‘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 entered 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.
‘If you don’t try to defend yourself, they will kill you as surely as night follows day. Is that what you want?’ Pyke could feel the beads of sweat prickling his forehead. ‘Why were you loitering near Elizabeth Malvern’s house when the police arrested you? Do you know her?’
Pyke wanted to grab the big man’s shoulders and shake him but the turnkeys had made it clear he wasn’t to touch the prisoner.
Finally Pyke played his last card. ‘John Harper and Isaac Webb told me to pass on their regards.’
That seemed to garner a reaction; Sobers looked at him, puzzled and intrigued.
‘Did they send you here?’ Pyke asked immediately. ‘Was it their idea that you chaperone Mary?’
But Sobers let his stare fall back to the floor. Pyke sensed he was angry at himself for revealing that he knew Harper and Webb.
‘I’ve just returned from Jamaica. Charles Malvern is dead, so is Michael Pemberton.’
No visible reaction.
‘Don’t you understand? This is your last chance.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘What did Harper and Webb want you to do here in London? Make contact with Phillip Malvern? Was he the blind man you were seen talking to on the Ratcliff Highway?’
Very slowly Sobers raised his gaze to meet Pyke’s. His face was lean and taut, despite his size, and his eyes glowed with a peculiar intensity.
‘Does the term “kill-devil” mean anything to you?’
That registered too, but still Sobers refused to speak.
‘I think Phillip - the man they call Filthy - is in real danger. I need to talk to him.’
Sobers wetted his lips with his fat, pink tongue but said nothing. ‘He hasn’t been seen for a couple of months. Do you know where I can find him?’
Sobers leaned forward in his chair and bowed his head. For a moment Pyke thought he was about to speak.
‘He’s a rat-catcher among other things. Roams the sewers and culverts underneath the city.’
But the next time Sobers looked up at Pyke, his face was once again devoid of expression.
In the hour they’d been gone, the courtroom had filled up almost to its capacity. The jury had taken their seats to the left of the bench, as had the journalists, who sat across from them under the public gallery. The prosecuting barrister was adjusting his horsehair wig and the clerks of court were making last-minute preparations. Pyke took his place next to Saggers in the press gallery and watched Pierce stride into the room accompanied by three constables. They took their positions alongside other witnesses for the prosecution. In front of them, the two judges entered the courtroom and everyone stood up. Finally, they all watched as Arthur Sobers was led into the dock.
Pyke found the whole thing hard to swallow. The wigs, the pomp, the solemnity of the occasion led one to believe that due process was being adhered to. But the verdict was never in question. Sobers’ natural or innate savagery would be given as an explanation for his murderous tendencies and so-called ‘expert’ witnesses would corroborate this view. There would be a flimsy chain of circumstantial evidence linking Sobers to Mary’s murder. The prosecuting barrister would lead the jury through his case unchallenged - and being unchallenged, the man wouldn’t have to temper his assertions. Finally, the jury would retire for a respectable amount of time - long enough to give the impression they’d considered the evidence - and the foreman would stand up and deliver a guilty verdict. The recorder would then congratulate the jury for its verdict and would pass a death sentence on Sobers. All of this would happen and the man would sit there in silence and watch it; afterwards he would have to face those like Pierce who would be slapping each other on the back and congratulating themselves on a job well done.
The assistant judge, the deputy recorder of London, dressed in his ceremonial robes and wig, waited for silence. Having read out the first part of the indictment to the whole court, he turned to Sobers.
‘It is hereby presented that Arthur Sobers, late of the Ratcliff Highway in the county of Middlesex, being of evil disposition and having strayed from God’s righteous path, did on the first day of May in the third year of the reign of our Sovereign Queen Victoria, and with malice aforethought, wilfully murder Mary Edgar, late of the Ratcliff Highway, by strangulation.’ He looked up from the bench and waited for a few moments. ‘How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?’
All eyes in the courtroom turned to Sobers, whose giant hands were gripping the rail in front of him.
‘Accused, how do you plead?’
Sobers stared back at the deputy recorder and opened his mouth. ‘Guilty.’
For a moment there was consternation in the room and the recorder had to bang his gavel on the bench to restore some semblance of order.
‘Could you repeat your plea for the court, accused.’
‘Guilty,’ Sobers said, his plea carrying right across the courtroom.
‘Do you understand what you are pleading guilty to?’
Sobers nodded. ‘I do.’
The deputy recorder exchanged a glance, and a few words, with the recorder. ‘Do you have anything else you wish to say to the court?’
Sobers stood there, still gripping the rail, but this time said nothing.
‘A few words of contrition? A confession before God?’
Saggers leaned over and whispered, ‘I didn’t see that one coming, did you?’
Pyke was too stunned to speak. Even though he’d heard Sobers as clearly as everyone else he couldn’t reconcile himself to what the big man had just admitted.
There was a general sense of bewilderment and even deflation in the room. People had queued for hours expecting to hear lurid descriptions of bodily mutilations and accounts of the evils of black magic and witchcraft. Now they had to be content with a guilty plea and silence. Even the recorder himself seemed affected by the mood.
‘It is my duty as recorder of London to make quite sure you understand the severity of the crime that you have pleaded guilty to and the nature of the punishment that awaits you.’
‘I understand perfectly, Your Honour.’ Sobers spoke in a deep, flinty voice. ‘I killed her and now I’m ready to face the consequences.’
‘But you have nothing additional to say to this court, perhaps regarding the reasons for your actions?’
Sobers stared down at his boots and waited for the moment to pass.
‘Usually the expectation that the guilty party will make an appeal to the Home Office means that it is prudent not to rush the date of the execution, but since you have pleade
d guilty by your own tongue, and showed no remorse for your actions, I see no reason to delay matters,’ the judge said, removing his grey wig and replacing it with a black cap. ‘It is my duty to sentence you to hang by the neck at the earliest opportunity.’ He banged the gavel. ‘Take this man from the dock.’
On the steps of the Sessions House, Sir Richard Mayne was congratulating Pierce. It was a hot, breathless day and the sky was washed with a haze of high cloud. Tilling joined Pyke a few steps away and said what everyone was saying: that he hadn’t anticipated Sobers pleading guilty, but if the man really had killed her, then justice had been served.
‘He didn’t do it.’
Kill-Devil and Water Page 35
