Kill-Devil and Water

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘I’ve barely made a farthing out of the whole enterprise, dear boy, and that’s the God’s honest truth. Ever since the vultures in the cheap presses stripped my work of literature down to its carcass and sold it in roughly bound editions using the cheapest paper for a few pennies, I’ve lost a large chunk of my readership. It’s robbery, m’boy, and I don’t know why I should stand for it.’

  Pyke relaxed into the threadbare armchair and grinned. ‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but wasn’t that exactly how you made your money for much of your career?’ It was afternoon and they were sitting across from one another at the back of Godfrey’s gloomy basement shop.

  ‘A detail, dear boy. And remember that as a convert to the pursuit of artistic excellence, I have seen the error of my ways.’

  Pyke looked at his uncle, amazed not only that he was still alive, given his prodigious appetite for food and wine, but also that he still had the energy to care about what he wrote and published. ‘And great art can’t be reproduced on cheap paper?’

  ‘It can be printed on bum fodder for all I care, so long as I get what’s owed to me.’

  ‘You’re just sour because Harrison Ainsworth’s Jack Sheppard is still selling more copies than your book.’

  ‘Ainsworth is a crashing bore. Have you tried to read Jack Sheppard ? I did and found myself drowning in his turgid prose. And as for Rookwood, I was asleep before I’d finished the first chapter.’

  ‘I don’t know these novelists. But I read Oliver Twist on the journey back from the West Indies.’

  ‘Much better but still too much moralising. Don’t tell me your heart didn’t sink when the point of view changed from Fagin and Sykes to Brownlow and the Maylies.’

  Pyke smiled because there was an element of truth in what his uncle had just said. But what he had liked about Dickens’s work was its lack of sentimentality, at least in its depictions of the underworld. Fagin and Sykes were presented as they were, nasty and venal, not to make some kind of political point. He knew people like that. It had once been his job to arrest them.

  ‘Didn’t you once tell me that the point of your book was to offend the sensibilities of the middling classes? In which case, what do you care if your words have been vulgarised for the purpose of appealing to the working poor?’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? The whole point of my book was to make as much money as possible.’

  ‘And not to offend readers who expect literature to give them clear moral guidance?’

  This was the nub of the debate raging in newspapers and periodicals about so-called ‘Newgate’ novels; that, wittingly or otherwise, they celebrated criminality by presenting their rogue protagonists in a vaguely sympathetic light, and therefore encouraged the working poor to contemplate breaking the law.

  Godfrey considered this point for a moment. ‘I suppose I would like my readers to see some of the unsavoury and immoral aspects of my hero in themselves.’

  Pyke looked around the musty, untidy shop and realised that he had been going there to see his uncle for as long as he could remember. He also thought about their disagreements and their clashes over Pyke’s responsibilities as a father. They had always argued and Godfrey would say things that no one else dared to, but their fights were mostly short lived.

  ‘I’d like you to do something for me, Godfrey, but I’m afraid it involves Jemmy Crane.’ Pyke looked at his uncle and waited for a reaction.

  ‘Crane? Didn’t I tell you to leave that one well alone?’

  ‘I’d like you to persuade one of your acquaintances to play the part of a customer. Preferably the disreputable type, or at least the kind of man who wouldn’t blink at the sight of bare flesh, and having seen a little, might ask for something more risqué. Rich and shambling would be ideal.’ Pyke waited. ‘You would be perfect but Crane knows of your connection to me.’

  ‘And you think that is the type of person I choose to associate with?’ He tried to appear hurt but Pyke could tell he was secretly delighted by the idea that he might appear to be rich and shambling.

  ‘I’m just asking that they play the part. I want them to go to Crane’s shop and ask for a daguerreotype, taken from life. I want them to offer an obscene sum of money but only on the condition that the daguerreotype is particularly low and offensive.’

  ‘How low and offensive?’

  ‘They’ll offer the usual copperplates depicting nude women but I want him to ask for something warmer and hence more expensive.’

  ‘Warm I like, expensive I don’t.’

  ‘Then I’d like him to be more specific. That is, I want him to pretend to desire women with facial deformities.’

  ‘Facial deformities? What is this, dear boy? You’re beginning to make me feel a little queasy.

  ‘You don’t need to know. Just tell your friend to make it clear that money is no object.’

  ‘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?’

  Villums 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.