By the time a hackney cab had dropped Pyke at the steps of the police building on Whitehall, it was eleven in the morning and the sun had risen high enough in the hazy sky for the air to feel warm on his skin. The sky wasn’t exactly blue - the pall of ash and dust that lingered in the air throughout the spring and summer took care of that - but a light breeze had cleared away the worst of the particles, and for the first time in as long as Pyke could remember, he felt a lightness in his step.
‘There have been some exciting developments in Lord Bedford’s murder investigation,’ Tilling noted with evident satisfaction from behind his mahogany desk. They were sitting in his office on the first floor, an airy room with high ceilings that was filled with imposing items of furniture and offered an impressive view across Horse Guards Parade.
‘Really?’ Pyke yawned, not very interested.
‘We’ve made an arrest. Bedford’s valet. A young Swiss chap called Morel-Roux. He’d only been with Bedford for five or six weeks, it turns out.’
‘What’s the motive?’
‘Pierce and his team searched this chap’s room and found a five-pound note and half a dozen sovereigns. They also found the same chisel that had been used to open Bedford’s desk. So they widened their search, brought in a carpenter and a plumber, and found a ten-pound note and two of the deceased’s gold rings behind a skirting board in the butler’s pantry - the room used by this valet.’
Tilling stood up and wandered across to the window, inspecting the view. Something was wrong. Tilling’s manner had been cold and formal from the start and yet now he was divulging intimate details about another murder investigation. It didn’t make sense. And he hadn’t asked a single question about the search for Mary Edgar’s murderer.
‘So why did this valet do it?’ Pyke asked, still trying to make sense of Tilling’s manner. ‘I mean, why kill someone you’re stealing from?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps Bedford had caught him in the act, or had discovered that this chap was stealing from him. Perhaps he confronted him and a struggle ensued ...’
‘I thought you told me that Bedford had been stabbed in his belly with a letter opener some time during the night.’
‘So what if I did?’ Tilling asked defensively, returning to his seat.
‘Well, if he was killed in his bed, it isn’t likely that he interrupted a robbery, is it?’ Pyke said. ‘And if I’d stolen some rings and money from my master, the last place I’d think of hiding them would be in my own quarters.’
‘Well, I’m not strictly involved in the investigation, even though I have been forced to keep Bedford’s friends and associates abreast of any developments. They’re already demanding the noose for this valet.’
Pyke shrugged, as though the matter didn’t concern him. ‘So why did you summon me here to see you?’ A note to this effect had been delivered to Pyke’s garret earlier that morning. ‘You still haven’t asked about my own investigation. I assumed that was what you wanted to talk about.’
‘It is, in a way.’ Tilling sat up in his chair and wiped his forehead with a fresh, white handkerchief. ‘Actually, this is quite awkward.’
‘What’s awkward?’
‘Well, it appears that Morel-Roux had been reading The True and Candid Confessions of an Ex-Bow Street Runner.’ Tilling looked up, to check his reaction.
‘So?’
‘Unfortunately someone, I don’t yet know who, passed this snippet of information to a journalist reporting on the investigation.’
‘And?’
‘Dammit, man. I’ve read the book. I’m sure you know exactly what I’m referring to. The passage where the character does what, it would seem, Morel-Roux has done. Murder an aristocrat while he sleeps in his own bed. Only in your case, you manage to concoct an elaborate and, I have to say, rather unconvincing justification for taking the man’s life.’
In fact, Pyke had simply held a pillow over Emily’s father’s face and suffocated him, but it was no surprise that Godfrey had decided to splash the pages of his ‘memoir’ with sufficient blood to set the readers’ pulses racing.
‘If I told you I haven’t read the book and that it purports to be a fictional account of a man’s life, would that make a difference?’
‘It’s not what you or I think,’ Tilling said. ‘But the author is your uncle and you were once a Bow Street Runner.’
‘I understand that, but why is this a problem?’ Pyke tried to keep his voice light but he could already see what was coming.
‘The frenzy surrounding Bedford’s death has been considerable already, even before we knew about this valet. Now it’s going to explode; a servant killing his master. Think about it for a minute. The wealthy will be quaking in their boots, wondering if their servants will mimic Morel-Roux’s actions. Meanwhile servants, at least the ones who’ve been poorly treated, which is most of them, will be sharpening their razor blades; either that or they’ll be cheering for this Swiss fellow. It doesn’t bear thinking about. What with the recession and unemployment, the whole situation couldn’t be any more precarious.’
Pyke looked around the room. ‘I still don’t understand why this is a problem as far as our arrangement is concerned.’
‘Don’t you? What if someone found out that you were working, albeit in an unofficial capacity, for the Metropolitan Police? The stink would be worse than the Thames at low tide. And you know as well as I do that someone will find out. They always do.’
‘Then we will cross that particular bridge, if and when we have to.’ But Pyke knew it wouldn’t be that simple. Expecting men like Saggers to do what was right was like asking a starving wolf to walk away from an injured deer.
Tilling exhaled. ‘God, can you imagine what Lord Bedford’s friends would do with this information? If they ever found out that I’d employed the man who had likely or not given Morel-Roux the idea to murder his master? They’d demand my head on a silver platter in a matter of hours. Yours, too.’
‘What are you saying?’ Pyke tried to ward off the uneasy feeling in his stomach. ‘You want me to just disappear?’
‘I didn’t create this situation, Pyke. I’m just responding to it.’
‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were safeguarding your own interests in the process.’
‘That’s unfair, and you know it.’
‘Do I? It’s how all bureaucracies work. Defecate on those below you and pander to those above you.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this slander ...’
‘And what about the investigation? I suppose it doesn’t matter that I’ve already made good progress. Much more important to make sure you don’t look bad in the eyes of Lord Bedford’s friends. After all, who cares about a dead mulatto girl?’
Later Pyke would reflect that his comments had been unkind, but he wasn’t going to give up the investigation without a fight.
‘This conversation is finished. You’re no longer representing the police, Pyke. Accept it and find something else to do.’
‘Just like that?’
‘If you care about the dead woman, you’ll do what’s best for her. Since we’ve made an arrest in the Bedford case, Mayne is willing to deploy more men to her murder.’
‘If I care?’ Pyke could feel his blood rising. ‘Just a few days ago, you made it clear to me that her death wasn’t your most pressing concern.’
‘Just as you made it clear to me that money was your main motivation for agreeing to take on the investigation.’
‘That’s easy for you to say with your house overlooking Hampstead Heath. I can barely afford my next meal. But I’m the one who’s been traipsing around the East End, not placating the friends of some dead aristocrat.’
Pyke’s anger was directed at Tilling but really he knew that he, alone, was responsible for his current predicament. Two years earlier, he had more money than he knew what to do with but he’d squandered it and now he was almost penniless. Money was no panacea, as he’d found out, but having it
meant you weren’t subject to the whims of others.
‘I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, really I am. And when Pierce takes charge of the investigation, I hope you’ll tell him him everything you’ve already found out.’
‘Pierce?’ Pyke blinked. He could barely credit what he was hearing.
Tilling nodded; he knew very well what this would mean to Pyke. ‘Believe me, he wasn’t my choice.’
‘You really think I’m going to buy Pierce lunch and tell him everything I know?’
‘In the long run, you’ll realise you don’t have a choice. If you want to see this woman’s killer apprehended. One way or another, this division is taking over the investigation. Now you can keep the money I gave you, but that’s all. From now on, I’m ordering you to steer clear of anything to do with the dead woman.’
Pyke licked his lips. ‘And if I decide not to?’
‘What choice do you have? Twenty pounds won’t get you very far. As you said, you can barely afford your next meal. Running a murder investigation is not something you can do on your own.’ There was no gloating in Tilling’s expression but he was right and Pyke knew it.
Pyke had taken the job because Tilling had offered to pay him, but suddenly it wasn’t just the loss of this income which upset him; it was not being able to perform the task he’d agreed to do; not being able to find and punish whoever had strangled Mary Edgar. He had watched as two gravediggers had, without ceremony, buried her body; no one else had. Now he felt he owed it to her to find her killer ... or killers. He couldn’t just walk away, leaving Pierce to botch the investigation.
‘What about wanting to help me get back on my feet? Was that just a lie?’ Pyke tried to swallow his bitterness. He had hoped that finding Mary Edgar’s killer might restore him in Felix’s eyes, too.
‘I’m sorry, Pyke. If there was any way I could keep you on, I would. But I’ve been through every possible permutation in my mind and none of them adds up. In the light of what’s happened, you’re too much of a risk.’
‘And that’s it?’ Pyke stared at his old acquaintance, feeling empty and a little nauseous. ‘I’m really out?’
‘As I said, I’m sorry. I really am. But let’s face it, you were never really in.’
SIX
Pyke found Edmund Saggers in the fifth or sixth public house he visited. Having been to the Old Dog on Holywell Street, the Coach and Horses, the Cock, the Back Kitchen and the Cheese, all on The Strand, he eventually found the penny-a-liner hunched over a table at the back of the Cole Hole, an inkwell and a full glass of claret next to him. From the colour of his lips, it wasn’t his first drink of the day.
‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Pyke said, sitting on the bench opposite him and taking a gulp of Saggers’ wine. His anger had started to abate and he’d already formulated a plan. In spite of what he’d said, or hadn’t said, in Tilling’s office, he had no intention of giving up the investigation and sharing what he’d discovered with Pierce.
‘What kind of a change?’ Saggers asked, staring mournfully at his depleted wineglass.
Pyke could see that he’d already filled two or three sides of paper and it stood to reason he wouldn’t want to alter anything. Not unless it was in his financial interest to do so. ‘I want you to approach only one newspaper with this story, and when you do, I want to be there with you. And I want to negotiate directly with the editor; preferably one who cares more about sales than editorial content.’
‘These days, I’d say take your pick. No one cares about the craft of writing any more. Sadly I’m a man born out of his times.’ He gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Would Hazlitt or Lamb be grubbing around as I have to if they were writing today? I think not.’
Pyke decided to ignore his rhetorical flourish. ‘You have someone in mind?’
‘I’m an artist, sir, and I create according to my inner genius. If I permitted such base thoughts as sales and the market to enter my head, I would be ruined in a moment.’
‘I want you to approach an editor and set out the terms of the campaign we’re going to run.’
‘A campaign, eh?’ Saggers finished his claret and belched. ‘Like Napoleon marching on Moscow?’
‘You mean, will it be long and drawn out - and expensive for the newspaper?’
Saggers grinned. ‘Truly, sir, you’re a man after my own heart. The more time I spend in your company, the more I like you.’ He held up his empty wineglass. ‘And should you deign to refill this humble vessel, my admiration for you would stretch even farther.’
Pyke hailed a pot-boy and asked him to refill Saggers’ glass, but as soon as the full wineglass materialised, Pyke stood up. ‘Drink up. We’re off to find an editor.’
‘So you’re proposing we run a leader in tomorrow’s edition attacking the police for their failure to adopt sufficiently robust measures for detection in cases of murder and other violent crimes?’
The office occupied by the bespectacled editor of the Morning Examiner stood at the top of a flight of creaking stairs in a building in a narrow courtyard just off Fleet Street. The editor, a man called Jeremiah Spratt, had his shirtsleeves rolled up and he wore an apron heavily stained with black ink. Around him were stacks of newspapers, books still waiting to be reviewed and, on the surface of his desk, waxy pools of dried ink.
‘In part, yes. The Times and the Morning Chronicle have made similar arguments.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed we are not The Times nor the Chronicle.’ But Spratt looked around his office without embarrassment. ‘You said, in part?’
‘One justice system for the rich, another for the poor. That’s what you lead with; that’s what’ll grab your readers’ interest. Two murders on the same day. A team of the New Police’s best detectives is instantly sent to find the killer of the aristocrat; meanwhile the corpse of the poor, mulatto woman is left to rot and, more than three days later, a team still hasn’t been assigned.’
With his patrician air and his mop of slightly receding grey hair, Spratt looked more like an eccentric headmaster than the rapacious, sales-obsessed editor Pyke had been promised. Still, he hadn’t yet declared himself either way, regarding Pyke’s proposal, and as he pushed his spectacles farther up his nose, and glanced across at Saggers, who could barely contain himself, Pyke tried to work out what his concerns were.
‘How do you know all this?’ Spratt smiled awkwardly. ‘That’s to say, how do I know it’s all true?’
‘I know because I was approached by a senior figure in the Metropolitan Police to run the investigation.’ Pyke hesitated and thought about how the story he was trying to sell would affect Tilling. ‘Still, I don’t want that fact to appear anywhere in your newspaper.’
‘And now you’ve been relieved of your duties. Can I ask why?’
Pyke looked across at Saggers. ‘That’s personal, I’m afraid.’ It was late in the afternoon and Pyke wondered what time they put the morning edition to bed.
‘Yet you expect me to take your word for all of this?’ Spratt ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘And in return you want me to lampoon the police and turn them into a laughing stock?’
‘I don’t want you to turn them into a laughing stock. I just want you to draw attention to the different provisions made for the rich and the poor, call for the establishment of a new detective squad and lay down a challenge; in effect, that a dedicated team of your very best men - that’s to say, Saggers here and myself - will hunt down this woman’s murderer before the police do.’ Pyke took a moment to arrange his thoughts. ‘Think of it as an act of public service. If we’re successful, a murderer will be arrested, tried and punished. And if we’re not successful, the New Police will be forced to re-examine the way they privilege prevention of crime over detection. Who knows? Perhaps a new detective squad will arise from your campaign. And think of the additional newspapers you’ll sell. People always love a murder, but I promise you, they’ll love reading about the progress of your intrepid detectives
even more, especially if we find the killer before the police do. Everyone likes to cheer for the underdog. If this thing catches on, people will be queuing at the news stands to read the latest instalment.’
‘Truly, it’s a monumental idea,’ Saggers said, oozing insincerity. ‘One of breathtaking originality that befits a great man such as yourself and a paper of this calibre.’
Pyke glared at Saggers for his syrupy intervention; they were winning Spratt over already and didn’t need to resort to sycophancy.
‘You reckon a leader and a daily column ought to do it?’ Spratt asked, inspecting an ink stain on his fingers.
‘Perhaps not a daily column. But at least every other day, or when there’s something to report. And we can ask your readers to help us with our enquiries. We could ask anyone who might have known or seen Mary Edgar to contact us. A small reward could be made available.’
Kill-Devil and Water Page 8
