TWENTY‑FOUR

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.

Because he was hunched on a chair while the turnkeys finished their job, it was hard for Pyke to get a proper sense of the man’s size, but even through the leather restraints Pyke could see that his shoulders were like an ox’s and his neck was thicker than Felix’s waist. Sobers’ general demeanour was that of a beaten man, however, and when, a few minutes later, Pyke sat down on a chair next to him and tried to elicit his attention, it was as if he were looking at someone who wasn’t there.

‘I want to help you, Arthur, ’ Pyke said, staring into the man’s eyes. ‘I don’t believe you killed Mary Edgar. ’

Sobers barely twitched and his stare remained as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.

‘A pornographer called Jemmy Crane sent some of his men to threaten you and Mary at your lodging house on the Ratcliff Highway. Can you tell me what that was about? ’

This time a flash of recognition passed across Sobers’ eyes.

‘In less than an hour, you’ll stand trial for killing Mary Edgar. If you don’t say anything, if you don’t let me help, they’ll find you guilty and men like Crane and Silas Malvern will escape punishment. Is that what you want? ’

Sobers’ body stiffened at the mention of Malvern’s name, but when Pyke tried to press him, the big man’s attention was lost once more.

‘Will you at least tell me why you accompanied Mary Edgar from Jamaica? ’ When Sobers didn’t answer, Pyke let his frustration show for the first time. ‘Mary’s dead, for Christ’s sake. She’s not coming back. Who are you being loyal to? ’

Sobers continued to ignore him.

‘If you don’t try to defend yourself, they will kill you as surely as night follows day. Is that what you want? ’ Pyke could feel the beads of sweat prickling his forehead. ‘Why were you loitering near Elizabeth Malvern’s house when the police arrested you? Do you know her? ’

Pyke wanted to grab the big man’s shoulders and shake him but the turnkeys had made it clear he wasn’t to touch the prisoner.

Finally Pyke played his last card. ‘John Harper and Isaac Webb told me to pass on their regards. ’

That seemed to garner a reaction; Sobers looked at him, puzzled and intrigued.

‘Did they send you here? ’ Pyke asked immediately. ‘Was it their idea that you chaperone Mary? ’

But Sobers let his stare fall back to the floor. Pyke sensed he was angry at himself for revealing that he knew Harper and Webb.

‘I’ve just returned from Jamaica. Charles Malvern is dead, so is Michael Pemberton. ’

No visible reaction.

‘Don’t you understand? This is your last chance. ’ Pyke hesitated. ‘What did Harper and Webb want you to do here in London? Make contact with Phillip Malvern? Was he the blind man you were seen talking to on the Ratcliff Highway? ’

Very slowly Sobers raised his gaze to meet Pyke’s. His face was lean and taut, despite his size, and his eyes glowed with a peculiar intensity.

‘Does the term “kill‑ devil” mean anything to you? ’

That registered too, but still Sobers refused to speak.

‘I think Phillip – the man they call Filthy – is in real danger. I need to talk to him. ’

Sobers wetted his lips with his fat, pink tongue but said nothing. ‘He hasn’t been seen for a couple of months. Do you know where I can find him? ’

Sobers leaned forward in his chair and bowed his head. For a moment Pyke thought he was about to speak.

‘He’s a rat‑ catcher among other things. Roams the sewers and culverts underneath the city. ’

But the next time Sobers looked up at Pyke, his face was once again devoid of expression.

In the hour they’d been gone, the courtroom had filled up almost to its capacity. The jury had taken their seats to the left of the bench, as had the journalists, who sat across from them under the public gallery. The prosecuting barrister was adjusting his horsehair wig and the clerks of court were making last‑ minute preparations. Pyke took his place next to Saggers in the press gallery and watched Pierce stride into the room accompanied by three constables. They took their positions alongside other witnesses for the prosecution. In front of them, the two judges entered the courtroom and everyone stood up. Finally, they all watched as Arthur Sobers was led into the dock.

Pyke found the whole thing hard to swallow. The wigs, the pomp, the solemnity of the occasion led one to believe that due process was being adhered to. But the verdict was never in question. Sobers’ natural or innate savagery would be given as an explanation for his murderous tendencies and so‑ called ‘expert’ witnesses would corroborate this view. There would be a flimsy chain of circumstantial evidence linking Sobers to Mary’s murder. The prosecuting barrister would lead the jury through his case unchallenged – and being unchallenged, the man wouldn’t have to temper his assertions. Finally, the jury would retire for a respectable amount of time – long enough to give the impression they’d considered the evidence – and the foreman would stand up and deliver a guilty verdict. The recorder would then congratulate the jury for its verdict and would pass a death sentence on Sobers. All of this would happen and the man would sit there in silence and watch it; afterwards he would have to face those like Pierce who would be slapping each other on the back and congratulating themselves on a job well done.

The assistant judge, the deputy recorder of London, dressed in his ceremonial robes and wig, waited for silence. Having read out the first part of the indictment to the whole court, he turned to Sobers.

‘It is hereby presented that Arthur Sobers, late of the Ratcliff Highway in the county of Middlesex, being of evil disposition and having strayed from God’s righteous path, did on the first day of May in the third year of the reign of our Sovereign Queen Victoria, and with malice aforethought, wilfully murder Mary Edgar, late of the Ratcliff Highway, by strangulation. ’ He looked up from the bench and waited for a few moments. ‘How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty? ’

All eyes in the courtroom turned to Sobers, whose giant hands were gripping the rail in front of him.

‘Accused, how do you plead? ’

Sobers stared back at the deputy recorder and opened his mouth. ‘Guilty. ’

For a moment there was consternation in the room and the recorder had to bang his gavel on the bench to restore some semblance of order.

‘Could you repeat your plea for the court, accused. ’

‘Guilty, ’ Sobers said, his plea carrying right across the courtroom.

‘Do you understand what you are pleading guilty to? ’

Sobers nodded. ‘I do. ’

The deputy recorder exchanged a glance, and a few words, with the recorder. ‘Do you have anything else you wish to say to the court? ’

Sobers stood there, still gripping the rail, but this time said nothing.

‘A few words of contrition? A confession before God? ’

Saggers leaned over and whispered, ‘I didn’t see that one coming, did you? ’

Pyke was too stunned to speak. Even though he’d heard Sobers as clearly as everyone else he couldn’t reconcile himself to what the big man had just admitted.

There was a general sense of bewilderment and even deflation in the room. People had queued for hours expecting to hear lurid descriptions of bodily mutilations and accounts of the evils of black magic and witchcraft. Now they had to be content with a guilty plea and silence. Even the recorder himself seemed affected by the mood.

‘It is my duty as recorder of London to make quite sure you understand the severity of the crime that you have pleaded guilty to and the nature of the punishment that awaits you. ’

‘I understand perfectly, Your Honour. ’ Sobers spoke in a deep, flinty voice. ‘I killed her and now I’m ready to face the consequences. ’

‘But you have nothing additional to say to this court, perhaps regarding the reasons for your actions? ’

Sobers stared down at his boots and waited for the moment to pass.

‘Usually the expectation that the guilty party will make an appeal to the Home Office means that it is prudent not to rush the date of the execution, but since you have pleaded guilty by your own tongue, and showed no remorse for your actions, I see no reason to delay matters, ’ the judge said, removing his grey wig and replacing it with a black cap. ‘It is my duty to sentence you to hang by the neck at the earliest opportunity. ’ He banged the gavel. ‘Take this man from the dock. ’

On the steps of the Sessions House, Sir Richard Mayne was congratulating Pierce. It was a hot, breathless day and the sky was washed with a haze of high cloud. Tilling joined Pyke a few steps away and said what everyone was saying: that he hadn’t anticipated Sobers pleading guilty, but if the man really had killed her, then justice had been served.

‘He didn’t do it. ’

That drew a weary shake of Tilling’s head.

‘He’s protecting someone else. He’s pleaded guilty to something he didn’t do to protect someone else. ’

‘Who? Malvern? ’

Pyke ignored Tilling’s jibe and watched as Pierce wandered over to a brougham that had just pulled up outside the Sessions House. Mayne came over and joined them. He slapped Tilling on the back and gave Pyke a considered stare. ‘I know we’ve had our differences, sir, and you have said some things to me and others you probably regret now, but I just wanted to assure you that, as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed. ’

‘Thank you, Sir Richard. ’ Pyke bowed his head slightly but still noticed Mayne’s smile. ‘Now can I get down on my knees and lick your boots clean, too? ’

‘There’s no need for that, Pyke, ’ Tilling said. It reminded Pyke of the distance that had opened up between them and the damage he’d done to their friendship.

Tilling and Mayne drifted away without uttering another word and Pyke took the opportunity to cross the pavement to the brougham that Pierce had climbed into.

Ignoring the footman, Pyke peered into the carriage’s interior and saw Silas Malvern’s ghostly visage. Pierce sat next to him on the cushioned seat and it took them a few moments to notice Pyke’s presence.

‘Come to eat some humble pie, Pyke? ’ Pierce said, his face still flush from the glory of the morning’s proceedings.

‘I’d like a word with Malvern in private. ’

Pierce shook his head and asked whether Malvern wanted one of his officers to move Pyke along.

‘No, I’ll hear what the man has to say, ’ Malvern said, his eyes not leaving Pyke for a moment.

‘Well, if you need him trodden on, tell your footman to fetch me. I’ll do the job with pleasure. ’

‘It’s all worked out well for you, hasn’t it, Pierce? ’ Pyke said, once Pierce had climbed out of the brougham.

‘Just say it, Pyke. I was right. You were wrong. ’

‘If we weren’t in a public place, I’d hurt you. I’d do more than hurt you. ’ Pyke took a step in his direction and Pierce scuttled across the pavement to rejoin Mayne.

‘I received a letter from the Custos in Falmouth informing me of the death of my son. It was ruled an accident, the result of a natural calamity. ’ Malvern’s bony hands trembled as he spoke. ‘It seems, sir, I have you to thank for forewarning me of this truly terrible outcome and thereby softening, albeit slightly, the blow. ’

Pyke felt his antipathy for the old man weakening in the face of his self‑ evident grief, but remained silent.

Malvern licked his pale, flaky lips. ‘The last time we met, you made an oblique reference to an episode in my past that I’ve always felt very deeply ashamed of. ’

‘Which one? ’ Pyke waited. ‘Killing your wife or blinding your brother? ’

Malvern stared at him, horrified. ‘I didn’t kill her, sir. I couldn’t have. I loved her. ’ His voice sounded as hard and small as an acorn.

‘Even though she’d been cuckolding you with your brother? ’

Malvern seemed physically cowed by Pyke’s words. ‘Except to say I regret very deeply what I did to my brother, more deeply than you’ll ever know, I won’t make my excuses to you, sir. ’

‘Did you know your brother had come to London? ’

Malvern seemed surprised, though not shocked at this claim. For a few moments he sat, his arms resting on his lap like wilting runner beans. ‘Before she departed for the Caribbean, my daughter informed me that a man claiming to be her uncle had tried to approach her but I didn’t believe her. ’

Pyke waited for Malvern to look at him. ‘But the idea that he might be in London must have unsettled you. ’ He stared into the old man’s rheumy eyes.

‘I’ll admit that I was less than comfortable at first but on reflection I saw it as a chance perhaps to be reconciled with him. ’

‘And? ’

‘Nothing ever came of it. Elizabeth wrote to me confirming her passage to Jamaica and that was the last I heard of it. ’

‘But when you heard about the way in which Mary Edgar had been mutilated, you must have thought about your brother and what you did to him. ’

This time Malvern’s reaction gave little away. ‘I told you before, sir, I had nothing to do with that business. ’

‘What about your brother? ’

‘What about him? ’ Malvern barked.

‘Perhaps he had something to do with Mary Edgar’s death. ’

Malvern stared down at his withered hands. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I have other matters to attend to. ’

Pyke presented himself at the offices of the Vice Society and was told by the same clerk he’d spoken to before that Ticknor hadn’t returned but was expected at any time.

‘Tomorrow perhaps? ’

‘Tomorrow or the next day. ’

‘The next day is Saturday. ’

‘Monday, then. ’ The clerk looked up at him from behind the desk. ‘Would you like to leave him a message, sir? ’

‘No, thank you. It’s not urgent. ’

As he left, Pyke wondered why he’d said that and why, in the face of his suspicions, he was still trying to shield Elizabeth Malvern.

With a pick handle in his hand, Pyke pushed open the door to Crane’s shop and when it closed behind him, he drew the bolt across and pulled the curtains. The assistant seemed puzzled by his actions and called out from behind the counter. Turning around, Pyke raised the pick handle above his head and slammed it down on the glass display case just to one side of the counter. Not pausing for breath, he pulled the lean‑ to cabinet from the wall and sent it crashing to the floor together with its cargo of books. He smashed the pick handle against another glass case and then swung it against the supporting leg of shelves that ran along the middle of the shop. One swing didn’t do it but a second blow loosened the fixings enough for him to push the entire edifice over and watch it topple into the path of those summoned to deal with the disturbance. Jumping over piles of books, he made his way down the passage and into the yard. From there, he went to the printing room, where a number of compositors were hunched over their machines. Pushing them to one side, he brought the pick handle down on each machine, one at a time, and then turned his attention to the printing press, tipping it up on its side and then smashing it apart with the handle and the heel of his boot. Back in the shop, Pyke drove the end of the pick handle into the face of a man trying to block his path and took an oil lamp that was burning on the counter and threw it on to the floor. The flames from the shattered lamp quickly spread to the books and in a short while the entire shop was ablaze, flames devouring the books, shelves, etchings, lithographs, everything. Outside on the street, a crowd had gathered to watch, and already other shop owners, anxious about their premises, were beginning to round up pails of water to try to dampen the blaze. From upstairs windows, as charred curls of paper floated up into the gloomy late afternoon sky, some of Crane’s employees had to jump to escape the encroaching fire. It was only at this point that Pyke wondered whether Crane himself was in the building to witness the destruction.