‘If I told you I’ve never wholly trusted anyone, would you think me a kind of machine?’
‘Perhaps not a machine but . . .’ Concern was etched on her face. ‘It must be a lonely existence.’
‘It is an existence. Or at least I am still . . . here.’
‘I think you’re missing the point,’ she chided him, gently.
‘It is I who am asking for a little of your trust.’ She seemed puzzled. ‘I would hope I’ve already proved myself to some extent.’
Suddenly Pyke felt foolish and self-interested. ‘You must think me unpardonably rude,’ he told her, not sure what else to say.
‘I wouldn’t imagine a man of your abilities cares to be in someone else’s debt.’
Pyke shrugged. ‘It would depend upon whose debt I was in.’
‘In which case, I should confess that my motivations for visiting your cell were not entirely selfless.’ Emily was smiling now.
‘Oh?’
‘Of course, I had to be assured you were innocent of those terrible things the police and the court claimed you had done.’
He bowed his head, to acknowledge her confidence, but said nothing.
Emily laughed nervously. ‘It’s a terrible habit. I’m sorry. I must stop prying.’
Pyke wondered whether his discomfort at having to discuss personal matters was as obvious as Emily made it seem.
An awkward silence followed. ‘Did you know that most people believe an unmarried woman in her early thirties has failed to reach her potential?’ Emily seemed to be saying it as a challenge.
‘What potential might that be?’
‘To sire my future husband’s children, I suppose.’ It seemed to amuse her.
‘And to provide your father with an heir.’
‘You, too, are very perceptive.’ The humour left her expression. ‘My father has lined up a suitor and told me I’m to marry him before the year’s out. He said it’s high time, as you put it, that I provided him with an heir.’
‘Have you met this man?’ Pyke asked quickly.
‘I am led to believe he has certain political ambitions but I have refused even to learn his name.’ She seemed genuinely aggrieved. ‘I think it’s absurd that a woman in my position should even consider getting married, given the hopelessly inequitable laws of this country. You know that a married woman cannot own property, or retain control of her own earnings? She has the legal status of a minor and can’t divorce her husband, even if he beats her and even though he can divorce her for no good reason.’ She grew more serious. ‘Most of the men I meet are either rich and stupid or poor and desperate and see me as their ticket to a life of wealth and glamour.’
Pyke pulled her into his stare. ‘I am certainly not rich and I would hope I’m not stupid.’
‘I would not characterise you as poor or desperate, either.’
‘Where does that leave me, then?’
‘I don’t know.’ She laughed gently. ‘Somewhere in the middle.’
‘Is that a good place to be?’
‘I would say so.’
Pyke edged closer to her. ‘Here might be an even better place to be.’ He wanted to touch her cheekbones, run his finger down to her lips . . .
‘Perhaps, but . . .’ Emily stood up and turned to face him. ‘But it is late and I am aware that in my keenness to solicit your company, I must have kept you from other engagements.’
‘None as pressing as this one, I can assure you.’ Pyke noticed she was blushing ever so slightly. ‘But I am certain I have detained you far too long.’
‘It is surely I who have detained you . . .’
‘Then I have thoroughly enjoyed being detained.’ He stood up and prepared to leave. ‘Perhaps you might detain me again on some future occasion?’
This time her gaze was cool. ‘You make me sound like a Newgate gaoler.’
He laughed heartily. ‘You have seen such figures in person, as I have, and should be in little doubt that their poise, sophistication and elegance are something mere mortals such as ourselves cannot hope to aspire to.’
Emily flashed him a wicked stare. ‘What? You don’t think I’d like to lock you up and throw away the key?’
‘In the condemned block at Newgate?’
Her eyes glistened in the candlelight. ‘Actually, I was thinking of more comfortable surroundings.’
NINETEEN
‘What a perfectly delightful place this is,’ Godfrey said, pushing open the door to Pyke’s garret in the Old Cock tavern. ‘First, I had the good fortune to interrupt a young couple rutting in the alley outside and then, when I had to relieve myself, I discovered what appeared to be a pool of blood on the floor.’ Godfrey had put on some weight in prison and waddled around the small bed to greet him.
Clasping Pyke’s shoulders, he looked at him and said, ‘It’s wonderful to see you, dear boy. Veritably, I did not imagine I would get this opportunity. You look different. Leaner. And the hair, or the absence of hair . . .’ He ran his hands across Pyke’s head. ‘Very becoming.’
‘And it’s good to see you, too.’ Pyke meant it. He was glad to see his uncle. ‘When did you get out?’
‘Last week, dear boy. It was unexpected, I have to say. Geoffrey Quince, the lawyer whose services you so miserably failed to retain, claims to be quite baffled as to why they decided to drop the charges against me.’ Godfrey ran his stubby hands through his mane of white hair and looked expectantly around the tiny room.
‘Did Quince tell you I had need of his services?’
‘You saw Quince?’ Godfrey stared through his bushy eyebrows.
Pyke produced a sheaf of papers from the table next to his bed. ‘I had him draw up a contract. I’ve signed the gin palace over to you.’
‘To me?’ Godfrey’s brow wrinkled with bewilderment. ‘What on earth will I do with it?’
‘Isn’t that akin to asking a lion what he intends to do with a bloodied carcass?’
‘I am no rapacious businessman.’
‘But you are a rapacious drinker.’
‘Ah, indeed.’ Godfrey’s expression lightened. ‘But why sign it over to me?’
‘Call it penance on my part. Or part-payment for time served.’ Pyke handed him the papers.
‘Very decent of you.’ Godfrey nodded. ‘It would seem churlish or ungrateful of me to mention another agreement we had . . .’
‘It would.’
‘Quite.’ His expression became pensive. ‘Of course, you would not have heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘After your escape from Newgate, a lynch mob set upon your gin palace. The staff did what they could to defend it but there were too many of them. The place was stoned and set on fire.’ Godfrey held up the contract and shrugged. ‘I’m sure the lease is still worth a great deal . . .’
Pyke took his time digesting this news.
Downstairs in the gaming room, a ratting contest was taking place. All traces of human and bear matter had been removed from the pit and a sizeable crowd had amassed around the ring. Some carried stop-watches; others ale pots and slips of paper. The betting was furious. In the ring itself, a determined bull terrier had pulled a solitary sewer rat from a larger pile of rats and was biting into its wriggling body. Specks of blood peppered the dog’s snarling mouth. Pyke and Godfrey passed through the room unnoticed and settled in the parlour on the ground floor. Unlike Pyke’s gin palace, this was an older tavern without a counter. They were served at their table by a pot boy who brought their drinks from a bar room in the middle of the building.
Pyke poured a few drops of laudanum into his gin. Godfrey watched him carefully but said nothing. The room was empty, but Pyke wore his black cap low over his face, nonetheless. It was difficult, becoming accustomed to his status as prey. Each time he left his garret it felt as though a phalanx of police constables might be waiting around the next corner to ambush him. But he also knew that the real threat to his liberty came not from the police but from snitches who might h
ear of his return and happen upon him by chance.
‘Don’t worry, m’boy. After the last time, I made certain that I wasn’t followed,’ Godfrey said, glancing nervously at the door.
‘You think that’s why they released you?’
‘Perhaps they heard you were back in the vicinity.’ Godfrey shrugged. ‘I know for a fact there’s two of ’em watching the shop and two outside my apartment. I’d say it’s a safe bet that someone in a position of authority would like to see you swing from the scaffold.’
Pyke wondered whether these men were police constables and whether they’d been dispatched by Peel.
‘No one knows I’m here. Apart from Villums.’ Pyke had also told Emily but did not mention her.
‘And you trust him?’
‘Not really. But I’m paying him well. Too well. And he hasn’t seen a penny of it, as yet.’
‘I won’t ask what your plans are, but just be careful, will you?’ A glint appeared in Godfrey’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to have to rescue you from Newgate for a second time.’
Pyke was about to speak when he noticed someone he recognised on the other side of the room. His first instinct was to bolt. Godfrey noticed his reaction and turned around, saying, ‘What is it?’ He sounded breathless and afraid. Standing on the threshold of the parlour room, wearing a simple brown dress and white bonnet, was Emily Blackwood. Despite her efforts to dress in a manner appropriate to her surroundings, she looked as out of place as a peacock in a pit full of snakes.
Her anxiety seemed to lift as soon as she saw them; she gathered up her dress and hurried across the room to greet Pyke. He introduced her to his uncle, who was delighted to make her acquaintance, and when the pot boy came to take her drinks order, she surprised both of them by asking for a pint of porter. This delighted Godfrey even more. For a while they talked about his imprisonment.
‘I was in Coldbath Fields rather than Newgate, my dear, but generally I found everything to be most agreeable. The food, which was brought to me from a bakeshop, was quite acceptable, under the circumstances, and the pot boy kept me in plentiful supplies of ale and claret.’
Emily had sufficient good sense not to try to patronise Godfrey or act in a deliberately pious manner, but Pyke could tell she was bothered by some of the stories he was telling.
‘Perhaps if you were poorer or without connections your stay might not have been as agreeable?’
‘On the contrary, my dear. The common lags seemed to be having a whale of a time. On occasion, it was hard to tell the difference between the ward and a tavern.’
‘I think the question Emily is seeking to ask is whether it is appropriate for convicts to behave in such a manner.’
Emily glared at him. ‘I can speak perfectly well for myself, thank you.’ Then her smile returned as she turned to Godfrey. ‘Isn’t it desirable that the prison is run well enough to ensure that prisoners’ clothes are occasionally fumigated, that the genuinely sick have the chance to consult a doctor, and that the child thief is separated from the adult murderer?’
Godfrey clapped his hands together. ‘Well said, my dear. Well said, indeed. What have you to say to that, eh?’ He looked across at Pyke and grinned.
‘I would simply point out that in the new Millbank prison, where everyone has their own cell, suicides have tripled, scurvy and dysentery are rife and that, very recently, prisoners rioted, and even hung the warder’s pet cat, just so they could be transferred to one of the hulks.’
‘A good point,’ Godfrey said, scratching his chin in mock contemplation. ‘My dear?’
‘You could perhaps inform your nephew that all the evidence indicates individual cells arrest the moral infection of the young by the old.’
‘Moral infection?’ Godfrey said, frowning. ‘Sounds like something that I might be responsible for spreading.’
‘I’ve heard it can make you go blind,’ Pyke said.
‘Now you’re both mocking me.’ She looked at them, with a smile on her face.
‘Not at all, my dear. I think the point you make is an excellent one.’
Pyke stared at her, waiting. It was true that he enjoyed their verbal sparring and that they both had sufficient intelligence to discuss highfalutin subjects, but he also wanted to fuck her with an urgency and intensity that even he found surprising. ‘In the end, I think we do what we do because we want to. Whether that’s robbing a blind man or helping him across the street.’
Emily thought about this for a moment. ‘And what would you do? Rob the blind man or assist him?’
‘You really need to ask?’
She regarded him across the table with an amused stare. ‘It’s funny, Pyke. For all your cynicism, you have a peculiarly romanticised vision of yourself.’
‘I am a romantic now?’
‘You see yourself as a dying breed. There’s a certain romanticism in that.’
‘Wonderful,’ Godfrey said, raising his empty glass in mock celebration. ‘She’s as sharp as a tack.’ He turned to Emily. ‘Pyke is, indeed, a dying breed. I’m sure he hasn’t told you of the time when he, single-handedly, pursued a rogue kidnapper who had snatched the young daughter of a landed aristocrat across open country for two days and two nights.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
Emily seemed at once amused and intrigued. ‘If such bravery and selflessness were ever made public, your reputation would be ruined.’
Pyke shrugged. ‘I was well paid.’
Emily studied his reaction. ‘What became of the daughter? ’
‘Oh, she was shaken up but came through the ordeal with flying colours.’ Godfrey scratched his chin. ‘If I’m not mistaken, I heard the other day she’s due to marry a man who will one day inherit the earl of Norfolk’s title and estate.’
‘And the kidnapper?’
Godfrey’s expression darkened. Briefly he shared a look with Pyke. Neither of them said a word.
Later, when Godfrey had disappeared to talk to an acquaintance in another room, Emily said, ‘I’m sorry if I sounded too serious in front of your uncle. But you talk about my work as though it were both frivolous and pointless.’ She seemed bewildered. ‘Is it wrong I care about something other than myself?’
At the table next to them, three blackguards had taken note of Emily and were eyeing her, and whispering to one another, in a manner that made Pyke uncomfortable.
‘On the contrary, it is admirable,’ he said, keeping an eye on the men. ‘But am I to assume that the opposite applies to me?’
‘If it did,’ Emily said, gently, ‘then it would seem odd that you have occupied your time in the last six months in the manner you have done.’
He stared into her languid brown eyes and felt a flush of sexual anxiety spill through him.
One of the ruffians at a nearby table stood up and brushed against Emily; the other two sniggered into their ale pots. Emily did her best to ignore them.
‘You seem concerned,’ she said, reaching out to touch his hand. ‘Is it my presence here that’s upsetting you?’
‘Why should it upset me?’ He glanced across at the three men, who were making lewd gestures to one another and laughing.
‘What? You can mix freely in my world, but I’m to be barred from entering yours?’
Pyke said nothing but again looked across at the three men.
‘Do you think I am bothered by their uncouth behaviour? ’
‘And when they feel sufficiently confident from the ale to approach you directly, am I supposed to step aside and permit them to speak to you?’
This seemed to amuse her. ‘You do not strike me as the kind of man who would easily step aside in any situation.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he said, unable to conceal his annoyance. ‘But such action, in my current circumstances, would open both of us to very great risks.’
A shadow fell across her face. ‘I did not think . . .’
She was interrupted when one of the men stood up, all of a sudden, and stumbled towards
them, barging past Pyke as he did so. The other two also got to their feet in preparation for a fight. Their crossed arms and mean stares told Pyke what he needed to know. The man nearest to them, flabby-faced with whiskers, stammered something incoherently to Emily. She recoiled from him.
‘Leave her alone.’ Pyke was on his feet. He spoke in a calm, measured tone.
The whiskered man turned to square up to him. He had a scar that zigzagged down the right side of his face. ‘Sit down if you don’t want to be hurt. Let that be your final warning, boy.’
Feeling hopelessly exposed, Pyke pulled down the cap in an effort to conceal his face. Proceedings in the room had come to a halt as the gathered few looked expectantly in their direction.
‘You want to fuck?’ the whiskered ruffian said, staring cross-eyed at Emily. He was unsteady on his feet.
The first hammer blow was the decisive one. It came out of nowhere and landed the uncomprehending man squarely on his backside with a dull thump. Pyke cracked his bruised knuckles and turned to face his two friends. One of them launched himself at Pyke and barrelled into his midriff, sending them both sprawling on to the floor and knocking his cap off in the process. Pyke, though, recovered quickest and manoeuvred his startled assailant into a headlock. Pulling him to his feet, Pyke used the man’s torso as a shield against his friend’s assault, pushing them both backwards with sufficient force to topple them on to a nearby table. He followed this up with a kick to the groin of the taller man. The other man picked himself up and circled around Pyke with his fists raised; his expression was guarded and fearful. But when Pyke attacked he was too slow and too drunk to parry the blow. Those watching the spectacle took a sharp collective breath as Pyke landed the decisive punch on the bridge of the man’s nose; it snapped with an audible pop before blood exploded from his nostrils.
Pyke took Emily’s hand and was halfway across the room and walking briskly towards the door when someone shouted, ‘That’s Pyke.’ Another murmured something in agreement. No one seemed to know what to do, whether to block his path or let him leave. Pyke knew that their indecision, and fear, represented his best and only chance of escape.
Pyke 01 - The Last Days of Newgate Page 24
