Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

The next morning Pyke asked for Saggers in the Cole Hole, the Turk’s Head and the Crown and Anchor. He eventually found the penny-a-liner in the Back Kitchen; the morning edition of the Examiner was spread out on the table, together with an empty flagon of claret and a plateful of chop bones. The room was deserted, except for a few snoring drunkards, and it smelled of unwashed bodies and fried food. Saggers picked up the newspaper and showed Pyke the leading article and the column he’d penned about Mary Edgar’s murder. Pyke read it and told Saggers he’d done a thorough job.

In fact, it was difficult to see how Saggers and Spratt might have done a better job. The tone of the leader was just right; a delicate mixture of concern, mockery and indignation: ‘Prevention of crime is no longer sufficient on its own to safeguard the interests of the citizens of this great metropolis.’ Or, even better, ‘The sheer incompetence of the Metropolitan Police beggars belief.’ Best of all, ‘We have no doubt that a special team of committed, hardworking journalists will find the killer, or killers, of this poor black woman before the bumbling fools of the police.’ Pyke noticed a brief reference to Fitzroy Tilling and passed over it.

‘A veritable masterpiece, even if I say so myself,’ Saggers said, delivering his verdict.

‘Any repercussions?’

‘Any repercussions, the man asks?’ Saggers appealed to a drunkard sitting next to them. ‘Well, sir, it would seem that Sir Richard Mayne came to see Spratt in person this morning, after he’d seen the newspaper. I’m reliably informed that he was incandescent with rage. He ranted and raved and made all kinds of threats. I’m only sorry I didn’t see it with my own eyes.’

‘Mayne? In person?’ Pyke hadn’t expected the riposte to come from the commissioner himself. ‘And did Spratt manage to hold his ground?’

Saggers’ grin widened. ‘Spratt was delighted he’d managed to rile a man as important as Mayne. Told him there was no way he was going to abandon the campaign and said that if Mayne wanted him to print a retraction, he’d have to bloody well find the woman’s killer before we did.’

‘He said that?’ Pyke had witnessed Spratt’s ruthless side, but now he was impressed by the man’s integrity.

‘Spratt might not look the part but when he gets behind something, he’s won’t give any ground unless he absolutely has to.’

‘I’d like you to try to dig up some information about the West India Dock Company,’ Pyke said, then explained that Mary Edgar had been seen leaving the docks in a gentleman’s carriage.

Saggers rubbed his chin. ‘What makes you think the company’s involved?’

‘I don’t, at least not yet. But I think one of their clerks lied to me about not knowing Mary Edgar, which makes me suspicious.’

‘In which case, sir, I will be suspicious on your behalf.’ Saggers grinned at Pyke, then belched.

Nathaniel Rowbottom returned to his office, carrying a ledger in one hand and a quill and fresh ink in the other. Pyke waited until he had closed the heavy, panelled door and had deposited the items on his desk before making his move. The knife was already in Pyke’s hand and the terrified clerk didn’t have time even to blink, let alone shout for help, before Pyke had twisted his arm, and pressed the blade into his throat. A few spots of blood appeared on his neck where the serrated edge had penetrated the skin. Rowbottom had lied to Pyke and would continue to lie to him unless he thought that his life was in danger.

‘If you don’t answer me truthfully, I’ll slit your throat and leave you to bleed to death like a slaughtered pig. I’ve killed men before and I’ll do it again. Nod once, very slowly, if you understand.’ Pyke was standing over him, whispering in his ear, the knife still pressed against his throat.

For a moment Rowbottom was too terrified to do anything, but eventually it came, a slight tilt of his head.

‘Mary Edgar docked here a little over two weeks ago, on one of the ships that arrived from the West Indies. I want two names, that’s all; the ship she disembarked from and the man who met her.’

‘I don’t know…’

Pyke dug the blade deeper into Rowbottom’s neck. ‘Think very carefully about what will happen if you don’t answer my question.’

‘The Island Queen,’ Rowbottom croaked, in barely more than a whisper. ‘That’s the name of the ship. And that’s all I know. I promise you.’ It was the same ship the docker had told him about.

Pyke tutted under his breath and drew the blade very slightly across the clerk’s throat. A faint line of crimson appeared. ‘She was taken somewhere in a gentleman’s carriage. I just want the name of the man who arranged it.’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t give me his name; he just told me he wanted to meet someone arriving on the Island Queen. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’

‘One more jerk of my wrist and I’ll sever your jugular vein. And you know what’ll happen if I do that? You’ll be dead within five, ten minutes. No one saw me come in here and no one will notice me leaving. And you will have died for what? To protect the name of a client or associate who, if the roles were reversed, would have told me your name in a second.’ Pyke licked a line of saliva from his bottom lip.

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Then you’re dead.’

‘No. Please.’ Rowbottom seemed to be losing control of his bowels. The smell was appalling.

‘A name. One last chance.’

‘Alefounder,’ Rowbottom sobbed. ‘William Alefounder.’

Pyke kept the blade to his throat but eased the pressure a little. ‘There; that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

A wail of despair spilled from Rowbottom’s mouth.

‘Who is he and where can I find him?’

The clerk fell on to his desk. ‘He’s a sugar trader… His offices are located in St Michael’s Alley just off Cornhill… across from the Jamaica Coffee House.’

In quieter moments, Pyke liked to think of himself as fair and even-handed in his dealings with others: someone who didn’t take account of status, wealth, religion or colour but who dealt with people on their own terms. But this was not true. In fact, he had always pursued the wealthy and privileged as though they had personally done him wrong.

‘Go and fetch the police.’

William Alefounder looked at Pyke from his place at the end of a polished mahogany table in what was evidently the company boardroom, then glowered at the apologetic assistant who’d been unable to prevent Pyke from interrupting the meeting. Around the table were five or six smartly attired men, in addition to Alefounder, all of whom Pyke could have beaten in a fight with one arm tied behind his back.

‘Do it now.’

The assistant fled from the boardroom but left the door open. A couple of clerks had gathered at the threshold, alerted by the brusque, even violent, way in which Pyke had forced his way through their various lines of defence.

Pyke strode over to where Alefounder was sitting and put the charcoal etching of Mary Edgar down on to the table.

‘Her name is Mary Edgar, but you already know that. She was murdered about a week ago. Her naked corpse was found just off the Ratcliff Highway. You met her off the Island Queen when it arrived at the West India Docks some time before the twenty-fifth of last month.’

Alefounder’s impassive stare and cool, almost translucent eyes gave little away. Pyke couldn’t tell how tall he was, but his solid chest, broad shoulders and lantern jaw suggested he should not be taken lightly. In other circumstances, Pyke might even have described him as good looking. His skin was dark and smooth and his black hair, cut short, was flecked with a few grey hairs, the only indication that he was middle-aged rather than young.