‘She knew the risks she was taking,’ Field said, smoothing his hair with the palms of his hands. ‘Anyway, your misplaced sense of ethics is beginning to bore me.’
‘Her blood is on your hands.’ Pyke waited for a moment, contemplating the wisdom of what he was about to say. ‘Your mother would be turning in her grave if she could see you now.’
Field’s gaze turned to wax and, for a moment, no one in the carriage spoke. ‘I did intend to allow you to live, Pyke. I really did.’ He shook his head.
Leaning forward, Field tapped on the roof of the carriage and waited for the horses to come to a complete stop. He opened the door, climbed down on to the pavement, pulled down the glass and peered back into the carriage. His sense of disappointment was palpable. ‘I don’t care what you do,’ he said to Paxton. ‘I don’t ever want to see or hear or read about him again. Just make him go away.’
With that, Field slammed the door and set off along the pavement, not once bothering to turn around, almost as though, in his own mind, Pyke had already ceased to exist.
As they moved off, Pyke glanced out of the window and concluded they were heading down St John’s Street in the direction of Smithfield and perhaps Field’s slaughterhouse.
‘I’d say this is the end of the road for you,’ Paxton said, as if this idea somehow pleased him. He wasn’t much older than a boy but his hand wasn’t trembling and his gaze remained calm, composed even. His index finger was curled around the trigger in preparation for firing. Pyke thought of the way he’d looked at the coins on the card table after Field had murdered his whist partner.
‘Have you ever seen a bar of gold?’ Pyke waited. ‘Have you ever picked one up, felt how heavy it is?’
Paxton regarded him lazily.
‘If you like, I can show you one. I might even let you keep it.’ He watched Paxton’s face to see his reaction. ‘A bar of gold is worth about eight hundred pounds. A good receiver might give you five hundred.’ He paused. ‘How much did you earn last year?’ Paxton didn’t answer immediately, so he went on, ‘I thought so. Nothing like that figure, was it?’
Paxton licked his lips. ‘I ain’t complaining.’
Pyke met his gaze and waited. ‘You’re not afraid of him, are you?’
‘Everyone’s afraid of Harold Field. Even you. I saw it in your eyes after he burned you with his cigar.’
‘I’m scared of the Harold Field I once knew, before you were even born. But now he’s getting older and perhaps a little careless. You’ve seen it but you haven’t said anything to him. You’ve just been watching, waiting, biding your time.’
‘Is that so?’ Paxton kept the blunderbuss pointed at Pyke’s chest but his face had already betrayed his interest.
‘And part of you, a little part at the back of your head, has been wondering what would happen if Field wasn’t around. Who would take over?’
‘You’d never get close enough to do it. He’d see you coming.’
‘But he wouldn’t suspect you, would he?’
Paxton shook his head and tightened his grip around the handle of the blunderbuss. ‘That’s as far as this conversation goes. I pull the trigger, you’re a dead man.’
‘But you’re not going to because you’re thinking about that gold bar.’ Pyke looked into his face. ‘How about I make it two gold bars? If you were careful, you could clear a thousand.’
For a while neither of them spoke. Through the smeared glass, Pyke could see that they were nearing Smithfield. Paxton wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat and finally put down the blunderbuss.
‘We’ll make a policeman of you yet,’ Fitzroy Tilling said, when he saw Pyke in the blue, swallow-tailed frock-coat and matching trousers. The brass buttons had been done up to the top and Pyke was carrying, rather than wearing, the tall stovepipe hat. He had hidden a knife, a jemmy, a cudgel, a length of chain and a padlock inside the hat and had wrapped as much rope as he could get away with around his chest and waist, before putting on the coat, which was a few sizes too large for him.
Tilling took a swig of gin straight from the bottle, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed it to Pyke.
‘A turnkey smells that on your breath, he’ll be suspicious right away.’
‘You’re right.’ He put the bottle down and went to stroke the old ginger cat. ‘You’ll be all right without me, won’t you, Tom?’ The cat lifted its head slightly and purred but didn’t move from the chair.
Pyke pulled out his watch and checked the time. ‘We should get going. The service will be finished by now and they’ll be taking him back to his cell.’
Morel-Roux would have been led in chains to the ‘condemned’ pew and forced to beg for God’s forgiveness in front of other prisoners and dignitaries invited by the governor. Pyke could only begin to imagine the depths of the man’s despair. He would perhaps be thinking of the moment on the gallows when the plank would be kicked away, wondering whether he’d feel pain, life and death colliding in the blink of an eye, and also perhaps whether the hangman would have to pull down on his legs to finish the job.
‘Is everything in place at the Bank?’
Tilling nodded. ‘The Home Office nearly insisted the hanging take place behind closed doors. Someone’s clearly worried that the crowds might be influenced by the radicals.’
‘And the guards?’ Pyke asked, even though he knew that Tilling had called a meeting earlier that morning involving all the soldiers responsible for guarding the Bank.
‘Before I went to see the governor, the plan had been to deploy them around the outer walls in case of an attack by radicals.’
Pyke immediately understood the significance of this. It meant that the bullion vault would have been left unguarded and, as such, explained why Crane had waited until now to execute his robbery.
‘In any case,’ Tilling added, ‘the soldiers all know what to do, and I’ll be joining them, if all goes well tonight.’
Pyke didn’t answer him and tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong with their plan.
‘You know, I’ve never actually broken the law before.’ Tilling looked around his living room, as though for the last time. ‘Not once, in my whole life. This will be the first time.’
Pyke felt a trickle of sweat snake its way down his lower back. ‘You said the other day that the law is a blunt instrument. In this instance, it’s so blunt that an innocent man will die unless we do something.’
‘But if I do this, how will I be different from…’
‘From me?’
Tilling’s forehead was thick with perspiration. ‘Can I ask you a question, Pyke?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘I’ve got more to lose now than I ever did.’
‘Good.’ Tilling put on a brave smile. ‘Because I’m absolutely petrified.’
They knocked on the door of the governor’s house at half-past six and were shown into an office on the right-hand side of the passage, where a turnkey met them and took them into another room. Here Tilling signed the book for both of them, Pyke as PC William Dell, and afterwards they followed the turnkey through another door, which brought them to the lodge. Pyke recognised the collection of heavy irons fixed to the wall; it was here that one of his escape bids had floundered ten years earlier. He kept his head down and no one paid him any attention. Certainly the turnkey who acted as their guide hadn’t wanted to search them or ask them to turn out their pockets, but that was to be expected. After all, Tilling was the third or fourth most senior figure in the New Police. From the lodge they passed through a heavy oak gate bound with iron and studded with nails that was guarded by another turnkey, and went down a few steps into a gloomy stone passage lit only by candles, which they followed as far as another gate that led into a narrow yard. The air smelled stale and dead, and it was hard not to be affected by the feeling of oppression and doom that seemed to seep through the thick gran
ite walls. They crossed the paved yard and were admitted through an iron gate into a narrow passage that led to another door and eventually into the space where the condemned building was located. Pyke could feel the blood rising in his chest and his stomach begin to churn.
The press yard was a narrow, paved court with sheer granite walls protected at the top by inward-projecting iron spikes. Even a brief glance up to the top of the wall made Pyke feel dizzy. At the end of the yard, they were ushered directly into the condemned building, bypassing the press rooms where Morel-Roux would be pinioned early in the morning before his lonely walk through the prison. After following their guide along another dark passage and up a narrow staircase, they finally came upon the cells. The turnkey explained that the prisoner had been removed from the day room at about five and would be allowed a candle in his cell until ten. There were three turnkeys sitting on stools outside Morel-Roux’s cell. Tilling explained that he would wait in the passage with the turnkeys while Pyke — PC Dell — questioned the condemned man. No one thought to query his judgement.
The cell was a stone dungeon, eight feet by six feet, with a wooden bench at the upper end, an iron candlestick affixed to the wall and a small, high window reinforced with a double row of iron bars. It was hard for Pyke to fathom just how much Morel-Roux had changed — or wasted away — in the two and a half months since they had last conversed. Even then he had seemed thin, but the circumstances of his trial and the imminent prospect of facing the gallows had clearly taken their toll. His arms and face were emaciated and his neck was so thin it looked as if it might slip through the noose. He barely looked up when Pyke entered the cell and his eyes were dull and unfocused. Pyke waited for the door to be closed and bolted before he took off his stovepipe hat. His hair was matted with sweat. Morel-Roux was sitting on the bench and it took him a few moments to place Pyke’s face. When he did, his expression barely changed. He was resigned to his own death, and for a moment Pyke wondered how the valet would react to the hope he was offering.
‘What do you want?’
Pyke took another step into the cell. ‘You didn’t kill Lord Bedford, did you?’
Morel-Roux gave him a puzzled stare. ‘I tried to tell you that before my trial.’
‘Well, this time I believe you.’
That drew a strange chuckle. ‘Doesn’t do me much good now, does it?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’
Morel-Roux sat up. His face looked pasty and wan in the flickering candlelight. ‘Is that right?’ The tone suggested mockery.
Pyke took out a piece of paper with a roughly sketched map of the prison, indicating the route Morel-Roux would take in the morning to Debtors’ Door and the scaffold.
‘Have you made your confession yet?’ He put the map down on the bench for Morel-Roux to look at.
‘Earlier today they made me stand in this pew, painted black, and the ordinary told me to confess my sins before God.’ He shook his head. ‘I refused to even look at him.’
‘Good.’ Pyke pointed to the map and described the route. ‘Just here,’ he said, indicating the yard beyond the press yard. ‘You’re going to break down just here and demand the right to unburden yourself before God.’ He paused. ‘The governor, the sheriffs, the under-sheriffs, everyone in the procession, will want you to make your confession on the gallows. They won’t want to keep the mob waiting and a confession on the gallows makes for good theatre. But you’re going to have to be firm. Tell the ordinary you’ll unburden yourself to him, and him alone, in the chapel. It has to be the chapel. Of course, they won’t leave you and the ordinary alone in the chapel but insist on some kind of privacy. Make it clear that you intend to make a full and frank confession. The ordinary won’t need to be convinced. There’s a lot of interest in this execution and he’ll be thinking about the money he could make from selling an account of your confession.’
Morel-Roux looked at the map and then at Pyke. His expression had changed. ‘I think you’re being serious.’
‘Of course I’m being serious. I’m in your cell the night before your execution. If they find out I’m not a police officer, I’ll face transportation.’
The valet’s eyes went back to the map. ‘But can it really be done?’ He sounded dazed.
‘If you do your bit, I’ll take care of the rest.’ Pyke pointed at the map. ‘Commit it to memory and then eat it.’ He turned around and banged on the door.
‘ Pyke? ’
He put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘The chapel.’
The door swung open and Pyke stepped out into the passage. He put the hat back on his head and said, to the turnkeys as much as Tilling, ‘In spite of the new evidence I presented, he still refuses to acknowledge his guilt.’
‘You did your best, sir,’ one of the turnkeys muttered. ‘The good Lord will judge him for what he did.’
Pyke lowered his head and followed Tilling and their guide back along the passage and down the stone steps into the yard. They walked through the yard in silence and passed through the two gates. The turnkey there acknowledged them with a curt nod and muttered, ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Pyke glanced across at the steps leading up to the chapel, where Morel-Roux would stage his dramatic, last-minute act in the morning, but he would have to find another way to get back there. If he wasn’t seen leaving the prison, his absence would be noted and the alarm raised. It didn’t matter that he was a policeman, in their eyes at least. They passed through one gate, followed the passage as far as the other gate, and waited while their guide banged on the door. A few stone steps took them back up into the lodge, where the turnkey gave them an awkward nod and asked whether they needed any assistance. When Tilling told him they would be fine, he disappeared back down the steps into the bowels of the prison. The gatekeeper unlocked the door that opened on to Old Bailey. Knowing that this was his last chance, Pyke told Tilling he’d left his stick in the office in the governor’s house and that he’d meet him outside. The gatekeeper didn’t seem overly concerned by this, and didn’t try to accompany Pyke back along the passage to the room with the book. Alone, Pyke took a breath and tried another door leading off this room. To his relief it wasn’t locked. He stepped into what he supposed was part of the governor’s house, shut the door behind him and waited. If the gatekeeper didn’t double-check that Pyke had left, he would be all right. He was at one end of a dark, gloomy passage which he followed to a door at the other end. Making as little noise as possible, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He could hear voices coming from one of the rooms as he tiptoed across the polished floor in the opposite direction, towards the staircase, which he mounted two steps at a time. Dripping with sweat, he paused briefly at the top of the stairs, listening for any further voices. When all appeared to be silent, he let himself into what turned out to be an unoccupied guest bedroom. He closed the door behind him and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was about eight in the evening and already people would be starting to gather outside the prison in anticipation of the hanging. He had the rest of the night to try to find his way back into the chapel.
It took Pyke a while to get his bearings. The small, grated window, although locked, had a view of Newgate Street. He knew that the chapel, and also the press yard, backed on to Newgate Street, just as he knew, or had read, that the governor’s house had no windows at the front and no views over the interior of the prison. All this meant that if he went to the very top of the governor’s house and found the main chimney flume he might be able to clamber up inside it and find a way on to the roof.
He found the flume in what seemed to be an unused nursery and peered up into the darkness. Perhaps a young boy might have been able to clamber up there but Pyke quickly ruled it out for himself. In the other rooms, he inspected the ceiling for a hatch leading up into the attic, if indeed the building had one. After ten or so minutes, he found what he was looking for in one of the servant’s rooms and, standing on the bed
, managed to pull himself up through the space. Once in the attic, he slid the hatch back into place and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There would have to be some kind of light-well or opening on to the roof. He moved carefully across the wooden beams and looked out into the cavernous space. Ahead he could see a patch of light and a few minutes later he was standing on the roof, staring out across the city — Westminster Abbey in one direction, St Paul’s gargantuan dome in the other.
The roof was flat and he was able to cross it with ease and look down into the Debtors’ Quadrangle beside the yard he’d walked through earlier with Tilling. There was a drop of about twenty feet on to the roof of the chapel. He lowered himself off the roof as far as he was able and jumped, landing awkwardly but without turning his ankle. Standing up, Pyke hurried over to the edge of the roof and looked down into the garden of the Royal College of Physicians, which bordered the prison. The drop was somewhere between fifty and a hundred feet. Having removed the rope from around his shoulder, he tied one end of it around a stone balustrade and let the rest of it fall down the side of the chapel as near to one of the windows as possible. Then he took the stovepipe hat, removed his swallow-tailed coat and threw both items into the garden, where he could pick them up later. More comfortable in just trousers and a shirt, he rubbed his palms dry, made sure the knife and jemmy were within reach and took the rope in his hand. Carefully he lowered himself over the edge of the roof, gripped the rope with his hands, threaded it through his ankles and shimmied down it as far as the window, which was still a drop of seventy or so yards from the ground. Clasping the rope with one hand and threading it around his feet to take his weight, he jemmied the window open and manoeuvred himself into the gap. There, Pyke gathered in the rest of the rope and let it drop down inside the building. A minute later, he was again standing on solid ground, alone in the eerie solitude of the chapel.
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