Andrew Pepper - The Last Days of Newgate

The tension drained from Pyke’s body. All he could do was wait for a response.

The next morning Pyke awoke to find that an envelope had been slipped under his door. It was an unwelcoming day and a squally wind rattled the window frame. Pyke convinced himself he did not want to get out of his bed because of the icy temperature, but once he had retrieved the envelope from the floor he was still hesitant about opening it. Inspecting the envelope, he found that it did not appear to be a missive from Peel, at least not an official one. There was no name or seal attached to it. Upon smelling it he noticed a faint perfume. Eventually his curiosity overcame his anxiety and he tore the envelope open; the note was a short one. It simply said: Keep your spirits up. And it was signed with the letter ‘E’.

It took Pyke a moment to work out who ‘E’ was and another moment to realise that he was not disappointed it was not from Peel.

The prison governor, Hunt, had a glistening, hairless head formed in the shape of a large egg. He was by no means an old man but was sufficiently aware of his own lack of follicles to want to wear a brimless hat, even indoors. In other ways, Hunt was a more old-fashioned dresser, preferring a short double-breasted jacket when the fashion was for longer and slimmer garments and trousers rather than breeches. Though they were alone and the door to Pyke’s cell had been bolted from the outside, he seemed wary about moving any farther into the room than was necessary.

‘I wanted to say I hope they find you guilty tomorrow and decide to string you up. I don’t care for your type and I have to say it would be a pleasure to entertain you in our ward for the condemned, preferably just for a very short period of time.’ His look was contemptuous but concealed something else.

‘It didn’t stop you taking my money, did it?’ Without looking up, Pyke continued to read from The Prince.

‘I agreed to your request because I felt it would be in the best interests of the prisoners if you billeted on your own.’ Hunt smiled easily. ‘Less chance of contaminating others.’

‘How philanthropic of you.’ Pyke yawned.

The governor waited for a few moments. ‘A rather unusual letter arrived for you this evening.’ He saw he had Pyke’s attention and smiled. ‘The book no longer interests you?’

Pyke said nothing and waited for the governor to continue.

‘The letter was hand-delivered and sealed. It carried the personal seal of the Home Secretary, no less. It was delivered to me, with an attached note, from Robert Peel himself, instructing me to hand it to you without inspecting the contents. Which, I have to say, piqued my curiosity even more. I was concerned it might be a pardon, even though such matters are usually dealt with through official channels. Now I’m a respecter of authority and usually I would abide by the wishes of any Home Secretary without question. But this seemed to be such an unusual situation, and then I started to think about Peel and how the man has unfortunately disgraced himself in the eyes of his Protestant brethren, and I came to the conclusion that it was my duty, as a true believer, to open the letter and inspect its contents.’

‘Very honourable of you,’ Pyke said, half-raising his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure that St Peter is busy preparing a place for you around God’s dining table, even as we speak.’

‘Are you mocking me, boy?’

‘No, sir, but I am waiting to hear about the content of Peel’s letter.’ Pyke yawned again, in an effort to conceal his nerves. The letter would tell him much.

This seemed to placate the governor. ‘Playing it calm, eh? Well, I have to say it’s not good news for you.’ He chortled, then his face turned serious. ‘But it was a strange note, nonetheless; a quotation, though I couldn’t tell from where or even what it indicates.’

‘The Prince.’ Pyke held up his book.

‘Oh?’ Hunt stared at Pyke keenly. ‘How did you know?’

‘Why don’t you read me the quotation, and I’ll tell you whether I was right or not.’

Hunt seemed confused and a little put out. ‘You correspond with the Home Secretary, then?’

‘So it would seem.’

Hunt stared down at the letter in his hand. ‘It just says, “We can say cruelty is used well when it is employed once and for all, and one’s safety depends on it, and then it is not persisted in but as far as possible turned to the good of one’s subjects.” That’s all. Not even a signature.’ He looked up at Pyke. ‘It’s some kind of private message, isn’t it?’

Pyke thumbed through his copy of The Prince. Eventually he found the right passage. ‘ “Cruelty badly used is that which, although infrequent to start with, as time goes on, rather than disappearing, grows in intensity.” ’ Pyke looked up from the book. ‘He’s saying virtue is defined by its consequences, and politicians can be justified in sanctioning morally dubious acts as long as they result in the greater good.’

The governor looked at him, unable to comprehend how he might use this information for his own ends. ‘It doesn’t make much sense to me. But let’s just say for the time being you were privy to truths about the Home Secretary that others might benefit from. .’

‘Such as yourself?’

Hunt scowled. ‘I am thinking about the greater good of the Protestant brethren.’

‘And you imagine I am concerned about such a sect?’

‘You call the Protestant Church a sect?’ He seemed appalled at Pyke’s irreligiosity. ‘Truly you are beyond redemption.’

‘And we have nothing further to discuss.’

But Hunt was not quite ready to depart. ‘I’m still intrigued by your business with Peel. By this I mean, what business would the Prime Minister’s right-hand man have with a common murderer?’

‘We share an interest in Florentine philosophers.’

‘Have it your way.’ Hunt shrugged and held up Peel’s note. ‘This merely confirms that the trial goes ahead tomorrow as planned.’

‘So it would seem.’

‘Well, that’s settled, then.’ Hunt clapped his hands together and tapped lightly on the door, indicating that he was ready to leave. ‘I almost forgot. I’ve heard troubling rumours about possible escape plans. I take such intimations seriously, even as I find them highly improbable. Newgate has changed since Wild’s days and you, Pyke, are no Jack Sheppard. But just to make certain, I have taken the precaution of posting additional turnkeys outside your cell and you will be required to wear handcuffs and leg-irons at all times, even within your cell.’ His chest swelled with self-importance. ‘Your only escape will be when the hangman fits the noose around your neck. Still, I do not imagine Hades constitutes an especially pleasurable prospect.’

Reading The Times by candlelight, Pyke discovered a story on the second page in the ‘Police’ section which he scanned with mounting horror. The murders were attributed to a fresh wave of anti-Catholic violence that was sweeping the city. The bodies of a young man and woman had been found on Hounslow Heath. Both had been strangled. The report said the victims were Irish. The man, Gerald McKeown, was twenty-one and the woman, Mary Johnson, was seventeen.

Pyke distrusted anyone who openly expressed their emotions, but as he stared down at the words of the report he didn’t in the first instance attempt to decode their meaning. He just opened his lips, thought of not only Gerald and Mary but also Lizzie, and silently mouthed an impotent scream.

When Pyke emerged into the hushed courtroom from the subterranean passage that ran between the prison and the Sessions House on Old Bailey and took his place in the dock, he sensed the consternation of those gathered there to watch the trial. It had something to do with his choice of attire: a soiled smock-frock by no means conformed to the dashing image that had been circulating in fashionable society. It would be the first of many disappointments the spectators would have to bear, Pyke thought, as he scanned the packed courthouse for familiar faces. This was assuming, perhaps arrogantly, that some of the gathered audience wanted to see him walk free. Pyke understood that decadent ladies might find his unrefined charms alluring but was more concerned about reports of a mob assembling outside the building, demanding his head on a platter.