TWENTY‑SIX

As part of an attempt by planners to tear down the ancient city and construct a modern metropolis of wide avenues and open public spaces, Trafalgar Square had been envisaged as the embodiment of Britain’s imperial might and as its centrepiece a column built of Portland stone upon which a statue of Nelson would one day sit was beginning to take shape. Pyke could see that, when completed, the square might be a pleasant place to pass the time, but in the middle of summer and with plumes of dust whipped up by the building work and the slow procession of omnibuses, drays, cabs, barrows and carriages moving between The Strand and the West End, it was about as disagreeable a spot as he could imagine.

While he waited, Pyke tried to think about his investigation; what he had found out and more importantly what he had missed. It pained him to realise he still didn’t know who had killed Mary Edgar or even why she had been killed. Different pieces of information were still pulling him in different directions. The fact that she had been staying in Bedford’s home at the behest of Charles Malvern and that Bedford, too, had been murdered suggested that the same man – or woman – had been responsible for both deaths. But there was also the question of Mary’s facial mutilation and how this replicated an incident that had taken place in Jamaica many years earlier involving Silas Malvern and his brother, Phillip. That had to be significant – the coincidence was too stark – but while a familial connection between Mary and Phillip Malvern seemed to offer a partial explanation, it still didn’t begin to explain why Lucy Luckins had been mutilated in a similar fashion.

Who or what linked Mary Edgar and Lucy Luckins?

The manner of their deaths was the same – they had been strangled and their eyeballs removed – but there the similarities ended. Lucy was poor, white and flirting with prostitution. Mary Edgar had good looks and a degree of security by dint of her connection to Bedford and Charles Malvern. Desperate and afraid, Lucy had turned to prostitution as a last resort while Mary had had to beat off a number of potential suitors.

The bells of St Martin’s‑ in‑ the‑ Field had just chimed midday when Pyke saw Tilling striding towards him, suited in black and wearing his matching stovepipe hat.

‘Let’s walk, ’ Tilling said, his expression and demeanour devoid of any warmth.

Pyke started to say something but Tilling cut him off. ‘Are you out of your mind? Does the Great Fire mean anything to you? What you did was reckless and irresponsible and it put untold lives at risk – and for what? Did you achieve what you wanted or was it just to make yourself feel better? ’

‘At least Crane isn’t going to be trading for a while. ’ They continued for a few steps in silence. ‘Is that a problem for you? ’

‘The problem is you, Pyke. ’ Tilling turned to face him. ‘And the fact you don’t seem to accept that the law is the law. It’s a blunt instrument, I’ll grant you, but it’s all that separates us from anarchy. ’

‘So you think what I did was wrong? ’

‘The sanctity of private property is the bedrock of our legal system. ’

‘Then arrest me, ’ Pyke said, half joking.

That drew an irritated chuckle. ‘Oh, believe me, Mayne would like nothing better than to put you behind bars. But the only way an arrest warrant can be issued is if Crane makes an official complaint and at the moment no one seems to know where he is. ’

‘So I’m still a free man? ’

Tilling shrugged. ‘For the time being. ’

As they walked down towards Haymarket, Pyke thought about Crane and the robbery he was planning. How was he planning to breach the Bank of England’s impregnable security? Was it possible to countenance such an action? In less than two days, Jerome Morel‑ Roux would hang before an expected crowd of fifty thousand. Before he’d gone to Jamaica, Bessie Daniels had whispered the valet’s name to him. Why? The only explanation Pyke could think of was that Bessie had overheard Crane mention that the robbery had been planned to coincide with the hanging. Still, he didn’t know this for certain and it paid not to jump to any conclusions.

‘The reason I wanted to see you is that I might have found out the whereabouts of Lord Bedford’s butler. ’

Stopping, Pyke turned to face his erstwhile friend. If the butler admitted to knowing about Mary Edgar and the arrangement Bedford had struck with Charles Malvern, then they might be able to insist that the investigation into both murders be reopened. In any case it might be enough temporarily to halt the execution.

‘Can I come with you to talk to him? ’

Tilling put his hand up to his eyes. ‘I’d rather do it on my own. But come around to the house tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have more news for you then. ’

Pyke’s thoughts switched back to the robbery that Crane was, or might be, planning. ‘Can I ask you a question? ’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Is Mayne at all concerned by the prospect of fifty thousand men and women, mostly the poorest of the poor, pouring into the city on Sunday night and Monday morning? ’

‘Concerned in what sense? ’

‘I don’t know. ’ Pyke hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘That the crowd might be infiltrated by radicals intent on pursuing their own cause? ’

This time Tilling’s face creased with worry. ‘Have you heard something to this effect? ’

Pyke shrugged. ‘If I were you, I’d ask the Bank of England about additional security provisions taken in light of the crowds expected to gather on Monday morning. ’

That did nothing to ease Tilling’s concern. ‘Why the Bank of England? What exactly have you heard? ’

‘Just ask. ’ Pyke looked at him and waited. ‘Like you said, we can talk about it tomorrow afternoon at your house. ’

He watched Tilling walk off in the direction of Whitehall.

About an hour later, Pyke found Samuel Ticknor in a coffee house on St John Street, just around the corner from the offices of the Vice Society. He was a timid, bald‑ headed man with rancid breath and a punctilious manner that put Pyke in mind of a headmaster or clergyman. Indeed, there was a well‑ thumbed copy of the King James Bible next to his empty plate. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d knowingly set out to profit from the exploitation of his charges.

‘Perhaps you might enlighten me as to the precise nature of your enquiries, sir? I am a busy man. ’ He checked his gold pocket watch.

‘You’ve been a difficult man to find. ’

‘A private matter demanded my attention in the West Country. But I’m here now, so perhaps you might be so bold as to tell me why this matter couldn’t wait until next week. ’

‘Do you remember a woman called Lucy Luckins? ’

‘Luckins, you say? ’

‘From Shadwell. ’

That seemed to make the difference. ‘Ah, indeed. Lucy. If I’m not mistaken, I helped to find her work as a seamstress last year. Not the most glamorous or well‑ paid occupation, I’ll admit, but a good deal better for her soul than walking the streets. ’ He gave the Bible next to him a supercilious tap. ‘Why do you ask? ’

‘Do you know Elizabeth Malvern? ’

Ticknor’s expression darkened. ‘I used to be acquainted with her. ’

Pyke felt his throat tighten. ‘What was the precise nature of your acquaintance? ’

‘She used to raise funds for the society and on occasion she would accompany me on field visits. ’

‘Did she ever accompany you when you visited Lucy Luckins? ’

‘I can’t remember exactly. ’

‘Then think. ’

‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re going to have to tell me the precise nature of your interest in Miss Luckins…’

Pyke cut him off. ‘She’s dead. She was strangled and then both of her eyes were cut out. ’

Ashen‑ faced, Ticknor immediately retched on to the table. A spool of saliva hung from his chin.

‘I’ll ask you again. Did Elizabeth Malvern accompany you when you visited her? ’ Ticknor stared at Pyke and nodded. ‘Miss Malvern was the one who found her work as a seamstress. ’

Pyke found himself gripping the edge of the table. ‘Just now, you said she used to raise funds for the society? ’

‘Yes. ’

‘Not any more? ’

‘She was asked to leave. ’

‘ Why? ’

‘On account of the company she kept. ’

Pyke slammed his fist down on the table. ‘What, precisely, do you mean by that? ’

‘A gentleman. A particular gentleman. ’ Ticknor’s hands were trembling.

‘Was his name Jemmy Crane, by any chance? ’

Ticknor’s mouth fell open. ‘How did you know? ’

‘And there’s no possibility you could have been mistaken about the nature of their association? ’

‘I saw them with my own eyes. ’

‘When? ’

‘Some time in the spring. April, perhaps. ’ Ticknor’s stare was solid, even defiant. ‘I saw them, sir. I saw them embrace. ’

When Pyke arrived at Pitts Lane Mews, someone had evidently beaten him to it. The back door had been kicked open and, inside, shards of broken glass and crockery covered the downstairs floor. Upstairs, wardrobes had been overturned and sheets had been ripped off the beds. In the kitchen, he paused at the table they had sat around the previous night. The table they’d fucked on. The room, the whole house, smelled of her.

So Elizabeth Malvern was Jemmy Crane’s mistress. It was just as Field had said. Field and Ticknor.

But what did that mean?

What if Elizabeth had put Lucy Luckins in touch with Crane rather than finding her a job as a seamstress?

And what had happened in the intervening period – from the time Elizabeth and Lucy met to the moment Lucy’s strangled corpse had been hauled out of the river by Gilbert Meeson?

Why had Lucy’s eyeballs been cut from their sockets just like Mary’s?

Pyke’s thoughts turned to Phillip Malvern. Somehow the two matters were related; they had to be. For a while, he sat at the kitchen table trying to remember all the bits of information about Phillip he’d come across. Eventually he came back to what the bone collector had said: He likes his women dark. But where would he find a black woman on the Ratcliff Highway? Pyke thought about Eliza Craddock’s brothel and about Jane Shaw, who had been abandoned because she’d contracted syphilis. It was a remote possibility but it was a possibility none the less. He left the house via the front door. At first Pyke thought that Jane Shaw was dead, but then she coughed and turned over, perhaps disturbed by the light from his lantern. Down below, in another part of the building, he heard raised voices and then a scream. He stepped into the tiny, airless room and waited. The air stank of faeces and death. Her eyes opened slightly and she tried to sit up. He thought he saw her smile but it could have been a grimace.

‘You came back. ’ This time the disease had spread from her face to every part of her body. There was almost nothing left of her.

‘How could I keep away? ’

That seemed to make her laugh, but as she did so something caught in her throat and she coughed. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I would have combed my hair. ’ She touched her bald head.

He sat down next to her and took her hand. It felt like a skeleton’s. ‘I wanted to ask you a question. ’

‘Lucky you didn’t wait too much longer. ’ She grimaced each time she tried to move and Pyke guessed that her back was covered with sores. ‘You find the one who killed the mulatto? ’

‘Not yet. ’

‘Is that why you here? ’

‘In part. ’ Pyke waited. ‘When I was last here, you said you could remember the faces of all the men you’d ever slept with. ’

‘I ’member. So? ’

‘Were you ever visited by a blind man? ’

‘Phillip. ’

Pyke didn’t try to hide his excitement. ‘That’s right. Did you see him often? ’

‘While I was still working at Craddock’s. He was a little mad but he was also gentle and considerate, not like most of ’em. ’

‘Mad in what sense? ’

‘He believed there were evil spirits trying to harm him. ’

Pyke thought about what he’d learned about Phillip Malvern in Jamaica. ‘Did he ever talk to you about what he did, where he lived? ’

‘He scavenged the sewers, reckoned he could make a living from it, too. That’s why they called him Filthy. ’ She tried to smile. ‘You could smell it on him, too, but I didn’t mind. Better that he was gentle. ’

‘Did he say anything else? ’

‘No, not really. He wasn’t much of a talker, to be honest. Is he in trouble? ’

‘He might be. ’ Pyke waited. ‘I need to find him. It’s important. Do you know where he lives? ’

‘He didn’t tell me. ’

‘Or where he went to scavenge? ’ Pyke waited. ‘He sold rats to a landlord in Saffron Hill. ’

Jane tried to move and grimaced again. ‘He did mention this sewer or tunnel he found under the City…’

‘Yes? ’

Jane closed her eyes. ‘He told me he found a barrel of wine down there once. Said you could walk into it from the Thames at low tide underneath Dowgate Wharf. ’

As he moved away, she took his hand and tried to squeeze it. ‘You can’t leave me like this, Pyke. ’

‘I have to go. I’ll come back, though. I promise. ’

‘I meant, you can’t leave me like this. I want you to finish it. I’ve asked other folk but they’re all too afraid…’ She motioned up towards the ceiling.

‘Eternal damnation. ’

‘I was thinking you might be different. ’

‘I was damned a long time ago. ’ Pyke looked into her pale eyes. ‘You want me to end your life? ’

‘Take my pillow, put it over my mouth. It won’t take more than a few seconds. I can’t go on like this any longer. ’

‘Is that what you really want? ’

Jane nodded. ‘I’m so tired, in such pain. ’

‘What you’re asking me to do, ’ Pyke said, thinking about it, ‘some would consider it to be a mortal sin. ’

‘I ain’t said my prayers for years now, if that’s what you’re asking me. ’

‘And you’re ready to go? ’

She produced a bottle of gin from beside the mattress. ‘You’ll have a last drink with me, won’t you? ’

In the end she was so weak he had to help her hold the bottle to her lips. She sipped at the clear liquid like a suckling baby. Pyke took the bottle, put it to his mouth and drank until he needed a breath.

‘The funny thing is, I used to think I’d make something of my life. ’ Jane looked around the dingy room and shook her head. ‘Everything I had, I’ve bartered away or it’s been stolen. ’

‘We come into this world with nothing, we leave it with nothing. ’ For some reason, Pyke found himself thinking about Felix.

She touched his hand and tried to squeeze it. ‘You’re a good man. ’

They stared at one another for a few moments. ‘Are you quite sure you’re ready? ’

‘Living here, like this, ’ Jane smiled sadly, ‘I been ready for a while now. ’

Pyke cupped the back of her head in his hand, pulled out her pillow and helped her lie back down on the mattress.

‘You actually going to do it? ’ Jane seemed scared all of a sudden.

‘Only if you want me to. ’

Pyke sat there and watched while she considered the decision. ‘I want you to, ’ she said, eventually. Her eyes were as dry as a tinderbox.

‘You’re sure? ’ Suddenly the pillow felt heavier than a bag of anvils.

‘Either do it or leave, ’ she said, a hardness in her tone. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and whispered, ‘But whatever you decide, I’m ready. ’

Even though she’d been expecting it, and indeed had asked for it, the moment that he forced the pillow down against her bony face, her body seemed to jolt with surprise and after that, in spite of her weakened condition, she battled, arms and legs convulsing until there was no more fight left in her.

Putting the pillow down, Pyke looked around the room. Apart from the empty gin bottle, there was nothing.

Like the Fleet, which until the thirteenth or fourteenth century had been a navigable river that cut through Alsatia, Holborn and Saffron Hill before rising in Hampstead, Walbrook had once flowed into the Thames near Southwark Bridge, having followed a path from Moorfields directly through the City of London. Pyke was told this by a mudlark who showed him to the entrance of the tunnel. The river had long since been built over and had actually been reconstructed as a sewer, in order to transport the city’s soil directly into the Thames. It had served this function, of course, for as long as people had lived in the City.

The tide was out and the smell emanating from the mudbanks was horrendous but, as the mudlark gleefully informed him, it was nothing compared to the stink inside the tunnel. The two of them clambered down under Dowgate Wharf and the mudlark directed Pyke to a small, dark entrance directly under the creaking wooden edifice. ‘That’s you, cock, ’ he said, accepting the coin Pyke gave him, then added, ‘You got a stick to beat off the rats? ’

Alone, Pyke checked to make sure he still had his sheath knife, a handkerchief to cover his mouth, a nosegay, a lantern, a ball of twine, his jemmy and an old pair of gloves. Pinching his nostrils with the nosegay and tying the handkerchief around his mouth, he picked up the lantern and moved towards the tunnel entrance. A trickle of brown soil was emanating from the tunnel and the ground was marshy underfoot. At the entrance itself, he held up the lantern and peered inside. The walls and ceilings of the sewer had been built using bricks, and it was about as tall as he was and as wide as a brougham. He stepped into the tunnel and almost gagged, through the handkerchief, from the vileness of the stink.

‘Phillip? ’

He walked another few yards along the tunnel, trying to ignore both the stink and the feeling of entrapment that being in such a confined space induced, then hesitated. Holding up the lantern, he peered down at the thick soil blackening his knee‑ high boots. It was difficult to imagine how a man might live in such a place. Ahead, he saw his first rat, but it scuttled off in the opposite direction. The mudlark had mischievously told him that sewer rats liked to attack humans but Pyke had dismissed this as fantastical. Yet alone in this damp, foul‑ smelling tunnel, he found himself stepping more cautiously through the sludge, trying not to step on or disturb any vermin.

For a hundred yards, the tunnel was sufficiently tall and wide for him to walk unimpeded, but after that it became narrower and smaller, so much so that, eventually, he was forced down on to his hands and knees, the stream of piss and shit glistening in the greasy lantern light. He felt a rat scurry past his hands and leapt up, banging his head against the brick ceiling. About fifty or sixty yards farther on, the tunnel expanded again, allowing him back on to his feet, and he followed its course for another ten minutes. There was a nest of rats ahead of him and Pyke panned through the soil to find something to throw at them. In the end, he found a rusty piece of metal and hurled it at the quivering mass of fur. Shrieks momentarily filled the tunnel and then the rats scurried off deeper into the darkness.

Fifty yards farther on, the tunnel widened again, and Pyke noticed a flight of steps cut into the wall; he decided to follow them. At the top, he found himself in what looked to be some kind of underground crypt or cellar, a large room with brick walls and a high ceiling. Placing the lantern on the floor, he looked around him and spotted a makeshift bed and a rotten table and chair in one corner, with a rusty copper pot perched on some charred embers.

‘Phillip? ’

His voice echoed around the cavernous chamber. He waited for a response but heard nothing.

‘ Phillip? ’

Could someone really live in such a place?

Moving towards the bed, Pyke’s wellington boots squelched through the slush.

Next to the bed was an old wooden cabinet, guarded by a rusty padlock. He retrieved his jemmy and prised the door open. The cabinet was filled with a collection of glass jars, each one filled with liquid and some kind of matter. He picked up one of them and took it over to the lantern. Two eyeballs floating in water stared back at him. The shock of it almost caused him to drop the jar. As he unscrewed the lid, the smell of vinegar was unmistakable. Pyke prodded one of the eyeballs with his finger and watched it sink down to the bottom of the jar then rise up to the surface again. It looked as harmless as a hard‑ boiled egg. Taking the lantern across to the cabinet, he found another four jars, each with two eyeballs in them. Bile licked the back of his throat. Even the thought of what he might be looking at made Pyke feel weak. Something darted through the mud, a rat perhaps; the suddenness of the movement startled him and the jar slipped through his fingers, shattering on the ground. Bending over, Pyke picked up one of the stranded eyeballs and cupped it in his hand. It felt cold and slimy, not quite real.

‘Phillip? ’

He completed a brief search of the room but found nothing else of significance; he left the eyeballs where he’d found them.

Having retraced his steps down into the tunnel, he decided to push on rather than turn around, to see where the tunnel led. He didn’t doubt that he’d just found Phillip Malvern’s living quarters but he tried not to jump to any conclusions. Given what he had just seen, though, it was hard not to. Had Phillip Malvern killed Mary Edgar, Lucy Luckins and perhaps others? The evidence, or what he’d seen in the jars, seemed to speak for itself.

Ahead, he saw something, a large, unmoving object silhouetted against the ooze. Moving towards it, he brought the lantern up to his eyes, already fighting off a queasy feeling in his stomach.

‘Phillip? ’

Now he could see the outline of someone’s shoulders and also their head. He also saw a swarm of rats jostling for position around the corpse. Without thinking what he was doing, he ran at the rats, shouting. They dispersed as soon as they saw him. Putting the lantern down in the soil, Pyke turned the body over, expecting to see the weather‑ beaten face of an old man. In fact, it was hard to tell whether the corpse was male or female, such was the extent of the decomposition. In the end, though, he decided it was a woman. What little skin remained on the face was soggy and bloated and had been gnawed by rats. But it was the two eye sockets which drew his attention; empty holes that looked back at him where the eyeballs had once been. Removing the handkerchief from his mouth, Pyke turned away from the corpse and retched.

A while later, he summoned up the strength to give the corpse a more thorough examination. One of the hands was buried in the soil and it was only after he’d excavated it that he noticed the ring; a silver ring adorned by a dirty amethyst stone bearing a serpent motif. He’d seen the same one on Bessie Daniels’s finger. He brought the lantern closer but the corpse was too decomposed for him to make a positive identification, so he turned his attention back to the ring. Without question, it was the one he’d seen Bessie Daniels wearing while she’d posed for Crane’s daguerreotypes. In itself, Pyke knew that the ring wasn’t conclusive proof that the corpse was, in fact, Bessie Daniels but for the moment there wasn’t any other apparent explanation for the ring’s presence on the corpse’s finger. Now, since much of the flesh had decomposed, the ring slipped off her finger with ease.

The last time he had seen Bessie, she’d smiled at him and giggled, under the influence of laudanum. Now she looked like a carcass you might come across in Field’s slaughterhouse. He’d had a chance to help her and hadn’t taken it. Now she was dead. That was all he could think about as he retraced his path along the tunnel.

Back on Dowgate Hill, he took the twine, tied one end of it to a post and let it unravel as he walked northwards along the narrow street, away from the river, in the direction of the Bank of England. Crossing Cannon Street, he continued towards the Bank, eventually passing Mansion House on his right before stepping out on to Cornhill. The ball of twine had nearly unravelled completely. Pyke crossed the road, walked right the way up to the Bank’s outer wall and cut the twine with his teeth, letting the remnants fall to the ground. From there, he retraced his path to the river, gathering up the twine as he went.

At the mouth of the tunnel, Pyke tied one end of the twine around one of the legs of the wharf and set off in the same direction he’d headed in earlier, allowing the twine to spool through his hands as he went. It ran out before he’d reached the steps leading up to Malvern’s chamber. At the exact spot where the twine ended, he inspected the brickwork above him, moving forward inch by inch, looking for any gaps or loose bricks.

It took him half an hour of painstaking scrutiny to find what he was looking for: a few loose bricks. Once he’d prised them out, he was staring at a hole almost the same size as he was.

It was four in the afternoon by the time the driver of the hackney carriage dropped Pyke outside Fitzroy Tilling’s house, and already darkness was beginning to gnaw at the edges of the plum‑ coloured sky. It had been a cooler afternoon and there was a hint of rain in the air, the first drops since Pyke had returned from the West Indies.

Pyke had washed in a tub in the back yard of his house and had changed his clothes, but he could still smell the raw sewage on his skin and inside his nostrils.

Tilling answered the door as soon as Pyke knocked. His thinning hair was damp with perspiration and the worry lines on his forehead suggested that the news wasn’t good.

In the front room, an old ginger cat was asleep on one of the chairs and it was joined by a younger cat, slim, with sleek grey fur.

Shrugging apologetically, Tilling mumbled, ‘You have a child, I have two cats, ’ as he poured them both a gin. There was something warmer about Tilling’s manner, as though their recent disagreements – and the way in which Pyke had betrayed him – had, for the time being, been put to one side.

‘Well? ’

‘I tracked down Lord Bedford’s butler. He was frightened of something but eventually I managed to get the truth from him. ’ Tilling tipped back his gin, the spirit barely touching the sides of his throat. ‘It seems you were right about Mary Edgar staying with Bedford. The butler confirmed it, after I’d threatened him with prison if he didn’t cooperate. ’

‘But that’s good news, isn’t it? ’ Pyke said, still trying to make sense of Tilling’s sombre expression.

‘I found him in St Albans. I was going to bring him back to London and take him to see Mayne. But he gave me the slip before we could board the stagecoach. Said he needed to go for a piss. I looked everywhere for him but couldn’t find him. He was scared of me, but he was definitely more frightened of someone else. ’

‘You think he knows who killed Bedford? ’

‘I asked him; he swore he didn’t. But he knows something. ’

Pyke absorbed this news, trying to work out what it could mean. ‘What happens now? ’

‘I went to see Mayne, told him what I’d found out from the butler. ’

‘And? ’

‘My word on its own is not enough. Even with the butler’s corroboration, it wouldn’t be sufficient to earn Morel‑ Roux a reprieve. Mayne told me that unless I could find some hard evidence proving Morel‑ Roux was set up, he won’t be able to intervene and take the matter to the Home Secretary. ’

‘So an official pardon is out of the question. ’

Tilling’s stare was listless. ‘It looks very much that way. ’

‘In which case Morel‑ Roux will be executed first thing on Monday morning. ’ It was already Saturday afternoon.

Tilling stared down into the empty glass.

‘Can I ask you a question? ’ Pyke looked directly at him. ‘Do you believe Morel‑ Roux murdered Bedford? ’

‘ Me? What I believe isn’t important right now. It’s what can be proved. ’

Pyke nodded, as if this were the response he had been expecting. ‘The question is what we’re prepared to do about it. ’

‘What can we do? Our hands are tied. ’

‘Are they? ’

Tilling lifted up the sleeping cats, sat down in the armchair and rearranged them on his lap. He motioned for Pyke to sit in the other chair. ‘What do you mean by that? ’

‘Could you arrange a visit to Morel‑ Roux’s cell tomorrow night, under the guise of trying to elicit a last‑ minute confession? ’

‘Isn’t that the job of the ordinary? ’

‘What I meant to ask was whether you could get me into the prison so I could talk to him. ’

‘Out of the question. ’ Tilling licked his lips. ‘How would I do that? ’

‘You could always requisition a constable’s uniform for me. I could be your assistant. ’

Tilling shrugged, evidently not delighted by this prospect. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but what good would talking to him serve? ’

‘If you can get me into the prison, I’ll take care of the rest. ’

‘The rest? ’ But Pyke could see that Tilling was beginning to understand what he was suggesting. ‘Oh, no. God, no. They’d hang you if they caught you. Me, too, if I was stupid enough to help you. ’

‘If Morel‑ Roux did kill Bedford and Mary Edgar, I’ll force a confession out of him. If he didn’t, an innocent man is going to die unless we do something. I can’t sit around and wait for it to happen. ’

For his part, Pyke had gone over and over the evidence in his head and he couldn’t see any reason why Morel‑ Roux would have murdered both Lord Bedford and Mary Edgar. And why would he have killed her in such a grotesque fashion?

‘It just isn’t possible to break into the prison and help a man to escape. Anyway, he’ll be under constant supervision. ’

‘There is a way. There’s always a way. ’

‘You’ve actually given this matter some thought, haven’t you? ’ Tilling stared at him, incredulous.

‘I won’t deny it’s risky. And you’ll do well to come out of it with your position in the New Police still intact. ’

‘What about the risk you’re running? You have a young lad who depends on you. I just have a couple of cats, ’ Tilling said, stroking the ginger one’s ears. Pyke could hear it purring from across the room.

He walked over to the window and stared out towards the heath. He’d always liked the view from Tilling’s front room. ‘What if I could offer you something by way of recompense – something that would make you look good in the eyes of your peers? ’ He turned around to face Tilling.

‘Such as? ’

‘Jemmy Crane wrapped up in a nice little box with a ribbon tied around it. ’

‘You’ll have to be more specific. ’

‘All right. ’ Pyke took a deep breath. ‘What if I told you that Crane had managed to find a way into the Bank of England’s bullion vault via an old sewer tunnel that runs directly beneath it? ’

That made Tilling sit up and take notice. ‘That’s why you asked me about the Bank of England yesterday? ’

‘It will happen some time tomorrow night, I’d guess, as people gather for the hanging. Certainly before the bank opens for business on Monday morning. ’

‘Jesus, ’ Tilling muttered. He stood up abruptly, spilling both of the cats and his empty glass of gin on to the floor. ‘Jesus, ’ he said again, shaking his head. ‘You’d better sit down and tell me what you’ve found out. ’

‘So you’re interested? ’

Tilling took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘Of course I’m interested. The question is what do we do about it. ’

Pyke waited for a moment. ‘You need to call a meeting of all of the guards in the governor’s office first thing tomorrow morning. ’

‘Then what? ’ Tilling still seemed shocked by Pyke’s revelation.

‘Then you work out how you’re going to set a trap for Crane and his men. ’

Later that night, after he had arrived home, Pyke looked in on Felix and watched him sleep, an ache building in his gut. The idea of not being part of his life, of not seeing him grow up to be a man, made Pyke feel so ill at ease that he came within a whisker of calling off his plans.

What did he really care about the Swiss valet anyway?

As he passed in and out of sleep, his dreams took him back to Jamaica and, later, while it was still dark outside, he lay in his bed, listening to himself breathe. Images drifted through his mind like fast‑ moving clouds. He’d seen something in his dream; something significant. Drawing air into his lungs, he tried to relax, tried to remember what it was, but it wouldn’t come to him. Lying still, he closed his eyes and let his mind go blank. Later, just as he was drifting back to sleep, he heard a voice call out to him. Whatever happens, don’t think badly of me. I don’t think I could bear it if you thought badly of me.

But there was another voice, too, and almost at once he realised it belonged to Harriet Alefounder.

I was a long way away and my eyesight isn’t what it used to be but I swear there was a little of her, of the Malvern woman, in this mulatto girl.