Pyke pressed the blade deeper into her neck. More blood bubbled up from the wound. ‘No one else, apart from you, knew where they were hiding.’
‘I swear, I din’t tell a soul.’ Her tone remained defiant.
‘Mary Johnson was a nice girl who didn’t deserve to die. I don’t care whether you liked or hated her. I know you’re a greedy woman and you would have sold her out in the blink of an eye. But I want to hear it from you. I want to know who you told about Mary’s whereabouts. I want a name or I want a description.’
Polly Masters tried to wriggle free from his armlock but couldn’t manage it. Eventually she exhaled loudly and croaked, ‘You’re a marked man, Pyke. Downstairs, there must be close to a hundred men who’d kill each other for the chance to pummel you with their bare knuckles and collect the reward what’s been offered. There’s men givin’ out handbills with your likeness across the whole city. All I have to do is scream . . .’
‘And I’d slit your throat and leave you to bleed to death on the floor like a slaughtered pig,’ Pyke said, jabbing the knife even deeper into her flesh. ‘Like you said, I’m a marked man. I don’t have anything left to lose.’
Her bruised lip quivered with anticipation.
‘Tell me the truth this time,’ he said, slowly. ‘Did someone come here asking about Mary Johnson?’
‘No.’
‘Polly, I want the truth. Did a man with a brown mole on his chin come here asking for Mary?’
‘No.’
‘One last time. Did you tell anyone where Mary Johnson was hiding?’
‘Fuck you, Pyke.’ Polly Masters was crying now. ‘You’re a monster. Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you again.’
Later, as Pyke wandered through the mud-crusted alleyways and cobbled streets around Covent Garden, comfortable in his disguise, he thought about Polly’s defiance and decided she had probably been telling him the truth. But just because Swift had not found out about Mary Johnson from Polly Masters did not mean he hadn’t strangled her. No one else apart from Pyke had known which guest house she had been staying at.
So how had they found her? How had Swift found her? Pyke sensed that the answer was staring him in the face but he still couldn’t work it out.
It was raining and mud clung to his boots, weighing them down as he walked. Ignoring the outstretched hands of a sooty-faced beggar and walking past an old man who was chewing on a bar of soap in order to simulate having a fit, he tried to arrange his thoughts.
Pyke liked the grimy anonymity the city afforded him but knew he belonged neither to the world that Polly Masters inhabited - that grubby, hand-to-mouth existence he’d known for much of his early life - nor to Emily’s comfortable world, where propriety and social mores determined what was and wasn’t permissible. Pyke wasn’t naive or rich enough to romanticise the poverty he had once known, but nor was he blind to the suffocating aspect of privilege that seemed to characterise Emily’s circle of acquaintances. It was a curse and a blessing, being able to move between different worlds without feeling a sense of belonging. This adaptability was an advantage, but in his darker moments he wondered whether the loneliness he often felt would be a permanent condition.
Emily came from aristocratic stock and it was folly to contemplate a different life with her. Nonetheless, he felt drawn to her in a way that assumed, perhaps foolishly, that such desires were reciprocal. Part of him wanted to give in to his yearnings, but he was also aware of the dangers this course of action posed. Like it or not, he couldn’t get Emily out of his mind. In his pocket, he ran his fingers over the bottle of laudanum to check it was still there.
‘Hello, Sir Richard.’ Pyke stepped into the light being emitted from candles resting on the mantelpiece. Above the fireplace, on the wall, was a portrait of Sir Henry Fielding.
Fox stopped writing a letter, and looked up at Pyke, suddenly ashen-faced. The quill fell from his trembling ink-stained fingers. He started to say something but the words wouldn’t form on his tongue. ‘My God,’ he finally managed. ‘It is you.’ He looked older and frailer than Pyke remembered. He had lost some weight, too, and the skin seemed to hang off his face and neck. Fox stood up, grimaced a little, pulled down his frock-coat, and shuffled around his desk to greet him. Pyke wasn’t sure whether the old man wanted to hug him or shake his hand. In the end, they managed an awkward mix of the two. ‘You are alive,’ Fox said, not wanting to let go of his arm.
Pyke disentangled himself from Fox’s embrace. ‘So it would seem.’
‘I had given up hope,’ Fox said, guardedly.
‘I wasn’t aware you were hopeful.’ He stared at the old man. ‘But I see you’ve been keeping up with recent developments. ’ He pointed at the newspapers laid out on Fox’s desk.
‘I heard you were in the capital, of course, but I didn’t know whether to believe the stories or not.’ Fox’s expression was polite and opaque. ‘Was that you? The robbery?’
‘I came back to take care of some unfinished business.’
‘Not with me I hope,’ Fox said, with a chuckle.
Pyke raised his eyebrows and folded his arms.
‘There was nothing I could have done, Pyke. Nothing at all. Peel wanted you dead. There was no way of overturning the sentence.’
Pyke thought about this for a while. ‘Did you even try?’
‘You might not have noticed, Pyke, but my authority, such as it is, has been much curtailed these days.’ He sounded both aggrieved and irritated.
‘I see the new police everywhere.’ Pyke walked over to the window and looked out at the Brown Bear tavern on the other side of the street.
‘Bodies on the street only matter in times of civil unrest. What this city needs, what I have always hoped that Bow Street might become, is a central clearing house for information regarding crime and criminals. Prevention without detection is as worthless as a pistol without powder.’ Fox looked up balefully at the portrait of Sir Henry Fielding. ‘But Peel’s having none of it. In ten years’ time, nothing of the old ways will remain.’ He shook his head. ‘Listen to me. I sound like a Tory.’
Pyke turned from the window and said, ‘I want two things from you. Then I’ll never bother you again.’
‘What things?’ Fox looked at him suspiciously. His eyes narrowed to pale grey slits.
‘I want you to provide me with two home addresses. That’s all.’
‘Addresses?’
‘Fitzroy Tilling and Brownlow Vines.’
‘What do you want with Brownlow?’
‘That’s my business, not yours.’
‘I don’t have Tilling’s home address.’
‘But you can get it, can’t you?’
Fox waited for a moment, pondering Pyke’s request. ‘I might be able to.’
‘What about Vines?’
‘Brownlow?’ Fox laughed nervously. ‘I’m afraid he’s out of town at the moment.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Scotland, I think. For a family wedding.’
Pyke digested this information. ‘When will he be back?’ ‘Another week, perhaps.’
‘What’s his address, anyway?’
‘Can’t you tell me what this is all about, Pyke?’
‘His address.’
‘He lives in Bloomsbury somewhere. I can’t remember offhand which street it is. Gerrard would know.’ He smiled apologetically.
‘Tomorrow, then. I’ll come for both addresses at the same time.’
‘Of course.’ Fox fiddled with his moustache, as he did whenever he was nervous. ‘But tell me where I can contact you. I’ll send someone with the information.’
Pyke thought about this for a moment. ‘No, I think I’ll contact you.’
‘Really, Pyke, all this cloak-and-dagger stuff . . .’
Pyke cut him off and turned to leave. As he did so, the old man called out his name. Pyke spun around just as Fox was saying, ‘You’re much . . .’
‘Much what?’
&nb
sp; ‘You were never a warm person. I fancy the same could be said about me. Maybe that’s why we were able to work together. But even compared to that, you’re colder somehow, colder and harder . . .’
Fox’s eyes glowed like hot coals behind amber glass, as though his righteous sense of disappointment were beyond Pyke’s comprehension.
The stout physician peered down at Sarah Blackwood’s wizened frame and gently tapped his hand against her chest. Throughout his examination, the old woman said nothing; nor did she appear to know where she was, or even that she had been moved from the asylum in Portsmouth. From the threshold of the small room, Pyke watched the proceedings with interest. Behind him, in the adjoining kitchen, the nurse he had hired was preparing dinner. The apartment was situated on the south bank of the river within a stone’s throw of Blackfriars Bridge. He had paid three months’ rent in advance. The nurse had cost him an additional ten guineas a week.
‘You say she has been housed in an asylum for the past fifteen years?’ the physician asked, once he had completed his examination.
‘As far as I am aware.’
‘And you do not know of the circumstances that led to this state of affairs in the first place?’
‘I have been told her malady, if indeed she was ill at all, was not a serious one.’
The physician nodded. ‘She displays no signs of active cogitation. She doesn’t seem to be cognisant of the outside world.’
‘In your opinion,’ Pyke asked, ‘is she mad?’
That drew a short chuckle. ‘It would depend on what you mean by mad, sir.’ He went to retrieve his hat and coat. ‘But if she was not affected by any illness when she first entered this asylum fifteen years ago, your mother is by no means a well or sane woman today.’
Pyke let the remark about ‘his’ mother pass. ‘Is her condition likely to change?’
‘You mean is it likely to improve or worsen?’
Pyke nodded.
‘In my opinion, your mother’s malady is so deep rooted that she will never be roused from her torpor.’
After the physician had left and the nurse had retired for the night, Pyke sat with Emily’s mother in the dark and held her bony hand in his own.
TWENTY-TWO
The stone-clad exterior of Newgate prison, long since blackened by smoke and filth, did an acceptable job of concealing what lay inside: the dirty wards, the cold, barren cells and the stink of despair. To the uninitiated, it may have seemed like an ordinary building, but to those who lived in the nearby maze of streets and alleyways, the prison’s imposing walls and brooding Palladian architecture cast a dark shadow over the entire neighbourhood. Even the name conjured up dread. Bare-footed children who scampered alongside cabs and the new omnibuses, begging for coins, did not seem to notice its horrible pall. But others, like the group of labouring men gathered outside the Fortune of War tavern, or the hunchbacked man selling Yarmouth herring from an old wicker basket, or the drunken ballad singer who visibly swayed from side to side as he regaled whoever would stop and listen with songs, seemed to be visibly affected by their proximity to the prison.
Fifty years earlier a Protestant mob had rampaged through the streets around the prison and, armed with crowbars and pitchforks, had attacked it in order to free fellow rioters who had been imprisoned within its walls. Some three hundred prisoners had escaped, but at least as many had died in the resulting fire. It had taken the army a number of days to restore calm to the streets of the capital, and the recriminations had been as brutal as the disturbances; more than fifty rioters had been hanged on different scaffolds across the city.
Despite attempts to rebuild and modernise the prison, it remained a dirty, overcrowded, dark and stinking place. As he waited on Old Bailey, Pyke stared up at the fortress-like walls and wondered whether the prison, which had outlived baying mobs, would soon fall victim to reformist zeal, and whether such an eventuality was to be welcomed or mourned.
Of more immediate concern was the presence of two police constables wearing their familiar dark-blue uniform. The constables were fifty yards away, walking towards him on the same side of the street, when Emily emerged from the prison and looked up and down, perhaps for her carriage. It was Thursday afternoon, the allocated time for her weekly prison visit, and whatever problems or difficulties she may have been facing at Hambledon, she would not miss this appointment. Taking her gently by the arm, he led her down one of the alleyways that ran into Old Bailey. Emily was both agitated and pleased to see him. He took off his cap and wiped soot from his face.
‘We can’t be seen together,’ Emily whispered. At the other end of the alleyway, two figures, one male and one female, lurked in the shadows. ‘I am to be met outside the prison and taken back to Hambledon.’ Her eyes darted nervously back to the street.
‘The other night,’ Pyke said. ‘What did he want?’
Emily laughed bitterly. ‘Oh, the usual. Someone to rant at.’
Pyke studied her expression. ‘He did not suspect you with regard to the robbery?’
‘If he did, he did not say so.’ Emily looked at him. She seemed nervous and a little distant as well. At the far end of the alley, the two figures were slowly moving towards them.
‘Is something the matter?’ he asked, trying to keep one eye on the man and the woman.
Emily wetted her lips. ‘I’m soon to be married.’ She sounded both upset and resigned to this prospect. ‘As soon as my father can make arrangements.’
‘Married? That’s why he wanted to see you the other night?’
Emily nodded. ‘To tell me.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘This time, he is insistent.’
He looked at her calmly, waiting. ‘I take it you flatly refused him.’
‘He said if I didn’t marry, then he would disinherit me.’
‘He would do that?’ As soon as he had asked the question, Pyke realised how stupid it sounded. The question of what Edmonton wouldn’t do was more pertinent.
Emily confirmed the stupidity of his question with a look of exasperation.
‘But you can’t marry someone simply because your father tells you to.’
‘The money that was settled on me by trust is only a very modest sum.’ She refused to look at him. ‘If I agree to this marriage, my father has promised to quadruple the amount.’
Pyke thought about Emily’s mother and the bleak assessment of the physician.
‘And money is that important to you?’
‘To my work it is. There are many worthy causes it could be put towards.’
‘But you would actually consider marrying some stranger, only for material gain?’
‘You make me sound like some kind of courtesan.’
‘A stranger selected by Edmonton,’ Pyke continued, regardless of whether he hurt her or not. ‘What kind of man might that be?’
‘I don’t know.’ Emily looked down at the ground. Her hands were shaking. ‘I haven’t met him yet.’
‘But you plan to?’
‘I don’t seem to have a choice.’ Emily shrugged. ‘I’m told his name is James Sloan. He’s a solicitor by profession but has political ambitions. He has just been elected as Member of Parliament to represent a constituency near Hambledon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’
Pyke thought about the farm labourers and their talk about the suspicious death of their sitting parliamentarian.
‘I’ve heard your father bullies people into voting for whichever candidate he has put up.’
Emily looked towards the main street and then down at her pocket watch. ‘I can’t delay any longer. Perhaps I could visit you later?’
In the other direction, the two figures, a prostitute and her pimp perhaps, were now strolling towards them with purpose.
‘You can’t marry this man,’ Pyke said bluntly.
Emily adjusted her bonnet. ‘Tell me where you’re staying and we can talk about this later. I’ll find an excuse to get out of Hambledon.’
Pyke told her about the church.
‘What about everything you said to me the other night about not wanting to marry at all ?’
‘I know.’ Her expression was pained. ‘It’s just not that straightforward.’
The prostitute and the pimp were only ten or fifteen yards away when the two police constables stopped at the end of the alley and looked towards them. Instinctively, Pyke pulled Emily towards him and pressed his lips against hers. It was an awkward kiss. The two police constables called out, either to them or to the pimp and the prostitute, and proceeded to walk briskly down the alleyway towards them. Pyke pulled Emily into an even closer embrace. Beyond them, the couple ran back down the alley in the opposite direction. The police constables passed them without comment.
Long after Emily had gathered up her skirt and hurried to her waiting carriage, Pyke could taste both the lingering sweetness of her kiss and her fear and reticence.
Later that afternoon, Pyke met Townsend in a country inn on the outskirts of Enfield. It was a bare room with whitewashed walls and sanded floors. Farm labourers dressed in smock-frocks sat around a large wooden table exchanging stories. A lurcher lay in front of the open fire. When they first entered the inn, conversations paused and heads turned towards them, but they were soon ignored. A pot boy brought them porter in pewter tankards from the adjoining taproom. Pyke asked about Goddard’s wife and how she had reacted to news of his death.
Townsend muttered that it had been terrible, having to inform her, but did not elaborate on this. As they drank, Pyke found himself wondering how much he could trust Townsend and whether he might be tempted to claim the reward that was being offered for Pyke’s capture in order to avenge Goddard’s death.
Townsend told him that a private militia acting under Edmonton’s orders had ransacked and closed down three village inns used regularly by the protesters. This had, in turn, provoked a series of counteractions. In one instance, a mob had attacked the village priest and dragged him through a duck pond. In another, a group of workers had used sledgehammers to destroy a threshing machine on a farm near Waltham Abbey. In the meantime, Canning and Saville had produced a clutch of handbills advertising a protest meeting and distributed them in the affected villages. The meeting was due to take place that evening on the land of a farmer who had long resented Edmonton’s exorbitant rents.
Pyke 01 - The Last Days of Newgate Page 28
