Andrew Pepper - The Last Days of Newgate

Edmonton finally produced a flintlock pistol, and waved it triumphantly at Pyke, nearly knocking over a decanter filled with port that adorned his bedside table.

‘I see that you have availed yourself of the view,’ Pyke said, not bothered by the pistol, as he walked across the room to the window that overlooked the main gate. ‘Maybe the mob will storm the defences, ransack the hall and cut off your head.’

‘This is England, not the Continent.’ Edmonton laughed. ‘And the mob will never get in here. I’ve offered the men outside a bonus of ten guineas for every peasant they shoot dead.’ He was holding the pistol as though his life depended on it.

‘I had no problem getting in here.’

That elicited a fatuous smile. ‘The past few months have demonstrated that I am more than capable of taking care of you.’

‘I’ll admit I had no proper understanding of the extent of your depravity.’

‘Ah, excellent. A lesson in ethics from a common thief and convicted murderer. I bow to your superior wisdom.’

‘Better a common thief than a moral simpleton with innocent blood smeared over his fat hands.’

‘In what way am I a moral simpleton?’ Edmonton seemed amused rather than annoyed. ‘Tell me this. Do you really want a country full of papist spies running amok in every department of state, passing our secrets to the foul Roman Church? Conspiring to replace our goodly Anglican brethren with depraved, child-molesting Catholic priests? In God’s name, don’t you understand what’s been happening? One day soon, papist traitors like O’Connell will be able to stand up in the House and vote on matters concerning the true Church. What if I was to stand back and do nothing? We would soon have rosary beads adorning every mantelpiece, incense burning in every home, and lust-driven monks roaming the streets preying on our innocent Protestant children.’

Pyke had come to Hambledon in the expectation that he might find something that explained the terrible scene that he had witnessed in that lodging room. Now, though, as he stared into Edmonton’s reptilian eyes, it was hard not to conceive of his pathetic ranting as a form of madness, and as such he felt less outrage than he had expected to; less outrage but no pity.

Pyke supposed it was relatively easy for Edmonton to despise Catholics: to see them somehow as subhuman and not deserving of life. For him, it was simply a matter of personal preference, an opinion that could be strongly held precisely because it did not impinge on his life in any way, except in abstract terms. Catholics were akin to demons; monstrous figures that existed only in his imagination. For Andrew Magennis, or his son Davy, or even for Jimmy Swift, it was different. At least their hatred, malignant and debilitating as it was, had a history; it made some kind of perverse sense in the context of two hundred years of religious animosity and upheaval. It made sense because they had lived among and fought with people who, in the process, had become their bitterest enemies. For Edmonton, though, Catholics were faceless and anonymous — barbarians amassing at the gate to sack Protestant civilisation — and therefore could be subjected to any degree of inhumanity in the name of a nobler cause. Closeted in his English home, and buoyed by a formless hatred, Edmonton had overseen a chain of events that had led to many deaths. But it was pointless to expect him to feel guilt for what he had done.

‘But you failed, Edmonton. Catholic emancipation passed through both Houses. Peel remains in office. Swift is dead. And I’m still here.’ Pyke walked across the room towards the four-poster bed. ‘And it will be my very great pleasure to take away everything you have left.’

‘How delightfully naive,’ Edmonton said, still waving the pistol. But he was perspiring like a hog.

‘I’m here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’

‘You’re here to ask me?’ Edmonton started to laugh. ‘That’s rich. Rather wonderful, actually. You’re quite the brigand, aren’t you?’ His feigned laughter subsided. ‘But did you actually imagine I would give you my blessing?’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

‘By God, you’re certainly a man to admire, that’s for certain. A cad and a brigand. Obstinate. Quite obstinate.’ Edmonton’s rosy cheeks glowed in the candlelight.

Pyke nodded, as though Edmonton had given him the answer he had been expecting. ‘By the way, that pistol is quite useless. While you were preparing for bed, I found it under one of the pillows and disarmed it.’

Edmonton looked down at the pistol, then up at Pyke, cocked the trigger and fired it. Nothing happened.

‘Let me rephrase the question. I’m going to marry your daughter. There. No longer a question, was it?’ He smiled easily.

‘The two of you can do whatever you damn well like, but you won’t ever see a penny of my money.’ His eyes narrowed.

‘Not even when you’re dead?’

This drew a leering grin. ‘Especially when I’m dead.’

‘Oh?’ Pyke said, happy to play along with him for the moment.

‘If she should marry unwisely, she loses everything. The estate would pass to a distant cousin in America.’

‘Really? And how is this business of an “unwise marriage” characterised in your will?’

‘It’s not in my original will,’ Edmonton said, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘But I had the foresight to draw up a codicil.’

‘A codicil?’

‘An amendment to my original will which names you in person. It means that if she were ever to marry you, then she would lose the estate and any claim to it.’

‘Is that legal?’

‘Perfectly.’ Edmonton was grinning. ‘She also loses the estate if she uses any income accrued from it or from the sale of land to benefit that damn charity of hers.’

‘That will hurt her,’ Pyke said, digesting this news.

‘It will, won’t it?’

‘You put that in this codicil, too?’

‘I did indeed.’ Edmonton appeared relaxed. ‘At heart, my daughter is as self-interested as you or I. She won’t want to give up her inheritance either for you or her damn charity. So you see, this proposed marriage is nonsense.’

Pyke nodded amiably. ‘I discussed this with your lawyer earlier this afternoon.’

‘My lawyer?’

‘On Chancery Lane,’ Pyke said, nodding.

‘What business did you have with my lawyer?’

‘Well, I knew for a start you did not keep certain important documents here at the hall.’

‘Who told you that?’

Pyke shrugged as though it was not important. ‘Dammit, what did you say to my lawyer?’

‘I put a pistol to his head and told him that if he didn’t produce your will from inside his safe, I would blow his brains out.’

Edmonton stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘And did he?’

‘The will and the codicil. I looked at both. I told him to hold on to the will. I kept the codicil for myself.’

He produced the document from his pocket and tossed it on to the bed so Edmonton could see that it was the genuine article.

‘I’ll destroy it after I have killed you, of course,’ Pyke said, calmly.

‘But if you shoot me, there’ll be an investigation. My lawyer will talk. In which case, you will never get your hands on my money.’ There was a rushed, panicky tone in his voice.

Pyke picked up one of Edmonton’s pillows and plumped it with his fist. ‘But let’s just imagine for a minute that you were to die peacefully. From a heart attack. The stress of having to watch all those angry people gathered outside your gates.’ Pyke shrugged. ‘You’re no longer a young man and, I have to say, you’re not in the best physical condition. Do you think anyone would really find it so surprising?’