Pyke 01 - The Last Days of Newgate

by Andrew Pepper

  Pyke decided to push things along. ‘If I remember, the circumference of my own skull measured twenty-three and a half inches at its widest point. Is that correct?’ Hardwick nodded blankly. ‘Would you tell the court what the duke of Cumberland’s skull measured?’

  Hardwick stared at him, ashen-faced, then, with a pleading expression, turned to the bench. The recorder looked similarly perturbed but knew that, in the circumstances, Hardwick had to answer the question. Cumberland seemed oblivious to their concerns.

  ‘Go ahead, sir,’ Pyke said, calmly.

  ‘One cannot judge character on the circumference of the skull alone. It is also a question of cranial shape . . .’

  ‘The measurement, if you please, sir.’

  ‘Your Honour?’ Hardwick looked pleadingly at the recorder.

  Marshall did not seem to know what to say.

  ‘The measurement.’

  Hardwick’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Twenty-seven inches.’

  ‘Could you repeat that figure, sir, and this time so that the whole court may benefit from your wisdom?’

  Hardwick was crestfallen. ‘Twenty-seven inches.’

  Gasps of astonishment were accompanied by a ripple of nervous laughter emanating from the public gallery. Cumberland, who had finally grasped the implications of Hardwick’s findings, turned crimson. The recorder did not appear to know what to do or say.

  Pyke waited for a moment of quiet and said, very quickly, before he could be stopped, ‘Given that the duke murdered his manservant in cold blood and raped his own sister, I am on reflection happy to concede the truthfulness of this witness’s testimony.’

  For a second, there was utter silence in the courtroom as people absorbed the shock of his remarks, and then pandemonium broke out. Gutsy cheers from the public gallery temporarily drowned out the groundswell of indignation from the bench. As the recorder attempted to reimpose order on the courtroom by repeatedly banging his gavel down on the bench, his wig slipped forward off the top of his head and fell six feet on to the table below, where clerks were administering the proceedings.

  Two hours later, Lord Chief Justice Marshall began his summing up. He reminded the jury that they were to base their decision only on the evidence they had heard in court. He added that, scandalous and offensive as the accused’s remarks had been during the cross-examination of one of the prosecution’s witnesses, they were to disregard these comments in their deliberations. Bound and gagged, Pyke listened without interest from the dock. Looking across the room at the public gallery, he noticed that Emily had vacated her seat and wondered what this meant.

  Marshall told the jury that, to return a guilty verdict, they had to be satisfied, beyond reasonable doubt, that on the night of the fourth day of March eighteen hundred and twenty-nine, in a gin palace on Duke Street in the Smithfield area of London, the accused had, with malice aforethought, murdered the deceased, Lizzie Morgan, by stabbing her twice in the stomach with a knife. Marshall then summarised all the evidence the court had heard, pausing to underscore those points that hinted at Pyke’s guilt.

  Once he had finished, he sent the jury away to reach a verdict. As they left, Pyke was removed from the dock.

  It took the jury less than ten minutes. Back in the courtroom the foreman, when asked, said that they had unanimously reached a verdict. Enjoying the occasion, he paused, to clear his throat, and informed the court that the jury had found the accused guilty as charged.

  The reaction inside the courtroom was a little muted. Outside, once news of the verdict spread, the cheers were louder. Those sitting on the bench nodded vigorously to one another in approval. Edmonton shook Cumberland’s hand, as though he had been responsible for bringing about Pyke’s demise. Farther along the bench, Sir Richard Fox stared down at his feet. None of the jury could bring themselves to look at Pyke. The recorder praised them for the verdict and added that it was unquestionably the right one given the damning nature of the evidence.

  Finally he turned his attention to Pyke. In a suitably grave voice, Marshall said that he hoped Pyke had taken the time since his arrest to reflect on the heinousness of his crime, although this did not appear to be the case. He told Pyke it was his habit to encourage the condemned to make their peace with the Almighty, but since Pyke’s behaviour suggested that he was beyond redemption, there was no reason to prolong his detention in Newgate.

  Replacing his horsehair wig with a black cap, he banged his gavel down on the bench and said, ‘You will be hanged by the neck on Monday morning.’

  This left Pyke only two days to plan his escape. It was less time than he had hoped for.

  THIRTEEN

  Separated from the rest of Newgate by the press yard, the prison’s condemned block suffered from an austere appearance and a funereal atmosphere. In all, there were fifteen cells arranged over three floors, but it was rare that more than one or two of these was occupied at any time, especially, as a turnkey informed him, since in recent years the Bloody Code had been scaled back. This was a set of legal statutes which insisted upon capital punishment for crimes as trivial as forging coins. Pyke did not comment on the irony: he was being executed by an administration that wanted to introduce more humane forms of punishment. Nor did Pyke ask whether the man was one of the two guards who had been approached by Townsend and offered a hundred pound to assist him in his escape attempt.

  Pyke had tried to make it clear that this aid would not involve them physically assisting his bid for freedom.

  Rather, they were simply to turn a blind eye to particular occurrences, if and when they took place. As such, they might be dismissed from their posts for negligence but not prosecuted for aiding and abetting a crime. In which case, a hundred pounds would be more than enough to compensate them for the ‘inconvenience’ of having to find alternative employment.

  When Godfrey visited him on the Friday evening, the turnkeys were to make sure he was not searched, or rather, if he was searched, that their search did not reveal anything. Nor was Pyke’s cell to be searched, after Godfrey’s departure. He was starting to worry that the turnkeys would not honour their side of the bargain when Godfrey thrust a small key into his hand. He permitted himself a hushed sigh of relief.

  This did not, however, mean that the condemned block’s incarceration regime was a lax one. The governor’s promise of additional security had been realised in the form of reinforced leg-irons and handcuffs. These devices, and the thickness of the stone walls, meant that Pyke’s chances of escape would normally have been slim.

  They still perhaps were, despite the arrangements that had been made, but he chose not to focus on such concerns.

  Instead, after Godfrey had departed, Pyke rummaged through the items that his uncle had smuggled into the cell: the key, of course, but also charcoal, powder, soap, chalk, candles, rouge and a razor blade.

  Sitting up against the cell door, in order that the turnkeys might not see him through the grated hole, Pyke worked through the night, using all his candles. By the time he heard the first cock crow, he had found a way of using the small key to unlock both the leg-irons and the handcuffs.

  It rained for most of the day, the kind of relentless downpour that seemed to penetrate the tarred walls and dampen the inside of the cell and its few contents: a hemp mat and a horse rug. Pyke had wrapped himself up in the rug and settled himself on the mat, but had still been unable to sleep. Trying to ignore the cold and the stench of decaying animal matter, discarded outside the prison walls by market traders, he stared at the window and listened to the patter of raindrops peppering the outside of the building.

  While the rest of the condemned prisoners spent their free time in the more welcoming environment of the press rooms, a narrow area replete with tables, benches and a fire, Pyke opted to remain in his cell, anxious that no one should look too carefully at his leg-irons and handcuffs.

  He found himself thinking about Mary Johnson and Gerald McKeown - how grateful they had been when he had offered to
put them up in a lodging house - and he imagined what torture they might have suffered as someone dragged them to a wild spot on Hounslow Heath, and strangled them. He also thought about Lizzie and whether she had known what was happening to her.

  It was already dark by the time the Reverend Arthur Foote arrived, with Godfrey. Godfrey seemed nervous - both of them had been drinking and he stumbled as he entered the cell - but Pyke assumed that Foote was either too inebriated or excited by the prospect of eliciting a dramatic eleventh-hour confession from Pyke, which he could then ‘sell’ to Godfrey, thereby making a significant sum of money, to realise what was about to happen.

  Pyke greeted them and said he was sorry that he could not offer them anything to drink. Foote produced a flask of what Pyke presumed was gin and said he had brought his own supplies. He took a swig, without offering it to either Godfrey or Pyke. He was wearing a long black cassock under a black robe, a white undershirt, a dog collar and a pair of black shoes, and was carrying a wide-brimmed hat.

  Godfrey pulled the cell door closed and through the grated hole told the turnkeys that they would knock when they were ready to leave.

  ‘So you’ve decided to confess, boy? Excellent, excellent. God loves repenting sinners as much as the rest of his flock. More, even.’ Even in the candlelight, Pyke could see Foote’s blackened teeth as he smiled. ‘I like ’em too but for different reasons. Isn’t that right, Godfrey? Those little sheets you publish can be quite profitable, I’ve heard, especially when the confession’s been so eagerly awaited.’ He peered down at Pyke through the gloom. ‘You’re looking queer, boy. Your skin is all mottled and blotchy.’

  This was the effect of the rouge and charcoal. Pyke hadn’t expected Foote to notice. It meant he didn’t have much time.

  ‘Your hair, it’s shorter and greyer, too.’ Foote appeared confused. ‘And didn’t you once have sideburns?’

  Pyke had hacked them off with the razor, along with some of his hair, and had brushed it with flecks of chalk.

  ‘Very queer indeed.’ Foote’s frown deepened. ‘So how do you want to do this, boy?’

  Pyke waited until Godfrey had positioned himself in front of the grated hole in the cell door.

  ‘How about you sit next to me on the mat here and I’ll begin my confession.’

  ‘Sit on the floor?’ Foote seemed unsure. ‘I suppose, given the lack of amenities, I might be able to countenance such a plan. You say next to you, eh? I like that.’ Grinning, Foote lifted up his cassock and planted himself awkwardly on the part of the mat Pyke had prepared for him.

  Freeing himself from the handcuffs, Pyke struck Foote once, as hard as he could, with the full force of his clenched fist, and once Foote had collapsed on to him he jammed both thumbs firmly into the Ordinary’s neck and pushed until he heard a gurgling sound.

  For the turnkeys’ sake, he proffered a few garbled sentiments about inner demons and breaking the Sabbath. Meanwhile, he went to work on Foote’s body, stripping him of his hat and shoes, his dog collar and finally his cassock and undershirt. He dressed Foote in his own clothes and, in turn, put on the Ordinary’s attire. The shoes were too small for his feet but he just about managed to squeeze into them. He laid Foote out on the hemp mat, his back facing the door, as though he were asleep, and secured the leg-irons and handcuffs in the appropriate places. He had a drink from Foote’s flask and then pulled the black robe around his shoulders.

  ‘Is Arthur going to live?’ Godfrey whispered, looking down at Foote’s unmoving body. His hands were trembling.

  Pyke shrugged.

  ‘Is he going to live, Pyke?’

  ‘He’ll live. Probably.’ Pyke picked up the Ordinary’s hat.

  ‘Are the turnkeys outside the ones I’ve paid?’

  Godfrey nodded. ‘Two of them are, anyhow. There are three or four of ’em out there.’

  This wasn’t something Pyke had planned for, but he would have to take his chances and hope the two turnkeys earned their money and distracted the other two.

  ‘Just take my arm and walk at a nice easy pace. Take my lead. Don’t rush, whatever you do. Anyone tries to talk to us, we keep going. Tell ’em I’m drunk and can barely speak. I’ll just mumble. I’ll make it appear that if you weren’t supporting me, I’d fall down. People here know Foote. It won’t seem strange.’

  Godfrey stared down at Foote’s unmoving form and whispered, ‘Christ, Pyke, did you have to hurt Arthur as badly as that?’

  Pyke ignored him and pulled the hat down as far over his face as it would go. The dog collar felt tight and scratchy around his neck. He gathered up the items Godfrey had smuggled into the cell, so as not to implicate the turnkeys when the escape was discovered.

  ‘Ready?’

  Godfrey still seemed shaken but knocked on the door and said they were ready to leave. One of the turnkeys unbolted the door and pushed it open. The man peered into the gloomy cell and saw what he assumed to be Pyke lying on the floor. He asked whether Pyke had ‘confessed his sins before God’. Godfrey answered in the affirmative and said the prisoner wanted to be left alone. He added that the confession had also exhausted Reverend Foote and winked. ‘He needs his victuals.’ The man laughed.

  Godfrey led Pyke into the corridor. Two men were sitting around an overturned wooden cask playing cards. Neither of them even bothered to look up. The turnkey who had spoken to them had one final look in the cell before closing the door and sliding the heavy iron bolts into place.

  ‘Be careful on the stairs. The stone gets mighty slippery when it rains.’

  Godfrey said they would and led Pyke along the corridor towards the staircase. The man followed them, jangling some keys. He told them that unless he unlocked the condemned block’s main door, they would be spending the night there. Pyke allowed his heartbeat to settle and took his uncle’s lead. He tried to relax and put himself in the mind of a drunk. Mumbling something, he made a point of shuffling along rather than walking; he also swayed from side to side, trying not to appear too rigid, and just grunted when the guard asked him whether he was all right. The staircase between the floors was dark and narrow and Pyke walked down the steps at an appropriately modest pace, holding on to the stone walls as he did so. When they reached the bottom, the turnkey pushed in front of them and as he did so said, ‘Well then, sirs, I’ll bid you both goodnight,’ and unlocked the main door and waited for them to step outside into the rain.

  Pyke held on to his hat to stop it blowing off his head. As they walked through the press yard, a confined area about ten feet wide and seventy feet long, bordered on either side by a high wall, Pyke whispered to Godfrey that he was doing well. ‘Just keep your calm, we’re almost there.’ Pyke knew how much his uncle was risking to assist him; knew that Godfrey disliked physical exertion of any kind; knew how hard it must be for him.

  Godfrey exhaled loudly. ‘Easy for you to say, Pyke.’

  Pyke knew, of course that they were not almost there; he knew that the most dangerous part of the escape still lay ahead of them - walking out through the prison’s guarded and well-lit main entrance without arousing suspicion - but chose not to say anything, because he could feel his uncle trembling.

  It took them a minute or so to shuffle across the press yard and perhaps another minute to pass through the male felons’ quadrangle and the arcade under the chapel and approach the gatekeeper’s house via a series of poorly lit passages. No one had stopped them or even asked them a question. Seeing the bedraggled figure of the Ordinary stumble through the prison must have seemed the most natural sight in the world.

  By the time they reached the keeper’s house, they had been ushered through three sets of locked doors by a succession of incurious turnkeys.

  The keeper’s house was little more than a dark passageway that housed a series of small rooms which belonged to him and which linked the prison’s main door with a stone-floored entrance hall.

  They had to pass through two sets of locked doors, but since there was no one attending
the first door, Godfrey had to call out for assistance. A small, feral man with an unkempt beard appeared from one of the adjoining rooms and said, ‘Ah, Reverend Foote, I was hoping it might be you, sir. The governor wanted a word about the condemned’s sermon tomorrow. Told me to tell you to wait ’ere while I fetch ’im.’

  Pyke mumbled something nonsensical and Godfrey barked, ‘Perhaps it could wait until tomorrow morning. You can see for yourself that Reverend Foote is maybe not in the best state of mind to assist the governor.’ Pyke, whose face was turned down towards his feet so that the keeper could see only the top of his hat, belched. Godfrey added, ‘He just needs a good night’s sleep.’

  The keeper, who was standing the other side of the iron bars, shrugged and produced a set of keys from his jacket pocket. ‘I don’t suppose it would matter, though the governor was insistent that I fetched ’im when you was ready to leave, sir.’ He inserted one of the keys into the lock, turned it and pulled open the first of two reinforced doors that blocked their path to the outside world.

  As they shuffled past the keeper, Pyke heard him whisper, ‘Good luck, Mr Pyke.’ To Pyke’s horror, Godfrey acknowledged the remark and said, ‘Thanks,’ as the keeper stepped back through the rectangular gap in the iron bars, swung the door closed and locked it from the other side.

  Pyke heard the governor before he saw him. ‘Gentlemen. I’m so pleased I managed to catch up with you before you disappeared.’ Ahead of them, the main prison entrance was still locked. There was nowhere left to go. ‘Please step away from the prisoner, Mr Bond.’ Turning around for the first time, Pyke saw that the governor was surrounded by a group of turnkeys. The keeper was grinning. This had been Pyke’s last opportunity to gain his freedom and his plan lay in tatters. His despair was palpable and the governor seemed to sense it. ‘What a shame.’ He strutted towards them, like a prize cockerel. ‘To think you came so close . . .’