Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘Is everything in place at the Bank?’

Tilling nodded. ‘The Home Office nearly insisted the hanging take place behind closed doors. Someone’s clearly worried that the crowds might be influenced by the radicals.’

‘And the guards?’ Pyke asked, even though he knew that Tilling had called a meeting earlier that morning involving all the soldiers responsible for guarding the Bank.

‘Before I went to see the governor, the plan had been to deploy them around the outer walls in case of an attack by radicals.’

Pyke immediately understood the significance of this. It meant that the bullion vault would have been left unguarded and, as such, explained why Crane had waited until now to execute his robbery.

‘In any case,’ Tilling added, ‘the soldiers all know what to do, and I’ll be joining them, if all goes well tonight.’

Pyke didn’t answer him and tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong with their plan.

‘You know, I’ve never actually broken the law before.’ Tilling looked around his living room, as though for the last time. ‘Not once, in my whole life. This will be the first time.’

Pyke felt a trickle of sweat snake its way down his lower back. ‘You said the other day that the law is a blunt instrument. In this instance, it’s so blunt that an innocent man will die unless we do something.’

‘But if I do this, how will I be different from…’

‘From me?’

Tilling’s forehead was thick with perspiration. ‘Can I ask you a question, Pyke?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘I’ve got more to lose now than I ever did.’

‘Good.’ Tilling put on a brave smile. ‘Because I’m absolutely petrified.’

They knocked on the door of the governor’s house at half-past six and were shown into an office on the right-hand side of the passage, where a turnkey met them and took them into another room. Here Tilling signed the book for both of them, Pyke as PC William Dell, and afterwards they followed the turnkey through another door, which brought them to the lodge. Pyke recognised the collection of heavy irons fixed to the wall; it was here that one of his escape bids had floundered ten years earlier. He kept his head down and no one paid him any attention. Certainly the turnkey who acted as their guide hadn’t wanted to search them or ask them to turn out their pockets, but that was to be expected. After all, Tilling was the third or fourth most senior figure in the New Police. From the lodge they passed through a heavy oak gate bound with iron and studded with nails that was guarded by another turnkey, and went down a few steps into a gloomy stone passage lit only by candles, which they followed as far as another gate that led into a narrow yard. The air smelled stale and dead, and it was hard not to be affected by the feeling of oppression and doom that seemed to seep through the thick granite walls. They crossed the paved yard and were admitted through an iron gate into a narrow passage that led to another door and eventually into the space where the condemned building was located. Pyke could feel the blood rising in his chest and his stomach begin to churn.

The press yard was a narrow, paved court with sheer granite walls protected at the top by inward-projecting iron spikes. Even a brief glance up to the top of the wall made Pyke feel dizzy. At the end of the yard, they were ushered directly into the condemned building, bypassing the press rooms where Morel-Roux would be pinioned early in the morning before his lonely walk through the prison. After following their guide along another dark passage and up a narrow staircase, they finally came upon the cells. The turnkey explained that the prisoner had been removed from the day room at about five and would be allowed a candle in his cell until ten. There were three turnkeys sitting on stools outside Morel-Roux’s cell. Tilling explained that he would wait in the passage with the turnkeys while Pyke — PC Dell — questioned the condemned man. No one thought to query his judgement.

The cell was a stone dungeon, eight feet by six feet, with a wooden bench at the upper end, an iron candlestick affixed to the wall and a small, high window reinforced with a double row of iron bars. It was hard for Pyke to fathom just how much Morel-Roux had changed — or wasted away — in the two and a half months since they had last conversed. Even then he had seemed thin, but the circumstances of his trial and the imminent prospect of facing the gallows had clearly taken their toll. His arms and face were emaciated and his neck was so thin it looked as if it might slip through the noose. He barely looked up when Pyke entered the cell and his eyes were dull and unfocused. Pyke waited for the door to be closed and bolted before he took off his stovepipe hat. His hair was matted with sweat. Morel-Roux was sitting on the bench and it took him a few moments to place Pyke’s face. When he did, his expression barely changed. He was resigned to his own death, and for a moment Pyke wondered how the valet would react to the hope he was offering.

‘What do you want?’

Pyke took another step into the cell. ‘You didn’t kill Lord Bedford, did you?’

Morel-Roux gave him a puzzled stare. ‘I tried to tell you that before my trial.’

‘Well, this time I believe you.’

That drew a strange chuckle. ‘Doesn’t do me much good now, does it?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’

Morel-Roux sat up. His face looked pasty and wan in the flickering candlelight. ‘Is that right?’ The tone suggested mockery.

Pyke took out a piece of paper with a roughly sketched map of the prison, indicating the route Morel-Roux would take in the morning to Debtors’ Door and the scaffold.

‘Have you made your confession yet?’ He put the map down on the bench for Morel-Roux to look at.

‘Earlier today they made me stand in this pew, painted black, and the ordinary told me to confess my sins before God.’ He shook his head. ‘I refused to even look at him.’

‘Good.’ Pyke pointed to the map and described the route. ‘Just here,’ he said, indicating the yard beyond the press yard. ‘You’re going to break down just here and demand the right to unburden yourself before God.’ He paused. ‘The governor, the sheriffs, the under-sheriffs, everyone in the procession, will want you to make your confession on the gallows. They won’t want to keep the mob waiting and a confession on the gallows makes for good theatre. But you’re going to have to be firm. Tell the ordinary you’ll unburden yourself to him, and him alone, in the chapel. It has to be the chapel. Of course, they won’t leave you and the ordinary alone in the chapel but insist on some kind of privacy. Make it clear that you intend to make a full and frank confession. The ordinary won’t need to be convinced. There’s a lot of interest in this execution and he’ll be thinking about the money he could make from selling an account of your confession.’

Morel-Roux looked at the map and then at Pyke. His expression had changed. ‘I think you’re being serious.’

‘Of course I’m being serious. I’m in your cell the night before your execution. If they find out I’m not a police officer, I’ll face transportation.’

The valet’s eyes went back to the map. ‘But can it really be done?’ He sounded dazed.

‘If you do your bit, I’ll take care of the rest.’ Pyke pointed at the map. ‘Commit it to memory and then eat it.’ He turned around and banged on the door.

‘ Pyke? ’

He put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘The chapel.’

The door swung open and Pyke stepped out into the passage. He put the hat back on his head and said, to the turnkeys as much as Tilling, ‘In spite of the new evidence I presented, he still refuses to acknowledge his guilt.’