About a week after he had first been arrested, Pyke was visited by Wells and then by Quince. It was a Thursday afternoon. They both told him the same thing: the date of his trial had been set. He was due to go before the magistrate across the road at the Bow Street courthouse at nine o’clock on Monday morning.
That meant he had less than three days to prepare his defence.
‘How is everything at St Matthew’s? Are they treating you well?’ Pyke tried to keep his tone upbeat.
Felix nodded. The trial was just two days away and the boy looked scared.
‘As I understand it, you have your own bedroom?’
Martin Jakes had written him a letter, explaining that he was happy to give Felix a roof over his head, but that Pyke would have to find an alternative arrangement if he was found guilty.
‘I miss our home. I miss Copper. I lie awake at night and I think about what’ll happen if they send you to prison.’
Pyke shook his head, as though this wasn’t a possibility. In actuality, it wasn’t a possibility. If he was found guilty, it would be the noose.
‘And you have enough money for cab fares and to contribute to the expenses at the vicarage?’
Felix chewed his lip and stared down at the stone floor. ‘Pyke . . . if you’re found guilty, they’ll hang you, won’t they?’
Pyke looked at his son and tried to think of a way of answering that didn’t involve telling the truth.
On Saturday afternoon, Pyke was resting on his mattress: he had just finished the last of his laudanum and felt relaxed, even confident that Pierce wouldn’t prevail. A thin shaft of light had penetrated the barred window, casting its shadow on to the opposing wall. He heard footsteps and a rattle of keys. Moments later, the door swung open. Jack Whicher had removed his hat to enter the room and stood for a few moments, waiting for Pyke to say something.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me . . . but then again, in the light of what I’ve just found out, I couldn’t not come.’
In truth, Pyke was glad to see his former confidant, even if the news he’d brought didn’t appear to be good.
‘You have to understand, Pyke, I had no knowledge that any of this was going to take place.’
‘Just tell me what you’ve heard, Jack.’
‘I’m assuming you know that Alfred Egan is going to testify against you? And they’ve managed to twist the old gaoler’s arm, too.’
‘Wells told me,’ Pyke said.
Whicher nodded; Pyke could see the strain on his face. ‘But did he also tell you they’ve got another testimony?’
Pyke sat up straight and felt his stomach knot. ‘Who?’
‘Someone called Villums. Ned Villums. I take it you know who I’m talking about.’
Instinctively Pyke dry-retched: he tried to stand up but his legs wouldn’t carry him. For a moment, he sat on the mattress, dazed. ‘How?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know any of the details. I have a contact who works as a clerk in the courthouse across the road. He gave me a list of prosecution witnesses.’
Pyke sat there on the mattress, shaking. It was inconceivable, unthinkable, that a man like Ned Villums would testify against him, or anyone else, in a courtroom. But somehow Pierce had got to him; somehow Pierce had broken him; and if Villums stood up and told the court what he knew, Pyke was as good as dead. It wasn’t just that Villums could lie about him having stolen the Saviour’s Cross; the man had first-hand knowledge of the many crimes Pyke had committed over the years. There were thefts he could talk about. Even murders.
‘Wells would have known about this, wouldn’t he?’
Whicher pursed his lips and nodded. ‘I’d say so.’
And he’d played it quite beautifully, Pyke thought. Convince Pyke to waive his right to a pre-trial hearing and keep him in the dark regarding the true threat to his liberty. Meanwhile, distract him with luxuries and laudanum. It was perfect. But why did Wells want him out of the way? Was it conceivable that he had been acting in consort with Benedict Pierce from the outset?
‘Who is he?’ Whicher asked, a few moments later.
‘You mean Villums? You don’t want to know. But he’s the one man whose testimony will almost guarantee I’ll swing from the noose.’
‘That bad, eh?’
‘If he stands up and tells the court even a fraction of what I’ve done, what we’ve done together, I don’t stand a chance.’
Whicher stood still, arms folded. Pyke couldn’t tell whether he was appalled by this revelation or not. ‘So what are you going to do?’ Whicher asked, finally.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, Pyke shuffled across to where he was standing and clasped his shoulders. ‘You’re a good friend, Jack. I’m sorry about what I said before.’
‘I’m sorry too.’ Whicher’s smile turned into a grimace. ‘Pierce isn’t interested in me any more, now you’re in here.’
‘I could always try to delay the trial but I don’t think that would help. If Villums testifies, I’m finished.’
Whicher offered an uncomfortable shrug. ‘I have no idea where they’re keeping him. I don’t imagine anyone knows.’
‘Don’t worry, Jack.’ Pyke tried to smile. ‘I’m not going to ask you to do anything illegal.’
‘Then what do you want?’
Pyke returned to his mattress and sat down; he needed time to think. He was in a deep hole and there was no obvious way out.
‘I can’t ask you to do anything for me, Jack, but I’m hoping you could be persuaded to bring someone to see me.’ The first inkling of an idea was forming in Pyke’s head.
‘Who?’
‘You remember Sean Rafferty? He was shot dead some time last month. His brother Conor drinks in the Blue Dog in St Giles.’
‘You want me to find him and ask him to come here?’
‘He’ll refuse at first, so you have to try and convince him it’ll be in his best interests. He’ll want to avenge the death of his brother. Tell him I can help.’
Whicher didn’t speak for a moment or two. ‘Are you quite sure you want your fate to depend on someone like Rafferty?’
‘In a day and a half, I’ll stand in front of a judge who’ll happily send me to the scaffold, if that’s what the jury tells him to do. I don’t see I have a choice in the matter.’
The situation was too far gone for Pyke to feel any real anger towards Wells or indeed Pierce. That could come later, if and when he made it out of there. Nor did he have the time to engineer an escape. It was true that he’d been given the freedom of the cell, but he knew there were two men on the door at all times and everyone going in and out of the cell was searched. Still, for a while at least, he imagined what he would do when he next came face to face with Wells. Or Villums. That had been the bitterest of blows. He had known Villums for twenty years and had developed a certain respect for him. The loss of face for Villums was unimaginable, too. Even if he was testifying against a policeman, no one would do business with him again.
Pyke found it hard to settle; he paced around the oblong room until he felt dizzy. And even though the pain from his ribs and broken fingers was almost unbearable, he resisted the temptation to finish the laudanum. That was how Wells wanted him; docile, strolling oblivious into an ambush. No, he had to stay focused and the pain would help him. Turning his thoughts back to Conor Rafferty, he tried to think what he might do if Whicher wasn’t able to find him or Rafferty decided not to come. Did he have another idea? It was Sunday tomorrow and the city shut down for the day. He took to counting the hours: thirty-nine until he was due to take his place on the stand.
Later that evening Wells did come to see him. ‘You have to believe me,’ he said, almost pleading. ‘I knew nothing about it. I was just as much in the dark as you. I found out an hour ago and came here as quickly as I could.’ He shook his head. ‘I assume it’s bad news.’
Pyke said nothing for a moment or two. ‘Jack Whicher came to see me this afternoon. He broke the news to me.’
/> Wells nodded. ‘It’s Pierce. He’s played this final card from the bottom of the deck. No one could have seen it coming.’
‘But you persuaded me to waive my committal hearing, didn’t you, Walter? If I’d taken the hearing, the Crown’s lawyers would’ve been forced to reveal their hand.’
‘I know and I feel terrible. Just terrible. Please, old man. If there’s anything I can do for you, any way of making amends . . .’
‘Give me the keys and let me walk out of here.’
Wells simply stared at him. ‘Within reason, Pyke.’
‘In a day, I go before a magistrate and jury with no chance of refuting the evidence that will be presented to them. What do you expect me to say?’
‘Perhaps I could try to find this new witness.’ Wells hesitated.
‘And do what?’
‘Talk to him; persuade him not to testify against you.’
Pyke shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t do any good; clearly Pierce has something on him. There’s no way he would have agreed to testify otherwise.’
‘But if I could find him . . . and . . . What if he had an accident? Something that prevented him from getting to the courtroom?’
Pyke was surprised at this suggestion.
‘Things are never as bad as you think they are,’ Wells continued. ‘When I was a soldier in Afghanistan, our regiment was attacked by the natives. We were ambushed in the mountains and outnumbered. It was hopeless; men were falling like flies. I made a choice. I hid under a pile of corpses pretending to be dead. I stayed there for almost a day. It was baking hot so you can imagine the stench. Eventually reinforcements arrived. I was the only one left alive. Later, I received a medal for my endeavours. It made my reputation as a soldier but not a day goes by when I don’t feel ashamed of what I did.’
It was a strange tale. Pyke could see that Wells didn’t often tell it and that this confession had taken its toll. But it didn’t do anything to change or alleviate the predicament he faced.
Pyke didn’t hear anything or receive another visitor until the following afternoon. It took him a few seconds to recognise Conor Rafferty: he was gaunter than Pyke remembered and he’d shaved his head. There was none of his former insouciance, either. His countenance was grim and determined.
‘So what is it you think I can do for you, big man?’
Pyke couldn’t tell whether he’d used this last term ironically. ‘Think of it, in the first instance, in terms of what I can do for you.’
‘While you’re locked up in here, not a whole lot, I’d wager.’ His smile revealed rotten teeth and black gums.
‘Perhaps we need each other.’
‘How do you work that one out?’ He tried to appear indifferent but Pyke could tell he was interested.
‘I can give you George Culpepper. In fact, I can serve up George Culpepper’s mob on a plate.’
Pyke could see that the name had scored a hit, but Rafferty was still a long way from being convinced.
‘Like I said, big man, there’s nothing you can do for me while you’re rottin’ in this place.’
‘That’s why I need your help.’
Conor Rafferty nodded, as though he’d been expecting this. ‘Hell’d freeze over before a Rafferty went out of his way to help the law.’
‘How can I be the law if I’m locked up?’
Rafferty scratched his head. ‘You have a point there, I’ll grant you.’
‘Then you’ll at least listen to what I’ve got to say.’
‘I’ll listen, but at this precise moment, that’s all I’m prepared to do.’
‘You know I grew up on the same street as Culpepper? We used to call him Little Georgie. For the first seven years of his life, he slept in a coal-shed with a pack of dogs. He learnt to bark before he could talk.’
That, at least, made Rafferty smile.
On Monday morning it was raining. In fact, it had been raining almost continuously since the previous afternoon and the water had gathered in sludge-coloured puddles, carriages and omnibuses spraying brown slush on to the pavements, meaning that pedestrians had to hug the buildings if they didn’t want to get wet. The guards had searched Pyke as he’d left the felons’ room and the only item they let him take with him was a skin filled with porter, or so he’d told them; they also hadn’t noticed a hairpin that he’d smuggled out in his mouth. To get from the station house to the courtroom meant crossing the road but nothing was being left to chance; Pyke was shackled in leg-irons and handcuffs and escorted by half a dozen police constables and an inspector, who carried his pistol at all times. Neither Wells nor Pierce had been back to visit him and he had spent his last night in the cell quietly contemplating all the things that could go wrong. A queue had formed, and it snaked out of the courthouse along Bow Street as far as the Brown Bear. Pyke had already been told by the gaoler to expect quite an audience; after all, as he put it, it wasn’t every day folk got to see a copper get his just desserts. Shielded from the onlookers by a phalanx of uniformed constables, they went in to the building using a private entrance and followed a series of narrow passageways that led to the courtroom itself.
Pyke took his place on a small, elevated platform surrounded by a wooden rail on one side of the room, across from the bench. There was a gilt-framed mirror and a large clock on the wall behind him. The spectators had gone quiet when he’d first entered the room, but now there was an excited buzz. Pyke had told Felix not to come, but he knew that his son would probably be there. Perhaps Sarah would come, too, even though she had been given the same instructions. He surveyed the faces gathered in front of him and, to his relief, he didn’t see anyone he knew except for Whicher and Eddie Lockhart, who were deep in conversation.
The constables who’d escorted him from the station house congregated on one side of the dock. Pyke hadn’t bothered to ask whether he might be unshackled because he knew there was no point. Though no one had said so explicitly, it was clear that the constables, turnkeys and gaolers had been instructed not to let him out of their sight. Pyke studied the faces of the crowd again, this time hoping he might see Conor Rafferty in the room. Instead he saw Sarah Scott and then Felix; they were standing together. Pyke had no idea they had even met, but when he caught Sarah’s eye, he smiled and mouthed the words ‘thank you’. It was regrettable that they had come but he had known they would. Briefly he wondered how they’d react when the trial got under way. It would be especially hard on the lad, Pyke mused; hard but unavoidable.
‘All set, then?’ His lawyer, Geoffrey Quince, QC, had aged since Pyke had first met him, but in a distinguished manner. Quince’s serene expression indicated he had no idea that another prosecution witness had been added to the list.
‘The Attorney-General is conducting the prosecution himself,’ Quince was explaining, ‘with assistance from Worthington and Chambers.’
As he stood there and numbly listened, Pyke felt for the wineskin he’d concealed under his waistcoat. It would soon be over, one way or the other. He felt closer to the noose than ever.
Soon afterwards the twelve jurors strode into the room and took their allotted seats, just below the bench.
At exactly nine o’clock, the door nearest the public entrance opened and the magistrate, George James Stevenson, JP, entered the room, closely followed by another man wearing robes and a wig, and then a procession of dignities, including Walter Wells and, as it turned out, Benedict Pierce, who hobbled in and was last to take his seat. Wells and Pierce were not sitting next to one another, and while Pierce made a point of not looking over at Pyke, Wells met his eyes almost immediately and gave an encouraging smile. For a moment, Pyke wondered whether this meant he’d been able to get to Villums.
As the chief magistrate banged the gavel to bring the room to order, Pyke looked again for any sign of Rafferty.
‘The jury for our Lord the King upon their oath do present that Detective Inspector Pyke, late of Scotland Yard and Islington in the county of Middlesex, on the fourteenth day o
f July eighteen hundred and forty-four, did with malice aforethought commit the wilful murder of William Sharp and that on the twenty-second day of March eighteen hundred and forty-four did steal the Saviour’s Cross and other items from the private residence of the Archdeacon of London. How do you plead?’
The Detective Branch Page 34