The Last Days (12 page)

Pyke asked to see the possessions of the deceased. At first, the man informed him that such a request was out of the question. It was only when Pyke threatened to solicit the help of the Home Office that the man relented and directed him, reluctantly, into a small room that looked out over the side alley. He pointed at a cupboard and told Pyke that what little they had removed from the room had been placed on the top shelf. The dust already gathered on top of the cupboard indicated that the Magennises’ possessions had not been regarded as important to Hume’s investigation.

He removed the few possessions from the cupboard and arranged them carefully on a wooden table. One at a time, he picked up both the Bibles and opened them. The first was a King James edition. It was marked and dated: Edinburgh, 1792. He idly flicked through it but found nothing of interest. The other was a Douay Bible. It was marked and dated: Dublin, 1803. The fact that they had owned two Bibles intrigued him, as did the different editions and, indeed, the different places of publication. Edinburgh and Dublin. King James and Douay. Pyke paused, to consider the name. Douay. Wasn’t that a place, too? He closed his eyes and racked his brain for an answer.

He heard Emily’s voice: People aren’t always who you imagine them to be. Who did he imagine Stephen and Clare to be?

What did he know about them? That they were poor, working folk from Ulster, Ireland. They were Protestants . . .

Then it struck him: what had been bothering him all along. At first it was just the cousin’s name. Mary. The mother of Christ. The Virgin Mary. There were plenty of girls called Mary who had nothing to do with the Catholic faith but, then again, how likely was it that Protestant parents from Ulster would call their little girl Mary? Pyke did not know, of course, whether Mary’s parents were Protestants or not but the point was an intriguing one. What if Mary and indeed Clare were not, in fact, Protestant? What if Clare was Catholic and Stephen was Protestant? Douay, he now remembered, was a place in France. It was home to a Catholic monastery. One of them was Roman Catholic. That was what he had missed, what they had all missed.

Pyke sat at the table for a while and tried to consider how this new information altered the nature of his investigation. On its own, it did not explain or justify anything but it seemed to be a significant discovery, if only because of the ill-feeling that such a mixed attachment might have engendered in both families. Was that why they had fled Ulster in the first place? And had someone followed them to London and discovered that Clare was, in fact, expecting a baby? Was it possible that such news could have unbalanced a relation to such an extent that he had taken matters into his own hands? Did such hate exist, Pyke wondered, when directed at one’s own kin?

One thing was for certain, Pyke decided as he stared down at the two Bibles on the table. It meant that finding Mary Johnson was more crucial than ever.

Later, when Pyke was finally shown into Charles Hume’s office, the man did not want to hear about what he referred to as Pyke’s ‘fanciful notions’ about Catholics and Protestants. Rather, he glowed with self-satisfaction.

‘Listen, Pyke, I can tell you this much. We have now arrested someone and I’m almost certain he’s our man. I cannot tell you his name but he’s thirty years old, mentally ill, with a history of violence. He escaped from a nearby asylum two weeks ago. His sister lives in the street adjacent to the lodging house. We found a razor in his room and blood on his clothes. We’re questioning him at the moment. It’s only a matter of time before he cracks and when he does and we elicit a confession, that will be the end of it. The investigation will be closed.’

Pyke waited for a moment, allowing his anger at the man’s complacency to pass. ‘Tell me this, Hume, are you merely incompetent or is someone compelling you to arrive at a hasty and ill-judged conclusion?’

Hume put down his pen and stared at Pyke. ‘You dare to presume that I am corrupt?’

‘What motivation did this man have to kill these people? How do you explain that kind of hatred?’

‘You can’t apply rational logic to the deeds of the insane,’ Hume said, as though the issue were beyond discussion.

‘Except that this wasn’t the work of a madman. A man blinded by hate, perhaps . . .’

‘This city is about to tear itself apart and you’re proposing that we further stoke the flames by making it public we’re looking for some kind of religious bigot?’

‘I’m not proposing to make anything public,’ Pyke said. ‘I just don’t want to see a man go to the gallows simply to expedite the government’s political ambitions.’

That pushed Hume too far. He was a military man and didn’t understand the subtleties of political brinkmanship. He rounded his desk and stepped towards Pyke, as though preparing to strike him.

‘Take that remark back, sir.’ Hume’s neck was corded with veins.

‘When your man hangs and your puppet-masters pat you on the back, remember this conversation and think about how you feel.’

‘If and when he hangs, it will be because a court of law and a jury of his peers have found him guilty.’

Pyke made to leave. ‘Tell that to yourself when you are lying awake at night,’ he said, hesitating at the door without turning around to face Hume.

Behind him, Hume was now shouting: ‘This investigation is closed. Go back to Bow Street while you still have a position.’

EIGHT

T
he springs of the carriage groaned as the figure inside edged towards the window. The footman, an unsmiling man Pyke did not recognise, stood beside the carriage but made no attempt to pull down the steps, or open the door, either to permit the passenger to disembark or to invite Pyke into the carriage’s interior. Nonetheless, it was clear from the manner in which the vehicle was parked outside the gin palace, and from the general demeanour of the footman, that Pyke’s attention was being solicited. It was a windy night, and the visibility, impaired by swirling fog, was improved only slightly by a gas lamp that hissed noisily at one end of the narrow street. The unusual sight of a gentleman’s carriage in the vicinity of Bartholomew’s Field had already attracted the attentions of a gang of children who were prodding the unsettled horses, compelling the footman to round the vehicle and chase them away with an umbrella. Pyke took this opportunity to step forward and peer into the gloom of the carriage’s interior. Edmonton’s chalky face, slick with perspiration, stared back at him, like an apparition.

‘It’s always revealing and indeed gratifying to see creatures in their natural habitats,’ Edmonton said, glancing contemptuously at the entrance to the gin palace. ‘I thought the other day, when you visited Hambledon, that there is nothing more unpalatable than seeing vermin feast at the table of a gentleman.’

Pyke looked into the old man’s arid eyes. ‘Your servants seem to manage well enough.’

This drew a flinty smile. ‘Part of me wants to admire you, for your spirit, pathetic and misguided as it is.’

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel able to reciprocate your generosity.’

They eyed one another warily, like two beasts circling in a cage.

‘I presume you have followed Swift and that he has led you to my money,’ Edmonton said, eventually, settling back into his cushioned seat.

‘I have certainly followed him.’

‘But not found my money?’ It was Edmonton’s money now, not the bank’s.

Pyke heard a scream from one of the adjacent buildings and momentarily looked away.

Edmonton coughed up some phlegm into a large white handkerchief and then said, ‘You will, of course, know that Swift has vacated his position in the bank and disappeared, then.’

Pyke didn’t know but concealed his interest in this development. Again, he wondered what business Swift had in the lodging house.

Edmonton continued, ‘But since you have been keeping a close eye on him, you will no doubt know whereabouts the brigand has fled to.’

‘I have had other business to attend to.’

‘What other business?’ Edmonton’s face glowered with indignation. ‘Damnation, man, I’m paying you to work for me.’ He spat these words out.

‘You’ll remember that you haven’t as yet paid me a farthing.’

‘You’ve an answer for everything, haven’t you? Pray, tell me how you might yourself fare inside a prison.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘It is, if you don’t pull yourself together, find where this Swift fellow has gone and get my money.’ Spittle flew from his mouth.

‘And you’re in a position to make such terms binding?’ Pyke said, amused more than concerned.

‘I heard there’s a papist recidivist, Flynn, who’s been making certain accusations about you. Claims you’re no better than him: a dirty, dishonest thief.’

Now Edmonton had Pyke’s attention. ‘And?’

‘What if Flynn’s accusations could be substantiated? Corroborated, as they say.’ The old man’s grin revealed teeth as yellow as his skin.

‘Evidence can always be fabricated. In any case, it would be a foolish man who did not take advantage of all available circumstances to further his own interests. These sentiments are as true for a poor man who steals an apple as for a rich man who steals a whole estate.’

Edmonton seemed taken aback but Pyke was more interested in searching his own brain for an explanation of how Edmonton might have found out about Flynn.

Pyke had used Flynn to store items that he had recovered from thieves but which he could not claim any ransom on. Flynn had tried to defraud him by selling on some of these items without consultation and would pay the ultimate price for his dishonesty on the scaffold.

With some effort Edmonton leaned forward, almost so that his head protruded from the carriage, and whispered, ‘You know enough to make things awkward for yourself, boy, but not enough to make things awkward for me. Think on that before you do anything rash.’

Before Pyke could answer, Edmonton disappeared into the cab’s interior and left Pyke to ponder his threats.

Lizzie was drunk and agitated. That was part of the problem. It made her combative, whereas he was just tired. The skin around her neck was flushed and blotchy.

‘Thirty-seven messages, Pyke, and all from thieves and swindlers. You think I got the time to be your secret’ry?’ Lizzie tucked her straw hair behind her ears. ‘Why do you want to find this whore anyhow? Are you fucking her?’

Pyke could smell the bar on her clothes: the spiced gin and tobacco. He had once found her muscular forearms attractive but now they just seemed vulgar. He knew other men found her desirable, the kind who clung to the bar as though it were a lifeboat set adrift in the ocean. On occasions, the gin palace would attract doctors fresh from carving up human beings in St Bartholomew’s Hospital, but mostly their customers were men who traded and slaughtered animals. In either case, they smelt of fresh blood. This was the kind of man who lusted after Lizzie, but Pyke was as certain as he could be that she had been faithful to him, even though he could not claim the same thing.

It was unfair, expecting something from Lizzie he was not prepared to reciprocate, but he did not lose any sleep over his own double standards.

His room was kept warm by a plentiful supply of coal. There were a few ostensible trappings of wealth - a large Turkish rug, a feather comforter on the bed - and one of the walls was adorned entirely with shelves of books. It was an unremarkable room, one that aptly suited Pyke’s needs. Though he had in excess of three thousand pounds lodged in a City bank, Pyke did not like to draw attention to his modest wealth. Still, he sometimes enjoyed the envy money elicited in others and would show off his gold watch or a wad of banknotes simply in order to witness the stares of those less wealthy and fortunate than himself.

He asked whether Lizzie had heard anything from Polly Masters at the Rose tavern in Covent Garden.

‘Whoever left you a message, they’re all written out. I put the list on your desk.’

Later, in Lizzie’s room, as Pyke guided his erection into her, his face pressed into her pillow, he tried to picture Emily Blackwood’s expression, the way she would close her eyes whenever she laughed or the looks she gave him, with eyes that were inscrutable and alluring.

Pyke felt himself harden and used the jolt of excitement to finish, so he could return to the comforting silence of his own room. But as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, Lizzie’s sadness was tangible.

‘What is it about me?’ There was no anger in her voice. Only regret.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sometimes I think you despise me.’

Sighing, Pyke shifted away from her. ‘If I despised you, would I still be here?’

‘But you’re not here.’ She looked at the empty space next to her. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Everyone has their problems.’

‘Everyone has problems. Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

Earlier Pyke had read through the list of names that Lizzie had compiled, but found no message from Polly Masters.