Andrew Pepper - The Last Days of Newgate

Pyke could feel the old man’s animosity but there was something else in his stare, too. Fear, perhaps. Sadness?

‘You were askin’ about a church,’ the old man said, after about half a minute’s silence.

Pyke nodded.

‘I don’t know about any church in particular but you could have a look for him in the vicinity of Market Hill.’

‘Does he have family or friends there?’

Andrew Magennis crossed his arms and said nothing. ‘Is that where he went after he was thrown out of the constabulary?’

Magennis stared at him without emotion.

‘Why might Davy have gone there?’

The old man’s expression remained resolute, intent on concealing whatever feelings Pyke’s questions had provoked.

But Pyke did not find Davy Magennis in any of the churches or meeting rooms in Market Hill. Nor did anyone in the town admit to knowing him. When he asked about churches in the outlying area, he was told of one about two miles north of the town, on the road to Hamilton’s Bawn.

It had turned into a warm, sunny day. A cooling breeze blew gently off the lough and a few clouds drifted harmlessly across an otherwise unbroken vista of blue. The air felt light, even balmy, as Pyke led his black horse up to the perimeter of the old church. It was the kind of day that should have made him feel lucky to be alive, but Pyke was bothered by something he could not quite fathom.

As soon as he stepped into the draughty old church, which was pleasantly cool out of the sun, he saw a young man kneeling down at the altar at the front of the building. It was a dour place, with clear rather than stained-glass windows and an unusually low ceiling.

Pyke did not make any attempt to conceal his presence. He walked down the aisle and came to a halt only a few yards away from the place where the priest was kneeling. The man looked up at him, startled.

He stood up, rearranged his cloak and dog collar, and smiled. ‘Simon Hunter.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He spoke in a crisp English accent.

‘Pyke.’ He shook the priest’s hand, not seeing any reason to conceal his identity.

The priest continued to smile. ‘Well, Mr Pyke, what brings you to Mullabrack?’

‘I’m looking for a big man called Davy Magennis.’

The priest’s good humour vanished. Lines of concern appeared on his brow. ‘Davy, you say?’

‘Big man. At least six and a half feet tall.’

The priest continued to look at him, unsure what to say.

‘You know him?’

Very slowly, the priest nodded his head.

‘Do you know where I can find him?’

Again, the young priest nodded.

‘Well, can I speak to him?’

‘I’m afraid that would be impossible.’

Pyke looked deep into the man’s concerned face and imagined the sheltered, comfortable upbringing that had produced it. ‘You might not believe it, but I think he might need my help.’

‘A few days ago, I would have agreed with you.’

The priest ran his fingers through his wavy hair. He seemed upset, as though Pyke’s request had put him in a difficult position. Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally the priest told Pyke to follow him. Outside, the yard was dotted with graves. It was cool in the shade provided by giant oak trees. They came to a halt next to what appeared to be a recently filled grave. Pyke understood what the priest had been trying to tell him. He felt angry and cheated but managed to ask what had happened.

‘Davy showed up here about a week ago. He wouldn’t tell me his surname.’ The priest wiped sweat from his brow. ‘He didn’t make a great deal of sense. I could see he was deeply troubled by something. I let him stay in the church. I wouldn’t usually make such an allowance but he was insistent. He assured me he didn’t feel safe anywhere else.’ The priest looked away, faltering. He tried to gather himself. ‘The following morning, I came to see if he was still here, and ask if he wanted any food or drink, and, well, I found him. .’ Pyke could see tears building up behind the young man’s eyes. ‘I found him lying on the floor at the front of the church surrounded by his own blood. There was a knife on the floor next to his hand. He had cut his own throat, or so they reckoned. Two officers from the constabulary and the magistrate were here by midday. They asked me who he was. I told them what I told you, that I only knew him by the name Davy. None of them recognised him. In the end, they decided it was most likely a suicide and since there wasn’t any way of identifying him, the magistrate said it was probably best that we give him a Christian burial, even if what he had done was a mortal sin in the eyes of God.’

Later, in the front room of a village tavern, the priest took a sip of ale and said, ‘Back in the church, you told me you were a friend of Davy’s?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Pyke had the feeling the man wanted to tell him something important.

‘I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest with the magistrate and the constables. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I’m not certain I’m thinking straight even now.’

‘Finding a dead body can be a terrible shock,’ Pyke said.

‘Yes, it was.’ For a moment, the priest shuddered and looked down into his half-empty glass.

‘Davy told you something, didn’t he?’

Still unable to meet Pyke’s stare, the young priest simply nodded his head.

‘He told you what he had done. Confessed his sins?’

When the priest looked up, his eyes were clear. ‘Yes.’

‘But you can’t tell me what he told you.’ Pyke waited for a moment, before he added, ‘Or can you?’

‘I’m not a Catholic minister, if that’s what you mean. I’m an Anglican. We’re not bound by the confessional oath.’ That drew a frown. ‘But that’s not to say I don’t have a moral obligation to safeguard what has been told to me in the strictest confidence.’

‘Of course. I understand.’ Pyke tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. ‘But what if I already knew what Davy had done? What he confessed to you?’

‘How would you know?’

‘When I told you I was a friend of Davy’s I was lying. I’m a Bow Street Runner. Does that mean anything to you?’

The young priest stared down at his trembling hands. ‘That’s like a London policeman, isn’t it?’

Pyke nodded. ‘I was the one who found the bodies.’

‘Oh God.’ The priest’s face whitened. For a moment, it looked as if he might pass out.

‘I understand that, first and foremost, you serve God,’ Pyke said, as gently as he could, ‘but you also have an obligation to see justice served in this world.’

‘I suppose.’

‘How about I tell you what I already know or think I know and, if I make a mistake, then you can perhaps point me in the right direction?’ Pyke smiled easily. ‘Does that sound acceptable to you or not?’

The priest nodded and took a long draught of ale.

‘I want to talk about the man who Davy went to work for, after he’d been dismissed from the police.’ As he pointed his pistol at Andrew Magennis’s eye, Pyke cocked the trigger, as though about to fire. He had found the old man sitting alone at the table, staring into space.

‘What do you want to know?’ This time the old man’s expression seemed placid.

‘His name, for a start.’

‘I can’t remember. I’m not sure I even found that out.’

Pyke brought the pistol closer to the old man’s eye. ‘The priest either didn’t know or wouldn’t give me his name.’

‘What priest?’

‘The one Davy confessed to,’ Pyke said. ‘He told me Davy’s former employer owns a few acres of land on the Armagh road just outside Market Hill.’