Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘Macabre, eh?’ Saggers finished off his ale and wiped the froth from his top lip with the sleeve of his coat. ‘Good Lord, sir, you know how to tease a hungry man, don’t you? You leave the tastiest morsels till last and then don’t bat an eyelid when you throw them down on to the plate.’

‘I don’t want you mentioning it in your story.’

‘But blood and gore sell newspapers; that’s how you’re going to get a sub-editor to sit up and take notice.’

‘Look, for the sake of the investigation, there are certain details about the murder that need to be kept from the public.’

He didn’t want news of Mary Edgar’s missing eyeballs to become common knowledge. If the exact manner of her murder was reported, the investigation would become an overnight sensation and Pyke wouldn’t be able to move, or even think, for the howling of journalists looking to make their fortunes from the dead woman’s suffering.

‘And the more you sensationalise the story, the greater the competition you’ll face,’ he added.

‘Fine point, sir. I can see that arguing with you is like firing a pea-shooter at a rampaging elephant.’ Saggers made a point of closing his pad. ‘But if we’re going to be working together as a team, I’d appreciate it if you told me what we’re dealing with. I have a very developed imagination, sir, and if I don’t know, I shall be kept awake tonight, mulling over the gruesome possibilities.’

Pyke took a moment to consider Saggers’ request. ‘Her eyeballs were cut out.’ He watched as the colour drained from the journalist’s face.

‘That’s horrible, awful.’ He shook his head. ‘But it would make a tremendous story.’

‘I don’t want it mentioned. Is that understood?’

Saggers’ eyelids drooped lazily as he contemplated Pyke’s response. In the end, he just simply shrugged. ‘You’re buying the venison, sir, you can make up the rules.’

Later, once Saggers had left, Pyke showed the etching to the rest of the drinkers in the tap and parlour rooms. He didn’t come across a single black face and no one admitted to knowing Mary. At the counter, as he waited for Samuel to serve him, he placed the drawing on the counter. ‘Do you recognise her?’ he asked, studying Samuel’s craggy face.

‘A fine-looking woman. Therefore, not likely to frequent a place like this.’ Samuel’s skin was lighter than Pyke’s but his thick, wiry hair and flat nose indicated his mixed ancestry.

‘I was told this was a place where black men and women came to drink,’ Pyke said.

‘Who told you that?’

‘No one you’d know.’

‘Since a couple of black stevedores were beaten nearly to death just around the corner, for taking jobs that could have been filled by white dockers, they’ve been keeping a lower profile.’

Pyke noted that Samuel had referred to ‘them’ rather than ‘us’. ‘She hasn’t been here, then, as far as you know.’

‘That’s right.’ Samuel smiled, shaking his head and revealing more gum than teeth. ‘And a woman like that, I’d know. Believe me, I’d know.’

‘How about a man just off the boat from Jamaica by the name of Arthur Sobers?’ Pyke described him as best he could.

‘Ain’t seen him either.’

As he prepared to leave, Samuel called out, ‘You could try again one night after the sun’s gone down. It tends to look a bit different then. Different folk drinking here, a whole different atmosphere.’ He placed a glass of rum on the counter.

Pyke went back, lifted the glass to his lips, tipped it back and opened his throat. It was as though he’d swallowed burning oil. Gagging, he bent forward, hands on his knees, forehead popping with sweat. For a moment, his vision blurred and a flash of white exploded behind his eyes. The taste the drink left in his mouth was bitter. Pyke put the glass down on the counter.

Samuel was grinning at his reaction to the rum. ‘They call it kill-devil. Most white folks drink it with a little water.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Former slaves in the Caribbean.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Some folk reckon it has medicinal properties; reckon it can cure all kinds of disease and perhaps even ward off evil spirits.’

‘Have you ever heard about the practice of embalming a corpse with rum?’

Samuel rubbed his chin while he considered Pyke’s question. ‘Can’t say I have, but then again, I might not be the best person to ask.’

‘And who might be?’

‘Come back at night, any night, and she’ll be right over there.’ Samuel offered a gummy smile and pointed to a table next to the counter. ‘Buy her a few kill-devils, and she’ll tell you anything you ask.’

It was late by the time the hackney cab dropped Pyke outside his uncle’s apartment in Camden Town. Felix would be fast asleep by now, and as he banged on the door, Pyke wondered whether he had planned it this way or not. It was true that he was slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t tried harder to win over his son, but it was also true that he didn’t exactly know how to do this; whether to give the lad a few days to get over the sight of him taking Maginn apart or to grasp this nettle as soon as possible. In the end, he’d dithered and done neither.

It was Jo, rather than Godfrey, who opened the door, and as she led the way to the front room, she explained that Godfrey was dining out. She had been sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace and an open book rested on one of the arms. Hurriedly she closed it and tried to hide it under the chair but Pyke had already recognised its leather cover. He didn’t say anything, though, at least not straight away. Instead, he excused himself, found a full bottle of claret in the pantry and returned to the front room with the bottle and two empty wineglasses, which he filled to the brim. At first, Jo tried to protest, saying she didn’t drink wine, but Pyke insisted that he wouldn’t take no for an answer and, finally, she relented.

She was wearing a simple cotton dress and her flame-coloured hair glistened softly in the candlelight. Her cheeks were slightly rosy and, when she smiled, laughter lines framed her blue eyes. She wasn’t beautiful by the standards of genteel society; for a start she was too petite, no more than five feet tall, and her hips were too wide for her to be considered slim. But she was spirited and good natured and Pyke knew he’d never find a better governess, nursemaid and companion for Felix; for her part, she seemed to love the boy as her own.

‘I’m sorry, Pyke. I didn’t mean for Felix to see the fight…’ Jo couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

‘How was he? Did he talk about it on the way back here?’

Jo shook her head. ‘He was very quiet. He’s been very quiet today, as well. But…’ At the last moment she seemed to lose her nerve.

‘But what?’

‘He’s barely ten.’ There was a hardness to her voice. ‘Seeing that man close up, seeing the blood, I’d say it affected him.’

Pyke thought about the way he’d beaten Maginn, and how it must have looked to Felix. ‘Did you see it?’

‘I saw that man lying in the gutter.’ She bit her lip and took another sip of wine. Her neck was flushed.

‘Did you know that Maginn was harassing a prostitute, and that he’d plotted to have me killed?’

This time she didn’t answer. Perhaps she was worried about criticising him. Pyke wanted to tell her that he didn’t mind — that he wanted to hear what she had to say — but it didn’t seem appropriate.

‘Sometimes I see the way the world is and I can feel the insides of my stomach crawling.’ He looked down at his boots. ‘That’s not true. I see what I’ve done, the way I’ve let people down, and I want to tear out my own throat. But I’ve no right to say these things to you. I’m sorry, I should go. I’m not good company.’