The Last Days (18 page)

It was a spartan room, warmed only by a small fire. Attached to the wall there was a crucifix, which he removed and threw under the bed.

As well as being private, the room was heavily fortified. It was locked from the outside by three solid bolts and guarded by two men; the only natural light came from a light-well built into the upper wall and fortified with iron bars.

Pyke persuaded the turnkey, with the governor’s permission, to remove his handcuffs but the leg-irons remained. It was a condition of the agreement that saw him move from the ward to the infirmary.

 

The arbitrariness of the legal system did not surprise Pyke. He had witnessed sufficient abuses of power and privilege in his time as a Bow Street Runner to immunise him against any romantic notion that the English system of justice, unlike, say, its French counterpart, was fair-minded and all men were somehow equal under the law. The French had their Bastille; the English had Newgate. And while he had long since heard of plans to close and demolish the ancient prison, symbol of a regime that was as much feared as it was hated, Pyke was under no illusion that a necessarily fairer system of incarceration and punishment would take its place.

Pyke was personally distrustful of all legal and political institutions, and believed individuals prospered not by pursuing some ‘worthy’ vision of moral betterment through civic and legal reforms, but by showing superior cunning and ferocity in the face of opponents. Success, or in his case freedom, wouldn’t come about through an appeal to the fairness of the law, but rather as a result of his own guile or through the discretionary authority exercised by Peel.

What bothered him most was his own impotence in the face of a system whose sole purpose seemed to be to destroy him. As a result of past successes, Pyke had naively come to believe in his own invincibility. Though he had never laid claim to radical sentiments, he had always felt able to tilt circumstances to his advantage. Now someone had decreed that he was to be sacrificed, and against this type of power his resourcefulness finally seemed a poor match.

But Pyke’s righteous sense of injustice did not colour his every thought. Nor did he permit himself to indulge in fantasies of revenge. Nor even was he angered by the fact that he had been abandoned by his old acquaintances; he had heard nothing from Sir Richard Fox or indeed from Peel. Rather, his enforced solitude gave him the chance to sift through what had happened.

He knew he had not murdered Lizzie, which, in turn, meant someone else had killed her. The evidence also suggested that she had not been the victim of a random attack. Rather, her death had been planned in such a way as to implicate him; this much was clear from the arrival of the police constables, who, doubtless, had expected to find Lizzie’s corpse and had been told to arrest him. The complicity of others was also indicated by the likelihood that Pyke had been drugged. Although he had taken a few drops of laudanum in his gin, the dose was nothing like what would have been needed to knock him out.

This suggested to Pyke that Brownlow Vines had been mixed up in the business of administering the laudanum or, at least, in distracting Pyke so he did not notice its aftertaste. But Vines had not acted alone. That night he had acknowledged someone behind the bar. At the time, Pyke had thought only of his pathetic attempts to flirt with Lizzie, but what if he had also signalled to one of the other servers? To Maggie perhaps, who had been called as a witness for the prosecution and who had perhaps administered the dose because she had been paid to do so?

But neither Vines nor Maggie had been acting on their own impulses. Neither had ever much cared for Pyke, but the idea they might seek to damage him and kill Lizzie for their own advancement seemed preposterous. Vines’s involvement, in particular, implicated other parties. Sir Richard’s long-time assistant was no killer. He did not have the stomach for it, and Pyke doubted it had been Vines who had delivered the fatal blows to Lizzie. Nonetheless, Vines was not the kind of man to offer his assistance unless there was some gain to be made. This meant Vines had cut some kind of deal with a figure who, in turn, had the power to mobilise a significant number of constables and watchmen. Only Peel himself seemed capable of such a task. And Peel could certainly offer Vines what he seemed to want.

This line of thought was bolstered by his instinctive belief that the decision to murder Lizzie and frame him had been taken as a result of his meeting with Tilling and his casual reference to the name Davy Magennis and his stated theory that Magennis, who until recently had served in the very Royal Irish Constabulary Peel had established, was the St Giles murderer. It was of course possible that he had misinterpreted Tilling’s discomfort and that someone entirely different had been responsible for Lizzie’s death but, instinctively, he felt this not to be the case. All of which posed a larger and much more serious question: if Fitzroy Tilling was somehow implicated in Lizzie’s death, did it mean he had been acting on the orders of the Home Secretary?

Pyke had no answer to such a question, but still believed that Peel was his only chance of winning freedom.

Above all, Lizzie’s brutal murder filled him with a sense of sadness, outrage and guilt. Pyke had known her for eight years, and she had lived with him in the gin palace for three. His ardour might have cooled in recent years but he had not stopped admiring her: her toughness, her honesty, her blunt manner. In his own time, he would try to come to terms with her murder, and when the shock had abated, and he had avenged her death, he would face up to his grief, but in the immediate moment he knew such sentiments were beyond him.

 

‘Well, this isn’t too bad. Not too bad at all. In fact, it’s rather comfortable.’ Godfrey’s cheeks were the colour of ripe beetroots, perhaps because the prison infirmary was on the first floor and he had been forced to tackle the stairs. He walked with a limp, the product of a pain in his toe he always denied was gout. Dressed in a fustian jacket and moleskin breeches, he clutched a bottle of claret. Without being invited, he collapsed into the chair and picked up the copy of The Prince. ‘It’s a bit gloomy, isn’t it?’ Looking around the room, he said, ‘You’ve done all right here, m’boy. I brought you some claret but I see that you’re well stocked up.’ He reached across, picked up the gin bottle and sniffed. ‘Not the best, but I’m sure it helps. So how are you?’

Pyke said he was bearing up, under the circumstances. He could see that his uncle was keen to tell him something, so kept his response brief.

‘You’re the talk of the town, especially among the ladies.

Seems opinion is divided as to whether you killed her, but even your perceived guilt isn’t dampening people’s enthusiasm. The papers, they made the most of your attempts to evade capture. Embellished things a little, as they’re wont to do. Cruikshank did an illustration of you, appeared in the Morning Post. I should’ve brought it with me. It was rather flattering, actually. You’re one of these brooding, intense types and, you’ll like this, there’s a queue outside your cell, society ladies, waiting for their personal consultation.’ Godfrey chuckled. ‘Of course, there are poor folk who just want to string you up, but that’s just because they’re afraid of you.’ He picked up the claret and peered at the label. ‘What does one do in here if one needs a corkscrew? I take it that there’s no one to call.’

‘You mean, like a butler?’ Pyke raised his eyebrows.

‘Quite,’ Godfrey said, a little chastened, before carefully placing the bottle down on the table next to Pyke’s bed. ‘I have promising news. The other day I was taken to luncheon at the Athenaeum, no less. Delicious it was, too. Sweetbread au jus and the most tender lamb cutlets, with peas and asparagus, for the main course and an exquisite maraschino jelly with chocolate cream for dessert. All washed down with Madeira and champagne. Quite the banquet.’ Godfrey wiped a spool of dribble from his mouth. ‘My dining companion was a pleasant chap, too. Sharp as razors. Everybody says he’s one of the top barristers in the city. Geoffrey Quince, QC. I didn’t realise it, but he attended your committal hearing, out of interest, and he fancied he could drive a chariot through the Crown’s case. He’s even done a little preliminary digging and unearthed some promising material. Quince explained that the burden of proof always lies with the Crown and on the basis that all the evidence here is circumstantial, he didn’t think any jury in the land would convict, especially in a capital case.’

‘What’s in it for him?’ Pyke asked, trying to conceal his scepticism.

‘Your trial is a big draw, Pyke. Barristers like a challenge, you know that, putting one over on the Crown, but more than that, they like the spotlight. If he wins, the publicity could be advantageous.’

‘I would imagine he’s not cheap.’

‘Quince would not be acting for you out of the goodness of his heart, if that’s what you mean.’ Godfrey sounded a little hurt.

‘And I’m supposed to put my life in the hands of a man I don’t know and who I’ve never met?’

‘Here,’ Godfrey said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his breeches. ‘It’s what they call a retainer. Quince drew it up on the spot. Sign it and I’m sure he will come and visit. You’d like him, my boy. He doesn’t smile.’ He put the document next to the claret bottle and smoothed it down with his hands.

‘If I sign, I still want to pursue other options. And if I’m going to do this, I’ll need your help.’

Godfrey held up his hands. ‘My expertise is entirely at your disposal.’ He paused for a moment and winced slightly. ‘Of course, that’s not to say that I wouldn’t perhaps benefit from some small remuneration, a few scraps thrown my way, but you know I’d do anything for you.’ This time he grinned. ‘Within reason.’

Pyke nodded. ‘I want you to contact Townsend. He’s a Runner; ask for him at the Bow Street office. Offer him twenty guineas to look into the backgrounds of the turnkeys who work on the condemned ward. I also want to know who the judge at my trial is going to be. Ask Quince. He should be able to find out. I want a meeting with Foote, the Ordinary. You can arrange this. Foote won’t bother to come if I say I need spiritual guidance, so tell him I’m ready to make my confession. He’ll see the profit in it, for him. But the most important thing I want you to do is pass a note directly to Robert Peel. I don’t know how you’ll manage it, but it has to be given to Peel directly, not to one of his secretaries or servants. Like I said, it’s important. My fate could rest on Peel getting the note.’

Godfrey stared at him, frowning. ‘What note?’

Pyke produced a letter he had written earlier from under his pillow and handed it to his uncle. It read:

Pyke had chosen not to sign it.

Scanning the note over Godfrey’s shoulder, he noticed that his handwriting was more ragged than usual. ‘You’ll see it gets to Peel himself? It has to be delivered to Peel in person.’

Godfrey took the envelope and said he would do his best. ‘I’m happy to do what I can to help, of course.’

Pyke eyed him carefully. ‘But?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing, dear boy. I suppose I’m just worried about the usual. Money, the state of my business . . .’

‘Your business has been suffering for the last twenty years.’

This seemed to pain Godfrey. ‘Quite so. But you see, dear boy, I have just been reading Vidocq’s memoirs. Now Vidocq is a quite reprehensible figure and, to my mind, all the better for it. I don’t imagine, for a second, he actually wrote the book himself and, in my opinion, that’s the problem. There’s something missing. Don’t get me wrong; the formula is the right one. Send a thief to catch a thief. But there’s still too much moralising. If those elements could only be harnessed to writing that had the courage of its own base convictions it really would be something . . .’

‘You know what I think about this, Godfrey.’

‘At least think about it. Like you just said, I haven’t published anything that’s worth a damn in over twenty years. The penny stories about ravaged virgins and demented monks are good fun - don’t get me wrong - but they won’t be read in a year’s time, let alone a hundred years’ time. I just think your story’s one that needs to be told. A simple man who’s doing what has to be done in order to . . .’

Pyke smiled. ‘Prosper?’

‘I was going to say survive or get by, but prosper works just as well.’

‘You think that I’m simple?’

‘Did I say simple?’ Godfrey feigned indignation.

‘What about ingenious?’ Pyke said, lightly.

Godfrey looked at him. ‘You do understand I’m talking about a creation.’

‘You don’t think I am?’

Godfrey studied him for a while. ‘You forget I know you as well as anyone, Pyke. I know for a fact that you can be a cold-hearted bastard . . .’

‘Is there a but?’

‘Would I be here if there wasn’t?’ He reached out and patted Pyke on the arm. ‘This creation. He would just be a larger-than-life version of you.’

‘A man without morals,’ Pyke said, still trying to make sense of his uncle’s comments.

‘He would have morals. The story wouldn’t. There’s a difference.’ Godfrey hesitated. ‘Will you at least think about it, dear boy?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Really?’ Godfrey stared at him through bushy eyebrows. ‘Actually, I met this chap the other day, a young shorthand reporter, rents an office close to mine, at number five Bell Yard. I happened to mention I was your uncle and he was keen to meet you; expressed a real interest in your case. I said I’d see what I could do. He’s a novelist with big ideas.’