‘Did you give him the note?’
‘A friend invited me to watch the proceedings. During lunch, I made a point of bumping into Peel. I handed him the note, yes, and he took it and glanced at it in front of me. Certainly it registered, but then again I couldn’t exactly say what his reaction indicated. Peel’s a hard one to read. I’d say he’d be a devil to play cards with.’
The tension drained from Pyke’s body. All he could do was wait for a response.
The next morning Pyke awoke to find that an envelope had been slipped under his door. It was an unwelcoming day and a squally wind rattled the window frame. Pyke convinced himself he did not want to get out of his bed because of the icy temperature, but once he had retrieved the envelope from the floor he was still hesitant about opening it. Inspecting the envelope, he found that it did not appear to be a missive from Peel, at least not an official one. There was no name or seal attached to it. Upon smelling it he noticed a faint perfume. Eventually his curiosity overcame his anxiety and he tore the envelope open; the note was a short one. It simply said: Keep your spirits up. And it was signed with the letter ‘E’.
It took Pyke a moment to work out who ‘E’ was and another moment to realise that he was not disappointed it was not from Peel.
The prison governor, Hunt, had a glistening, hairless head formed in the shape of a large egg. He was by no means an old man but was sufficiently aware of his own lack of follicles to want to wear a brimless hat, even indoors. In other ways, Hunt was a more old-fashioned dresser, preferring a short double-breasted jacket when the fashion was for longer and slimmer garments and trousers rather than breeches. Though they were alone and the door to Pyke’s cell had been bolted from the outside, he seemed wary about moving any farther into the room than was necessary.
‘I wanted to say I hope they find you guilty tomorrow and decide to string you up. I don’t care for your type and I have to say it would be a pleasure to entertain you in our ward for the condemned, preferably just for a very short period of time.’ His look was contemptuous but concealed something else.
‘It didn’t stop you taking my money, did it?’ Without looking up, Pyke continued to read from The Prince.
‘I agreed to your request because I felt it would be in the best interests of the prisoners if you billeted on your own.’ Hunt smiled easily. ‘Less chance of contaminating others.’
‘How philanthropic of you.’ Pyke yawned.
The governor waited for a few moments. ‘A rather unusual letter arrived for you this evening.’ He saw he had Pyke’s attention and smiled. ‘The book no longer interests you?’
Pyke said nothing and waited for the governor to continue.
‘The letter was hand-delivered and sealed. It carried the personal seal of the Home Secretary, no less. It was delivered to me, with an attached note, from Robert Peel himself, instructing me to hand it to you without inspecting the contents. Which, I have to say, piqued my curiosity even more. I was concerned it might be a pardon, even though such matters are usually dealt with through official channels. Now I’m a respecter of authority and usually I would abide by the wishes of any Home Secretary without question. But this seemed to be such an unusual situation, and then I started to think about Peel and how the man has unfortunately disgraced himself in the eyes of his Protestant brethren, and I came to the conclusion that it was my duty, as a true believer, to open the letter and inspect its contents.’
‘Very honourable of you,’ Pyke said, half-raising his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure that St Peter is busy preparing a place for you around God’s dining table, even as we speak.’
‘Are you mocking me, boy?’
‘No, sir, but I am waiting to hear about the content of Peel’s letter.’ Pyke yawned again, in an effort to conceal his nerves. The letter would tell him much.
This seemed to placate the governor. ‘Playing it calm, eh? Well, I have to say it’s not good news for you.’ He chortled, then his face turned serious. ‘But it was a strange note, nonetheless; a quotation, though I couldn’t tell from where or even what it indicates.’
‘The Prince.’ Pyke held up his book.
‘Oh?’ Hunt stared at Pyke keenly. ‘How did you know?’
‘Why don’t you read me the quotation, and I’ll tell you whether I was right or not.’
Hunt seemed confused and a little put out. ‘You correspond with the Home Secretary, then?’
‘So it would seem.’
Hunt stared down at the letter in his hand. ‘It just says, “We can say cruelty is used well when it is employed once and for all, and one’s safety depends on it, and then it is not persisted in but as far as possible turned to the good of one’s subjects.” That’s all. Not even a signature.’ He looked up at Pyke. ‘It’s some kind of private message, isn’t it?’
Pyke thumbed through his copy of The Prince. Eventually he found the right passage. ‘ “Cruelty badly used is that which, although infrequent to start with, as time goes on, rather than disappearing, grows in intensity.” ’ Pyke looked up from the book. ‘He’s saying virtue is defined by its consequences, and politicians can be justified in sanctioning morally dubious acts as long as they result in the greater good.’
The governor looked at him, unable to comprehend how he might use this information for his own ends. ‘It doesn’t make much sense to me. But let’s just say for the time being you were privy to truths about the Home Secretary that others might benefit from . . .’
‘Such as yourself?’
Hunt scowled. ‘I am thinking about the greater good of the Protestant brethren.’
‘And you imagine I am concerned about such a sect?’
‘You call the Protestant Church a sect ?’ He seemed appalled at Pyke’s irreligiosity. ‘Truly you are beyond redemption.’
‘And we have nothing further to discuss.’
But Hunt was not quite ready to depart. ‘I’m still intrigued by your business with Peel. By this I mean, what business would the Prime Minister’s right-hand man have with a common murderer?’
‘We share an interest in Florentine philosophers.’
‘Have it your way.’ Hunt shrugged and held up Peel’s note. ‘This merely confirms that the trial goes ahead tomorrow as planned.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Well, that’s settled, then.’ Hunt clapped his hands together and tapped lightly on the door, indicating that he was ready to leave. ‘I almost forgot. I’ve heard troubling rumours about possible escape plans. I take such intimations seriously, even as I find them highly improbable. Newgate has changed since Wild’s days and you, Pyke, are no Jack Sheppard. But just to make certain, I have taken the precaution of posting additional turnkeys outside your cell and you will be required to wear handcuffs and leg-irons at all times, even within your cell.’ His chest swelled with self-importance. ‘Your only escape will be when the hangman fits the noose around your neck. Still, I do not imagine Hades constitutes an especially pleasurable prospect.’
Reading The Times by candlelight, Pyke discovered a story on the second page in the ‘Police’ section which he scanned with mounting horror. The murders were attributed to a fresh wave of anti-Catholic violence that was sweeping the city. The bodies of a young man and woman had been found on Hounslow Heath. Both had been strangled. The report said the victims were Irish. The man, Gerald McKeown, was twenty-one and the woman, Mary Johnson, was seventeen.
Pyke distrusted anyone who openly expressed their emotions, but as he stared down at the words of the report he didn’t in the first instance attempt to decode their meaning. He just opened his lips, thought of not only Gerald and Mary but also Lizzie, and silently mouthed an impotent scream.
TWELVE
When Pyke emerged into the hushed courtroom from the subterranean passage that ran between the prison and the Sessions House on Old Bailey and took his place in the dock, he sensed the consternation of those gathered there to watch the trial. It had something to do with his choice of attire:
a soiled smock-frock by no means conformed to the dashing image that had been circulating in fashionable society. It would be the first of many disappointments the spectators would have to bear, Pyke thought, as he scanned the packed courthouse for familiar faces. This was assuming, perhaps arrogantly, that some of the gathered audience wanted to see him walk free. Pyke understood that decadent ladies might find his unrefined charms alluring but was more concerned about reports of a mob assembling outside the building, demanding his head on a platter.
With this thought in mind, his gaze fell upon the portly figure of Lord Edmonton, who had taken up a seat on the bench opposite the dock and was talking amiably to his companion. Ernest Augustus - duke of Cumberland, earl of Armagh and the King’s brother - was a tall man with a hideously scarred face, offset by a carefully manicured moustache and a pumpkin-shaped head. Though his wound had been honourably received during the Napoleonic wars, it transformed what would otherwise have been a merely overbearing face into something monstrous. He was slightly balding and prematurely grey, giving the impression that he was older than he perhaps was. The duke was dressed ostentatiously (and ridiculously in Pyke’s view) in the uniform of a Hanoverian general. Edmonton saw that Pyke was looking at them and ran his index finger across his neck, to simulate the cutting of his throat.
A few places along from him, Sir Richard Fox was engrossed in a conversation with Viscount Lowther, an acquaintance of Peel. Fox looked old and worn, and though he had come to witness the trial he could not bring himself to look across the room and meet Pyke’s stare. Pyke wondered what outcome Fox was hoping for, whether he wanted to see him walk free or not.
Pyke’s gaze shifted to the public gallery and he saw Emily Blackwood. She was wearing an ivory dress and shawl, her hair pinned up and held in place by her bonnet. She seemed frailer than he remembered. For a moment their eyes met, and she smiled and mouthed a silent ‘hello’. She seemed not to want to draw attention to herself. He wondered whether Edmonton knew that his daughter was present in the courtroom.
Pyke’s attention was wrested away from Emily by the wheezing figure of his uncle, who had managed to persuade one of the court officials that he had urgent business with Pyke.
‘Change of plan, I’m afraid,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘The Crown’s case will now be presented by William Gregson. I’ve heard he’s good.’ Godfrey noticed what Pyke was wearing and frowned. ‘What, in God’s name, are you wearing that dreadful outfit for?’
Pyke ignored the question. ‘Peel’s lawyer. He helped to draft the Metropolitan Police Bill. I met him about a month ago.’ It was depressing news but it confirmed what he already knew.
‘Well, in that respect at least, we have got our own ace.’ Godfrey looked around. ‘I wonder where Quince has got to. He’s cutting things a bit fine. Proceedings are due to start at any minute.’
‘I told him I no longer required his services,’ Pyke said, as though the matter was of no consequence. ‘I said I wouldn’t pay him for his time unless he agreed to relinquish his representation. That worked well enough.’
Godfrey stared at him, aghast. ‘You did what ?’
‘It’s a common enough occurrence. Defence attorneys withdrawing at the last minute to take up more lucrative work elsewhere.’
‘Why? ’ Godfrey sounded angry as much as concerned. ‘Who on earth is going to represent you now?’
‘I don’t need representation.’
Godfrey looked flummoxed. ‘For God sake, boy, do you want them to hang you?’
Pyke didn’t answer him.
Once the recorder, Lord Chief Justice Marshall, had read out the indictment, he turned his attention to Pyke, who was standing across the courtroom from him in the dock, and asked how he wished to plead.
‘Not guilty,’ Pyke said, loud enough for the whole courtroom to hear him.
Under his horsehair wig, Marshall frowned. ‘I am led to believe that you are without legal representation. Is that correct?’
‘It is, Your Honour.’
Marshall nodded gravely. ‘I want to make it clear that this sorry state of affairs provides you with no legal grounds for arguing for a new trial at some later date.’
‘I understand, Your Honour.’
‘Very well. Let the trial begin.’
Once the jury was sworn in and two further judges had taken their place on the bench next to Marshall, beneath the sword of justice, the Crown’s barrister, William Gregson, started to outline the case against Pyke. Emphasising certain elements of the Crown’s case over others, he drew attention to the testimony they would hear from Maggie Smallman, the barmaid who worked at the accused’s ‘sordid’ gin palace: she would tell the court that Pyke had threatened to kill Lizzie Morgan, his mistress, on numerous occasions. He drew attention to a neighbour’s claim that he had heard the deceased call out to Pyke on the night she was murdered, begging for her life. He also told the court that Pyke’s flight from the murder scene was undoubtedly a sign of his guilt. He acknowledged that the Crown’s case relied on circumstantial evidence but pointed out that solid circumstantial evidence was often superior to eyewitness testimony. Pyke listened to his speech with interest but said nothing.
When Pyke offered no cross-examination of the first four prosecution witnesses, the recorder felt compelled to intervene. He asked Pyke whether he thought it aided his defence to allow the testimony of witnesses, even ones with questionable reputations and social standing, to go uncontested. He seemed puzzled. Pyke said he would try to play a more active role in the proceedings. Marshall replied it wasn’t a question of what he wanted; rather, Pyke’s liberty and indeed his life were being threatened by his indifference. Again, Pyke promised he would try to do better. Marshall shook his head, as though he were dealing with a simpleton.
So when the next witness, James Hardwick, was introduced and outlined his own area of expertise - phrenology, or the relationship between the shape and size of a skull and the mind it contained - Pyke decided to involve himself in the proceedings.
He agreed to allow his own cranium to be measured and scribbled a few notes while Hardwick explained that Pyke’s ‘enlarged organ’ revealed a propensity for ‘recklessness, combativeness, destructiveness, self-esteem and secretiveness’.
When Hardwick had finished, Marshall asked whether Pyke cared to cross-examine the witness, and was about to move on when Pyke said, ‘I do have one question, Your Honour.’
‘Oh?’ Marshall looked up at him, a little surprised. ‘Go on, then.’
Pyke turned to the witness box and said he was very interested in Hardwick’s claim about the relationship between ‘anomalies’ in the skull and ‘enlarged cranial lobes’ and an individual’s propensity for recklessness and aggression.
‘Am I correct in concluding that, according to your theory, such cranial features suggest a less developed mind?’
Hardwick nodded. ‘Suggest is perhaps too modest a word.’
‘Such features demonstrate a less developed mind, then.’
‘Indeed,’ Hardwick said, looking at Pyke warily. ‘This was the thesis of Gall and Spurzheim and I see no reason to question it.’
‘And this propensity for violence, even murder, demonstrated in one’s skull shape and size, takes no account, you say, of social standing or class?’
‘That is correct.’
Pyke smiled. ‘Then since good science, as you well know, is based on the principles of scrutiny and observation, perhaps we might test this hypothesis, taking as our example the most esteemed of all men gathered here in this courtroom.’
Hardwick looked around him nervously. ‘And who might that be, sir?’
‘Why, of course, the King’s much venerated brother, Ernest Augustus, duke of Cumberland and earl of Armagh.’
Hardwick stammered that such a request was both impertinent and counter-productive. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Attention in the courtroom shifted from the dock to the bench. The duke himself, who had been watching pro
ceedings through a pocket telescope, did not seem to welcome the interest. He whispered something angrily in Edmonton’s ear.
The recorder stepped in and scolded Pyke for his impudence. ‘Either proceed with an alternative line of questioning or permit the witness to stand down.’
‘But, Your Honour, this particular issue goes right to the heart of this man’s credibility, and since the prosecution has chosen, perhaps unwisely, to build its case using what I can only describe as pseudo-scientific evidence, then I am surely within my rights, particularly given the gravity of the charges, to test this evidence using any appropriate means at my disposal.’
This time, the recorder looked baffled. Next to him on the bench, the duke and Edmonton conferred with one another in a manner that indicated their unease.
‘Of course, I understand if the duke feels that participating in such an experiment is beneath him . . .’
This time Cumberland himself rose to speak. ‘This is preposterous . . .’ The way in which the light reflected on his facial scars made him seem demonic.
The recorder stepped in. ‘I will not permit common prisoners to address esteemed members of this bench.’
‘If he feels uneasy about availing himself . . .’
Cumberland, who had a reputation for impetuosity, interrupted. ‘I have nothing to hide.’ Then to Hardwick, he said, ‘Go ahead, sir, do your tests on me.’
A ripple of approval spread through the courtroom and the duke seemed to warm to his new-found popularity. The recorder looked on, helpless, perhaps feeling unable or unwilling to overrule royalty. Dressed in military regalia, Cumberland stood up while Hardwick wrapped a measuring tape around his skull and peered closely at the point where the ends of the tape met. Hardwick was sweating profusely. Back in the witness box, he did not know where to look: at the recorder, Cumberland or Pyke.
Pyke 01 - The Last Days of Newgate Page 15
