol?’
She didn’t have an answer for that one.
‘You told him that you’d make the journey to break the news to your brother, Charles, about the deaths of his fiancee and his godfather.’
That seemed to amuse her. ‘I see you’ve spoken to my father.’
‘We had a conversation. It didn’t end well. To be honest, it didn’t start well, either. But you’re right, I did talk to him. And he’s under the impression you sailed for Jamaica a
t the beginning of May.’
‘And now you must be wondering what I’m doing here.’
‘The question had crossed my mind.’
‘In that case, I think you and I should retire to the living room. I sense we have a lot to talk about.’
He followed her into the house, up a flight of stairs and into a large, immaculately tidy room at the front of the building. Elizabeth put the lantern on the table in the middle of the room and sat down on one of the sofas. Pyke took the other one and they sat in silence for a moment. He could smell her musk, a raw, earthy smell that made him think of whisky and put him on guard at once.
‘Whatever must you think of me?’ She was perched on the edge of the sofa, shaking her head. ‘Hiding in my own home, not answering the door, lying to my father.’
Pyke tried not to notice the way she was looking at him. ‘Why did you offer to travel to Jamaica in the first place?’
‘Did Father tell you that?’ She laughed. ‘Even though we live in the same city, we only seem to communicate by post these days. I received a letter from him suggesting I go to the West Indies, to break some tragic news to my brother. I wrote back saying that I’d consider it but then I fell ill and I heard that a mutual friend was making the journey out there so I persuaded him to pay a visit to Charles in my place. I detest that journey more than you’ll ever know, and I fancy I saw the opportunity to stay here and hibernate from the world.’ She hesitated and looked across at him. ‘I know it makes me sound appallingly selfish and I can see you don’t believe one word I’ve said but I really was ill for a while; I barely moved from my bed for the months of June and July.’
Pyke tried to keep his stare opaque. She was right that he didn’t believe her. How likely was it that someone of her standing would shut herself away for the whole Season? And hadn’t Charles told him that Elizabeth and their father enjoyed a very close relationship?
Reading his mind, Elizabeth added, ‘Of course, I did have some help. I had to swear my oldest, most faithful servant to secrecy. Frankly, I don’t know what I would have done without her. She agreed to visit my father’s house in Belgravia on my behalf. That was how I first heard that William intended to sail for Jamaica…’
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