Andrew Pepper - The Last Days of Newgate

‘It’s kind of you, my boy, and I’m gratified to hear you say it, but your father produced you.’

‘Let me ask you a question, then. What good would it do me, to hear what a great man or, alternatively, what a fool he was?’

‘I just thought you might be interested,’ Godfrey said, sounding disappointed. ‘That’s all.’

Pyke took a piece of paper from his trouser pocket, unfolded it and handed it to his uncle. ‘I’ll be gone tomorrow by the time Emily rises. Could you possibly take her to this address for me?’

Godfrey stared at the address for a few moments and frowned. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’

Pyke shook his head.

‘Will Emily know?’

‘She won’t at first,’ Pyke said, choosing his words carefully. ‘At first, it’ll be a terrible shock. If she can’t guess, tell her I visited an asylum in Portsmouth. .’

‘An asylum?’ Godfrey screwed up his face. ‘Really, Pyke, what is this about?’

Pyke stared at the fire but didn’t give his uncle an answer.

Brownlow Vines was dining alone at Simpson’s on the Strand. He was eating boiled mutton and washing it down with a bottle of claret. Dressed in a stylish black frock-coat, fitted trousers, polished leather boots and a starched white cravat, he looked every inch the dandy. His foppish sideburns and tousled hair completed the look. Pyke waited until he had finished his meal before he appeared. He took a seat opposite him without being invited. Vines stared at him, open-mouthed.

‘Pyke, my God. This is a. . surprise.’ Vines glanced around the crowded restaurant for assistance.

‘You have to answer for what you did,’ Pyke said, taking his time. He was not in any hurry.

Vines picked up his glass and finished what was in it. ‘Listen, man. .’ His voice was hoarse. He took off his frock-coat, and Pyke noticed a large sweat stain underneath each armpit.

Pyke leaned forward across the small table and whispered, ‘At any moment, you will start to experience stomach cramps. These will get progressively more painful. Eventually, you will not be able to breathe. The poison you have just ingested’ — Pyke motioned at the empty plate in front of him — ‘is quite deadly but, unlike cyanide or arsenic, it is not a fast-acting agent. I’m afraid you will experience a fair amount of pain. You’ll vomit. You might lose your sight. Eventually you won’t be able to move. I’m told that’s the first indication you’re close to death. Once paralysis sets in, you might have another five or ten minutes of life.’

Vines stared at him for a while, unable to fathom what he had just been told. ‘But I didn’t kill her,’ he said, eventually, quivering with indignation. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with me.’

Pyke stood up, pulled his jacket down and shrugged. ‘I know.’ As he turned to leave, he saw Vines clutch his stomach.

Pyke had one final stop to make before he started out on the journey to Hambledon Hall for the last time.

Fox was a difficult man to fathom and it was hard to warm to him: he was cold, often aloof and possessed an air of his own superiority that was the product of perceived intellectual prowess rather than breeding. Perhaps it was this intellectual snobbery that drew him to Pyke, and vice versa, or perhaps Fox was frightened of him or, rather, had needed him to perform tasks that other Runners were unable or unwilling to do. Whatever it was, there was a bond between them that went beyond familiarity. Fox may have been vain and high-handed but he was also fair and scrupulous. He had risked censure and ridicule for treating those who exhibited some remorse for their crimes and whose recidivism could be explained by social circumstances with compassion. He also turned a blind eye to many of Pyke’s moral lapses, and did so without demanding any of the proceeds from his illicit activities.

‘I fancy I can guess why you’re here,’ Fox said, wearily, as though he were indifferent to the whole matter. He offered Pyke a cadaverous smile.

Pyke pulled back his jacket to reveal the pistol that he had tucked into his belt. ‘Vines is dead. So is Swift.’

Fox nodded, as though he had expected as much. ‘For what it’s worth, Brownlow was simply following orders.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I was going to ask you to spare him for old times’ sake, but you were never much of a sentimentalist, were you?’

‘I never much liked him, either.’ Pyke looked away. He didn’t want Fox to see his own sadness.

‘No, quite.’ Fox ran his finger across his moustache. After an awkward silence he asked in a feathery voice, ‘How did you find out?’

‘You mean aside from your pathetic attempt to have me lynched the other day, outside your office?’

‘I was desperate.’ Fox’s eyes were dark with exhaustion.

Pyke waited for a moment, to organise his thoughts, and then explained that he had been bothered by two separate incidents. He had not been able to work out how Swift had known where to find the cousin, Mary Johnson, and her boyfriend, Gerry McKeown. And he had not known who had sanctioned Lizzie’s killing, especially after his initial assumption concerning Peel’s involvement had turned out to be wildly wrong.

‘And this led you to me?’

‘Not exactly.’ Pyke permitted himself a small sigh. ‘For a start, I talked to Tilling. He told me that Vines had not been of any help to Peel over the issue of police reform. He told me Vines’s loyalty, and I quote, “lay squarely with Sir Richard”. That’s when I realised what I had missed all along. Apart from me, the one other person who knew where Mary and Gerry had been staying was your coachman. He had taken us to an inn in Isleworth. I suppose I didn’t think about him because I didn’t remotely suspect you.’

Fox shrugged, almost apologetically. ‘She had to die, I’m afraid. You do know she’d actually interrupted the murders?’ He shook his head. ‘Poor girl.’

Sickened, Pyke couldn’t bring himself to look at his mentor. ‘It explains why you were so keen to locate her.’

‘Quite.’ Fox’s laugh was without humour or warmth. ‘I’m afraid Edmonton was blackmailing me by then. I had no choice but to tell him what I knew.’

‘That’s how he found out about Flynn?’

Fox nodded.

‘But once upon a time the two of you were partners, so to speak.’

‘I suppose so.’ Fox smiled weakly. ‘I had already signed my own Faustian pact.’ He looked up at the portrait of Sir Henry Fielding above the fireplace. ‘But it was Edmonton who approached me initially, rather than the other way around.’

‘He had heard about your disagreements with Peel over the whole business of police reform.’

Fox shrugged. ‘He didn’t need to tell me that he’d fallen out with the Home Secretary himself. That much was common knowledge.’

‘Both of you united by your hatred of Peel.’

Fox looked at him, clear-eyed. ‘Is that so hard to believe? That I might hate someone who was seeking to pull down everything that I believed in? Everything I’d spent my life building up?’

‘You knew Peel was determined to bring Bow Street under the auspices of the Home Office. .’

‘And in effect kill off the Runners.’ A little colour returned to Fox’s cheeks. ‘I thought that if Peel could be persuaded, if not by logic then by blackmail, to go back on his plans. .’

‘Then the Runners might be saved.’

Fox nodded appreciatively. ‘Exactly.’

Pyke appeared to digest this information. ‘And your job, once the bodies had been discovered in St Giles, was simply to make sure that any subsequent murder investigation would implicate Davy Magennis, and eventually uncover his link to Tilling and hence Peel.’

‘Except that you did most of that work for me,’ Fox said, matter-of-factly.