Bending over, he slapped her hard across the cheek once more and whispered, ‘Do you know where she is now?’
‘No.’ But this time she didn’t hesitate; he could smell the fear on her rancid breath.
‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not,’ she spluttered. ‘After that day, I never saw her again.’
‘Do you know what Crane wanted with her?’
‘Something about copperplates, I think, but I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell me. None of my business.’
‘How much did he pay you?’
‘Five guineas.’ Even she seemed ashamed of the paltry fee.
It took every ounce of self-control for Pyke not to pummel her face into a bloody mess.
She watched carefully as he prepared to leave but it was only when he was halfway along the passage towards the front door that she shouted, ‘You know I’ll go straight to Crane, don’t you? And you won’t be able to knock him around like you did me. Fact is, you don’t have any idea what you’re getting yourself into.’
That afternoon Pyke had just returned from walking Copper on the fields to the north of Pentonville when a figure caught his attention on the other side of the street. Her hair was tied up and covered by a straw bonnet but he recognised her immediately. Elizabeth Malvern.
‘I hope you don’t mind me disturbing you at home,’ she said, once he had crossed the street to join her. ‘I was hoping we might be able to take some air and talk at the same time.’ Her plain dress, although respectable, neither copied the Empire waistlines of the Regency era nor conformed to the more contemporary preference for hooped skirts and flounced sleeves. It was slim fitting and showed off her hips. Her arms were covered by a shawl.
Pyke looked up towards his house on the other side of the road and saw Jo move away from the window. ‘I could spare a few minutes.’ He allowed her to walk ahead of him by a few paces and then followed, Copper hopping along by his side. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘This is difficult for me to say because I know it will reflect badly on me, but I wasn’t entirely honest with you last night.’
‘In what sense?’ Now they were out of view of the bay window, Pyke caught up with her and took his place at her side.
‘You asked me what need I had for a pistol and I was evasive in my answer.’
‘I noticed.’
She bowed her head and blushed slightly. ‘I wasn’t entirely truthful about my reasons for not travelling to Jamaica or for deceiving my…’ She paused for a moment. ‘… my father either.’
At the crossroads, they waited for a dray and a wagon to pass and hurried across the street.
‘A few months ago I had a visit from this… this man.’ She hesitated. ‘He was more of a beggar, actually, and he wore patches over both of his eyes. He said he was blind and he used a long stick to feel his way around.’ A moment passed. ‘He clearly wanted to talk to me but I was frightened and I chased him away.’
‘And did he go?’ Pyke kept his face composed in spite of this new information.
‘Initially, yes, but he came back. That’s when he told me he was my uncle.’
‘And what did you say to that?’
‘What do you think I said? I told him not to be so ridiculous and to leave me alone.’
‘And did he?’
Elizabeth turned to face him, her face lined with worry. ‘He told me he was my father’s brother, Phillip, and when I tried to say my uncle Phillip had died a long time ago, when I was still a girl, he told me that it wasn’t true and then proceeded to talk about my family and about Ginger Hill in a way that no one else could possibly have done. I suppose I believed him in the end.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘At the time I shooed him away. It was too much for me to take in. But then I went and told my father.’ She waited and bit her lip. ‘I’ve never seen him so angry, or so scared. That’s when he gave me the pistol and said if this man ever turned up on my doorstep again, I was to brandish it in his face and, if he refused to leave or tried to harm me, I was to shoot him.’
‘I thought you said you only communicated via correspondence?’
Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. ‘This was before…’
‘Before?’
‘Before this whole business.’ A steeliness had crept into her tone.
Pyke nodded. ‘Did he acknowledge that this man was, or at least might have been, his brother?’
‘He didn’t believe me at first, but then I told him about the patches over his eyes and he went very quiet.’
They walked on for a few yards and then crossed over the Regent’s Canal, where fields appeared on either side of the road. Copper crouched and urinated against a fence post.
‘You have to understand my father isn’t well. He’s old, his memory is failing him and it frustrates him. On occasion he lashes out.’
‘Verbally or physically?’
Elizabeth looked out across the fields and took in a breath of air. ‘He used to be such a healthy, vigorous man. It’s hard for him, being confined to that chair.’
Pyke thought about the frail specimen he’d seen and wondered whether the old man was actually capable of hurting anyone except himself.
‘Did you ever see this other man again — the one claiming to be your uncle?’
‘No.’
‘And did you have another conversation with your father about him?’
‘I tried to. After…’
‘After what?’
This time when she turned to face him, she looked genuinely afraid. Either that, or she was a better actress than he’d imagined. ‘After I found out how Mary had been killed, her eyes cut from their sockets.’
Pyke’s skin tightened across his face. ‘How did you find out about that?’
‘My servant heard it from one of my father’s servants. She’d overheard him talking to a policeman about it.’
‘Inspector Pierce?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’ She pulled her shawl up over her shoulders and stared down at the ground.
‘And what did you think?’
‘What did I think about what?’
‘About the way Mary’s face had been mutilated.’
She walked a few paces ahead of him then turned around. ‘To be honest, I didn’t want to think about it. So I asked my father.’
‘And?’
‘He was angry at first and then he tried to deny any involvement in the matter.’
‘But you suspect that Mary’s death might have had something to do with your uncle?’
Elizabeth stood there, very quiet. ‘One of the things Phillip told me was that my father had been responsible for blinding him.’
‘And you thought the business with Mary might have been a case of history repeating itself?’
Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. ‘I didn’t know what to think. I’m so confused I don’t know my own mind.’ She turned around and stared out at the open space. ‘But that’s the reason I’ve been hiding from my father; why I write to him rather than visit him in person. It’s why I refused to go to the West Indies. I don’t know what to say to him any more. I always adored him, even as a child. And now he’s so thin and weak. I’m afraid he’s going to die…’
Without thinking about it, Pyke went and stood next to her. When she looked up at him, her cheeks were stained with tears. Perhaps she was lying to him but Pyke wasn’t sure; every detail of her story matched what he’d been told in Jamaica. Still, he wasn’t wholly convinced by her performance. And more to the point, she was, according to Field at least, Crane’s mistress.
Elizabeth looked back towards the row of houses behind them. ‘Could you help me to look for him?’ She untied the ribbon under her chin, removed her bonnet and allowed her long black hair to be tousled by the breeze.
‘Who, Phillip?’
She nodded.
‘I could always try, assuming you know where I might look for him.’
�
��Me?’ She seemed surprised at his request.
‘Perhaps he said something to you, gave you a clue as to his whereabouts?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ They started to walk back towards his house.
‘Did you know that a man called Arthur Sobers is due to stand trial for the murder of Mary Edgar tomorrow?’
She kept on walking. ‘So soon?’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
This time she stopped. ‘What else do you want me to say?’ But the lightness in her tone had gone.
‘Well, for a start, he was Mary’s companion and he was arrested just a few hundred yards from your house.’
‘I heard about the arrest, of course, and I was curious…’
They stared at one another. ‘He didn’t pay you a visit, then?’ Pyke didn’t bother to hide his scepticism.
‘No.’
‘And you don’t know what he was doing on your street?’
Elizabeth looked away first. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘I’m told he hasn’t spoken a word since he was arrested. If he continues to offer no defence, he’ll be found guilty by default and they’ll hang him for it.’
Pyke had expected some kind of reaction but not the one he got. ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ she said, seemingly forgetting herself and touching his sleeve. Later he thought there had been a lingering sadness in her voice and her eyes, but even with hindsight he couldn’t make any sense of it.
Godfrey was sitting in the taproom of the Crown and Anchor surrounded by empty ale pots. Underfoot the floor was damp with butcher’s sawdust, mixed with the odd chop bone and oyster shell, and the air around them smelled like unwashed clothes that had been left to rot in a wardrobe.
‘I’m pleased it’s you, dear boy,’ Godfrey said, without much enthusiasm.
‘I came as soon as I got your message.’ Pyke had another look at his uncle’s wan face. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘I’m fine, or as fine as a man can be who’s had to pay money for these beastly things,’ he said, removing two copperplates from his coat pocket and pushing them across the table.
Pyke took the first of the plates and studied the image. His stomach muscles clenched. The subject was Bessie Daniels; she was lying — naked — on the same sofa he’d seen her spread across and had the same stunned expression he remembered; the result of imbibing laudanum. There was little or nothing erotic about it and the overall effect was dispiriting, akin to watching a slab of meat in a butcher’s window. Still, Pyke’s eyes were drawn to her plump, well-shaped breasts and to the dark triangle of hair around her vagina. The ring on her finger was an indistinct smudge.
‘That’s not the worst one, by a long shot,’ Godfrey said, making sure that no one else was looking in their direction.
The other image also featured Bessie Daniels but this time she had been joined by a naked man whose head was covered by a hood. Bessie was lying on a bed and the man was kneeling over her, like a victorious fighting dog standing over its vanquished foe. Such was the positioning of their almost intertwined bodies that Pyke couldn’t see the man’s penis but it was all too clear what impression the scene was intended to connote. Still, for all that Pyke found the general content of the image distasteful, it was Bessie’s expression which caught his attention and made him feel sick. Although slightly blurred, she looked to be in pain; there was a haunting quality to her stare and the set position of her mouth, accentuated by her hare-lip, made her seem almost possessed. The overall impression was of a woman pleading for help. Pyke slid the copperplate into his pocket and tried to swallow. He could have done more to help her. No, that wasn’t it. He should have done more to help her.
‘That was as warm as the chap in the shop was prepared to go, even with my friend’s coaxing.’ Godfrey shook his head. ‘Cost me ten pounds for both.’
‘But did your friend get the impression there was more? Maybe something even worse?’
‘What could possibly be any worse?’ Godfrey took a slurp of ale. ‘It was the second one that upset me most, that hooded beast kneeling over her.’
For a moment neither of them spoke.
‘A terrible business,’ Godfrey said, eventually. ‘Do you know who she is, then?’
‘Name’s Bessie Daniels. She used to work at Craddock’s on the Ratcliff Highway. Eliza Craddock sold the girl to Crane for five guineas. As far as I know, no one has seen her for at least a couple of months.’
‘Five guineas for a human life.’ Godfrey stared down into his empty pot. ‘Less than my friend paid for the copperplates.’
‘I’ll reimburse you as soon as I can afford it.’
But Godfrey held up his hand as though a little offended. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it, dear boy. Just find her and give her whatever you think you owe me.’
*
‘You’ve barely said two words since you got home,’ Jo said, standing in the doorway, as though uncertain about whether to enter his room. She was carrying a lantern and wore a long, white nightdress. ‘Is anything the matter?’
Pyke looked up and tried to smile; his face felt numb from the laudanum he’d taken. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’ He was sitting up in his bed and moved over to make room for her. ‘How’s Felix?’
But Jo remained where she was, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not particularly.’
Jo nodded, as if this was the answer she’d expected. ‘Who was that woman who came to the house?’
‘Her name’s Elizabeth Malvern.’
She waited but he didn’t add anything. ‘So you’re quite happy for me to cook, clean and look after your son, but I’m not supposed to ask questions about your work?’
‘I told you I wanted you to employ a servant to cook and clean. And besides, my work doesn’t concern you.’
Jo looked at him, apparently nonplussed. ‘You’re exactly as Emily said you were — a difficult man to live with.’
Pyke felt his jaw tighten. Jo saw it but couldn’t stop herself. ‘Am I not even allowed to say her name?’
Pyke closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Look, Jo, I said I was tired. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about in the morning.’
She took a step into the room and her voice took on a sarcastic tone. ‘Good. We’ll talk about the way you’ve put Emily up on a pedestal, your perfect dead wife, so nobody can touch her. Remember, I knew her better than anyone, Pyke. Believe me, she would have hated it up there.’
An awkward silence hung in the air, as if they both knew a line had been crossed.
‘If anyone else had said that,’ Pyke said, through gritted teeth, ‘I would have torn out their tongue.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ she retorted, standing her ground. ‘That sounds like the way you would deal with criticism.’
Jo left the room, slamming the door behind her.
TWENTY-FOUR
The public gallery at the Old Bailey was full by eight in the morning, even though the trial wasn’t scheduled to start until ten. The fact that a black man was standing trial for murder was a curiosity in itself, but public interest in the proceedings had been further exacerbated by unconfirmed press reports that his victim, Mary Edgar, had been mutilated in a ritualistic manner. Pyke hadn’t yet read the Examiner that morning but he had been told that Saggers had written a column describing in graphic detail the exact nature of the facial mutilations, doubtless penned in his most lurid prose.
Fitzroy Tilling met Pyke outside the Sessions House on Old Bailey at half-past eight and they passed unchallenged into the court itself. The bench where the presiding judges would sit, underneath the sword of justice, was unoccupied, as were the spaces reserved for the jury, the prosecuting lawyer, the press and the various clerks of court.
‘I’ve managed to get you a few minutes with the accused,’ Tilling had told him. ‘Just try to convince the man to say something in his defence.’
They en
tered the dock and followed the rickety staircase down into an underground passageway that led from the courtroom through a number of guarded and fortified doors to the condemned block at Newgate prison and the press room where Arthur Sobers was being pinioned by an army of turnkeys. Somehow the restraints they were placing around his arms and shoulders seemed wholly inadequate for the task, and briefly Pyke imagined the big man sneezing and the leather straps flying loose from their fixings.
Because he was hunched on a chair while the turnkeys finished their job, it was hard for Pyke to get a proper sense of the man’s size, but even through the leather restraints Pyke could see that his shoulders were like an ox’s and his neck was thicker than Felix’s waist. Sobers’ general demeanour was that of a beaten man, however, and when, a few minutes later, Pyke sat down on a chair next to him and tried to elicit his attention, it was as if he were looking at someone who wasn’t there.
‘I want to help you, Arthur,’ Pyke said, staring into the man’s eyes. ‘I don’t believe you killed Mary Edgar.’
Sobers barely twitched and his stare remained as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.
‘A pornographer called Jemmy Crane sent some of his men to threaten you and Mary at your lodging house on the Ratcliff Highway. Can you tell me what that was about?’
This time a flash of recognition passed across Sobers’ eyes.
‘In less than an hour, you’ll stand trial for killing Mary Edgar. If you don’t say anything, if you don’t let me help, they’ll find you guilty and men like Crane and Silas Malvern will escape punishment. Is that what you want?’
Sobers’ body stiffened at the mention of Malvern’s name, but when Pyke tried to press him, the big man’s attention was lost once more.
‘Will you at least tell me why you accompanied Mary Edgar from Jamaica?’ When Sobers didn’t answer, Pyke let his frustration show for the first time. ‘Mary’s dead, for Christ’s sake. She’s not coming back. Who are you being loyal to?’
Sobers continued to ignore him.
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