Kill-Devil and Water

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘Rewards cost money and money’s something I don’t have.’

  ‘Then we’ll just appeal to the goodness of your readers’ hearts.’

  That drew an approving nod.

  ‘Of course, I’ll need some money for the investigation. Twenty pounds ought to do it to start off. And for the column itself, Saggers will want to be paid twopence a line rather than the usual one and a half.’

  ‘Twenty pounds, you say?’ Spratt sucked the air in through his teeth. ‘I might be able to raise such a sum but it’s not a bottomless well, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘You’ll do it, then?’ Pyke swapped a quick glance with Saggers, who looked as if he might explode with happiness.

  ‘Indeed I will,’ Spratt said, ‘but on one condition.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘To give the story credibility, I’ll need to include the name of this senior figure in the New Police who approached you to run the investigation.’

  Pyke felt a sudden tightness in his throat. ‘Why’s that?’

  Spratt shrugged. ‘His name corroborates the story.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, he’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Then you have a difficult choice to make.’

  ‘It might seem odd to you but the idea of humiliating this person strikes me as wrong.’

  ‘Then you can find yourself another newspaper.’

  Pyke wetted his lips. ‘What if I told you he gave me the work as a favour, because he thought - rightly as it turned out - that I needed something to do?’

  ‘So you don’t want to hurt someone who’s given you a helping hand. That makes you a fine human being. Now take off your halo and see things from my perspective. Paying civilians from the public purse to do the work of the police is wrong.’

  ‘It’s your job to see things in terms of right and wrong. For the rest of us, fault isn’t so easy to apportion.’

  ‘Listen, Pyke, I don’t have time to debate the ethics of journalism. Either you agree to my condition or we shake hands and go our separate ways. Which is it to be?’

  Pyke stole another glance at Saggers and briefly weighed up his debt to Tilling against his desire to find Mary Edgar’s murderer and vindicate himself in his son’s eyes. ‘His name’s Fitzroy Tilling.’ Pyke hesitated, still contemplating his betrayal. ‘He’s the deputy commissioner.’

  Outside Spratt’s office, Saggers turned to him and whispered, ‘For a moment I thought you were going to piss our deal up against the wall for the sake of, what, a friendship?’

  Pyke had to fight the urge to grab the fat man by his neck and squeeze it until he choked.

  Pyke sat at the counter in the smoky confines of Samuel’s taproom drinking rum and water. As the man had predicted, the atmosphere of the place was different. Perhaps it was the babble of different languages which made it so: Scandinavians drunkenly toasting each other and dark-skinned Italians smoking their pipes and cheroots. The rest of the faces belonged to Negro and Lascar sailors, each keeping to their own, the different nationalities and races in the cramped room rubbing shoulders with one another, but never mixing.

  A part-time dock labourer called Johnny - a man in his forties with blue-black skin and forearms as thick as sapling trees corded with veins - recognised Mary Edgar from the charcoal drawing. He told Pyke he’d seen her in the window of a gentleman’s carriage on Commercial Road about two or three weeks earlier, coming from the direction of the West India Docks. He didn’t recognise anyone resembling Arthur Sobers’ description but told Pyke that a ship from Jamaica called the Island Queen had docked there around the same time.

  But that wasn’t the end of Pyke’s good fortune. Samuel directed him towards a woman in her sixties with dark, wrinkled skin who was sitting on her own at a table in the corner of the room. He showed her the drawing and told her the woman had been killed. That provoked very little reaction, but when he suggested that her body might have been embalmed with rum, a glimmer passed across her hooded eyes.

  She picked up a glass and swallowed the drink he’d bought her in a single gulp. ‘We call it kill-devil. These days I like it with a little water.’

  ‘Is it a practice you’re familiar with?’

  ‘Not since I been living in this country.’

  ‘But you have heard of it?’

  Her glance drifted over his shoulder and her eyes glazed over. ‘Folk reckoned it could ward off the duppies.’

  ‘Duppies?’

  ‘Ghosts. Evil spirits.’

  ‘As in witchcraft?’ Pyke waited to catch the old woman’s eyes and thought about Mary Edgar’s mutilated face.

  ‘Obeah.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Some black folk reckon Obeah men and women can commune with the dead; they have the power to curse and cause harm, as well as cure and uplift.’

  ‘And rum is part of what they do?’

  ‘Where I grew up, rum’s a part of what everyone does. It’s what kept us going, made the hard times feel better.’ For the first time, she scrutinised Pyke’s expression carefully and added, ‘You sure this girl was embalmed with rum?’

  ‘I think so. A bottle of rum had been left by the body and even though it was muddy, the body was spotless, as though it had been washed.’

  ‘With rum?’

  Pyke nodded.

  ‘And this would have been after she was killed?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  As the woman looked away, the light left her eyes, as if someone had blown out a candle. ‘You kill someone, maybe you want to find a way of appeasing their spirit ...’

  Pyke waited for a moment, wondering whether he should say anything about Mary Edgar’s facial mutilation or not. ‘What if someone had cut out her eyeball?’ he whispered. ‘What might that mean?’

  She looked up at him, unable to hide her interest. ‘The whole eyeball, you say?’

  It was dark when Pyke took Copper for a walk around Smithfield, though in fairness to the mastiff, Copper didn’t need Pyke’s sanction, or company, to enjoy the attractions of the field. It had always amazed Pyke how well the animal had adjusted to the loss of one of his legs and how nimble he was in spite of his injury. It had also surprised him how gentle Copper was around Felix - especially since he’d been trained to kill other animals. The field was almost deserted but Copper wasn’t interested in traversing it, preferring instead to forage for scraps around the perimeter. While he did so, Pyke stepped into the Queen’s Head on the south side of the field and ordered a gin. He drank this and then another, watching the tables of revellers without envy or self-pity. At one of the tables, he joined a game of Primero and on the third hand dealt he drew two sixes, so he decided to bet the rest of the money from Tilling’s purse and what he’d been given by Spratt. A lawyer’s clerk and a butcher matched his bets and when they all turned over their cards, Pyke’s two sixes beat the lawyer’s sevens and the butcher’s aces. That earned him between fifty and sixty pounds, enough to cover his expenses in the coming weeks. To the chagrin of his opponents, Pyke excused himself before he could give them the chance to win their money back.

  At his garret, he found Copper waiting for him on the steps, gnawing a bone. The mastiff barely looked up from his prize but managed to wag his tail. Inside the door was a bottle of claret with a note attached to it - ‘No hard feelings. Fitzroy’. He picked up the bottle and followed Copper up the narrow staircase, wondering why friends were so hard to make yet so easy to lose.

  That night, Pyke lay in his garret, thinking about Felix, Jo and the murdered woman, though not necessarily in that order. A couple of tallow candles burned on the mantelpiece and, at his feet, Copper dozed contentedly. Unable to sleep, he took his copy of Hobbes’ Leviathan and began to read it from the beginning. It relaxed him and helped to turn his thoughts from the events of the past few days. Even Hobbes’ grim portrait of nature failed to disturb him unduly. In fact, he found himself agreeing with its sentiments; that men were engaged i
n a desperate struggle of all against all, and that life, as Hobbes had so aptly put it, was ‘nasty, brutish and short’. So it had been for the dead woman.

  SEVEN

  The next morning Pyke asked for Saggers in the Cole Hole, the Turk’s Head and the Crown and Anchor. He eventually found the penny-a-liner in the Back Kitchen; the morning edition of the Examiner was spread out on the table, together with an empty flagon of claret and a plateful of chop bones. The room was deserted, except for a few snoring drunkards, and it smelled of unwashed bodies and fried food. Saggers picked up the newspaper and showed Pyke the leading article and the column he’d penned about Mary Edgar’s murder. Pyke read it and told Saggers he’d done a thorough job.

  In fact, it was difficult to see how Saggers and Spratt might have done a better job. The tone of the leader was just right; a delicate mixture of concern, mockery and indignation: ‘Prevention of crime is no longer sufficient on its own to safeguard the interests of the citizens of this great metropolis.’ Or, even better, ‘The sheer incompetence of the Metropolitan Police beggars belief.’ Best of all, ‘We have no doubt that a special team of committed, hardworking journalists will find the killer, or killers, of this poor black woman before the bumbling fools of the police.’ Pyke noticed a brief reference to Fitzroy Tilling and passed over it.

  ‘A veritable masterpiece, even if I say so myself,’ Saggers said, delivering his verdict.

  ‘Any repercussions?’

  ‘Any repercussions, the man asks?’ Saggers appealed to a drunkard sitting next to them. ‘Well, sir, it would seem that Sir Richard Mayne came to see Spratt in person this morning, after he’d seen the newspaper. I’m reliably informed that he was incandescent with rage. He ranted and raved and made all kinds of threats. I’m only sorry I didn’t see it with my own eyes.’

  ‘Mayne? In person?’ Pyke hadn’t expected the riposte to come from the commissioner himself. ‘And did Spratt manage to hold his ground?’

  Saggers’ grin widened. ‘Spratt was delighted he’d managed to rile a man as important as Mayne. Told him there was no way he was going to abandon the campaign and said that if Mayne wanted him to print a retraction, he’d have to bloody well find the woman’s killer before we did.’

  ‘He said that?’ Pyke had witnessed Spratt’s ruthless side, but now he was impressed by the man’s integrity.

  ‘Spratt might not look the part but when he gets behind something, he’s won’t give any ground unless he absolutely has to.’

  ‘I’d like you to try to dig up some information about the West India Dock Company,’ Pyke said, then explained that Mary Edgar had been seen leaving the docks in a gentleman’s carriage.

  Saggers rubbed his chin. ‘What makes you think the company’s involved?’

  ‘I don’t, at least not yet. But I think one of their clerks lied to me about not knowing Mary Edgar, which makes me suspicious.’

  ‘In which case, sir, I will be suspicious on your behalf.’ Saggers grinned at Pyke, then belched.

  Nathaniel Rowbottom returned to his office, carrying a ledger in one hand and a quill and fresh ink in the other. Pyke waited until he had closed the heavy, panelled door and had deposited the items on his desk before making his move. The knife was already in Pyke’s hand and the terrified clerk didn’t have time even to blink, let alone shout for help, before Pyke had twisted his arm, and pressed the blade into his throat. A few spots of blood appeared on his neck where the serrated edge had penetrated the skin. Rowbottom had lied to Pyke and would continue to lie to him unless he thought that his life was in danger.

  ‘If you don’t answer me truthfully, I’ll slit your throat and leave you to bleed to death like a slaughtered pig. I’ve killed men before and I’ll do it again. Nod once, very slowly, if you understand.’ Pyke was standing over him, whispering in his ear, the knife still pressed against his throat.

  For a moment Rowbottom was too terrified to do anything, but eventually it came, a slight tilt of his head.

  ‘Mary Edgar docked here a little over two weeks ago, on one of the ships that arrived from the West Indies. I want two names, that’s all; the ship she disembarked from and the man who met her.’

  ‘I don’t know ...’

  Pyke dug the blade deeper into Rowbottom’s neck. ‘Think very carefully about what will happen if you don’t answer my question.’

  ‘The Island Queen,’ Rowbottom croaked, in barely more than a whisper. ‘That’s the name of the ship. And that’s all I know. I promise you.’ It was the same ship the docker had told him about.

  Pyke tutted under his breath and drew the blade very slightly across the clerk’s throat. A faint line of crimson appeared. ‘She was taken somewhere in a gentleman’s carriage. I just want the name of the man who arranged it.’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t give me his name; he just told me he wanted to meet someone arriving on the Island Queen. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’

  ‘One more jerk of my wrist and I’ll sever your jugular vein. And you know what’ll happen if I do that? You’ll be dead within five, ten minutes. No one saw me come in here and no one will notice me leaving. And you will have died for what? To protect the name of a client or associate who, if the roles were reversed, would have told me your name in a second.’ Pyke licked a line of saliva from his bottom lip.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Then you’re dead.’

  ‘No. Please.’ Rowbottom seemed to be losing control of his bowels. The smell was appalling.

  ‘A name. One last chance.’

  ‘Alefounder,’ Rowbottom sobbed. ‘William Alefounder.’

  Pyke kept the blade to his throat but eased the pressure a little. ‘There; that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

  A wail of despair spilled from Rowbottom’s mouth.

  ‘Who is he and where can I find him?’

  The clerk fell on to his desk. ‘He’s a sugar trader ... His offices are located in St Michael’s Alley just off Cornhill ... across from the Jamaica Coffee House.’

  In quieter moments, Pyke liked to think of himself as fair and even-handed in his dealings with others: someone who didn’t take account of status, wealth, religion or colour but who dealt with people on their own terms. But this was not true. In fact, he had always pursued the wealthy and privileged as though they had personally done him wrong.

  ‘Go and fetch the police.’

  William Alefounder looked at Pyke from his place at the end of a polished mahogany table in what was evidently the company boardroom, then glowered at the apologetic assistant who’d been unable to prevent Pyke from interrupting the meeting. Around the table were five or six smartly attired men, in addition to Alefounder, all of whom Pyke could have beaten in a fight with one arm tied behind his back.

  ‘Do it now.’

  The assistant fled from the boardroom but left the door open. A couple of clerks had gathered at the threshold, alerted by the brusque, even violent, way in which Pyke had forced his way through their various lines of defence.

  Pyke strode over to where Alefounder was sitting and put the charcoal etching of Mary Edgar down on to the table.

  ‘Her name is Mary Edgar, but you already know that. She was murdered about a week ago. Her naked corpse was found just off the Ratcliff Highway. You met her off the Island Queen when it arrived at the West India Docks some time before the twenty-fifth of last month.’

  Alefounder’s impassive stare and cool, almost translucent eyes gave little away. Pyke couldn’t tell how tall he was, but his solid chest, broad shoulders and lantern jaw suggested he should not be taken lightly. In other circumstances, Pyke might even have described him as good looking. His skin was dark and smooth and his black hair, cut short, was flecked with a few grey hairs, the only indication that he was middle-aged rather than young.

  The eyes of the other men gathered around the table had shifted from Pyke to Alefounder. Now it was up to the trader to explain himself, and Pyke thought he saw a ch
ink in his armour: a hint of nerves, a smile that was a little too wide and a slight quiver of his top lip.

  ‘Yes, her name is familiar but I’ve never actually met her.’ Alefounder glanced down at the drawing in front of him. ‘You say she’s been murdered?’ He tried to appear unconcerned but droplets of sweat were massing on his forehead.

  ‘She was strangled then tossed away like night soil.’

  Alefounder’s hands began to tremble. ‘I’m disturbed you can talk about another human being in such a manner.’

  ‘I saw her corpse. I stood over her grave while they buried her.’