Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

Pyke felt his own anger abating in the face of hers.

‘Now you want to pity me,’ she said, still burning with indignation. ‘I can see it in your eyes. But I don’t want your pity, Pyke. None of us wants your pity. Harper, Webb, Sobers, none of us.’ Mary stood up and stared directly into his face. ‘Tell me something, Pyke. What would you have done if you’d been in our shoes? Would you have simply taken the punishment doled out by men like Pemberton without trying to do anything about it?’

‘I can’t say,’ Pyke replied quietly.

‘We decided to do something, to act. To see what was possible. To see what we could carve out for ourselves.’ She spat these last words. ‘I didn’t come all this way just because Harper or Webb told me to. I came because I wanted to; because I didn’t want to be a victim any longer. If there was a chance, just a tiny chance, that we could make this happen, then it would all be worth it.’ Softening, she took his hand. ‘When Silas dies, as he soon will, everything will pass to Elizabeth. Now do you see how close we are?’

‘And I’m somehow meant to ignore the small fact that innocent lives have been taken in the process?’

Mary let go of his hand and folded her arms. ‘You’re talking to me about innocent lives? I’ve read your book. I know what kind of a man you are.’

Pyke thought about all the ways he could respond but none seemed appropriate. In the end it came down to a simple truth: he’d killed people for good and bad reasons — and had avoided the noose.

‘If I told you that what’s in my uncle’s book in no way corresponds to the truth, would it make a difference?’

But she wasn’t prepared to let the subject drop. ‘Just answer me this: have you killed a man who hasn’t deserved to die?’

He lowered his face and whispered, ‘Yes.’

Mary reached out and touched his cheek. It was a simple act and he wanted to somehow reciprocate but couldn’t bring himself to.

‘When I first broke into Elizabeth’s house that night,’ he said tentatively, ‘why didn’t you just throw me out or fire the pistol at me?’

‘I knew who you were, of course. That you were investigating the murder. I’d tried to follow your progress. At the time, I was lonely and a little frightened. Arthur had been arrested and then you showed up.’ She cleared her throat and tried to swallow. ‘And you seemed so full of a desire to find justice for Mary.’

It was true that he’d felt an affinity with her from the start. Now he didn’t know what to think; whether to feel foolish or grateful that it wasn’t Mary who’d been buried in that grave in Limehouse.

‘Look, Mary. I’m a detective. Perhaps not in title but it’s what I do; and I do it well. I could let you go, of course, but it wouldn’t come naturally to me. I don’t care about the law or justice but I agreed to do a job and I won’t be able to sleep at night if I feel I haven’t finished it.’

Mary stepped into the space between them and, in spite of everything, he still felt a stirring in his groin. ‘When those men broke into the house and dragged me here, I thought it was over. That man, Field, told me why he’d brought me here, that he would return me to Crane in exchange for something he wouldn’t divulge. I knew then that it was finished. If Crane didn’t make the deal, Field said he’d kill me, and I believed him. If Crane did make the deal, he’d see right away that I wasn’t his mistress and he’d kill me. So when I saw you walk into the room a few hours ago, I swore to myself I’d tell you the truth and put my fate in your hands. Does that make any sense?’

‘What if I don’t want that kind of responsibility?’ But Pyke could feel his heart beating against his ribcage.

‘You’re here and I don’t have anything left in my arsenal. What else can I do but throw myself at your mercy?’

Pyke looked at her plump, velvety lips and long lashes. He had to take a long breath. ‘And now I don’t know what I think or feel.’

‘But you do feel something for me, don’t you?’ Mary stared directly into his eyes. ‘I’m saying that, Pyke, because I feel something for you.’

That afternoon Pyke took Mary Edgar back to his house and introduced her to Jo and Felix. Jo was polite but cold; she told him of her plans to depart the following afternoon and left them in the front room. They talked about inconsequential things. Mary didn’t seem interested in the idea of running away. She relaxed, even laughed with Felix. That night she slept in the guest room and the next morning she was still there when Pyke brought her a cup of tea. She said she had slept well. He said he had, too, even though he had lain awake for most of the night. Laudanum hadn’t helped, either.

When he suggested that she play Elizabeth one last time, and explained what he wanted her to do and why, she said she’d do it.

Even when he introduced her outside the Guildhall police office to Fitzroy Tilling, as Elizabeth Malvern rather than Mary Edgar, she didn’t seem overawed. They went over the plan another time. She asked whether Jemmy Crane would actually see her. Tilling assured her that she wouldn’t have to confront Crane directly and her face would remain hidden. As long as he believed she was who she claimed to be, that was all that mattered. She was introduced to the police sergeant who would take her down to the cells. Pyke watched as she and the sergeant disappeared into the building.

Pyke looked up at the Guildhall and they waited for a horse and cart to rattle past. ‘I was thinking about Trevelyan.’

‘And?’

‘And you could always take some police constables to his house and search the study.’

‘Why does it sound like you already know what they might find?’

‘Trevelyan bought daguerreotypes from Crane of dead and dying women. Do you think he should be given the benefit of the doubt?’

Tilling’s stare remained impassive. ‘Anywhere in particular they should look?’

‘Any loose floorboards would be a good place to start.’ Pyke found himself looking at the entrance to the police office. ‘And if you ever manage to find Bedford’s butler again it’s my guess he’ll tell you that it was Pierce, acting for Silas Malvern, who fabricated the evidence that convicted Morel-Roux.’

Tilling turned to face him, his expression suddenly hardening. ‘That’s a very, very grave allegation.’

‘Morel-Roux didn’t kill Bedford. The evidence suggested he did.’

‘But if he didn’t kill Bedford, who did?’ Tilling’s frown deepened. ‘And who killed Mary Edgar?’

‘Arthur Sobers.’

‘Both?’

Pyke shrugged.

Tilling reddened and shook his head. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Pyke?’

But just at that moment Mary Edgar appeared in the entrance. She looked up, walked towards them and waited for them to ask the question.

‘Well?’ Pyke beat Tilling to it.

‘Crane had Phillip killed, once he was no longer useful to him. He wanted me to find a scavenger, any scavenger, put words into his mouth and bring him back here to this office.’ A solitary tear snaked down her cheek.

Tilling looked at both of them and took a few steps backwards. ‘I’ll be over here if you need me.’

Pyke took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry.’

When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet with tears. ‘So what have you decided? Should I give myself up?’

The following morning, half a dozen police constables attached to the ‘A’ or Whitehall Division, acting under the orders of Fitzroy Tilling, conducted a search of Abel Trevelyan’s Regent’s Park mansion. One of the party, Constable Henry Steggles, came across a loose floorboard in the study and, having lifted it up, found a daguerreotype depicting a naked woman sprawled out on a bed, staring into the camera, a hooded man standing over her. An amethyst ring with a serpent motif was also found and, later, as a result of testimony provided by former neighbours, it was identified as having belonged to Bessie Daniels, the woman in the daguerreotype. Meanwhile, after an anonymous tip-off, a decomposed corpse was excavated from Trevelyan’s garden. Though the body couldn’t be positively identified, the police were happy to conclude that it was the woman in the daguerreotype, especially once Saggers had submitted the testimony regarding the ring. The banker was taken to the watch-house at Scotland Yard. There, it was established, via statements made by two former employees of a pornographer’s shop on Holywell Street (again procured by Saggers), that Trevelyan had been a customer at Crane’s shop for a number of years. Presented with all this evidence, Trevelyan (who had, of course, strenuously objected to the police’s search of his property and had denied all knowledge of both the daguerreotype and the body) was persuaded to change the statement he’d made to the City police regarding the break-in at the Bank of England. Additionally, and in exchange for the promise of judicial leniency over the matter of his ownership of obscene materials, he put his name to a deposition naming Crane — and three accomplices including a man called Sykes — as central figures in a conspiracy to profit from the lives and deaths of a number of ‘low’ women. In the end, although the corpse was found on his property, and despite the presence of Bessie’s amethyst ring under the floorboards, no one could say with absolute certainty either that it was Bessie Daniels or that Trevelyan had killed her.