Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘I heard about the arrest, of course, and I was curious…’

They stared at one another. ‘He didn’t pay you a visit, then?’ Pyke didn’t bother to hide his scepticism.

‘No.’

‘And you don’t know what he was doing on your street?’

Elizabeth looked away first. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘I’m told he hasn’t spoken a word since he was arrested. If he continues to offer no defence, he’ll be found guilty by default and they’ll hang him for it.’

Pyke had expected some kind of reaction but not the one he got. ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ she said, seemingly forgetting herself and touching his sleeve. Later he thought there had been a lingering sadness in her voice and her eyes, but even with hindsight he couldn’t make any sense of it.

Godfrey was sitting in the taproom of the Crown and Anchor surrounded by empty ale pots. Underfoot the floor was damp with butcher’s sawdust, mixed with the odd chop bone and oyster shell, and the air around them smelled like unwashed clothes that had been left to rot in a wardrobe.

‘I’m pleased it’s you, dear boy,’ Godfrey said, without much enthusiasm.

‘I came as soon as I got your message.’ Pyke had another look at his uncle’s wan face. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘I’m fine, or as fine as a man can be who’s had to pay money for these beastly things,’ he said, removing two copperplates from his coat pocket and pushing them across the table.

Pyke took the first of the plates and studied the image. His stomach muscles clenched. The subject was Bessie Daniels; she was lying — naked — on the same sofa he’d seen her spread across and had the same stunned expression he remembered; the result of imbibing laudanum. There was little or nothing erotic about it and the overall effect was dispiriting, akin to watching a slab of meat in a butcher’s window. Still, Pyke’s eyes were drawn to her plump, well-shaped breasts and to the dark triangle of hair around her vagina. The ring on her finger was an indistinct smudge.

‘That’s not the worst one, by a long shot,’ Godfrey said, making sure that no one else was looking in their direction.

The other image also featured Bessie Daniels but this time she had been joined by a naked man whose head was covered by a hood. Bessie was lying on a bed and the man was kneeling over her, like a victorious fighting dog standing over its vanquished foe. Such was the positioning of their almost intertwined bodies that Pyke couldn’t see the man’s penis but it was all too clear what impression the scene was intended to connote. Still, for all that Pyke found the general content of the image distasteful, it was Bessie’s expression which caught his attention and made him feel sick. Although slightly blurred, she looked to be in pain; there was a haunting quality to her stare and the set position of her mouth, accentuated by her hare-lip, made her seem almost possessed. The overall impression was of a woman pleading for help. Pyke slid the copperplate into his pocket and tried to swallow. He could have done more to help her. No, that wasn’t it. He should have done more to help her.

‘That was as warm as the chap in the shop was prepared to go, even with my friend’s coaxing.’ Godfrey shook his head. ‘Cost me ten pounds for both.’

‘But did your friend get the impression there was more? Maybe something even worse?’

‘What could possibly be any worse?’ Godfrey took a slurp of ale. ‘It was the second one that upset me most, that hooded beast kneeling over her.’

For a moment neither of them spoke.

‘A terrible business,’ Godfrey said, eventually. ‘Do you know who she is, then?’

‘Name’s Bessie Daniels. She used to work at Craddock’s on the Ratcliff Highway. Eliza Craddock sold the girl to Crane for five guineas. As far as I know, no one has seen her for at least a couple of months.’

‘Five guineas for a human life.’ Godfrey stared down into his empty pot. ‘Less than my friend paid for the copperplates.’

‘I’ll reimburse you as soon as I can afford it.’

But Godfrey held up his hand as though a little offended. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it, dear boy. Just find her and give her whatever you think you owe me.’

*

‘You’ve barely said two words since you got home,’ Jo said, standing in the doorway, as though uncertain about whether to enter his room. She was carrying a lantern and wore a long, white nightdress. ‘Is anything the matter?’

Pyke looked up and tried to smile; his face felt numb from the laudanum he’d taken. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’ He was sitting up in his bed and moved over to make room for her. ‘How’s Felix?’

But Jo remained where she was, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Not particularly.’

Jo nodded, as if this was the answer she’d expected. ‘Who was that woman who came to the house?’

‘Her name’s Elizabeth Malvern.’

She waited but he didn’t add anything. ‘So you’re quite happy for me to cook, clean and look after your son, but I’m not supposed to ask questions about your work?’

‘I told you I wanted you to employ a servant to cook and clean. And besides, my work doesn’t concern you.’

Jo looked at him, apparently nonplussed. ‘You’re exactly as Emily said you were — a difficult man to live with.’

Pyke felt his jaw tighten. Jo saw it but couldn’t stop herself. ‘Am I not even allowed to say her name?’

Pyke closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Look, Jo, I said I was tired. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about in the morning.’

She took a step into the room and her voice took on a sarcastic tone. ‘Good. We’ll talk about the way you’ve put Emily up on a pedestal, your perfect dead wife, so nobody can touch her. Remember, I knew her better than anyone, Pyke. Believe me, she would have hated it up there.’

An awkward silence hung in the air, as if they both knew a line had been crossed.

‘If anyone else had said that,’ Pyke said, through gritted teeth, ‘I would have torn out their tongue.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ she retorted, standing her ground. ‘That sounds like the way you would deal with criticism.’

Jo left the room, slamming the door behind her.

The public gallery at the Old Bailey was full by eight in the morning, even though the trial wasn’t scheduled to start until ten. The fact that a black man was standing trial for murder was a curiosity in itself, but public interest in the proceedings had been further exacerbated by unconfirmed press reports that his victim, Mary Edgar, had been mutilated in a ritualistic manner. Pyke hadn’t yet read the Examiner that morning but he had been told that Saggers had written a column describing in graphic detail the exact nature of the facial mutilations, doubtless penned in his most lurid prose.

Fitzroy Tilling met Pyke outside the Sessions House on Old Bailey at half-past eight and they passed unchallenged into the court itself. The bench where the presiding judges would sit, underneath the sword of justice, was unoccupied, as were the spaces reserved for the jury, the prosecuting lawyer, the press and the various clerks of court.

‘I’ve managed to get you a few minutes with the accused,’ Tilling had told him. ‘Just try to convince the man to say something in his defence.’

They entered the dock and followed the rickety staircase down into an underground passageway that led from the courtroom through a number of guarded and fortified doors to the condemned block at Newgate prison and the press room where Arthur Sobers was being pinioned by an army of turnkeys. Somehow the restraints they were placing around his arms and shoulders seemed wholly inadequate for the task, and briefly Pyke imagined the big man sneezing and the leather straps flying loose from their fixings.