TWENTY‑NINE

She was sitting at the dressing table, staring at her reflection in the looking glass. Field may have been holding her captive, but the room was comfortable and well appointed, with a proper bed and a place to read and write. She looked up as Pyke entered the room, then turned around, her lips parting and her eyes widening with surprise. He had to admit she looked fantastic. She had just combed her hair and it fell around her face and down her back. For a few moments they stared at one another, Pyke at her flawless complexion, long, slender neck and, above all, her eyes: brown with yellow flecks around the irises and rimmed with circles of black.

‘I was hoping you’d come for me, ’ she said, a half‑ smile forming on her lips.

‘Hello, Mary. ’ Pyke spoke the words boldly; even so, they sounded strange.

For a moment she stared at him, amazed. ‘How did you know? ’

‘Elizabeth Malvern had green eyes. ’

Mary Edgar remained perfectly still, perhaps trying to work out in her head what to say and how to say it. ‘I always knew you’d be the one who would find me out. ’

Pyke felt dizzy just looking at her. He tried to suck down some air. ‘You should have killed me when you had the chance. ’

‘You think I could do that? ’ She seemed genuinely appalled.

‘You’ve done it before. ’

Mary waited for a moment before she spoke. ‘Do you know what kind of a person she really was? ’

Pyke’s expression remained implacable.

‘Elizabeth Malvern passed herself off as a virtuous woman – an upstanding member of society who volunteered her time to help others. But it was all a lie. She would find women, prostitutes mostly, for this man, Crane. When he was finished with them, he had someone kill them and throw them away. ’

‘I know that, Mary. And I also know that you didn’t kill her because she offended your morals. ’

Mary stared at him, as though caught in a lie.

‘I know why you and Sobers came here from Jamaica – to kill Elizabeth and take her place. Silas isn’t going to last much longer and, with him and Charles dead, the estate passes to Elizabeth. ’ Pyke waited and added, ‘I never met Elizabeth, but Alefounder’s wife saw you with her husband and remarked on your resemblance to her. You would have seen it, too, growing up in her shadow. Once you’d killed Elizabeth, all you had to do was sit tight, make a point of not seeing anyone who knew her, and wait for Silas to die and the estate to be settled. ’ Pyke whispered, ‘Did you really think it would work? ’

‘No one thinks Elizabeth is dead. Soon Silas will receive a letter, posted from Jamaica, apparently written by Elizabeth. It will inform him of her decision to remain there. ’

‘Then why are you still here? ’

She looked up at him and held his gaze. ‘I wanted to see how everything turned out. ’

‘And how, Mary, is it supposed to turn out? ’

‘I don’t know, do I? ’ Mary put the comb down and turned around to face the looking glass. ‘That’s up to you. ’

They ended up talking for over two hours, and gradually Pyke, with Mary’s help, fitted all the pieces together. What Mary knew, she had discovered from Phillip: indeed, the two of them had evidently formed a close bond in a short time.

Whatever way one looked at the circumstances, it had started with Elizabeth Malvern. About the time she introduced Crane to the practice of daguerreotyping, Phillip Malvern had turned up on her doorstep. While he had initially presented himself as her uncle, he later tried to convince her that he was, in fact, her father. Elizabeth didn’t believe him at first, but he was persistent and his story was persuasive: he told her about his long‑ standing affair with Bonella, Elizabeth’s mother, about her mother’s death and about Silas’s vengeful act of blinding him. Elizabeth had always been close to her father, and Pyke wondered how she had dealt with this revelation.

Phillip had lived in London for up to a year before he’d summoned the courage to face his daughter. To earn a living, he had scavenged the riverbanks and sewers for rats, and, in doing so, had stumbled on the underground room that eventually became his home. An unassuming and quietly rational man, Phillip had also brought with him some of the darker beliefs he’d inherited from his Jamaican Creole ancestry. As such, he was, from time to time, disturbed by visions and believed his blindness to be a punishment that could be cured by making sacrifices to the dark spirits that plagued him. He’d shown Elizabeth his underground ‘kingdom’, as he’d called it, and let her see his collection of animals’ eyeballs. He also told her that if he could offer the ‘duppies’ a human eyeball as a sacrifice, they might be appeased and restore his sight. Elizabeth didn’t take Phillip’s hopes for a cure seriously, but she certainly pitied him, and when, a little later, Crane’s experimentation with daguerreotyping meant that a few unfortunate women had to be sacrificed, she came up with a plan to suit everyone’s interests. Instead of burying the corpses, she and Crane would allow Phillip to dispose of them, thereby indulging his ‘fanciful’ belief that his blindness could be cured with the help of human eyeballs. He could do whatever he liked with the corpses as long as he made them disappear.

When Phillip had first arrived in London – to try to initiate a reconciliation with Silas and Elizabeth – he’d written to Bertha, his former lover, in Accompong. It was at this point that Bertha had confessed to Mary, her daughter, what Mary had always suspected; that she was related to the Malvern family by blood. Until that conversation, she had always believed that Silas, and not Phillip, was her father, because of her close physical resemblance to Elizabeth. Therefore her mother’s revelation that Phillip was, in fact, her father, also threw into doubt Elizabeth’s parentage – at least in Mary’s mind. And when Bertha found out that Mary was going to London, she passed on the address Phillip had given her – the Bluefield lodging house – and told her to try to persuade Phillip to come back to Jamaica.

According to Mary, the fact that she and Elizabeth were half‑ sisters, by the same father, was an open secret amongst the estate’s black population. Unsurprisingly, this had never been acknowledged by the Malverns, who saw her merely as a negro slave. Similarly, Elizabeth’s incestuous affair with her brother, Charles, was never brought up, even though most of the household knew about it. Mary didn’t know whether Silas ever found out but many of the black servants at Ginger Hill suspected he knew. According to some, it was the main reason he had brought forward his plans to retire to London and why he’d insisted that Elizabeth accompany him, forcing Charles to remain at Ginger Hill against his will to run the estate. It was after their departure that Charles’s attention had turned, quite naturally, to Mary, who, though a little darker skinned, looked eerily like his sister.

At the time Mary had been sleeping with Isaac Webb, but it was Webb, and particularly Harper, who had pushed Mary into an affair with Charles: both men saw it as a good opportunity to exploit the Malvern family. And when, a year or so later, a besotted Charles proposed marriage to her, they had insisted that she accept.

When Charles had discovered that Mary was still sleeping with Isaac Webb, rather than confront her directly, he had decided to send her to London, where she would live with his godfather until he could arrange the sale of Ginger Hill. For Harper and Webb, the idea that Mary would be in the same city as Elizabeth Malvern – without Charles to interfere – was too good a chance to pass up. Ideas were discussed; plans were formulated. Arthur Sobers volunteered to accompany her to London – without, of course, Charles Malvern learning about their plan. Meanwhile, wanting Mary to be safe in London but away from the disapproving stares of his family, Charles had arranged for her to stay in an apartment annexed to his godfather’s home in Mayfair.

The first obstacle that Mary had faced upon her arrival at the West India Docks in London was William Alefounder. He was a friend of Charles’s who had visited Ginger Hill the previous year. He, too, had noticed the physical resemblance between Mary and his former lover, Elizabeth Malvern. He’d followed her around the great house and had tried to flirt with her. According to Mary, they had slept together once in Jamaica. From her point of view, it had been a mistake; she had been flattered by his attention and had succumbed one night when a little drunk. But Alefounder had fallen for her, and when Charles Malvern sent him a letter explaining that Mary was to travel ahead of him to London, the besotted trader insisted on meeting her at the quayside and escorting her to her final destination. At first Mary didn’t want anything to do with him – the last thing she needed was an additional complication. But a few days later, when it became clear to her that Lord Bedford didn’t intend to let her have the freedom of the city without a chaperone, she sent Alefounder a message asking him to show her the sights. By Mary’s own account, this was a cruel thing to do, because it gave the trader some encouragement. He set up an apartment on The Strand and took her there one evening. (Later Pyke would surmise that Alefounder’s wife must have followed him there and seen him and Mary together. ) According to her, nothing had happened between them; she didn’t particularly like Alefounder or find him attractive and had merely used him as a foil in order to escape the attentions of Bedford.

Under the guise of spending the day with Alefounder, Mary had, in fact, travelled to the Bluefield lodging house on the Ratcliff Highway, where Sobers had taken a room, and had managed to find Phillip Malvern. Initially Phillip was shocked to discover that he had another daughter; Bertha had never told him that Mary was his, and since he’d disappeared into self‑ imposed exile after he’d been blinded by Silas, he hadn’t seen her grow up. Old and fragile, it had taken him a few hours to adjust to the news, and it was only when she told him that Bertha wanted him to go back to Jamaica that he finally seemed to believe her. He admitted that Bertha had been the true love of his life. They spent the afternoon and some of the next day together. Phillip was intrigued by Sobers’s claims that Mary was a myalist and begged for her assistance in summoning spirits and ‘vanquishing the demons’ who’d stolen his eyesight. Eventually, he took them down to his underground chamber and showed them his collection of eyeballs. By her own admission, Mary was appalled by what she’d seen and tried to force Phillip to tell her where the eyeballs had come from, and whether he had harmed any of the women. Shaken, he confessed that Elizabeth had procured the bodies for him – he said he didn’t know where they’d come from and only later, when Mary confronted Elizabeth, did she find out the truth.

Mary insisted that Phillip had not been involved in the plot to kill Elizabeth Malvern. From her descriptions of him, Phillip came across as a kind, lonely, deluded old man who was grateful to Elizabeth and didn’t seem to understand the full horrors of what she and Jemmy Crane were doing. Pyke surmised that, out of gratitude, Phillip had told Elizabeth about the sewer access to the bullion vault at the Bank of England. He obeyed, of course, when she swore him to absolute secrecy. Elizabeth, for her part, had no intention of keeping it a secret, and when she told Crane about it, she set in motion a chain of events that inadvertently culminated in Crane’s capture and arrest. Mary swore that she didn’t know what had happened to Phillip and seemed genuinely upset when Pyke told her that he believed Phillip was being held captive by Crane’s accomplices somewhere in the city, and might even be dead.

‘I promised my mother I’d bring him back to her, ’ Mary said, facing the prospect that, despite her best efforts, she might fail to make good on this pledge.

Elizabeth Malvern’s fate had effectively been sealed before Mary had even left Jamaica, but the plan – hatched by Harper and Webb – was put into action when Mary went to the Malvern residence to announce that she was going to marry Charles. This drew a predictable response from Silas and she was escorted from the house. Before Mary left, she told Silas that she was not going to change her mind – such were her feelings for Charles – and that she was willing to discuss the matter only with Elizabeth. Mary had left her address at the Bluefield lodging house, with instructions that Elizabeth should meet her there. Like her father, Elizabeth had wanted Mary out of their lives and certainly didn’t want her former servant marrying her beloved brother. For this reason, Elizabeth had asked Crane and his friends to go to the lodging house to try to scare Mary into abandoning her wedding plans, but they had come up against Arthur Sobers. Later, Elizabeth sent word that she would be willing to talk to Mary at her house. Mary had agreed to go because it suited her own ambitions, but only on the condition that no one else was present, not even servants. Together with Arthur Sobers, she crossed the city on a horse and cart that Sobers had acquired the previous day. Convinced that Elizabeth was alone, Mary had excused herself and slipped downstairs to let Sobers into the house via the back entrance. According to Mary, Sobers was the one who’d actually strangled Elizabeth, but she didn’t deny that she’d been a willing participant, pinning her half‑ sister to the floor.

When Mary described the murder, Pyke tried to gauge whether she felt any guilt or remorse, but her face remained blank.

Afterwards, Mary and Sobers took off Elizabeth’s clothes, removed her jewellery and laid her out on a tarpaulin. They had already decided to cover the body with quicklime – it would dissolve some of the flesh and make a positive identification difficult. The more pressing dilemma had been what to do about Elizabeth’s eyes. They were emerald green and anyone who’d seen Mary and who might be required to identify the body might notice the discrepancy. They’d already decided to try to make Elizabeth’s death – Mary’s death – resemble the murders they’d heard about from Phillip. If these murders were already known to the police, they would likely assume that Mary – or rather Elizabeth – had been killed by the same man. According to Mary, she had been the one who’d cut out her half‑ sister’s eyes with a scalpel borrowed from Phillip. Once this procedure had been completed, they carried Elizabeth’s corpse to the cart, hid it under a tarpaulin and returned to the Ratcliff Highway. There, at a spot they’d found earlier, they rolled the corpse down a grassy slope and left one of Mary’s dresses – the one she’d been wearing that morning at the Bluefield – nearby, together with a bottle of rum. That, and washing the body with the rum, had been her idea. The scribbled note bearing the name of the Bluefield, which was left in the dress pocket, would lead the police to the landlord, Thrale, who would, in turn, identify the corpse as Mary. The rum and the apparently ritualistic nature of the killing would underline the fact that a black or mulatto woman had been killed. No one would think the corpse belonged to a white woman. The policemen wouldn’t look at the skin colour; all they would see was a body decomposing with quicklime, the missing eyeballs, the rum.

Their hope, Mary explained, was that the corpse would be identified as Mary Edgar’s and any investigation – if there was an investigation – wouldn’t amount to much. They also knew that Silas Malvern, if he ever learned about Mary’s death, wouldn’t want it investigated too much either, because he wouldn’t want his family’s connection to a dead mulatto to become a matter of public record.

The only problem, of course, was Lord William Bedford. A kindly old man who was devoted to his godson, he had been true to his word and, at Mary’s insistence, he’d told no one about her engagement, except for his most trusted servant, the butler. If Mary’s murder was publicised and Bedford, or the butler, read about it, either man might go to the police and tell them what he knew: that Mary had been a guest in his house and that she was engaged to his godson, Charles Malvern. Moreover, if she went to see him after the death, the old man would know that the victim wasn’t, in fact, Mary or the woman the police believed to be Mary.

‘So you had to do something about him, didn’t you? You didn’t have a choice in the matter. ’ Pyke tried to push this point.

For her part, Mary tried to convince Pyke that she’d gone back to Bedford’s mansion after discarding Elizabeth Malvern’s body merely to talk to him; to explain that she’d decided to return to Jamaica. This way, and assuming her death wasn’t widely reported in the press, Bedford wouldn’t think anything of her vanishing act.

‘But didn’t you just tell me that Bedford was bound to hear of the murder and go to the police? ’

Mary didn’t have an answer for this. Pyke asked her to describe what had happened when she visited the old aristocrat. He expected Mary to be reticent or evasive, but she spoke openly about what she had done. Yet it wasn’t long before her composure, and her voice, started to crack.

That night, Mary had slipped into Bedford’s house without being seen and had made it all the way to his bedroom without disturbing any of the servants. Bedford had been reading a book in bed, and when he saw her enter his room, he beckoned her over and made a place for her next to him. He asked her what she wanted, what was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until the morning. She had started to tell him about her decision to return to Jamaica when he noticed the silver necklace around her neck. Elizabeth’s necklace. Mary had put it on after removing it from Elizabeth’s corpse, and had forgotten all about it. Bedford said he knew it was Elizabeth’s necklace because he had given it to her – he’d had it made especially for her eighteenth birthday. Bedford had demanded to know how she’d acquired it, and when she didn’t answer him straight away, he had threatened to call the police if she didn’t explain herself.

At this point, Mary’s voice cracked and her face began to crumple. ‘I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t plan to do it. I had no choice, ’ she whispered. ‘Kind as he was, he would have ruined everything. ’

Pyke waited for her to go on but Mary couldn’t get the words out.

‘And the letter opener? ’

She looked at him and he saw the struggle between guilt and remorse playing itself out in her expression. In a hollow whisper, she finally muttered, ‘I stabbed him. I stuck the knife into the old man’s belly and left him to die. ’

They had talked for hours and Mary looked exhausted; there were tears in her eyes and this final confession had taken her last drop of strength.

‘It makes a nice story but I don’t quite believe it. I think you went to Bedford’s house with a plan to kill him already in your mind. ’

‘He was a kind old man. ’ There were tears in Mary’s eyes. ‘Why would I have wanted to kill him? ’

‘Because Bedford would have gone to the police and told them about your connection to Charles Malvern. ’ Pyke shrugged. ‘You planned all of this too carefully to allow a loose end to upset things. ’

‘What are you saying? ’ she said in barely a whisper. ‘That I murdered him in cold blood? ’

‘Maybe you managed to convince yourself that you were just going there to talk to him but I think, deep down, you knew you had to kill him. ’

They stared at one another for what seemed like minutes.

‘I have to say, I’m still bothered by some of the evidence that the police found when they arrived at Bedford’s house. ’ Pyke was thinking about the police investigation and the trail of evidence that had, in turn, suggested Morel‑ Roux’s guilt.

Mary sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘What do you mean? ’

‘Did you try to hide Bedford’s money and his rings in the valet’s quarters in order to incriminate the valet? ’

Mary’s eyes widened at this new accusation. ‘ No. I just dropped the letter opener and ran. ’ Pyke studied her reaction.

‘And kill‑ devil was the code name for the operation? ’

She looked at him, surprised. ‘How did you know that? ’

‘You were overheard talking to Sobers on the Island Queen. I mentioned it to Sobers, and also to Webb and Harper in Jamaica. Each of them flinched at those words. I knew it meant something. ’

Mary looked at him. ‘Harper thought it was appropriate, given what we were trying to do. ’

There was a short silence. ‘Come on, get up. ’

‘What are you doing? ’ She was still sitting at the dressing table, her back to the looking glass. Pyke was standing over her.

‘I’m taking you to the police where you’ll make your full confession. ’

Mary didn’t move but continued to stare at her hands. ‘I know what I did to Bedford was wrong. He was a kind old man who didn’t deserve to die, and no matter what happens, I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. ’

Trying to restrain his anger, Pyke looked down at Mary’s hunched form. ‘Lord Bedford wasn’t just a kind old man, Mary. He was innocent, and you killed him. ’ He took a breath and tried to calm himself. ‘But that’s not all. Another innocent man was hanged for a crime that you committed. ’

Mary seemed to sink even farther into herself.

While Pyke was in no doubt that Mary had stabbed and killed Lord Bedford, he now believed that she’d fled the scene immediately after the murder. He questioned her further on the minutiae of what had happened and her answers seemed to make sense. What didn’t make sense was how the apparently stolen coins had ended up in Morel‑ Roux’s quarters. It was clear to Pyke that Morel‑ Roux had been set up; that the evidence that had convicted him of Bedford’s murder had been fabricated – just not by Mary. But Pyke didn’t know who would have wanted to see Morel‑ Roux hang and why.

Pyke’s confusion over Morel‑ Roux didn’t quell his anger. Pacing around the room, he spoke as calmly as he could. ‘And let’s not forget that you were a willing accomplice to your half‑ sister’s murder and the mutilation of her corpse. ’

‘I feel no remorse whatsoever for what I did to Elizabeth Malvern. She deserved everything she got. ’

For the first time Pyke didn’t know what to say, largely because he agreed with what she’d just said.

‘You might have spent a few weeks in Jamaica but you have absolutely no idea what it’s like to live there, what it’s always been like. Have you ever tried to walk in manacles? Do you know what it’s like to be whipped with a cat‑ o’‑ nine‑ tails? What it’s like to be bought and sold like cattle? What it’s like to know that whatever someone does to you, a white man does to you, you have no redress under the law? Even if they rape or kill you? ’ Her face was hot with rage, and she pulled up her dress to show him her back. Her skin was a coarse lattice of half‑ healed scars. ‘I got those seven years ago and they’ll never go away. ’

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? ’

THIRTY

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.

With their collective defence regarding the break‑ in at the Bank of England in tatters, and facing the likelihood of transportation for life and possibly even the gallows (depending on whether the robbery was interpreted as treason or not), Crane’s accomplices willingly turned on him and named him as the leader of the plot. For his part, Crane threatened to name names and expose men who’d been his long‑ standing customers unless all charges against him were dropped, but his threats fell on deaf ears. Since Tilling couldn’t cajole Crane and Sykes into turning on each other, however, the police weren’t able to charge the two of them with the murders of Bessie Daniels, Lucy Luckins and as many as five other ‘low’ women. This was the one glaring failure of the action Pyke had mounted against the pornographer, and it meant that, officially at least, the deaths of these women went unpunished. Still, at his trial for the attempted robbery of the Bank of England, the Crown played on Crane’s former associations with radical thinkers and rabble‑ rousers and presented the robbery as a treasonous action intended to destabilise the national economy. Crane and his six accomplices were found guilty; Crane, as the leader, was sentenced to hang, while the others, including Sykes were transported to Australia for life.

On a cool, autumnal morning, Pyke joined the large crowd that watched Crane walk on to the scaffold in front of Newgate prison and wait as the hangman put the noose around his neck. When the block was kicked away from under him and he fell to his death, Pyke tried to think of the last, and only, time he’d seen Bessie Daniels alive. As the hangman pulled down on Crane’s legs to finish the job, he thought of the manner of the transaction whereby Bessie had been sold to Crane by Eliza Craddock, and about Silas Malvern, who had accrued a vast fortune using exactly the same process: hard currency in exchange for a human life. But as Pyke watched Crane die, he didn’t feel any satisfaction, not did he try to convince himself that justice had been served.

A month earlier, Arthur Sobers had made the same short trek from Debtors’ Door to the scaffold, this time in front of a much smaller crowd. Pyke hadn’t attended this execution because he didn’t want to have to ask himself the difficult question: was it right to punish an essentially good man for taking another’s life? In the small hours of the morning, Pyke asked himself the same question and found himself thinking about Peter Hunt, the son of the former governor of Newgate prison who had tried and failed to avenge his father’s death. Pyke knew that the law and justice were very different creatures, but often he would wake up, unable to silence the screams of the men he’d killed.

Phillip Malvern’s body was never found.

The governor and directors of the Bank of England sought to limit the damage to the Bank’s reputation as a result of the failed robbery and to distance themselves from their former friend and colleague, Abel Trevelyan, who was sentenced to three years’ imprisonment for the possession of lewd and obscene materials. Their efforts to ‘contain’ the story were thrown into disarray, however, by a series of columns in the Examiner by ‘staff writer’ Edmund Saggers, in which he laid bare the link between Trevelyan and Crane and between pornography, the unexplained deaths of at least two women and the failed attempt to empty the bullion vault under the Bank of England. No mention was made of Harold Field; nor was his disappearance mourned. As far as Pyke knew, Matthew Paxton stepped into the dead man’s shoes without too much guilt.

About a week after the body of Lord William Bedford’s former butler was discovered floating in a lake near St Albans, Pyke found himself waiting in Scotland Yard for Pierce, who had just been promoted to the rank of superintendent.

‘I’d say congratulations, but that would suggest you earned your promotion rather than buying it with the blood of an innocent. ’

Pierce removed his hat and smoothed his hair. ‘Your preference for the melodramatic is well known but tedious. ’

‘An innocent man went to the gallows because you took the thirty pieces of silver that Silas Malvern offered you, to keep his family’s name out of the investigation. ’

Pierce seemed amused rather than upset by this accusation. ‘You want to know something, Pyke? ’ he said, picking his teeth. ‘We never did apprehend the fellow who tried to help Morel‑ Roux escape from Newgate. ’

‘I hope you see Morel‑ Roux’s face when you’re lying in your bed late at night, trying to forget about what you’ve done. ’

‘I sleep perfectly well. ’ Pierce looked around the yard and put on his hat. ‘It’s quite clear you don’t. That should tell you something. ’

‘Yes, it tells me I’ve got a conscience. ’

Pierce appeared to be on the verge of saying something but at the last moment shook his head, as though it wasn’t worth the effort.

‘I’m not scared of you, Pyke, and I’m not even remotely concerned by your low opinion of me. In fact, the notion that you – of all people – think you’re somehow more ethical than I am greatly amuses me. ’

Pierce walked off and left Pyke to his thoughts. It took every ounce of self‑ control on Pyke’s part not to follow him.

A few weeks after Jo had moved out to take up a nursemaid’s post in a household in Bloomsbury, she came to visit Felix. After a long and tearful reunion with her former charge, she came to find Pyke and sat with him in the front room.

‘You look well. ’ He meant it, too.

‘I wish I could say the same about you. ’ She said this, he thought later, not to crow but simply to point out what was self‑ evident: he hadn’t washed or trimmed his whiskers for days and he’d been surviving on a diet of laudanum and baked potatoes.

‘And your visitor? I never did find out her name. ’

Pyke couldn’t bring himself to look at her. ‘She’s gone. ’

‘Oh. ’ Jo’s expression was measured, her voice composed.

For a while neither of them spoke. The rattle of wood and iron wheels across cobbles temporarily filled the room.

‘I saw the way you looked at her and I recognised it. It was the same way I used to look at you. ’ When he didn’t respond, Jo offered a gentle smile.

Pyke fumbled around in his pocket and produced an envelope. ‘I’d like you to have this as a token of my appreciation for all the work you did for my family. ’

Jo took it, peered into the envelope and tried to hand it back to him. ‘I couldn’t possibly accept it, as generous as it is. ’

‘Don’t think of it as coming from me. Think of it as a gift from Emily. I’d say you were her best, and most loved, friend. Or think of it as a gift from Felix if that makes you feel any better. ’ Pyke looked away suddenly because he didn’t want her to see his expression.

She held out the envelope for him again but he wouldn’t take it. ‘Please, keep it. I’d like to think I’ve done at least one right thing with respect to you. ’

Jo sat there for a while contemplating what he’d said and finally put the envelope into her shawl.

‘Will you come and visit Felix again? ’

On the front steps, they shook hands and, as their fingers parted, Pyke had to rein in a sudden desire to take her hand and ask her to reconsider. Tying her bonnet under her chin, she turned around and looked at him. ‘Try not to be too hard on yourself, Pyke. For some reason, and I hope you take this as a compliment, self‑ loathing doesn’t suit you. ’

The same night Mary had found out that her father had been killed by Crane, she had come to Pyke’s room. She wore a cotton nightdress that clung to her figure and revealed just enough of her firm, plump calves to elicit his attention. He had been sitting up in bed reading. She had stood by the door and even when he had invited her into the room, and had cleared a space for her next to him on the bed, she had remained where she was.

‘I’m scared, Pyke. ’ She stood there unmoving. ‘I’m scared that all this, all that we’ve done, all the lives that have been damaged – that it’s all been for nothing. ’

‘I’m not sure what you want me to say. Do you expect me to tell you that everything is going to be all right? ’

‘Not at all, ’ she said, staring towards the window.

‘What did you mean, then? ’

Mary wiped a strand of hair from her eye and took a tentative step into the room. Pyke looked down at the book he’d been reading, trying to ignore his groin and the hammering of his heart.

‘If you’d asked me a month ago, I would have told you how much I longed to be back in Jamaica. To feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, see my old friends. ’

‘And now? ’ His gaze followed the curve of her cheekbones down to the smoothness of her neck.

‘Now I don’t know what I feel. ’ She took another step into the room, and was almost close enough for him to reach out and touch her. ‘Do you know? ’

‘What about? ’ He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

‘About what happened between you and me. ’

She stared at him. But in saying it, in calling attention to what had happened, it was as if some kind of spell had been broken. This time, when Pyke patted the place for her on the bed, she sat down next to him.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about the few weeks that I spent in Jamaica. ’ He hesitated. ‘At the time, it didn’t make sense to me why no one seemed much interested in helping me to find your murderer. ’

‘You didn’t ever suspect what we’d done? ’

Pyke shrugged. ‘Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn’t. It’s hard to remember with any degree of certainty what I thought. But that’s not what I’m trying to say. ’

‘I’m sorry. ’

‘You don’t have to apologise. It’s just…’ Pyke hesitated. ‘I was just thinking about a conversation I had with Isaac Webb. ’ He looked over at her, but her expression remained blank. ‘I’m sure, looking back on it, he’d been told to kill me. I was becoming a nuisance. If I’d been allowed to return to London, I might’ve discovered the truth and threatened everything. It wasn’t personal – in fact, I think Harper and Webb liked me for some reason. In any case, I pre‑ empted Webb – I knew what he was going to do and I pulled my pistol on him instead. Thinking about it now, I’m certain he could have followed me and finished the job. I told him that my place was here, with my son. He told me about his son and in the end, I think he let me go because he didn’t want any more blood to be spilled. But as I rode away I remember thinking about home, about London, and how I didn’t belong there in Jamaica. ’

Her jaw tightened a little. ‘And by that you mean I don’t belong here? ’

‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant that Webb and I seemed to come to an accommodation. Over there was his place. ’

‘But it isn’t his place. Isn’t that the whole point? It belongs to Silas Malvern, and when he dies it will be sold to another white planter. It will never be our place unless we’re prepared to do something about it. ’

Pyke absorbed the heat of her gaze but his silence seemed to make her angrier. ‘Here in this room, in this house, what you have is all yours. You can do as you please. You have no idea how lucky you are – and how many things you take for granted. ’

Pyke nodded, to concede the point. He knew what he had to say but the words seemed to catch in his throat. ‘There’s a…’ He hesitated and tried to swallow. ‘There’s a steamer leaving from Southampton in two days. I’ve booked your passage as far as Kingston. ’ He couldn’t bring himself to look at her but he sensed her body going rigid.

‘Just like that? ’ There was still a small spark of hope in her voice. She reached out and touched his hand and he had to bite back an urge to pull her towards him.

‘I’ll accompany you as far as Southampton, to make sure you take up your cabin. ’

That drew a hollow laugh. ‘A cage with golden bars. ’

‘Better that than a prison cell here in London. ’

‘And Silas Malvern? ’ She gave him a hollow look. ‘What will you tell him? ’

‘I’ll tell him the truth. ’ This time he looked directly at her and sighed. ‘That’s all I can do. ’

Picking up the half‑ full bottle, Fitzroy Tilling leaned across the table and poured them both a glass of claret.

‘You know what I think? ’ he said, chewing a piece of bread. ‘I think, in the end, there isn’t a great deal that separates us. I’d even go as far as to say there could be a place for you in the New Police if you wanted it. The political winds are shifting. There’ll be an election within the year and Peel will win it. The current Liberal administration is a spent force. I’ve talked to Peel about your ideas vis‑ a‑ vis detection, rather than just prevention, of crime. He seems keen on the idea of a detective bureau and I think he might offer you a position. What would you say to that? ’

‘Me? A police officer? ’ Pyke started to laugh.

‘A detective. And remember you were once a Bow Street Runner. ’ Pyke took a sip of claret. He would have to think about Tilling’s offer, but it was true that he enjoyed the work. Sitting back in his chair, he looked at the man across from him and wondered about their similarities.

‘Did anyone ever connect you with the attempt to break Morel‑ Roux out of Newgate? ’

Tilling looked up from his food, a grilled lamb chop, and shrugged. ‘They investigated, of course, and found that a PC William Dell and I left the prison through the main gate at a quarter to ten. ’

‘You know, I got him as far as the chapel window. All he had to do was climb down the rope. But he froze. He was terrified of heights. ’

Tilling put down his cutlery and exhaled. ‘We did all we could, Pyke. ’

‘Do you really believe that? ’ Pyke could tell that Tilling was still troubled.

‘If I had the chance to do it again, to try to rescue Morel‑ Roux, I wouldn’t. The law’s the law. It’s the only thing that separates us from beasts. ’

‘But the law is also the means by which men like Silas Malvern have accrued their fortunes. ’

Tilling chewed a piece of meat and washed it down with a mouthful of claret. He didn’t have an answer. One of the things Pyke liked best about Tilling was that they disagreed so fundamentally on so many different things but somehow managed to keep those disagreements at bay. He wondered what this said about their friendship.

‘I had lunch with the governor of the Bank of England today, ’ Tilling said, breaking the silence.

‘Oh? ’

‘In light of what happened, they’ve just completed an audit of their bullion reserves. ’

‘And? ’ Pyke pretended to concentrate on what was on his plate.

‘Twenty gold bars have gone missing. ’

‘Just twenty? ’

‘Indeed, given what might have happened, he seemed rather relieved. ’

‘Could’ve been a lot worse. ’

‘And he knows he has you to thank for that. ’ Tilling wetted his lips. ‘You were the one who foiled Crane’s plans, after all. ’

Pyke accepted the compliment. ‘What’s he going to do? ’

‘Any more than twenty, I’d say he would have called in the City of London police. ’

‘But a man in his position wouldn’t want to advertise that even one single gold bar had gone missing, would he? ’

Tilling pushed a piece of meat around his plate with a fork. ‘The hole leading up from the sewer came out directly in front of the guard room. To get in and out of the bullion vault, someone would have had to be fairly sure that no guards would be present. That’s what Crane was counting on. But what if someone knew, for example, that on the Sunday morning before the robbery, a meeting had been called in the governor’s chamber, involving all the soldiers, and hence the entrance to the bullion vault would have been left unguarded for at least half an hour? ’

Pyke took a sip of wine and held Tilling’s stare. ‘That’s quite an elaborate story. But I don’t know what it’s got to do with me. ’

Tilling’s eyes narrowed. ‘It pleases me to hear you say that. Because if I thought you’d used me, I’d do my utmost to see you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. ’

Pyke said nothing.

‘Listen, I mentioned this idea of the detective bureau earlier because I think you’re the most tenacious, gifted investigator I’ve ever known. I think you enjoy it, too. But these are changed times. Any slip‑ ups, any vague flirtations with criminality, and Peel won’t touch you with a ten‑ foot stick. ’

Pyke assured Tilling that he would think about what he’d said.

That afternoon, Pyke collected Felix from Godfrey’s shop and took him back to the house, where they rescued Copper from the back yard. They walked to the fields just to the north of their street. It was a warm, late summer day and, away from the maw of the city, the air smelled clean and refreshing. The sky was an unbroken panoply of blue, and the ground underfoot had been baked hard by the sun. Copper limped contentedly by their side and, as they walked, Felix discussed the good and bad points of the new nanny, mostly in terms of how she was and wasn’t like Jo.

The field to their right had been portioned up into allotments and Pyke had taken one of the plots and had started to plant his own vegetables. He liked the idea of working a small patch of land and showing Felix how particular foods arrived on his plate. There was a small shed in one corner of the allotment from which Pyke collected a shovel before digging down into recently cultivated earth. Felix and Copper looked on without much interest. Eventually, the end of the shovel struck the top of the trunk. Pyke cleared a space around it and invited Felix to join him in the hole.

‘I want you to see something, ’ Pyke said, putting his arm around Felix’s shoulder. ‘I was hoping you could open up the trunk for me. ’

‘Why? What’s inside? ’

‘Why don’t you open it and see for yourself. ’ Pyke stood back while Felix unfastened the catch and lifted up the lid.

The eighteen gold bars were just as he’d left them. The reflection from the sun made it hard to look at them for any length of time.

For days, Pyke had agonised over whether to tell Felix about the bars or show them to him. The risk of doing so was great: Felix might turn against him or, worse still, denounce him as a common criminal. That said, considering the way Felix had dealt with Eric, the pickpocket, Pyke had seen something in his son, an indifference to the finer points of the law, and it was something he liked. That suggested to him it might be time to trust the lad a little more, show him something of the world Pyke actually inhabited. Let him be proud of his father; proud of his rougher edges and daring, rather than of his willingness to serve the very letter of the law.

Felix didn’t know what to do. ‘Are they real? ’ he asked, afraid to reach out and touch them.

‘Try lifting one up. You’ll need both hands. ’

Felix did as Pyke suggested and tottered unconvincingly under the weight of one of the bars before letting it drop back on to the pile. ‘Where have they come from? ’ he asked eventually, still adjusting to the wonder of it all.

‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is they’re ours. Yours and mine. This is our secret. I want you to shake my hand; then we’ll both swear we’ll never tell another living soul about it. ’

They shook hands and made the pledge. Pyke lifted one of the bars out of the trunk and put it in a satchel he’d brought with him. The market price was something in the region of eight hundred pounds; Ned Villums had offered to pay him half that. But it would be more than enough to settle his debts and pay his bills for the foreseeable future.

‘What are we going to do with them all? ’

Pyke smiled at the speed with which his son had accepted his ownership of the bars. ‘Keep them here. From time to time I might sell one. But this is our future. I promised I’d try harder. This is the start of it. ’

‘But what if someone else comes and digs them up? ’

‘No one else knows about them. As long as we don’t tell anyone else, they’ll be more than safe right here. ’

Later, as they walked back towards the house, the sun was setting in the west and the entire sky was washed with streaks of orange and gold. Copper trotted ahead on his three good legs and Felix walked next to Pyke holding his hand.

It took Pyke another month after he had seen Mary on to the steamer at Southampton to summon the necessary fortitude to face Silas Malvern in his own home. He was ushered in by the same butler into the same greenhouse he had visited three or four months earlier. This time, though, Malvern almost seemed pleased to see him and even made the butler fetch two glasses of his best cognac. He also ordered the man to bring a chair for Pyke and put it close by so that they could talk without being interrupted. He seemed to be in good spirits and, if anything, his health had improved slightly since Pyke had last seen him outside the Sessions House.

‘Now, sir, to what do I owe the dubious honour of this visit? ’ he asked, once the butler had returned with the chair and the brandies.

‘You once expressed a desire to be reunited with your brother, Phillip. I’m sorry to tell you he’s dead. ’

Malvern’s expression crumpled and his top lip began to quiver. ‘I see. ’ He tried to regain control of his mouth. ‘Can I ask where and how he died…’ Closing his eyes, he went on, ‘and what has become of his body? I should like to honour him in death in a manner I wasn’t able to in life. ’

‘He fell in with the wrong people. It’s likely his body will never be found. ’

‘Will you at least tell me about the circumstances of his death and the identity of these people you refer to? ’

‘On certain conditions. ’

Malvern licked his lips. ‘Such as? ’

‘I want you to own up to what you did. An innocent man was sacrificed to preserve your family’s good name. ’

Malvern paused and then nodded his head slowly, as though acknowledging the truth of what Pyke had just said. With a lazy movement he waved his hand, as though swatting an imaginary fly. ‘What would be the purpose of raking over old ground? ’

The almost casual manner with which Malvern had admitted to his part in the plot to fabricate the evidence against Morel‑ Roux took Pyke’s breath away.

‘You’ve clung on to your honour and fortune and Pierce has been promoted to the rank of superintendent. But a good man is dead for no other reason than he was poor and foreign and therefore expendable. Is that something you want to take to your grave? ’

‘If I ever felt the need to confess my sins, I’d do so in the presence of a priest, not a common thief. ’

‘I’m not talking about making a statement before the Church or even the law. I know you’d never do it. I just want you to admit what you did to me. ’

‘Why? ’ This time Malvern seemed genuinely curious. ‘You already seem to have made up your mind anyway. ’

‘Because I want to hear the words come from your lips. ’

The idea of exacting his own justice had crossed Pyke’s mind, but such an act would only play into the hands of the Jamaican conspirators. He wondered what he had really hoped to achieve by confronting the old man.

When Malvern didn’t answer, Pyke added, ‘I realise that some vague information about a brother you haven’t seen in more than twenty years is perhaps insufficient inducement here, so I’m prepared to sweeten my offer. ’

‘Sweeten in what sense? ’

‘I also have some information about your daughter. ’

That made him sit up straighter. ‘What do you mean? What information do you have about my Elizabeth? ’

Pyke pretended not to have heard him. ‘But you see, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll tell you what I know only if you’ll agree to make a confession in front of Sir Richard Mayne and Fitzroy Tilling. ’

He sat back and watched the old man’s bewilderment, enjoying it until he considered his own motivations for doing what he was about to do. Until now it hadn’t been clear to him, but suddenly it was: he wanted to ruin Pierce and break Malvern. Any hint of wrongdoing on Pierce’s part would bring about his dismissal and the truth about Elizabeth Malvern would surely send the old man to his grave. What Pyke was doing had nothing to do with justice, with avenging the Swiss valet’s death.

‘I’ve just received a letter from my daughter. ’ Malvern stared at him with ill‑ concealed hostility. ‘It would appear she’s decided to remain in Jamaica for the time being and she’s quite adamant that I’m not to sanction the sale of Ginger Hill. ’ Pyke couldn’t tell whether he welcomed this move or not.

He thought about Mary Edgar and the way the skin around her eyes creased when she smiled. But he also thought about what she and Webb and Harper and Bertha and Sobers had done, or tried to do, and how close they were to realising their ambitions. He’d thought about little else in the month or so since Mary had departed on the steamer bound for Kingston.

‘It would appear we’ve reached an impasse, sir, ’ Malvern said, sipping his cognac. ‘You see, I’m sufficiently curious about this new information you claim to have acquired regarding my daughter to at least consider your request, even if it comes at great personal cost to myself. ’

‘But? ’

‘But I can’t agree to honouring this agreement until I know more about the specific nature of your information. ’

Pyke felt his stomach tighten. ‘Perhaps I could ask you a question, in the meantime? ’

Malvern nodded.

‘What’s become of your intention to donate a tranche of land at Ginger Hill to Knibb’s church? ’

‘I signed the papers before Knibb sailed for Jamaica. ’

‘A hundred acres? ’

Malvern hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘More like fifty. ’

‘ Like fifty, or fifty? ’

‘Forty perhaps. No, definitely forty. ’

Pyke contemplated what he’d just been told. ‘But the estate at Ginger Hill encompasses more than five hundred acres. ’

‘That’s correct, sir. ’

‘And you think that donating a paltry forty acres is enough to make up for the profits your family has accrued from the forced labour of slaves? That is your expression of remorse – forty acres? ’

Malvern pulled his blanket up over his knees and took another sip of brandy. ‘I know you’ve visited the island, sir, and know a little of the challenges faced by planters and negroes alike. But you can’t simply tear down one system and replace it with another overnight. That takes time. Little by little change will come, and if the negroes show themselves capable and worthy of adjusting to their new circumstances as citizens of the Crown, more opportunities will come their way. But they will have to prove themselves first. Even Knibb would tell you the same thing. ’

Pyke thought about Webb and Harper, but most of all about Mary Edgar. Had they proved themselves?

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, sir. I’ve had a change of heart. ’ Pyke stood up and looked down at Malvern’s face.

‘What do you mean, a change of heart? ’

‘If you were to be seized by a sudden desire to unburden yourself to Mayne or Tilling, I for one would welcome it. But I see no further reason for continuing this conversation. ’

He started to walk towards the door. Malvern tried to climb up from his chair but the act was beyond him. ‘What about your news of Elizabeth? What’s happened to her? You can’t leave me like this. Sir, I beg you. ’

On the steps outside Malvern’s house, Pyke steadied himself against the stone column and watched a milkmaid pass by on the pavement, two metal churns balancing on either side of a wooden yoke. It was a cool, overcast day and the air smelled of wet leaves, but Pyke’s thoughts were not of the imminent change of season, nor even about the conversation he’d just had with a frail old man. Rather, he thought of a place high in the mountains where people grew their own food and lived in their own houses, and whether it was possible to commit terrible acts in the name of a general good – and still be able to face your own reflection without hating what you saw.