Pyke was going to say more but she coiled her hand around his neck and gently pulled him down towards her. That first kiss seemed to have settled any doubts Jo might have been having but then, without warning, she pulled away from him.
‘I can’t. Not again.’ She bit her lips and looked up at Pyke, her eyes glistening in the candlelight. ‘Not until I know what you think, what you feel ...’
Pyke stared at her without speaking. Perhaps she was right; perhaps he had used her and was continuing to do so. But he couldn’t say the words she wanted to hear.
‘I’ve thought a lot about what happened between us, the night before you left for the West Indies ...’
Pyke nodded, vaguely aware that he hadn’t thought about her very much while he was away.
‘I’ve used the time that you’ve been away to think about my life, what I’ve been doing, what I want to be in the future.’
Pyke watched her, trying to reconcile his very immediate urge to kiss her again with the sense that he was using her in some way. ‘And what have you decided?’
‘I didn’t arrive at any decision. I couldn’t.’ She still wouldn’t look at him. ‘Not until you came back and looked straight through me ...’
‘I’m sorry,’ Pyke said, frowning. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I did think about you while I was away, about the night we spent together. I missed you, too.’
‘Like you missed Godfrey?’
‘If you’ll forgive me for saying, I don’t find my uncle quite as attractive ...’
That made her smile.
An awkward silence settled between them. ‘We can talk about this again tomorrow, Pyke. For now, I’d like to be left alone.’
TWENTY-ONE
The Bluefield lodging house was as dismal as Pyke remembered. The last time he had visited, the day had been cool and cloudy, but this time the heat was almost suffocating and the air in the sunless court was choked with dust. He had been told that it hadn’t rained for a month and the ground underfoot seemed to confirm this. In the depths of winter, when the city shivered under a blanket of freezing fog, he would dream of summer days when the air would feel soft against his skin, but when these days finally arrived and brought with them dust clouds, plagues of horseflies and a pungent stink exacerbated by the searing heat, it made him long for the cool days of autumn once more. This was one of those days. Pyke’s back was drenched with sweat before he’d even entered the lodging house.
Thrale recognised him immediately. They met in the kitchen and the landlord adopted a pose of exaggerated servility. ‘It certainly is a hot ’un,’ he said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘How about stepping outside for some air?’
In the yard, where it was a little cooler, Pyke said, ‘I need to find a blind man called Filthy. I think he was known to Mary Edgar and Arthur Sobers.’ The notion that Filthy might in fact be Phillip Malvern had stayed with him ever since he’d talked to Mary’s mother, Bertha, in Accompong.
‘You told me that already and I’ll say what I said back then. I don’t know him. I’d tell you if I did.’
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.’ T
his 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 fiancée, 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?’<
br />
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.
Kill-Devil and Water Page 31
