Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘When was this?’

‘A week, maybe two weeks ago. One of the lodgers remembered him, said they’d read about it in a newspaper.’

By this time Pyke was halfway across the yard.

It was only ten in the morning but already Saggers was too drunk to get up from his seat. The first thing Pyke noticed was the wet patch around the crotch of his tweed trousers. There was a plate of gnawed chop bones on the table in front of him and five or six empty pots of ale.

‘How can a man write when hunger gnaws at his tummy? Should a man of my talents be lying down in the same room as coiners and mudlarks?’ He was speaking to a man whose head was resting on the table next to him. ‘A man of my talents grubbing for a living when scriveners and compositors, with their sticks and frames, take home fifty shillings a week? Fifty shillings, I say. I used to think that making words was the noblest of all professions but now I see my reward — being denied the victuals that a man of my modest appetite requires to sustain him — and I wonder that I should ever see a bowl of stewed mutton again.’ He cast a stare in Pyke’s direction. ‘Or a half-buck of Halnaker’s venison.’

Pyke tossed a five-shilling coin down on the table. It landed among the gravy and chop bones. Saggers ordered the pot-boys to fetch him another ale and a serving of steak and kidney pudding.

‘You’re darker than I remember,’ Saggers said, licking gravy from the coin. ‘I talked to your uncle. He at least was kind enough to tell me of your departure.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving. In the end I didn’t have the time.’

‘Luckily for you I’m the forgiving type,’ Saggers said, inspecting the silver coin. ‘I’ll be even more forgiving if you tell me about your travels and give me something nice and juicy I can slap on to Spratt’s desk.’

‘One day soon I will. I promise.’ Pyke waited. ‘In the meantime, how’s the story?’

‘How’s the story? he asks.’ Saggers’ voice boomed around the empty room. ‘And what story would that be? The one you abandoned without a word to your partner-in-crime?’

‘The last time we spoke, you were trying to persuade Spratt to publish the story about Lucy Luckins’ corpse. What happened?’

‘I found Mort, the surgeon at St Thomas’s, and he confirmed, in private, what the mudlark Gilbert Meeson told us. But, for obvious reasons, he wouldn’t give me the official confirmation that Spratt needed. So Spratt refused to publish the story and, since then, it has ebbed away to nothing.’ Saggers’ mood was momentarily lifted by the fresh pot of ale put down in front of him.

‘No further developments?’

‘Not from my perspective.’ Saggers emptied the contents of the pot in three gulps and let out a belch. ‘I had an idea there might be more bodies. I mean, if this man, whoever he is, has killed two women, why stop there? I left word with mudlarks like Gilbert Meeson to keep their eyes open for another corpse, pardon the pun. I even managed to persuade Spratt to part with ten guineas as an inducement. But I’ve heard nothing, and any interest that we managed to build up in the story has vanished.’ He shook his head. ‘We made all those boasts, Pyke; we made the police seem stupid. But who looks stupid now? The police have gone about their work quietly and methodically and now they’ve found this negro fellow, Sobers.’

‘I heard,’ Pyke said. ‘What else do you know about it?’

‘Just that the Peelers nabbed him a few weeks ago and now they’ve charged him with the murder. He’s due to stand trial in a couple of days.’

‘Do you know where they’re holding him?’

‘Newgate, I think.’ Saggers looked around for some sign of the steak and kidney pudding. ‘I should warn you that the Crown’s lawyer is going to play up the ritual aspect of the murder. Some of the newspapers have already carried stories to this effect. Spratt has asked me for something — assuming the chap is found guilty.’

‘Human ape runs amok in London because it’s in his nature?’

‘That kind of thing,’ Spratt said, wincing a little.

Pyke shook his head but he knew such stories were inevitable. ‘I need you to go back to all the mudlarks you spoke to and ask them about a blind man, goes by the name of Filthy. I want to know if they’ve seen him recently and if so where can I find him.’ This time Pyke placed a half-crown down on the table.

Saggers swept it into his lap and considered Pyke’s request, his chin wobbling slightly. ‘Would it be fair to say that you’ve been somewhat parsimonious with the truth regarding this investigation?’

‘Yes, I suppose that would be a fair comment.’

‘But you see, old chap, it’s never easy trying to row a boat without oars.’

‘One day soon I’ll tell you everything I know. I promise.’

‘And until then, I’m supposed to live off your scraps?’

Pyke looked at Saggers’ sprawling girth. ‘From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like you’ve made too bad a job of it.’

An hour after Pyke had dispatched a young lad with a note to deliver to Fitzroy Tilling, the deputy commissioner of the New Police strolled into the Edinburgh Coffee House on The Strand carrying his hat. He looked older somehow, as though the job and its responsibilities had accelerated his hair loss and deepened the creases on his forehead.

‘If you were a policeman, you could be dismissed for drinking on the job.’ He pointed to Pyke’s gin and ordered a mug of coffee for himself.

This was the first time they had met since the angry words they’d exchanged outside Mayne’s chambers and the atmosphere between them was palpable.

‘Then it’s lucky for me that I’ve got a mind of my own and an aversion to taking orders from people who think police work is moving pieces of paper from one side of their desk to the other.’

It drew the thinnest of smiles. ‘When I got your note, I thought twice about coming to see you. I don’t owe you a thing, and if there’s any ground to be made up, it’s your job to do so.’

‘So why did you come?’

‘I suppose I was curious to know what, if anything, you managed to dig up in the West Indies.’

Short of him talking to Godfrey there was only one explanation for Tilling knowing about his trip to the West Indies. Pyke decided not to pursue the question for the moment.

‘I hear you made an arrest while I was away.’

‘That’s right. Arthur Sobers.’

‘Has he made a confession?’

‘He refused to speak at his committal hearing. The trial is due to take place in a couple of days.’ Tilling took his mug of coffee from the waitress and put it down on the table. ‘If he continues to say nothing, he’ll be found guilty.’

‘Is the case against him strong?’

‘Circumstantial evidence mostly,’ Tilling said.

‘Has Pierce done a good job?’

‘In spite of what you might think, Pyke, he’s a solid investigator. Very methodical.’

Pyke bit his lip. This description applied to Tilling but not Pierce, who cared only about advancing another rung up the ladder. ‘Where did they find Sobers?’

‘Sniffing around at the back of a property near Hyde Park. A neighbour didn’t like the look of him and fetched a constable.’

‘Let me guess. Pitts Head Mews.’

Tilling looked up, unable to hide his surprise. ‘How did you know?’

‘The property belongs to Elizabeth Malvern, daughter of Silas Malvern. I’m told she’s in the West Indies.’

‘But you didn’t come across her when you were out there?’

Pyke shook his head. He wanted to find and speak to Elizabeth Malvern before he divulged anything further to Tilling. According to Alefounder, she had never made the trip in the first place.