Andrew Pepper - The Last Days of Newgate

When Godfrey visited him on the Friday evening, the turnkeys were to make sure he was not searched, or rather, if he was searched, that their search did not reveal anything. Nor was Pyke’s cell to be searched, after Godfrey’s departure. He was starting to worry that the turnkeys would not honour their side of the bargain when Godfrey thrust a small key into his hand. He permitted himself a hushed sigh of relief.

This did not, however, mean that the condemned block’s incarceration regime was a lax one. The governor’s promise of additional security had been realised in the form of reinforced leg-irons and handcuffs. These devices, and the thickness of the stone walls, meant that Pyke’s chances of escape would normally have been slim.

They still perhaps were, despite the arrangements that had been made, but he chose not to focus on such concerns.

Instead, after Godfrey had departed, Pyke rummaged through the items that his uncle had smuggled into the cell: the key, of course, but also charcoal, powder, soap, chalk, candles, rouge and a razor blade.

Sitting up against the cell door, in order that the turnkeys might not see him through the grated hole, Pyke worked through the night, using all his candles. By the time he heard the first cock crow, he had found a way of using the small key to unlock both the leg-irons and the handcuffs.

It rained for most of the day, the kind of relentless downpour that seemed to penetrate the tarred walls and dampen the inside of the cell and its few contents: a hemp mat and a horse rug. Pyke had wrapped himself up in the rug and settled himself on the mat, but had still been unable to sleep. Trying to ignore the cold and the stench of decaying animal matter, discarded outside the prison walls by market traders, he stared at the window and listened to the patter of raindrops peppering the outside of the building.

While the rest of the condemned prisoners spent their free time in the more welcoming environment of the press rooms, a narrow area replete with tables, benches and a fire, Pyke opted to remain in his cell, anxious that no one should look too carefully at his leg-irons and handcuffs.

He found himself thinking about Mary Johnson and Gerald McKeown — how grateful they had been when he had offered to put them up in a lodging house — and he imagined what torture they might have suffered as someone dragged them to a wild spot on Hounslow Heath, and strangled them. He also thought about Lizzie and whether she had known what was happening to her.

It was already dark by the time the Reverend Arthur Foote arrived, with Godfrey. Godfrey seemed nervous — both of them had been drinking and he stumbled as he entered the cell — but Pyke assumed that Foote was either too inebriated or excited by the prospect of eliciting a dramatic eleventh-hour confession from Pyke, which he could then ‘sell’ to Godfrey, thereby making a significant sum of money, to realise what was about to happen.

Pyke greeted them and said he was sorry that he could not offer them anything to drink. Foote produced a flask of what Pyke presumed was gin and said he had brought his own supplies. He took a swig, without offering it to either Godfrey or Pyke. He was wearing a long black cassock under a black robe, a white undershirt, a dog collar and a pair of black shoes, and was carrying a wide-brimmed hat.

Godfrey pulled the cell door closed and through the grated hole told the turnkeys that they would knock when they were ready to leave.

‘So you’ve decided to confess, boy? Excellent, excellent. God loves repenting sinners as much as the rest of his flock. More, even.’ Even in the candlelight, Pyke could see Foote’s blackened teeth as he smiled. ‘I like ’em too but for different reasons. Isn’t that right, Godfrey? Those little sheets you publish can be quite profitable, I’ve heard, especially when the confession’s been so eagerly awaited.’ He peered down at Pyke through the gloom. ‘You’re looking queer, boy. Your skin is all mottled and blotchy.’

This was the effect of the rouge and charcoal. Pyke hadn’t expected Foote to notice. It meant he didn’t have much time.

‘Your hair, it’s shorter and greyer, too.’ Foote appeared confused. ‘And didn’t you once have sideburns?’

Pyke had hacked them off with the razor, along with some of his hair, and had brushed it with flecks of chalk.

‘Very queer indeed.’ Foote’s frown deepened. ‘So how do you want to do this, boy?’

Pyke waited until Godfrey had positioned himself in front of the grated hole in the cell door.

‘How about you sit next to me on the mat here and I’ll begin my confession.’

‘Sit on the floor?’ Foote seemed unsure. ‘I suppose, given the lack of amenities, I might be able to countenance such a plan. You say next to you, eh? I like that.’ Grinning, Foote lifted up his cassock and planted himself awkwardly on the part of the mat Pyke had prepared for him.

Freeing himself from the handcuffs, Pyke struck Foote once, as hard as he could, with the full force of his clenched fist, and once Foote had collapsed on to him he jammed both thumbs firmly into the Ordinary’s neck and pushed until he heard a gurgling sound.

For the turnkeys’ sake, he proffered a few garbled sentiments about inner demons and breaking the Sabbath. Meanwhile, he went to work on Foote’s body, stripping him of his hat and shoes, his dog collar and finally his cassock and undershirt. He dressed Foote in his own clothes and, in turn, put on the Ordinary’s attire. The shoes were too small for his feet but he just about managed to squeeze into them. He laid Foote out on the hemp mat, his back facing the door, as though he were asleep, and secured the leg-irons and handcuffs in the appropriate places. He had a drink from Foote’s flask and then pulled the black robe around his shoulders.

‘Is Arthur going to live?’ Godfrey whispered, looking down at Foote’s unmoving body. His hands were trembling.

Pyke shrugged.

‘Is he going to live, Pyke?’

‘He’ll live. Probably.’ Pyke picked up the Ordinary’s hat.

‘Are the turnkeys outside the ones I’ve paid?’

Godfrey nodded. ‘Two of them are, anyhow. There are three or four of ’em out there.’

This wasn’t something Pyke had planned for, but he would have to take his chances and hope the two turnkeys earned their money and distracted the other two.

‘Just take my arm and walk at a nice easy pace. Take my lead. Don’t rush, whatever you do. Anyone tries to talk to us, we keep going. Tell ’em I’m drunk and can barely speak. I’ll just mumble. I’ll make it appear that if you weren’t supporting me, I’d fall down. People here know Foote. It won’t seem strange.’

Godfrey stared down at Foote’s unmoving form and whispered, ‘Christ, Pyke, did you have to hurt Arthur as badly as that?’

Pyke ignored him and pulled the hat down as far over his face as it would go. The dog collar felt tight and scratchy around his neck. He gathered up the items Godfrey had smuggled into the cell, so as not to implicate the turnkeys when the escape was discovered.

‘Ready?’

Godfrey still seemed shaken but knocked on the door and said they were ready to leave. One of the turnkeys unbolted the door and pushed it open. The man peered into the gloomy cell and saw what he assumed to be Pyke lying on the floor. He asked whether Pyke had ‘confessed his sins before God’. Godfrey answered in the affirmative and said the prisoner wanted to be left alone. He added that the confession had also exhausted Reverend Foote and winked. ‘He needs his victuals.’ The man laughed.

Godfrey led Pyke into the corridor. Two men were sitting around an overturned wooden cask playing cards. Neither of them even bothered to look up. The turnkey who had spoken to them had one final look in the cell before closing the door and sliding the heavy iron bolts into place.