Kill-Devil and Water

by Andrew Pepper

  Pyke tried not to show his excitement. ‘You’re quite certain about his real name?’ This was the confirmation he’d been looking for.

  ‘Course I’m sure.’ Flack scratched his arm. ‘But I ain’t seen ’im for a while. To be honest, I’m disappointed. No one brings me rats like Phillip.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Two, three months ago.’

  ‘And before that, would he come here on a regular basis?’

  Flack nodded. ‘At least once a week.’

  Pyke considered this for a short while. ‘Did he ever tell you where he found his rats?’

  ‘He trawled the sewers, I’d say, from the smell of ’im. That’s how folk came to call him Filthy.’

  After he left, Pyke stood at the counter, listening to the harsh, guttural accents and the casual obscenities, and wondered whether Phillip Malvern was still in London or, more to the point, whether he was still alive.

  It was just getting dark when a hackney carriage dropped Pyke off at the end of Pitts Head Mews just across from Hyde Park. The air was humid with just a hint of rain and there was barely a breath of wind. He walked along the street as far as Elizabeth Malvern’s house, looked up at the drawn curtains for any sign of light or movement behind them, then knocked on the front door. No one answered. He tried again, to no avail. There was a break in the terrace about halfway along the mews and Pyke made his way around to the back of what he thought was Elizabeth’s house and looked up at the windows once more. The curtains were drawn but this time what looked like a light or candle was burning in one of the upstairs rooms. He climbed over the wall and dropped down into the back yard. Waiting to be sure no one had heard him, he removed his picklocks, trying to make as little sound as possible. The lock wasn’t a sophisticated one. Pyke had the door open in less than a minute and stepped into the house.

  She was carrying a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. She moved towards him quietly and carefully, like a cat, keeping the pistol aimed at his chest. She wore a cotton print dress and her dark hair was gathered up and held by a comb. It took him a few moments to realise how beautiful she was, with her smooth complexion, the colour of milky coffee, and her dark, staring eyes, like pools of liquid.

  ‘You’re Elizabeth, aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t move a muscle, sir. Tell me your name, why you’ve broken into my house, and why I shouldn’t shoot you here and now.’ She spoke in a polished, elegant tone that put him in mind of Emily.

  ‘My name is Pyke. I was charged with the task of finding Mary Edgar’s murderer. I’ve just returned from Jamaica.’

  It was the last piece of information which seemed to soften her resolve. She lowered the pistol and held up the lantern so she could see his face better. ‘Do you often break into other people’s houses?’

  ‘Only if they persistently refuse to answer their doors.’ Pyke waited. ‘I came here just before I sailed for the West Indies. I think I saw you in one of the upstairs rooms at the front of the house.’

  ‘Oh, that was you.’ She seemed both curious and unmoved by this revelation.

  ‘Can I ask why you’ve decided to turn yourself into a prisoner in your own house? And why you feel it’s necessary to possess that thing?’ He pointed at the pistol.

  ‘I thought my father might have sent you.’ She hesitated, wondering whether this explained it, and then added, ‘He thinks I’m in Jamaica.’

  ‘Why would he think that?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘And the pistol?’

  She didn’t have an answer for that one.

  ‘You told him that you’d make the journey to break the news to your brother, Charles, about the deaths of his fiancée and his godfather.’

  That seemed to amuse her. ‘I see you’ve spoken to my father.’

  ‘We had a conversation. It didn’t end well. To be honest, it didn’t start well, either. But you’re right, I did talk to him. And he’s under the impression you sailed for Jamaica at the beginning of May.’

  ‘And now you must be wondering what I’m doing here.’

  ‘The question had crossed my mind.’

  ‘In that case, I think you and I should retire to the living room. I sense we have a lot to talk about.’

  He followed her into the house, up a flight of stairs and into a large, immaculately tidy room at the front of the building. Elizabeth put the lantern on the table in the middle of the room and sat down on one of the sofas. Pyke took the other one and they sat in silence for a moment. He could smell her musk, a raw, earthy smell that made him think of whisky and put him on guard at once.

  ‘Whatever must you think of me?’ She was perched on the edge of the sofa, shaking her head. ‘Hiding in my own home, not answering the door, lying to my father.’

  Pyke tried not to notice the way she was looking at him. ‘Why did you offer to travel to Jamaica in the first place?’

  ‘Did Father tell you that?’ She laughed. ‘Even though we live in the same city, we only seem to communicate by post these days. I received a letter from him suggesting I go to the West Indies, to break some tragic news to my brother. I wrote back saying that I’d consider it but then I fell ill and I heard that a mutual friend was making the journey out there so I persuaded him to pay a visit to Charles in my place. I detest that journey more than you’ll ever know, and I fancy I saw the opportunity to stay here and hibernate from the world.’ She hesitated and looked across at him. ‘I know it makes me sound appallingly selfish and I can see you don’t believe one word I’ve said but I really was ill for a while; I barely moved from my bed for the months of June and July.’

  Pyke tried to keep his stare opaque. She was right that he didn’t believe her. How likely was it that someone of her standing would shut herself away for the whole Season? And hadn’t Charles told him that Elizabeth and their father enjoyed a very close relationship?

  Reading his mind, Elizabeth added, ‘Of course, I did have some help. I had to swear my oldest, most faithful servant to secrecy. Frankly, I don’t know what I would have done without her. She agreed to visit my father’s house in Belgravia on my behalf. That was how I first heard that William intended to sail for Jamaica ...’

  ‘Alefounder.’

  She touched the top of her lip with her tongue. ‘You know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him, and his wife. For obvious reasons, she didn’t exactly recommend you to me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Elizabeth reddened slightly. ‘No, I don’t imagine she would have.’

  ‘Is that all you’re going to say?’

  ‘It happened a long time ago. We were both young and stupid.’ She looked at him, clear eyed. ‘But I’m quite sure an affair that went stale years ago isn’t the reason you broke into my house.’

  Pyke didn’t know what to say. After all, he couldn’t very well tell her the real reason for his visit.

  ‘Did you see my brother while you were in Jamaica? Is he terribly upset? I hate to think of him sad.’

  ‘He’s dead.’ He saw her face plummet and added, ‘I’m sorry. He died in a storm. Part of the roof at one end of the great house at Ginger Hill collapsed.’

  She began to weep, quietly at first, but then louder, as she absorbed the news. Pyke didn’t take any joy from imparting this news, and when her crying turned into loud sobs, he went over to the sofa. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated as he knelt down in front of her, not sure how to comfort her or whether he should even try. But without thinking about it, she opened her arms and attached herself to him, wailing so her entire ribcage shook. He tasted the saltiness of her tears on his cheeks and lips and patted her silky hair. He didn’t want to admit, to himself or her, that grief made her even more attractive but it was true; her tears humanised her and each sob transformed her from a hardened vixen into someone much more real and complicated.

  Finally she pushed him away and wiped her eyes on the vaguely flounced sleeve of her dress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniff
ing and trying to breathe at the same time.

  Pyke withdrew to his sofa and looked around the tastefully furnished room. He noticed a drawing by Blake on the wall and wondered whether it was an original.

  ‘And William?’ she whispered, trying to compose herself.

  ‘He died, too.’

  That elicited another gasp but no more tears. The street below was absolutely quiet.

  ‘Does my father know?’

  ‘I told him.’

  ‘Oh God.’ She shook her head and buried it in her hands. ‘Poor Father. If this doesn’t kill him, I don’t know what will. And if you’ve made the journey already, he’ll be expecting me home any day. What will I say to him? How will I explain I wasn’t there? Of course, he’ll assume I’ve already made the arrangements to have Charles’s body shipped back here. I’ll just have to tell him the truth, won’t I?’ This thought seemed to fill her with dread. ‘You won’t tell him about me just yet. Please, sir, I beg of you. I can tell you’re a kind man. Give me a few days, that’s all I ask.’

  He contemplated this strange, disjointed speech; how little concern she’d displayed for her father’s grief and well-being and the emphasis she’d placed on her own self-inflicted plight.

  ‘What you choose to tell your father has nothing to do with me.’ The skin wrinkled at the edges of her eyes as she smiled. ‘Thank you.’ A strand of hair had fallen down over her face and she tucked it behind her ear.

  ‘I should leave you,’ Pyke said, looking at her; she seemed composed all of a sudden.

  ‘You came here to ask about Mary, didn’t you?’ She hesitated. ‘My father told me what had happened to her.’

  He nodded. ‘That was one of the reasons.’

  ‘Father told me about her visit to the house. All it took was the mention of money for her to drop her claim on my brother. Poor Charles.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘Not that it matters much now. I suppose if I had felt that her feelings for him were at all genuine I might not have disliked her as much as I did.’

  ‘And how much did you dislike her?’

  Elizabeth looked over at Pyke, apparently shocked at his question. ‘You can’t actually think I had something to do with her death? I may have disliked her but I would never have hurt her.’

  Pyke looked away, trying to decide on the best way of phrasing what he wanted to say. ‘But it can’t have been easy, the idea of welcoming her into the family.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her expression was unreadable.

  ‘Before emancipation, your father used to own her. I can easily see how the idea of her marrying your brother would have caused your family difficulties.’

  ‘Because she’s black?’

  Later Pyke would think about the assumption she’d made - that Mary was black or had been born to a black mother and hence could be categorised as black and that she, by contrast and without question, was white. If anything, Elizabeth was perhaps a little darker than Mary, but could claim to be white because she was Silas Malvern’s child and hence people saw her as white.

  ‘In part, yes,’ he said, thinking about the rumours pertaining to her affection for her brother, Charles. ‘If you’ve seen someone as servile for your entire life, I wonder how it’s possible to suddenly imagine them as your equal.’

  ‘My father never saw his workers as lesser creatures,’ she said firmly. Pyke noted she had used the term workers rather than slaves.

  For his part, Pyke wanted to stay and ask, among other things, about her attachment to Crane, her work for the Vice Society and her interest in daguerreotypes. But he knew that if questioned her directly, she might not be forthcoming. He needed a different strategy; he needed her to like him.

  ‘It’s late and I’m sure I’ve outstayed my welcome.’ He took out a notepad, scribbled his address on one of the pages, tore it out and handed it to her. She let it flutter on to the Turkish carpet. ‘If you remember anything at all about Mary Edgar, however insignificant it may seem, you can find me at that address.’

  She followed him down the stairs and, at the bottom, said, ‘You can leave through the front door, if you like.’

  He turned to face her but she was closer than he expected and he tried to back away.

  ‘Why did you really go all the way to Jamaica?’ Her stare was curious.

  ‘I thought Mary’s murderer had fled there, so I followed him.’

  ‘You mean you thought William had killed her?’ She even managed a little laugh.

  ‘He lied about knowing her. I put pressure on him. He ran. Those aren’t the actions of an innocent man.’

  Elizabeth seemed perplexed by his answer. ‘You really do seem to care who killed her, don’t you?’ She took a step towards him and stopped. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to judge you or suggest that what you’re doing isn’t a noble enterprise.’

  ‘But you’re wondering why I, or anyone else for that matter, should give a damn about a poor, dead mulatto girl?’ Pyke’s armpits were damp with perspiration.

  To his surprise, her gaze softened a little. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I meant.’

  Pyke took a step towards the door. ‘It was good finally to meet you, Miss Malvern.’

  He held out his hand but she ignored it and instead leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek, lingering there for a few moments before whispering, ‘Please call me Elizabeth. I hope we’ll meet again soon.’

  Outside, Pyke stood for a while staring up at the night sky, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had she noticed the way he had been looking at her? Had she somehow manipulated him from the start? Or had his questions caused offence to an essentially innocent person? As he walked along the street, Pyke took one final look at her house and saw her face disappear behind the curtains.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The window was open in the dining room and a soft breeze was blowing through the house. Felix was eating a piece of toast and marmalade. Pyke could hear Jo in the kitchen. He sat down next to Felix and ruffled his hair. Copper hopped into the room and rested his head on Pyke’s lap, wagging his tail.

  ‘Will Uncle Godfrey be coming to visit us soon?’ Felix asked, his mouth full of toast.

  Pyke looked up at Jo, who’d entered the room carrying a pot of coffee and a smaller jug of milk. He told her to sit down, said he would make his own breakfast, but she poured him a cup of coffee and said she was cooking them both eggs and had to get back to the range or else they would burn.

  ‘We’ll invite him round for a meal. How does that sound?’

  Felix smiled. ‘Can we have chicken? I like chicken.’

  ‘Whatever you like.’ Pyke waited for a moment. ‘Godfrey and Jo tell me you haven’t seen anything of Eric, the older boy who used to hang around outside Godfrey’s apartment.’

  Felix stiffened. ‘No.’ But he wouldn’t look directly at Pyke.

  ‘No, you haven’t seen him?’

  ‘I did see him one more time. He said he’d kidnap me, force me to do whatever he told me to.’ Pyke expected Felix to well up or tremble at the memory but his eyes were clear and his voice steady.

  ‘And what happened?’

  Felix stared down at the table.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I found out where Uncle Godfrey hid his pistol.’ Felix bit his lip and then looked down at his hands. ‘I borrowed it. Next time I saw Eric, I aimed the pistol at him and said if he didn’t leave me alone, I’d use it.’

  Pyke looked at his son, open mouthed. He tried to picture the lad waving a pistol in broad daylight and fought to reconcile two conflicting sentiments: anger, that Felix had put himself in such potential danger - if the pistol had gone off and he’d wounded or killed the older boy, he could have been facing a lengthy spell in prison or worse - and delight that he’d tried to address the problem himself.

  ‘And what did Eric do?’

  ‘He ran away and didn’t bother me again,’ Felix said, matter-of-factly.

  Still re
eling from this revelation, Pyke tried to imagine what Emily would have said. ‘Did you tell Jo or Uncle Godfrey about what you did?’

  Felix shook his head. ‘I haven’t told anyone. Except you.’ This time he looked up at Pyke. His stare was sheepish, but also defiant.

  ‘I want you to promise me that you’ll never repeat what you did, at least not while you’re living under my roof.’