His pocket watch said that it was only midnight but it felt later. About that time, he mused, a wagon would pull out of the prison’s main gate and come to a halt by the black-painted door on Old Bailey. There, trained workers would take the poles and boarding and begin the task of assembling the scaffold. Meanwhile, wooden barriers would be erected around the perimeter of the scaffold to prevent the crowds from getting too close. With more than eight hours to go before the execution, much of Old Bailey would already be filled with people eager to secure a good spot to witness the spectacle, and the taverns, ginneries and beer shops in the immediate vicinity would be heaving with customers. And since the murder and the trial had attracted so much attention — an aristocrat had been killed by his servant, after all, or so people had been led to believe — the crowd would be particularly sizeable. Some might even want to cheer Morel-Roux for what he was alleged to have done.
Pyke wandered over to the condemned pew, a huge black pen, where he had sat bound and silent ten years earlier. Then, he’d been accused of murdering his mistress, but just like the valet he had held his tongue, refusing to participate in the charade and offering no confession to the ordinary.
Little had changed in the intervening years and the chapel remained a desolate place, even more so now it was silent and deserted. The bare pulpit, the sturdy altar table and the unpainted benches all stood in stark contrast to the plush appointments of many modern churches. Prisoners awaiting execution had, at one time, been forced to look down at their own coffins but such a practice had been stopped because some felt it too barbaric. Pyke had often wondered about this logic; for wasn’t it also barbaric to execute people in public? Or to execute anyone at all?
A little later, he lay down on one of the hard, wooden benches and closed his eyes.
He woke about five, though in truth he hadn’t really slept, at least not the kind of deep, satisfying sleep he was used to. The air was cool and stale in the chapel and it still felt eerily quiet, even though the crowds outside the prison would now be backing up the slope towards Snow Hill and Smithfield. They would be boisterous, too, as crowds always were on such days. Boisterous, vast and sprawling. Pyke estimated, there would be forty or fifty thousand people crammed into Old Bailey and the surrounding streets.
He stood up and stretched his legs. The cudgel, jemmy, knife, chain and padlock were laid out on the bench. He put the cudgel in his pocket and took the chain and padlock over to the door that Morel-Roux, a turnkey and the ordinary would use to enter the chapel. There was just enough chain to wrap around both door handles. He practised this a few times, snapping on the padlock at the end, and once he was happy that he could perform this exercise in just a few seconds, he went over to the table by the altar and, as quietly as could, dragged it across the stone floor to the main door.
Pyke checked his pocket watch for the fourth or fifth time since he’d woken. The time was a quarter past five. He had less than three hours to wait.
At half-past seven Pyke gathered himself and took up his position by the door. By now Morel-Roux would have been pinioned and handed over to the sheriffs and under-sheriffs and the slow walk to the scaffold would soon begin. The procession would include a turnkey at the front, closely followed by the sheriffs, under-sheriffs, the governor, the ordinary and, of course, the dead man walking. It would pass by the steps leading up to the chapel before continuing its path through the prison and down into the subterranean walkway that connected the prison and the Sessions House; a passage that would eventually bring them up into a room behind Debtors’ Door. Pyke hoped they wouldn’t get that far.
Even in the chapel, he could feel the expectation of the masses gathered in the streets outside the prison. For his part, he could hardly breathe, and his heart was thumping against his ribcage. He went across to the window and checked the rope for the third or fourth time that morning. One way or another it would soon be over.
The last thing he did was put on a black hood so that no one would be able to identify him.
At eight Pyke listened for the chimes of St Sepulchre’s bells. The procession would be moving through the press yard. Any moment now, he hoped, Morel-Roux would break down and plead for a private audience with the ordinary. That would cause some delay but there was always a chance the sheriffs wouldn’t allow him to confess in the chapel. It was five minutes past eight. He could hear something now, raised voices in the yard; footsteps coming towards him up the steps to the chapel. He heard someone insert a key into the door and turn it. The lock sprang open; the door opened inwards and light flooded into the chapel. The turnkey was first, closely followed by Morel-Roux and then the ordinary. Just the three of them. Pyke waited for the ordinary to close the door and heard him say, ‘Why’s the table by the door?’ He gripped the cudgel in his right hand, and appeared suddenly from behind the door, knocking the turnkey out with a single blow to his skull. The ordinary shouted for help. Pyke brought the cudgel down on his head and pushed the table over to block the door. It took him just a few seconds to wrap the chain through the brass door handles and snap the padlock closed. Taking out his knife, Pyke cut through the leather restraints binding Morel-Roux’s arms; there was nothing he could do about the chains around his ankles.
Morel-Roux hobbled towards the window; Pyke ran. He could hear shouting from the yard. Shinning up the rope, he waited on the ledge for the valet to do the same. Precious seconds ticked by. There wasn’t much strength in Morel-Roux’s arms and it took longer than Pyke expected for him to reach the ledge. The shouts from the yard were louder and the banging on the door became more violent. The chain wouldn’t hold for much longer; he pulled up the rope and fed it through the open window. Morel-Roux, who hadn’t spoken a word, looked out of the window and down into the garden below. It was a sheer drop of about fifty feet.
‘I’m terrified of heights,’ he said, holding on to the wall with both hands. He was having difficulty breathing.
Pyke ignored him; he didn’t take this warning seriously. ‘Follow me.’ He climbed out of the window and started to shimmy down the rope towards the ground. He let it slide through his hands, ignoring the pain. When the rope ran out, he prepared himself for a moment and let go, landing cleanly on flagstones in the yard. He looked up, expecting to see Morel-Roux almost at the bottom of the rope, but the valet was still up on the ledge. His whole body was shaking. He looked down at Pyke and screamed, ‘ I’m scared of heights.’
‘ Move.’
Then Pyke saw other faces at the window, hands grabbing the valet, pulling him back into the chapel.
He ran to find the coat and hat he’d thrown from the roof and made for the gate at the far end of the wall.
Pyke didn’t witness the hanging but later he read accounts of it by Thackeray and Dickens and he overheard people talk about it in taverns and ginneries; how Morel-Roux, suited in black with his shirt open and hands tied in front of him, had walked firmly across the scaffold and without being told had positioned himself under the beam; how Calcraft had put the night cap over the valet’s face and head; how the plank had been kicked away from under him; how it had taken some time for Morel-Roux to die and how Calcraft had had to seize his quivering legs and pull them down until the quivering stopped. Thackeray had used his column to underline his bond with the ‘gentle, good-natured’ crowd, attack the debauched profligacy of those occupying the better vantage points in the upstairs of shops and public houses, affirm the ‘wise laws’ that encouraged forty thousand people to witness the execution, attack Dickens for his ex parte truth-telling about criminals and prostitutes and record his horror and shame at witnessing another man’s death. Pyke preferred Boz’s account: it didn’t dwell on the details but mounted a coruscating assault on the evils of capital punishment and asked the question that Pyke had posed to himself: what was actually gained by watching another man die? But even this piece was dry and reflective: it didn’t capture what Pyke had felt, his anger at Morel-Roux, his disgust at the law and his guilt
at still being alive. He could have done more; he could have lobbied harder; he could have found out who’d really killed Bedford earlier; he could have acted more decisively. He should have seen it earlier; what had really happened; who was to blame. He felt weak and powerless. For weeks after it happened, he lay awake and imagined the moment when Calcraft had seized the valet’s legs and pulled.
TWENTY-EIGHT
At ten thirty Pyke presented himself to one of the red-coated porters at the entrance to the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street and was escorted from there, across a small, well-kept courtyard and past the Rotunda, to the interconnecting meeting rooms occupied by the Bank’s governor and directors. He found Tilling in the main saloon and saw, from the look on his old friend’s face, that something had gone wrong.
‘Crane and five of his accomplices have just been moved to the City of London’s chief police office at Guildhall.’
‘Isn’t that good news?’
Tilling waved at someone on the other side of the room and indicated he’d join the man presently. ‘The soldiers didn’t wait as they’d been instructed to, so Crane and the others were still in the vault.’
Pyke felt his stomach tightening. It was the one glaring weakness in his plan — that the soldiers would grow impatient and strike too soon. The hole from the sewer emerged directly outside the guards’ room — which was why Crane had picked that night, when he’d been told that all the soldiers would be patrolling elsewhere. ‘But they were all caught in the vault, right? That’s enough to lock them away for years, isn’t it? At least for treason?’
‘I’m afraid it gets worse.’
‘ Worse? ’
‘I’ve just talked to the governor. He tells me he’s spoken with one of his directors — a man by the name of Trevelyan, Abel Trevelyan — who reckons he was contacted by Crane about a week ago. He’s ready to swear under oath that Crane came to him, in good faith, with news that an acquaintance of his, a sewer-man no less, had found a way of accessing the bullion vault from a tunnel running directly beneath it. So what happened today, at least according to Trevelyan, is nothing more than an exercise on Crane’s part, as a well-intentioned citizen, to demonstrate to the directors that the vault is vulnerable to robbers. Or worse still, to radicals.’
‘And they’re actually prepared to believe that?’
‘Trevelyan didn’t tell the governor about it, didn’t tell anyone about it, so he’ll have to resign his post. But the governor told me he doesn’t want to take the matter any further. From his point of view, it’s embarrassing enough that Crane and his accomplices managed to break into the vault. If they’re charged and the incident is made public, he’ll become a laughing stock. The Bank’s status and viability as a going concern depend on its absolute impregnability. The damage to its reputation would be incalculable if investors discovered that Crane was effectively able to walk into its most secure rooms.’
‘And what do the police think?’
‘I spoke with the commissioner of the City of London police a few moments ago. He’ll be swayed by the governor’s recommendation.’
Pyke felt the anger swelling up inside him. ‘You say Crane and the others have been taken to the police office at the Guildhall?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the constables who took them there; you made sure they knew not to let anyone speak to or even approach Crane.’
‘I made that point as firmly as I could but the New Police doesn’t have any jurisdiction here.’
Pyke swore under his breath. Everything was starting to unravel. Crane might even be released in a matter of hours. ‘Have you talked to this man Trevelyan?’
‘The governor wouldn’t let me. Apparently he’s made a statement to the commissioner of the City police.’
‘Surely before they actually let Crane go free, they’ll need some kind of confirmation about the sewer-man?’
Tilling nodded. ‘That’s where Crane’s story is weakest. He says he doesn’t know where this man is.’
Pyke let this remark pass without comment.
‘But apparently Crane has suggested that, if and when he’s located, the sewer-man could make a statement to his lawyer, in front of a witness, to corroborate his story.’
‘Why not to the police?’ Pyke hesitated, thinking about Phillip Malvern. ‘And anyway, surely Crane’s in no position to dictate terms to anyone. If he knows where the man is, he should tell someone and have done with it.’
‘That’s why they took him away to the cells. For now. But I’d guess that if a credible statement is produced, that will be enough to ensure Crane’s release.’
Pyke gave this some thought. ‘The question is, how’s he going to arrange all this from inside his cell?’
‘Someone will have to come to him, but for the time being no one knows where he’s being held.’
‘Trevelyan knows.’
Tilling contemplated what Pyke had just said. ‘Go on.’
‘The story about Crane performing a public service is utter tripe. We both know it. We just need to find out why Trevelyan is willing to corroborate Crane’s story.’
Tilling scratched his head. ‘You think he’s been coerced into doing so?’
‘Crane’s smarter than I gave him credit for. He planned for this, for something going wrong. You’re right, I think he knew that Trevelyan would have to support his story.’
‘And lose his position at the bank in the process?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘What if he was a customer of Crane’s shop? Better to lose his job than be unveiled by Crane as some kind of sexual monster.’ He looked around the saloon. ‘Can you point Trevelyan out to me?’
‘I don’t think he’s here.’ Tilling’s gaze swept the room. ‘He’s been shut away in the governor’s chambers all morning.’
‘Can you at least describe him to me and find his address?’
That drew a heavy frown. ‘I won’t countenance any private action
…’
The man who’d waved to Tilling earlier had returned and was loitering as if he needed to speak with Tilling as a matter of urgency.
‘What if I could persuade someone close to Crane, someone he trusts absolutely, to go and see him and find out the whereabouts of the sewer-man?’
‘Could you do that?’
‘I might be able to.’
Samuel Ticknor was sitting at his desk in his private office, drinking a cup of tea, when Pyke pushed open the door.
‘How well did you know Elizabeth Malvern?’
Pyke’s sudden appearance in his office caused Ticknor to spill his tea. He tried to mop it up with the sleeve of his coat.
‘How much time did you spend in her company — when she volunteered for the Vice Society?’
This time Ticknor met his gaze. Pyke had to stop himself from jumping over the desk and grabbing the man’s throat.
‘I knew her well enough to see her for what she really was.’
‘Enough to remember what colour her eyes were?’
Ticknor removed his spectacles and blew on to the lenses. ‘Green. They were green, no question about it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite positive, sir. Now will you tell me what this is all about?’
Pyke stood there, trying to hold himself together. Different thoughts collided with one another in his head. He saw it clearly now; suddenly everything had fallen into place — about Mary, Elizabeth, the Malvern family, even Lord Bedford.
‘I presume you know there’s a rotten corpse out in the yard?’ Godfrey said, as soon as Pyke had stepped into his basement shop.
‘There wasn’t anywhere else to put it.’ The previous day, he had pushed Bessie Daniels’ corpse on a costermonger’s wheelbarrow, hidden under a canvas tarpaulin, from Dowgate Hill to St Paul’s Yard. He’d told Godfrey he needed the keys to the shop, but not why he needed them. Now, clearly, his uncle had found out.
‘And how long were you hoping to keep it out there?’
‘Another day, two at most.’
Godfrey ran his hands through his bone-white hair and sighed. ‘I called at the house to see you. Jo told me the news. I don’t have to tell you what I think. You’re mad to let her go, a complete fool.’
‘I’m not letting her go. She’s leaving.’
Godfrey pushed his spectacles back up his nose and made a dismissive gesture towards Pyke. At times like this, he felt like more of a father than an uncle to him and Pyke hated disappointing him.
‘So who is it? I couldn’t bring myself to give it a proper look.’
‘Hard to tell for certain but I think it’s Bessie Daniels. I found this ring on one of her fingers.’ Pyke held up the amethyst ring for his uncle to see. ‘The woman in the copperplate you bought from Crane.’
Godfrey collapsed into his armchair, suddenly looking his age. ‘Jesus. Poor, poor girl. And to think…’
Pyke just nodded. His uncle was momentarily lost for words.
‘Who killed her?’ he said, after a while. ‘Crane?’
‘Looks that way.’ Pyke drew in a breath. ‘By tomorrow her corpse will be gone, I promise. But I have to do what I have to do. I hope you understand.’
‘To punish those responsible?’
Pyke nodded again. Godfrey stood up, walked over to the sideboard, took the decanter and poured himself a glass of claret.
‘I want you to talk to anyone who’s worked at Crane’s shop,’ Pyke told Saggers, after he’d found him in the Cole Hole on The Strand. ‘Be discreet but offer a financial inducement to anyone who’s willing to testify in court that a man called Abel Trevelyan was a customer there.’
‘How much of a financial inducement?’
‘Up to fifty pounds, depending on the quality of the testimony. To be paid if and when Crane is convicted.’
Saggers whistled, seemingly taken aback at the money Pyke was prepared to offer. ‘You must want this testimony a lot.’
Kill-Devil and Water pm-3 Page 38
