Andrew Pepper - The Last Days of Newgate

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:

The prince will be hated if he is rapacious and aggressive with regard to property and the women of his subjects. . He will be despised if he has a reputation for being fickle, frivolous, effeminate, cowardly, irresolute; a prince should avoid this like the plague and strive to demonstrate in his actions grandeur, courage, sobriety, strength.

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.’

‘Let’s just deal with the matters at hand for the time being, shall we?’ Pyke said, gently.

‘Of course.’ His uncle nodded vigorously. ‘But you will give it some thought?’

‘Yes, I’ll give it some thought.’

‘Splendid.’ Godfrey slapped him on the back. ‘Now perhaps we might pull the cork on this claret.’ Then his mood seemed to darken and he looked up at Pyke and said, his eyes clear, ‘I didn’t say anything before but I just want you to know I’m sorry. Lizzie was a fine woman. As loyal and loving as they come.’

Pyke could not hold his stare and said nothing, as he felt guilt and sadness building within him in equal measures.

Two days before his trial was due to commence, Pyke was visited by Godfrey and the Reverend Arthur Foote. Both men reeked of gin, though Foote’s stench was particularly noxious, an acrid mixture of fungi, rank breath, stale alcohol and soiled clothing. He stumbled into the room, took a moment to get his bearings, pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles right up against his bloodshot eyes, and farted loudly before falling into the room’s only chair. Though Foote was maybe thirty years older than him and had a fuller girth, the two of them were of a similar height. Godfrey perched on the end of the bed, his chubby legs dangling over the edge. Pyke, meanwhile, stood by the door and listened while Foote waffled about his role in the case of prisoners awaiting execution.

‘Well, boy, I suppose now’s the time to unbosom yourself, ’ he said, finally.

Pyke did not respond.

‘You see, as the Ordinary of this venerable establishment, it is incumbent on me — yes, it is my responsibility, nay prerogative — to elicit, at the behest of the condemned person, of course — elicit from him, at an appropriate time — yes, that would be right — elicit a confession in which the aforementioned unburdens himself to me of his sinful ways and waywardness.’ His leer revealed a set of teeth that resembled decrepit gravestones in their unevenness. ‘You’re not a sodomite, by any chance?’ He saw Pyke’s expression and mumbled, ‘Of course, I didn’t imagine that you were.’

As Foote continued to ramble, Pyke studied him closely, making a mental note of the man’s mottled, vein-ridden face, the stubble, the large wart on the end of his nose, the calluses on his hands, the hunched-up way he carried himself.

After Foote had departed, Godfrey stayed behind and Pyke asked whether he had heard from Townsend.

‘Indeed I have, my boy. There are two turnkeys on the condemned ward who might be amenable to an approach.’

Pyke told Godfrey to instruct Townsend to make them an offer.

Godfrey nodded. ‘Of course, if Quince were to win the trial, all these plans would be rendered null and void.’

Pyke said he had finally met Quince, and had been impressed with the man’s capabilities. The lawyer had called at the prison that morning and Pyke’s favourable reaction to the man had surprised him. His uncle nodded warmly. Pyke explained that the judge was to be the Recorder of London himself, Lord Chief Justice Marshall. Godfrey asked whether this was good news or not. Pyke just repeated what he had been told by Quince: Marshall was ‘well liked’ by the Duke of Wellington’s administration. ‘Let Quince earn his money, Pyke.’ Godfrey didn’t bother to hide his concern. ‘He told me that we have a strong case.’

‘Would he say anything different?’

Godfrey looked concerned. ‘Promise me you won’t try anything. . reckless until after the trial?’

Pyke ignored the question. ‘Did you manage to pass on the note to Peel in person?’

‘Peel was in the Commons yesterday. There was a debate on the Catholic Emancipation Bill. Peel was presenting the case for the government. Knatchbull gave him a torrid time. They say the police bill will sail through next month but, as for Catholic emancipation, there’s still a lot of opposition.’

‘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.’