‘You’re a police officer, then?’
‘Not as such, but I am working for the police.’
Rowbottom sat back in his chair, trying to show he wasn’t intimidated. ‘But you’re not actually a policeman.’
‘No.’
‘In which case, I’m going to kindly request that you leave these premises forthwith.’ He even managed a smile. Pyke wanted to pull his teeth out with pliers.
‘Is that all you’re prepared to do for me?’
‘To be perfectly honest, sir, I don’t much care for the tone of your questions or your impertinent manner.’
Pyke licked his lips. He could feel the heat rising in his neck. ‘You haven’t even begun to see impertinent.’ It wasn’t just Rowbottom he detested, it was what he stood for: a whole class of men — respectable, small minded and tyrannical in their pettiness — who were quietly taking over the country. You could find them in every government office, sallow and stiff lipped, processing and documenting the world without ever leaving their desks, affecting people’s lives with the stroke of a pen and the stamp of their official seal, never actually seeing the consequences of their actions in the wider world.
‘I’m going to have you escorted from the docks.’ He called out for Gumm, his assistant. ‘The last thing the men here need is unnecessary interruption of their duties.’
But Pyke took a few steps towards Rowbottom’s desk. ‘I can find out whether a ship docked here from Jamaica with or without your help.’
‘ Gumm,’ Rowbottom called out. He looked flustered now, even a little frightened. ‘Where are you?’
Pyke leaned forward, all the way over the desk, and whispered, ‘And if I find out that Mary Edgar docked here, and you knew and didn’t tell me, I’m going to come back and smash your head against the desk until your skull cracks.’
Rowbottom’s indignation got the better of his fear, but only just. His chest swelled up and he spluttered, ‘I shan’t be spoken to in such an outrageous manner in my own office…’
But by the time he had summoned up the courage to say these words, Pyke had already left the room.
‘An artist can only think, I mean truly think, in surroundings that befit him,’ Edmund Saggers said, glancing dismissively around the taproom at Samuel’s. ‘Do you imagine the Bard scribed King Lear while surrounded by gnawed chop bones, dead rats and sawdust that smelled like a hog’s arse?’ He tried to squeeze his giant backside into the wooden chair but it was like manoeuvring an omnibus into a space previously occupied by a wheelbarrow. ‘You’d better have a damned good reason for dragging me to such a lacklustre place at this ungodly hour of the morning.’
Pyke knew of cabmen who refused to take Saggers in their vehicles on account of his gargantuan girth, fearing he might permanently damage their vehicles’ axles. Their fears were not entirely misplaced, either. He wasn’t a tall man, standing at less than six feet, nor were his legs particularly broad and stout, considering the load they had to transport. What made the difference was his appetite and, as a consequence, a girth of quite staggering proportions. Roll upon roll of fat hung from the man’s midriff so that it seemed his whole body might sink into the ground. Feeding such a monstrosity mightn’t have been a problem for someone of George IV’s means but, for Saggers, who earned his living as a penny-a-liner, the task of satiating his appetite constantly preoccupied him. Because of his girth, he also had to have his clothes made for him: as a result, he possessed one outfit — tweed trousers, a tweed waistcoat and a tweed frock-coat — which he wore all the time, regardless of the weather, and which reeked of his unwashed body.
‘If you do exactly as I tell you, I’ll take you to lunch at the Cafe de l’Europe or any of those fancy restaurants on Haymarket.’
Saggers eyed him cautiously. ‘Anything on the menu?’
Pyke nodded.
‘Even the half-buck of Halnaker venison?’ It was a cut of meat that could easily have fed ten men. ‘Washed down by a bottle of their finest claret?’
‘Anything.’
‘Well, sir, as long as it doesn’t involve me having to morally compromise a young child, I’ll do it.’ He patted his stomach and grinned.
Saggers wrote ‘copy’ for newspapers about the grubbier aspects of London life — murders, suicides, coroner’s inquests, fires and all manner of calamities — and was paid one and a half pence for each line, a halfpenny rise from the sum that had given his ilk their name. A column in a morning paper might earn him thirty shillings, and he would then try to sell the same story to other newspapers, thereby tripling and sometimes even quadrupling this sum. Pyke had first met him through Godfrey; the penny-a-liner had chased down some details for his uncle’s book and had liaised with Pyke regarding some of his recollections. In fact, Saggers was closer to Pyke’s age than to Godfrey’s, but given their mutual appreciation of good food and fine wine, it was perhaps not surprising that Saggers and his uncle were friends, even if Godfrey always ended up paying for their meals. Indeed, Pyke had often wondered whether the obese journalist was merely using his uncle to indulge his colossal appetite. Still, Godfrey had always raved about the man’s ability to ferret out buried truths and any whiff of scandal. ‘I tell you,’ he had once said, ‘that fellow could walk into a temperance meeting and pick out a couple who’d been rutting on the sly with one sniff.’
‘What business are we talking about?’ Saggers picked his nose and licked what was on his nail without embarrassment.
‘A murder.’ Pyke let the word create its own effect. Murders tended to lift the spirits of the penny-a-liners; hunting down arcane snippets of information about the victim or murderer could result in significant sums of money.
‘You mean the lord?’ Saggers said quickly, his greed suddenly getting the better of him. The newspapers had been full of stories about the demise of Lord Bedford and any new story about the murder or the police investigation would be snapped up by any number of sub-editors.
‘Not Bedford, but a murder none the less.’ Pyke waited for a moment. ‘And right now, not many people know about it. Me, the deputy commissioner of the New Police, the coroner, the jurors at the inquest. As far as I know, it hasn’t yet been reported in any of the newspapers.’
‘An exclusive, eh?’ Grinning, Saggers pulled out a notepad and a length of shaved charcoal. Doubtless he was already imagining the money he would make from it and the meals that would buy.
‘Of course, before I can divulge any information, I need certain assurances…’
‘What kind of assurances?’
‘For a start, that you’ll endeavour to place the story by the day after tomorrow.’
Saggers scratched his bristly chin and considered what Pyke had just said. ‘If you want to see your story published so quickly, why not go directly to a newspaper?’
‘I don’t want it to be published in just one newspaper. I want the story to be sold to as many papers as possible. And that’s where you come in.’
If Mary Edgar had, during her brief stay in London, consorted only with the types who couldn’t read or write on the Ratcliff Highway, it wouldn’t have made any sense to appeal for information about her in the newspapers. But if, as Pyke now suspected, she had moved in an altogether different social class, news of her murder might compel someone who’d met her to come forward. Initially Pyke had striven to keep the murder out of the public eye, but this approach hadn’t borne much fruit so now it was time to change tack.
‘Capital idea, sir, capital,’ Saggers said, his grin returning. Selling a column, or even half a column to five or six sub-editors would see him clear for the rest of the month.
Pyke placed the drawing on the table. Saggers inspected it keenly, his eyes giving nothing away. ‘So who is she?’ he asked eventually.
‘Mary Edgar. Her naked body was found the day before yesterday just off the Ratcliff Highway.’ Pyke saw him scribble down the word ‘naked’ on his notepad, and then he added ‘exotic’ and ‘beautiful’. Already the s
tory was taking shape in Saggers’ mind and, for the time being, Pyke was happy to let the journalist run with it.
‘I love a good “naked body” story as much as the next man, but what else can you tell me about her?’
‘She had recently arrived in London from the West Indies. Jamaica.’ Pyke paused. ‘I’d like to know when, where she docked, and which ship she sailed on.’
Saggers scribbled a few more words down on his notepad. ‘And that’s it? That’s all you know about her?’ He had another look at the drawing. ‘So how would you describe her? Black or mulatto?’
‘What do you think?’
Saggers looked up from the drawing and shrugged. ‘I think she looks rich.’ He waited and added, ‘In which case, why was her body found on the Ratcliff Highway?’
Pyke smiled. ‘Exactly my question.’ He’d clearly picked the right man for the job.
Saggers gave a satisfied smile. ‘I’ve always said, give me the right raw materials and I’ll write you a veritable Beggar’s Opera. This is good, sir. It will permit me to indulge my creative juices. I’ll have it written by the time the newspapers go to bed tomorrow night.’
‘I don’t want tragedy, I want mystery. That’s how you’re going to sell the story. Readers love things that can’t be explained.’
‘If you buy me a half-buck of Halnaker’s venison, you can have anything you want.’
‘What I want,’ Pyke explained, ‘is to use the story as a way of appealing for information about the dead woman.’
‘Have no fear. A work of art can operate on many different levels.’ Saggers took the charcoal in his hand. ‘Social utility and aesthetic brilliance may seem to be unlikely companions to the uninitiated but in the hands of a master one can feed off the other as easily as a piglet sucking on his mummy’s tit.’ He grinned at his own analogy. ‘Where are readers meant to take their information?’
‘To me.’ Pyke paused. ‘Or to Fitzroy Tilling at the Whitehall Division of the New Police.’
Saggers looked up from his pad. ‘Is this a police investigation or are you looking into the matter privately?’
‘A little of both — but that’s strictly off the record. You mention my name anywhere in the piece, and I’ll personally see to it that you don’t receive another scrap of information.’
‘Don’t worry, I can fudge the issue, make it sound official without mentioning names. Yet another string to my bow, as they say. And I know where my bread is buttered.’
‘And where your caked is iced.’
‘Actually I’m not especially partial to cake. I find it fattening.’ He patted his enormous stomach. ‘One last question, sir. You said that the coroner’s inquest had already taken place. What was the verdict?’
‘Wilful murder.’
Saggers nodded. ‘But there weren’t any newspapermen at the inquest? That’s curious. Usually they’re like jackals feeding off a carcass.’ He rubbed his chin.
‘The inquest was a closed one. The jurors were warned not to talk about the details of the murder.’
‘I see I’ve struck a nerve of some sort.’
‘We found the corpse in a distressed state. We didn’t want to advertise this fact. You know how the macabre tends to attract all kinds of lunatic.’
‘Macabre, eh?’ Saggers finished off his ale and wiped the froth from his top lip with the sleeve of his coat. ‘Good Lord, sir, you know how to tease a hungry man, don’t you? You leave the tastiest morsels till last and then don’t bat an eyelid when you throw them down on to the plate.’
‘I don’t want you mentioning it in your story.’
‘But blood and gore sell newspapers; that’s how you’re going to get a sub-editor to sit up and take notice.’
‘Look, for the sake of the investigation, there are certain details about the murder that need to be kept from the public.’
He didn’t want news of Mary Edgar’s missing eyeballs to become common knowledge. If the exact manner of her murder was reported, the investigation would become an overnight sensation and Pyke wouldn’t be able to move, or even think, for the howling of journalists looking to make their fortunes from the dead woman’s suffering.
‘And the more you sensationalise the story, the greater the competition you’ll face,’ he added.
‘Fine point, sir. I can see that arguing with you is like firing a pea-shooter at a rampaging elephant.’ Saggers made a point of closing his pad. ‘But if we’re going to be working together as a team, I’d appreciate it if you told me what we’re dealing with. I have a very developed imagination, sir, and if I don’t know, I shall be kept awake tonight, mulling over the gruesome possibilities.’
Pyke took a moment to consider Saggers’ request. ‘Her eyeballs were cut out.’ He watched as the colour drained from the journalist’s face.
‘That’s horrible, awful.’ He shook his head. ‘But it would make a tremendous story.’
‘I don’t want it mentioned. Is that understood?’
Saggers’ eyelids drooped lazily as he contemplated Pyke’s response. In the end, he just simply shrugged. ‘You’re buying the venison, sir, you can make up the rules.’
Later, once Saggers had left, Pyke showed the etching to the rest of the drinkers in the tap and parlour rooms. He didn’t come across a single black face and no one admitted to knowing Mary. At the counter, as he waited for Samuel to serve him, he placed the drawing on the counter. ‘Do you recognise her?’ he asked, studying Samuel’s craggy face.
‘A fine-looking woman. Therefore, not likely to frequent a place like this.’ Samuel’s skin was lighter than Pyke’s but his thick, wiry hair and flat nose indicated his mixed ancestry.
‘I was told this was a place where black men and women came to drink,’ Pyke said.
‘Who told you that?’
‘No one you’d know.’
‘Since a couple of black stevedores were beaten nearly to death just around the corner, for taking jobs that could have been filled by white dockers, they’ve been keeping a lower profile.’
Pyke noted that Samuel had referred to ‘them’ rather than ‘us’. ‘She hasn’t been here, then, as far as you know.’
‘That’s right.’ Samuel smiled, shaking his head and revealing more gum than teeth. ‘And a woman like that, I’d know. Believe me, I’d know.’
‘How about a man just off the boat from Jamaica by the name of Arthur Sobers?’ Pyke described him as best he could.
‘Ain’t seen him either.’
As he prepared to leave, Samuel called out, ‘You could try again one night after the sun’s gone down. It tends to look a bit different then. Different folk drinking here, a whole different atmosphere.’ He placed a glass of rum on the counter.
Pyke went back, lifted the glass to his lips, tipped it back and opened his throat. It was as though he’d swallowed burning oil. Gagging, he bent forward, hands on his knees, forehead popping with sweat. For a moment, his vision blurred and a flash of white exploded behind his eyes. The taste the drink left in his mouth was bitter. Pyke put the glass down on the counter.
Samuel was grinning at his reaction to the rum. ‘They call it kill-devil. Most white folks drink it with a little water.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Former slaves in the Caribbean.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Some folk reckon it has medicinal properties; reckon it can cure all kinds of disease and perhaps even ward off evil spirits.’
‘Have you ever heard about the practice of embalming a corpse with rum?’
Samuel rubbed his chin while he considered Pyke’s question. ‘Can’t say I have, but then again, I might not be the best person to ask.’
‘And who might be?’
‘Come back at night, any night, and she’ll be right over there.’ Samuel offered a gummy smile and pointed to a table next to the counter. ‘Buy her a few kill-devils, and she’ll tell you anything you ask.’
FIVE
It was late by the
time the hackney cab dropped Pyke outside his uncle’s apartment in Camden Town. Felix would be fast asleep by now, and as he banged on the door, Pyke wondered whether he had planned it this way or not. It was true that he was slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t tried harder to win over his son, but it was also true that he didn’t exactly know how to do this; whether to give the lad a few days to get over the sight of him taking Maginn apart or to grasp this nettle as soon as possible. In the end, he’d dithered and done neither.
It was Jo, rather than Godfrey, who opened the door, and as she led the way to the front room, she explained that Godfrey was dining out. She had been sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace and an open book rested on one of the arms. Hurriedly she closed it and tried to hide it under the chair but Pyke had already recognised its leather cover. He didn’t say anything, though, at least not straight away. Instead, he excused himself, found a full bottle of claret in the pantry and returned to the front room with the bottle and two empty wineglasses, which he filled to the brim. At first, Jo tried to protest, saying she didn’t drink wine, but Pyke insisted that he wouldn’t take no for an answer and, finally, she relented.
She was wearing a simple cotton dress and her flame-coloured hair glistened softly in the candlelight. Her cheeks were slightly rosy and, when she smiled, laughter lines framed her blue eyes. She wasn’t beautiful by the standards of genteel society; for a start she was too petite, no more than five feet tall, and her hips were too wide for her to be considered slim. But she was spirited and good natured and Pyke knew he’d never find a better governess, nursemaid and companion for Felix; for her part, she seemed to love the boy as her own.
‘I’m sorry, Pyke. I didn’t mean for Felix to see the fight…’ Jo couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
‘How was he? Did he talk about it on the way back here?’
Jo shook her head. ‘He was very quiet. He’s been very quiet today, as well. But…’ At the last moment she seemed to lose her nerve.
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