Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘What about wanting to help me get back on my feet? Was that just a lie?’ Pyke tried to swallow his bitterness. He had hoped that finding Mary Edgar’s killer might restore him in Felix’s eyes, too.

‘I’m sorry, Pyke. If there was any way I could keep you on, I would. But I’ve been through every possible permutation in my mind and none of them adds up. In the light of what’s happened, you’re too much of a risk.’

‘And that’s it?’ Pyke stared at his old acquaintance, feeling empty and a little nauseous. ‘I’m really out?’

‘As I said, I’m sorry. I really am. But let’s face it, you were never really in.’

Pyke found Edmund Saggers in the fifth or sixth public house he visited. Having been to the Old Dog on Holywell Street, the Coach and Horses, the Cock, the Back Kitchen and the Cheese, all on The Strand, he eventually found the penny-a-liner hunched over a table at the back of the Cole Hole, an inkwell and a full glass of claret next to him. From the colour of his lips, it wasn’t his first drink of the day.

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Pyke said, sitting on the bench opposite him and taking a gulp of Saggers’ wine. His anger had started to abate and he’d already formulated a plan. In spite of what he’d said, or hadn’t said, in Tilling’s office, he had no intention of giving up the investigation and sharing what he’d discovered with Pierce.

‘What kind of a change?’ Saggers asked, staring mournfully at his depleted wineglass.

Pyke could see that he’d already filled two or three sides of paper and it stood to reason he wouldn’t want to alter anything. Not unless it was in his financial interest to do so. ‘I want you to approach only one newspaper with this story, and when you do, I want to be there with you. And I want to negotiate directly with the editor; preferably one who cares more about sales than editorial content.’

‘These days, I’d say take your pick. No one cares about the craft of writing any more. Sadly I’m a man born out of his times.’ He gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Would Hazlitt or Lamb be grubbing around as I have to if they were writing today? I think not.’

Pyke decided to ignore his rhetorical flourish. ‘You have someone in mind?’

‘I’m an artist, sir, and I create according to my inner genius. If I permitted such base thoughts as sales and the market to enter my head, I would be ruined in a moment.’

‘I want you to approach an editor and set out the terms of the campaign we’re going to run.’

‘A campaign, eh?’ Saggers finished his claret and belched. ‘Like Napoleon marching on Moscow?’

‘You mean, will it be long and drawn out — and expensive for the newspaper?’

Saggers grinned. ‘Truly, sir, you’re a man after my own heart. The more time I spend in your company, the more I like you.’ He held up his empty wineglass. ‘And should you deign to refill this humble vessel, my admiration for you would stretch even farther.’

Pyke hailed a pot-boy and asked him to refill Saggers’ glass, but as soon as the full wineglass materialised, Pyke stood up. ‘Drink up. We’re off to find an editor.’

‘So you’re proposing we run a leader in tomorrow’s edition attacking the police for their failure to adopt sufficiently robust measures for detection in cases of murder and other violent crimes?’

The office occupied by the bespectacled editor of the Morning Examiner stood at the top of a flight of creaking stairs in a building in a narrow courtyard just off Fleet Street. The editor, a man called Jeremiah Spratt, had his shirtsleeves rolled up and he wore an apron heavily stained with black ink. Around him were stacks of newspapers, books still waiting to be reviewed and, on the surface of his desk, waxy pools of dried ink.

‘In part, yes. The Times and the Morning Chronicle have made similar arguments.’

‘In case you haven’t noticed we are not The Times nor the Chronicle.’ But Spratt looked around his office without embarrassment. ‘You said, in part?’

‘One justice system for the rich, another for the poor. That’s what you lead with; that’s what’ll grab your readers’ interest. Two murders on the same day. A team of the New Police’s best detectives is instantly sent to find the killer of the aristocrat; meanwhile the corpse of the poor, mulatto woman is left to rot and, more than three days later, a team still hasn’t been assigned.’

With his patrician air and his mop of slightly receding grey hair, Spratt looked more like an eccentric headmaster than the rapacious, sales-obsessed editor Pyke had been promised. Still, he hadn’t yet declared himself either way, regarding Pyke’s proposal, and as he pushed his spectacles farther up his nose, and glanced across at Saggers, who could barely contain himself, Pyke tried to work out what his concerns were.

‘How do you know all this?’ Spratt smiled awkwardly. ‘That’s to say, how do I know it’s all true?’

‘I know because I was approached by a senior figure in the Metropolitan Police to run the investigation.’ Pyke hesitated and thought about how the story he was trying to sell would affect Tilling. ‘Still, I don’t want that fact to appear anywhere in your newspaper.’

‘And now you’ve been relieved of your duties. Can I ask why?’

Pyke looked across at Saggers. ‘That’s personal, I’m afraid.’ It was late in the afternoon and Pyke wondered what time they put the morning edition to bed.

‘Yet you expect me to take your word for all of this?’ Spratt ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘And in return you want me to lampoon the police and turn them into a laughing stock?’

‘I don’t want you to turn them into a laughing stock. I just want you to draw attention to the different provisions made for the rich and the poor, call for the establishment of a new detective squad and lay down a challenge; in effect, that a dedicated team of your very best men — that’s to say, Saggers here and myself — will hunt down this woman’s murderer before the police do.’ Pyke took a moment to arrange his thoughts. ‘Think of it as an act of public service. If we’re successful, a murderer will be arrested, tried and punished. And if we’re not successful, the New Police will be forced to re-examine the way they privilege prevention of crime over detection. Who knows? Perhaps a new detective squad will arise from your campaign. And think of the additional newspapers you’ll sell. People always love a murder, but I promise you, they’ll love reading about the progress of your intrepid detectives even more, especially if we find the killer before the police do. Everyone likes to cheer for the underdog. If this thing catches on, people will be queuing at the news stands to read the latest instalment.’

‘Truly, it’s a monumental idea,’ Saggers said, oozing insincerity. ‘One of breathtaking originality that befits a great man such as yourself and a paper of this calibre.’

Pyke glared at Saggers for his syrupy intervention; they were winning Spratt over already and didn’t need to resort to sycophancy.

‘You reckon a leader and a daily column ought to do it?’ Spratt asked, inspecting an ink stain on his fingers.

‘Perhaps not a daily column. But at least every other day, or when there’s something to report. And we can ask your readers to help us with our enquiries. We could ask anyone who might have known or seen Mary Edgar to contact us. A small reward could be made available.’

‘Rewards cost money and money’s something I don’t have.’

‘Then we’ll just appeal to the goodness of your readers’ hearts.’

That drew an approving nod.

‘Of course, I’ll need some money for the investigation. Twenty pounds ought to do it to start off. And for the column itself, Saggers will want to be paid twopence a line rather than the usual one and a half.’