Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘If you do exactly as I tell you, I’ll take you to lunch at the Cafe de l’Europe or any of those fancy restaurants on Haymarket.’

Saggers eyed him cautiously. ‘Anything on the menu?’

Pyke nodded.

‘Even the half-buck of Halnaker venison?’ It was a cut of meat that could easily have fed ten men. ‘Washed down by a bottle of their finest claret?’

‘Anything.’

‘Well, sir, as long as it doesn’t involve me having to morally compromise a young child, I’ll do it.’ He patted his stomach and grinned.

Saggers wrote ‘copy’ for newspapers about the grubbier aspects of London life — murders, suicides, coroner’s inquests, fires and all manner of calamities — and was paid one and a half pence for each line, a halfpenny rise from the sum that had given his ilk their name. A column in a morning paper might earn him thirty shillings, and he would then try to sell the same story to other newspapers, thereby tripling and sometimes even quadrupling this sum. Pyke had first met him through Godfrey; the penny-a-liner had chased down some details for his uncle’s book and had liaised with Pyke regarding some of his recollections. In fact, Saggers was closer to Pyke’s age than to Godfrey’s, but given their mutual appreciation of good food and fine wine, it was perhaps not surprising that Saggers and his uncle were friends, even if Godfrey always ended up paying for their meals. Indeed, Pyke had often wondered whether the obese journalist was merely using his uncle to indulge his colossal appetite. Still, Godfrey had always raved about the man’s ability to ferret out buried truths and any whiff of scandal. ‘I tell you,’ he had once said, ‘that fellow could walk into a temperance meeting and pick out a couple who’d been rutting on the sly with one sniff.’

‘What business are we talking about?’ Saggers picked his nose and licked what was on his nail without embarrassment.

‘A murder.’ Pyke let the word create its own effect. Murders tended to lift the spirits of the penny-a-liners; hunting down arcane snippets of information about the victim or murderer could result in significant sums of money.

‘You mean the lord?’ Saggers said quickly, his greed suddenly getting the better of him. The newspapers had been full of stories about the demise of Lord Bedford and any new story about the murder or the police investigation would be snapped up by any number of sub-editors.

‘Not Bedford, but a murder none the less.’ Pyke waited for a moment. ‘And right now, not many people know about it. Me, the deputy commissioner of the New Police, the coroner, the jurors at the inquest. As far as I know, it hasn’t yet been reported in any of the newspapers.’

‘An exclusive, eh?’ Grinning, Saggers pulled out a notepad and a length of shaved charcoal. Doubtless he was already imagining the money he would make from it and the meals that would buy.

‘Of course, before I can divulge any information, I need certain assurances…’

‘What kind of assurances?’

‘For a start, that you’ll endeavour to place the story by the day after tomorrow.’

Saggers scratched his bristly chin and considered what Pyke had just said. ‘If you want to see your story published so quickly, why not go directly to a newspaper?’

‘I don’t want it to be published in just one newspaper. I want the story to be sold to as many papers as possible. And that’s where you come in.’

If Mary Edgar had, during her brief stay in London, consorted only with the types who couldn’t read or write on the Ratcliff Highway, it wouldn’t have made any sense to appeal for information about her in the newspapers. But if, as Pyke now suspected, she had moved in an altogether different social class, news of her murder might compel someone who’d met her to come forward. Initially Pyke had striven to keep the murder out of the public eye, but this approach hadn’t borne much fruit so now it was time to change tack.

‘Capital idea, sir, capital,’ Saggers said, his grin returning. Selling a column, or even half a column to five or six sub-editors would see him clear for the rest of the month.

Pyke placed the drawing on the table. Saggers inspected it keenly, his eyes giving nothing away. ‘So who is she?’ he asked eventually.

‘Mary Edgar. Her naked body was found the day before yesterday just off the Ratcliff Highway.’ Pyke saw him scribble down the word ‘naked’ on his notepad, and then he added ‘exotic’ and ‘beautiful’. Already the story was taking shape in Saggers’ mind and, for the time being, Pyke was happy to let the journalist run with it.

‘I love a good “naked body” story as much as the next man, but what else can you tell me about her?’

‘She had recently arrived in London from the West Indies. Jamaica.’ Pyke paused. ‘I’d like to know when, where she docked, and which ship she sailed on.’

Saggers scribbled a few more words down on his notepad. ‘And that’s it? That’s all you know about her?’ He had another look at the drawing. ‘So how would you describe her? Black or mulatto?’

‘What do you think?’

Saggers looked up from the drawing and shrugged. ‘I think she looks rich.’ He waited and added, ‘In which case, why was her body found on the Ratcliff Highway?’

Pyke smiled. ‘Exactly my question.’ He’d clearly picked the right man for the job.

Saggers gave a satisfied smile. ‘I’ve always said, give me the right raw materials and I’ll write you a veritable Beggar’s Opera. This is good, sir. It will permit me to indulge my creative juices. I’ll have it written by the time the newspapers go to bed tomorrow night.’

‘I don’t want tragedy, I want mystery. That’s how you’re going to sell the story. Readers love things that can’t be explained.’

‘If you buy me a half-buck of Halnaker’s venison, you can have anything you want.’

‘What I want,’ Pyke explained, ‘is to use the story as a way of appealing for information about the dead woman.’

‘Have no fear. A work of art can operate on many different levels.’ Saggers took the charcoal in his hand. ‘Social utility and aesthetic brilliance may seem to be unlikely companions to the uninitiated but in the hands of a master one can feed off the other as easily as a piglet sucking on his mummy’s tit.’ He grinned at his own analogy. ‘Where are readers meant to take their information?’

‘To me.’ Pyke paused. ‘Or to Fitzroy Tilling at the Whitehall Division of the New Police.’

Saggers looked up from his pad. ‘Is this a police investigation or are you looking into the matter privately?’

‘A little of both — but that’s strictly off the record. You mention my name anywhere in the piece, and I’ll personally see to it that you don’t receive another scrap of information.’

‘Don’t worry, I can fudge the issue, make it sound official without mentioning names. Yet another string to my bow, as they say. And I know where my bread is buttered.’

‘And where your caked is iced.’

‘Actually I’m not especially partial to cake. I find it fattening.’ He patted his enormous stomach. ‘One last question, sir. You said that the coroner’s inquest had already taken place. What was the verdict?’

‘Wilful murder.’

Saggers nodded. ‘But there weren’t any newspapermen at the inquest? That’s curious. Usually they’re like jackals feeding off a carcass.’ He rubbed his chin.

‘The inquest was a closed one. The jurors were warned not to talk about the details of the murder.’

‘I see I’ve struck a nerve of some sort.’

‘We found the corpse in a distressed state. We didn’t want to advertise this fact. You know how the macabre tends to attract all kinds of lunatic.’