That drew a throaty laugh. ‘You paid your money, you call me anything you like.’
Later, when it was finished and Pyke was pulling up his braces, she touched him on the face and asked why he’d been crying. He had already paid her and her expression was merely curious. Pyke stared at her, not even aware that he’d been upset.
‘You asked if you could call me Mary.’ She was peering at him through the gloom. Pyke nodded vaguely. ‘So why did you keep saying you were sorry over and over to a woman called Emily?’
As the shame scalded Pyke’s cheeks, he turned around and retraced his steps back to the street.
In the morning Pyke bought a baked potato and a mug of sludgy black coffee from a street vendor near the market and ate the potato sitting on the pavement. He could still taste the gin in his mouth and even the thick coffee did little to take the taste away.
The market was thronging, and the noise and stink — of animal dung and meat left too long in the sun — was sufficient to make him retch. Producing nothing but bile, Pyke wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and waited for the feeling to pass. Ahead of him in the field, long-horned Spanish cattle were being herded into drove-rings, each linked by wooden tracks, by drovers and their dogs. The cacophony of barking, grunting and lowing was almost too much for him to bear. Even worse was the plague of black flies which hovered and buzzed around the animals. The ground had dried in the sun but this, in turn, had produced its own problems. As the cattle moved across the field, they kicked up clouds of earth and dust into the air so that it was difficult to see more than a few yards in any direction.
He had slept in his own bed — he had been too inebriated to consider going anywhere else — and was surprised, given what he’d done the previous night, that no police officers had roused him during the early hours and dragged him off to answer Alefounder’s charges. Nor were there any officers waiting for him when he returned to his garret after breakfast.
With Copper, Pyke spent the rest of the morning traipsing along the Ratcliff Highway, still looking for Arthur Sobers. He moved cautiously through the dense warren of narrow, windy lanes, always looking behind him for footpads and stopping only to ask people about Sobers — and the missing mudlark — when he was sure that all those in the immediate vicinity had heard Copper growl and seen the size of his jaws. Underfoot, and in spite of the hot weather, the ground was spongy and damp. On either side of the street, in the broken windows of buckling, timber-framed houses, white eyes and smudged faces stared back at him as he walked past. At one corner, he passed a man openly defecating in the street; at another, twin boys barely older than Felix, their limbs bowed from rickets, held out their hands for money.
Aware that he’d made no progress in his hunt for Sobers or the blind man known only as Filthy, Pyke left Copper back in the vicinity of Smithfield and, still curious as to why he’d received no visit from the police regarding his treatment of Alefounder, quietly asked after the trader both at his place of work and the apartment Harriet Alefounder had told him about on The Strand. At the former, he was told Alefounder had not come into work that morning. At the latter, there was no answer. With nothing else to do, and no further clues to chase, Pyke hailed a carriage and told the driver to take him all the way down to Richmond.
‘You’ve just missed him,’ Harriet Alefounder said, red eyed and slurring her words slightly, even though it was still the afternoon.
Pyke looked around the well-furnished drawing room. ‘So he was here?’
She gave him a peculiar stare. ‘Oh yes. He was here.’
‘I need to speak to him.’
‘That might be difficult, I’m afraid.’ She gave a hollow laugh.
‘Why? As I told you before, I suspect he might be involved in the murder of a young mulatto woman.’
What sounded like a snort emerged from her mouth. ‘In that case he’s slipped through your fingers, sir.’ Pyke couldn’t work out whether she was pleased or upset by this notion.
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘He came here from some dinner he’d attended, packed a suitcase with some of his old clothes, and left in a carriage bound for the West India Docks.’
‘He’s going to Jamaica?’ The skin tightened around his temples.
‘Yes,’ she said, irritated. ‘Where else would he go?’
Pyke contemplated this for a moment, trying to adjust to the shock. ‘You know Elizabeth Malvern has recently sailed for Jamaica too.’
From Harriet Alefounder’s expression, Pyke could tell she hadn’t known, and upon hearing this she fell on to the sofa and began to sob.
He watched her, not knowing what to do, whether to try to comfort her or just leave. ‘I am sorry…’
Still sobbing, she looked up at him and spat, ‘Get out of my sight.’
‘Do you know which ship he’s due to sail on?’
Her eyes glowed like lumps of hot coal. ‘The way he was talking last night, the ship was due to leave first thing this morning.’
‘The Island Queen?’
‘Yes, that was the name he mentioned, I think.’
Harold Field’s home occupied four storeys of a Georgian town house at the northern end of Harley Street, and when Pyke presented himself at the front door, the following day, he was escorted up to a room on the third floor and told to wait for Field there. It was a far more refined home than Pyke had expected and, to pass the time, he studied Field’s book collection, whose treasures included all twelve volumes of Plato’s Republic and Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. In fact, with its sofas, thick striped wallpaper, high ceilings, gilt mirrors and large bay window overlooking the street, the room could have belonged to any well-to-do English gentleman.
‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ Field was immaculately dressed as usual, in a knee-length, dark blue frock-coat, a fawn waistcoat and matching trousers, and a white satin cravat tied loosely around his neck.
‘I thought I’d let you know that I intend to travel to Jamaica. A suspect in the murder investigation I was telling you about has absconded there, perhaps to join his mistress.’
Earlier that morning, Pyke had found out from the Admiralty that a steamer was due to depart from Southampton for Kingston at the end of the week.
‘And what? This is simply a courtesy call to inform me of your decision?’
‘I went back to see Crane. He assured me that he’d let Bessie Daniels go home.’
Field assimilated this piece of information. ‘She hasn’t been in contact with me.’
‘Would she have done so, if Crane had let her go?’
Field’s stare told him all he needed to know.
‘In which case, I’ll go and see him again,’ Pyke said. ‘Demand to see her.’
‘And what?’ Field raised his eyebrows. ‘Then you will have paid off your debt to me?’
‘Whatever we decide, you’ll not stop me from going to the West Indies.’
Field considered Pyke for a few moments. ‘Try as I might, I find you a difficult man to comprehend.’
‘In what sense?’
‘For a start, why do you care what happened to some faceless mulatto girl?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘I don’t know; perhaps because no one else does.’ There were other reasons, of course, but in the circumstances this seemed as good an explanation as any.
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Field said, smiling. ‘I find your dedication to this particular task admirable.’
‘But?’
‘But you still have a job to do for me.’
A moment’s silence passed between them. ‘Last week, before we were interrupted and I had to make my escape, Bessie Daniels gave me a name.’
Field’s irises contracted slightly. ‘And you decided to wait until now to inform me of it?’
‘I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Or I didn’t know what to think.’
‘But you still kept it from me.’
‘Jerome Morel-Roux.’
Pyke nodded. ‘That was all she said.’ He waited. ‘You know he’s the valet awaiting trial for the murder of Lord Bedford?’
‘I’m aware of that fact.’
‘Do you know why Bessie Daniels might have wanted to pass on this name to you?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ But something about the way Field said this told Pyke he was lying.
Pyke looked around the orderly room, still trying to reconcile it with his sense of Field. ‘I’ve done what you asked me to do.’
The only noise in the room was the rattling of iron-shod wheels and clip-clop of horses’ hoofs outside on the street.
‘What’s this man’s name?’ Field asked, fiddling with his moustache. ‘The one who’s absconded.’
‘Alefounder. William Alefounder.’
‘And the mistress?’
‘A woman called Elizabeth Malvern.’
Field looked up at him. ‘Could you repeat that name for me?’
‘Elizabeth Malvern.’
‘That’s what I thought you said.’
Pyke looked into Field’s eyes. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No, not personally,’ Field said, waving off a fly. ‘But if you were to ask Crane the same question, he might well give you a different answer.’
It took Pyke a few moments to comprehend what Harold Field was trying to tell him.
‘Where’s Bessie Daniels?’
Pyke had followed Crane through the shop into a dirty yard and then on to a dilapidated printing room. There, they were joined by Sykes and another man Pyke had never seen before.
‘As I’ve told you before, I let her go.’
‘She hasn’t returned home.’
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘What have you done with her?’
‘I’m getting a little tired of repeating myself.’ Crane shared a brief look with the hulking Sykes.
Inside his pocket, Pyke brushed his finger over the sharp end of his sheath knife. ‘Field thinks you’re involved in some kind of political action relating to the trial of a Swiss valet, Jerome Morel-Roux. ’ This was just a guess — and a wild one at that — but Pyke couldn’t think of any other reason why Crane would be connected with the plight of the Swiss valet.
Crane’s hooded eyes glittered. ‘A political action, eh? Like storming the barricades?’
‘So you don’t deny the basic truth of what I just said?’
‘I’m certainly intrigued to know how he reached this particular conclusion, even if it is utterly wrong.’
‘It’s not true, then?’
Crane just shrugged. ‘I can’t see why a criminal like Field would be interested in a squalid little political… what did you call it? Political action.’
‘At least Field knows what he is.’
‘And I don’t?’ Crane seemed amused by this notion.
Pyke took a step towards Crane and saw Sykes and the other man stiffen. ‘I’ve upheld my end of our agreement. Now I want to know what took you to Thrale’s lodging house.’
Crane wetted his lips. ‘But have you? For all I know you’ve just plucked something out of the air.’
‘Why did you go and see Mary Edgar and Arthur Sobers?’
‘It was nothing really. Sobers had been harassing this woman he’d slept with. The brothel owner, and a friend of mine, asked for my assistance in putting him straight.’
‘And that’s it?’
Crane’s stare was empty of sentiment. ‘I’m sorry if you were expecting something more dramatic.’
‘You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘In which case,’ Pyke said, holding out his hand, ‘perhaps we should shake hands and go our separate ways.’
Crane exchanged a glance with Sykes before offering his hand. It took Pyke just a few seconds to twist Crane around, retrieve his knife, put his head into a lock and hold the serrated edge against the pornographer’s neck. ‘One move and I’ll slit your throat, and not give it a moment’s thought,’ Pyke whispered in Crane’s ear.
The quickness of Pyke’s move had caught Sykes and the other man by surprise and neither seemed to know what to do.
‘That understood?’ When Crane didn’t say anything, he added, ‘Is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ was all Crane managed.
‘Now tell your two apes to back off and not attempt anything rash.’ He dug the blade into Crane’s neck and drew a few spots of blood. ‘ Do it.’
‘Do what he says,’ Crane hissed. The two others did as they were told.
‘Now tell me what really took you to Thrale’s lodging house.’
Crane squirmed a little in his grip but Pyke kept the knife to his throat. ‘You’re a dead man, Pyke,’ he whispered. ‘You kill me, you’re a dead man. You don’t kill me, you’re a dead man.’
Pyke dug the edge of the blade deeper into Crane’s neck. ‘I just want the truth.’
‘I did it as a favour for a friend. They wanted to frighten Sobers and Edgar into leaving the country.’
‘Your friend’s name.’
‘You’ll have to kill me before I tell you that.’
‘Elizabeth Malvern.’ Pyke felt Crane’s body stiffen. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘If you knew that already, why are you even here?’
‘I need to know why she asked you to try and intimidate Sobers and Mary Edgar.’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’ Pyke could smell the acrid scent of Crane’s body odour. ‘But right now I’m asking you. Where can I find her?’
‘She’s not here.’
‘So it’s true she’s gone to the West Indies?’
‘If you know all about her, why do you need me?’
‘Why did she go?’
‘Something to do with her brother. That’s all I know.’
‘What’s someone who volunteers for the Vice Society doing with a pornographer like you?’
‘You may as well cut my throat now,’ Crane whispered, ‘because that’s as much as I’m going to tell you.’
Pyke could see that Sykes was preparing to take matters into his own hands. Wheeling Crane around so that they were blocking the door, he released his grip around Crane’s neck and pushed him into Sykes’s path. As they collided, Pyke bolted for the entrance and was all the way across the yard before Sykes could raise the alarm.
‘Don’t you understand, Pyke? Your son was caught trying to pick a gentleman’s pocket on Camden Place. If I hadn’t been in the vicinity, and hadn’t spoken on behalf of the boy and offered to make amends to the injured party, they would have hauled him before a magistrate, perhaps even sent him to prison.’
Pyke stared at his uncle, still trying to take in this news. ‘Is he here?’
‘Upstairs in his room. He wouldn’t say a word to me. Jo’s tried to talk to him but he won’t talk to her, either.’
‘I’ll try.’ His words sounded hollow.
Godfrey shook his head. ‘Your place is here with him, Pyke. Now more than ever. Not gallivanting off to the West Indies in pursuit of this phantom.’ He stroked his white mane and looked across at Jo, who had just entered the room. She and Pyke exchanged an awkward glance. ‘How is he?’ Godfrey asked.
‘He still refuses to say anything.’ She looked at Pyke. ‘I think we can assume he was led astray by the older boy you saw him with the other day.’
Until now Pyke had assumed that travelling to the West Indies in pursuit of Alefounder, and perhaps Elizabeth Malvern, though arduous and potentially costly, would not harm his own interests. Without really thinking about it, he knew instinctively that it was something he had to do. But here was the clearest of indications that his absence might do more harm than good. For how might Felix react if he knew what Pyke was planning? Perhaps Godfrey was right; perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to abandon his plans to travel to Jamaica. After all, he would have to bear
the cost of the trip himself. He considered this, as he watched Godfrey and Jo. Yet he knew that he couldn’t give up the investigation. He had come too far; he had given his word. It was true — no one else cared about Mary’s death.
Addressing Jo, Godfrey said, ‘Have you heard about Pyke’s plan to travel to Jamaica? Now of all times.’
Briefly Jo met his gaze and then looked away. ‘No, I wasn’t aware of that.’
‘I’ll only be gone for a couple of months.’ It might and probably would take him longer, but he didn’t like to admit this. If he travelled by steamer, he’d been told the crossing could take as little as three weeks.
‘Don’t you see how much your son needs you? What he did today was stupid but it was a cry for help. And now you’re going to abandon him again.’ Godfrey’s face had turned the colour of beetroot.
‘I’m sorry, Godfrey. I just can’t let this thing go. I have to see it through to the end.’ It was an inadequate answer, but it was the truth, too.
‘Look, don’t misunderstand me, dear boy. I’m sorry this mulatto woman was murdered but isn’t that the point? She’s dead. Your son isn’t and he needs you here.’
‘Don’t you see — I’m doing this for him. In part, at least. So I can look him in the eye and say this is what I did. So he can see what I do and be proud of me. I can’t just walk away from it now.’
‘Let the police sort the matter out,’ Godfrey said, sighing.
‘I was there when they buried her.’ He hesitated. ‘It was just me at her graveside; me and the two gravediggers.’ Pyke stole a glance at Jo, wanting her to see that he was capable of such feeling. ‘I close my eyes at night and I can see her face, how it was mutilated.’
Godfrey regarded him with a mixture of pity and frustration. ‘Your wife is dead, Pyke, and nothing you do now is going to bring her back.’
‘And that’s what you think this is?’
‘Isn’t it?’
They stared at one another awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, Pyke could see Jo squirming. But Godfrey hadn’t quite finished. ‘What if you’re laid out with yellow fever or your ship is attacked or goes down in a storm. What will I do with Felix? I’m an old man.’
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