Read Kill-Devil and Water Online
Authors: Andrew Pepper
Tags: #Jamaica, #Murder, #England, #Sugar Plantations, #London (England), #Mystery & Detective, #Prostitutes, #Crimes Against, #Fiction, #General, #Investigation, #Historical, #London, #Crime
Kill-Devil and Water (6 page)
Pyke thanked her and stretched his legs, but when he reached down to gather up the drawing, she touched his hand. ‘You want to know something? That’s the first time I touched another human being in a month.’ She looked away suddenly, perhaps because she didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes.
Pyke went to kiss her on the cheek but at the last moment she turned her head towards him and he had no choice but to embrace her mouth. Her lips were softer and saltier than he had imagined. Momentarily Pyke closed his eyes and put the smell of faeces out of his mind. When he pulled away, he expected that she might say something, but whatever had happened in that moment passed and she was staring up at the ceiling, as though nothing had happened.
‘I lie here trying to remember happier times but when I shut my eyes all I can see are the faces of the men who fucked me.’
Pyke left her without saying goodbye. He guessed that she would be dead before the end of the year.
THREE
William Maginn’s face glistened like a ham that been soaked in briny water and boiled vigorously until it had turned a burnished shade of pink. He was pontificating about the merits of Shakespeare’s tragedies while imbibing from a hip-flask. Around him, a coterie of admirers hung on his every word. At one time, he had been the most respected and feared journalist in the city, though this had been before he had burned his bridges at
Fraser’s
magazine and spent time in prison, like Pyke, for failing to pay his debts. Godfrey told Pyke all this while fretting nervously at the edges of the circle, trying to find a way of interrupting Maginn and maybe limiting his consumption of gin, at least until after the speeches.
Fraser’s
magazine and spent time in prison, like Pyke, for failing to pay his debts. Godfrey told Pyke all this while fretting nervously at the edges of the circle, trying to find a way of interrupting Maginn and maybe limiting his consumption of gin, at least until after the speeches.
Hatchard’s bookshop on Piccadilly was full and Pyke was momentarily surprised by the number of people Godfrey had persuaded to attend the event, until he remembered that the book they’d all come to toast had attracted more than its fair share of notoriety in the months following its publication. Figures as worthy as Dickens and Bulwer had described Godfrey’s book as a ‘brutally honest account of wrongdoing’. Godfrey had framed those reviews. But other critics had torn it to shreds. Thackeray, for example, had compared it unfavourably to the ‘already lamentable’
Eugene Aram
and had lambasted it as a ‘foul, sordid piece of writing’ that should be ‘consigned to the nearest cesspool’ for fear that ‘it might irrevocably contaminate those whose misfortune it was to turn its pages’. Godfrey had framed that review as well, claiming that a book capable of provoking such hostility had to be doing something right. Pyke suspected that beneath his bluster, his uncle cared very deeply what a man like Thackeray thought and that the review had wounded him more than he cared to admit. It had been something of a surprise, then, when Maginn had written to Godfrey to offer a cautiously favourable verdict, because Maginn and Thackeray had once been good friends, and perhaps still were.
Eugene Aram
and had lambasted it as a ‘foul, sordid piece of writing’ that should be ‘consigned to the nearest cesspool’ for fear that ‘it might irrevocably contaminate those whose misfortune it was to turn its pages’. Godfrey had framed that review as well, claiming that a book capable of provoking such hostility had to be doing something right. Pyke suspected that beneath his bluster, his uncle cared very deeply what a man like Thackeray thought and that the review had wounded him more than he cared to admit. It had been something of a surprise, then, when Maginn had written to Godfrey to offer a cautiously favourable verdict, because Maginn and Thackeray had once been good friends, and perhaps still were.
Pyke hadn’t read
The True and Candid Confession of an ex-Bow Street Runner
, nor did he have any desire to do so. He had talked at length with Godfrey, while his uncle scribbled notes, and he had been as truthful and as candid as he thought appropriate. But Pyke had known from the start that what appeared in print would bear only the slightest resemblance to his own experiences. Godfrey wasn’t interested in virtue and goodness; rather his writing and publishing reflected a preference for the tasteless, sordid, low and morally repugnant. Pyke knew there were things he had done in his past that fitted this description, and that his uncle would doubtless embellish such episodes into something even nastier, but he hadn’t robbed or killed to satisfy his own primal urges. He had done so only when absolutely compelled to and wherever possible he had tried to do what was right, even if this meant hurting other people in the process. But none of this would make it into his uncle’s book; instead it would be a fictional tale that wallowed in its own stench with the sole purpose, Pyke believed, of offending the refined sensibilities of a particular kind of educated reader.
The True and Candid Confession of an ex-Bow Street Runner
, nor did he have any desire to do so. He had talked at length with Godfrey, while his uncle scribbled notes, and he had been as truthful and as candid as he thought appropriate. But Pyke had known from the start that what appeared in print would bear only the slightest resemblance to his own experiences. Godfrey wasn’t interested in virtue and goodness; rather his writing and publishing reflected a preference for the tasteless, sordid, low and morally repugnant. Pyke knew there were things he had done in his past that fitted this description, and that his uncle would doubtless embellish such episodes into something even nastier, but he hadn’t robbed or killed to satisfy his own primal urges. He had done so only when absolutely compelled to and wherever possible he had tried to do what was right, even if this meant hurting other people in the process. But none of this would make it into his uncle’s book; instead it would be a fictional tale that wallowed in its own stench with the sole purpose, Pyke believed, of offending the refined sensibilities of a particular kind of educated reader.
But Pyke wasn’t interested in Maginn’s stories or in helping Godfrey keep a muzzle on him. He had come to his uncle’s event only to spend some time with Felix, and now he surveyed the mass of faces for a sign of his son, hoping that this encounter would be better than the last one. Perhaps Felix would look him in the eye this time or maybe even allow Pyke to take him in his arms. That was all Pyke had wanted to do when Felix had shunned him at Godfrey’s apartment.
It was Jo who spotted him. When she touched his arm, Pyke spun around and found himself staring into her smiling face. Felix was holding her hand, as though his life depended on it. His hair had been brushed and he wore a clean shirt. Pyke bent down and ruffled his hair the way he used to, but Felix seemed to recoil from his touch. Pyke stood up, trying to conceal his hurt from Jo. She was wearing a plain cotton dress and a straw bonnet, tied under the chin with a piece of red ribbon.
‘We’ve been reading
Ivanhoe
together, haven’t we?’ Jo said, for Pyke’s benefit, while squeezing Felix’s hand. She raised her eyes to meet his. ‘He really is a demon of a reader.’
Ivanhoe
together, haven’t we?’ Jo said, for Pyke’s benefit, while squeezing Felix’s hand. She raised her eyes to meet his. ‘He really is a demon of a reader.’
Pyke tried to think of something he could say about Scott’s book but nothing came to mind. ‘I’m sure it’s a good deal more uplifting than, Godfrey’s book.’
‘I’ve read that one, too,’ Felix piped up.
They both looked at him. ‘You’ve read Godfrey’s book?’ Pyke asked, appalled by the notion.
Felix stared at him, still gripping Jo’s hand. ‘At the end, I thought they should have hanged him by the neck for all he’d done.’
Pyke felt dizzy. Felix had read a book purporting to be an account of
his
life as a Bow Street Runner. Would the lad have known this? Not having read the book himself, Pyke didn’t know what claims it made, but knowing his uncle, he was quite sure it wouldn’t make for a comfortable read.
his
life as a Bow Street Runner. Would the lad have known this? Not having read the book himself, Pyke didn’t know what claims it made, but knowing his uncle, he was quite sure it wouldn’t make for a comfortable read.
‘You understand that it’s all made up,’ he said, adopting what he hoped was a suitably stern tone.
‘Then why does it say it’s a true and candid confession?’ Felix replied defiantly.
Pyke glanced over at Jo for assistance but she gave him an apologetic shrug, as if this was the first she’d heard of it. ‘What I meant,’ he said carefully, ‘was that it’s not based on any one person’s real experiences.’
‘But weren’t you a Bow Street Runner?’
Pyke tried to hide his consternation - and anger - that his son was speaking to him in such a manner. ‘That’s beside the point, Felix.’
Thankfully their conversation was interrupted by Godfrey, who told Pyke he needed help. Maginn was steaming drunk and, even worse, he’d seemingly now taken against the book. Godfrey delivered this last piece of news in such a grave tone that Pyke felt he had no choice but to help. He told Felix they would resume their little chat in a moment.
‘I’ve already paid him a king’s ransom to be here and now he’s savaging my book to all and sundry,’ Godfrey said, as they made their way across to Maginn’s growing coterie.
Maginn was still in full flow. ‘This book is meretricious,’ he was saying, holding up a copy of
Confessions
, as though giving a sermon, ‘because it wilfully misleads its educated readers by purporting to tell the truth about low types. I say
purporting
because it never tells the whole truth, nor could it hope to because it is written by a morally suspect man about a dishonourable scamp who is equally devoid of moral purpose.’ His Cork brogue was unmistakable.
Confessions
, as though giving a sermon, ‘because it wilfully misleads its educated readers by purporting to tell the truth about low types. I say
purporting
because it never tells the whole truth, nor could it hope to because it is written by a morally suspect man about a dishonourable scamp who is equally devoid of moral purpose.’ His Cork brogue was unmistakable.
‘Can’t you stop him?’ Godfrey whispered to Pyke, a note of desperation in his voice.
‘What? Hit him over the head and drag him out of here by his feet?’
‘If you have to, dear boy. And make sure you hurt him in the process.’
Maginn had spotted Pyke and his uncle and he acknowledged them with a thunderous stare. ‘In the tap, the slop-shop and the ken, thieves and blackguards, and to this list we should add Bow Street Runners, might display occasional moments of boldness and courage, but this does not mean they should be the subject of literature, nor should we be dragooned into caring for their cut-throat sensibilities and self-serving justifications.’ He addressed this final remark to Pyke.
‘And yet you have written elsewhere,’ Pyke replied, ‘that all successfully drawn characters are necessarily a mixture of good and evil and what motivates wickedness can be the same thing that produces the noblest of actions.’
‘Ah, yes. But then I was writing about
Hamlet
or
Lear
, and you, sir, are far from being a noble prince or fallen king.’
Hamlet
or
Lear
, and you, sir, are far from being a noble prince or fallen king.’
‘Perhaps in your drunken state you failed to take proper notice of the preface, in which my uncle makes it clear that
Confessions
is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.’
Confessions
is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.’
‘Is that so?’ Maginn boomed, his voice thick with condescension. ‘And yet it describes a daring escape from Newgate prison; a feat, if I’m not mistaken, that you, sir, undertook with help from willing accomplices - or should I say
lackeys
.’
lackeys
.’
‘So?’ The skin tightened around Pyke’s throat at this reference to Godfrey and, indeed, Emily, who had assisted his escape.
Maginn waved over a pale young man and put his arms around him, as if to suggest they were friends. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Peter Hunt. Perhaps the name is familiar to you, sir?’
‘Should it be?’ Pyke allowed his gaze to settle on the nervous young man whose rouged lips and powdered face made him seem grotesque rather than fashionable.
‘His father was the governor of Newgate prison on the night of your escape.’ This time Maginn’s smirk turned into a grimace. ‘We met earlier in a tavern and discovered we were both intending to grace this event with our presence.’ He had his arm clasped so tightly around the younger man’s shoulder that Hunt couldn’t move.
Pyke searched Hunt’s eyes but saw nothing: not fear or anxiety or hate. And the young man certainly had reason enough to hate him. Pyke looked around at his uncle and saw that he’d also grasped the precariousness of the situation. For if Hunt was carrying a weapon, a pistol perhaps, and chose to take it out, anything could happen.
‘What is it you want?’ Pyke addressed Hunt directly, but the younger man wouldn’t look up.
‘What does he want?’ Maginn’s roaring laugh could be heard throughout the shop. He held up his copy of
Confessions
. ‘In the lily-scented world you’ve created, sir, his father must still be alive because the escape is achieved through boldness and stealth - picking locks and scaling walls - rather than cold-blooded murder.’ The smirk on his face vanished as he rounded on Pyke. ‘For, in truth, didn’t you stab the governor in the neck with a dagger and then throw him out of a window?’
Confessions
. ‘In the lily-scented world you’ve created, sir, his father must still be alive because the escape is achieved through boldness and stealth - picking locks and scaling walls - rather than cold-blooded murder.’ The smirk on his face vanished as he rounded on Pyke. ‘For, in truth, didn’t you stab the governor in the neck with a dagger and then throw him out of a window?’
A ripple of astonished gasps spread quickly through the room. This was exactly the kind of thing people had come to hear. Pyke looked around, to check whether Felix was within earshot.
‘I was cleared of any wrongdoing by an official investigation and pardoned by order of the Home Secretary himself.’
But Maginn seemed more concerned by what he had read in Godfrey’s book. ‘
Ex parte
truth-telling, the worst kind. One tells the whole truth or nothing.’
Ex parte
truth-telling, the worst kind. One tells the whole truth or nothing.’
‘What is it you want?’ Pyke repeated, looking directly at Maginn. ‘I know for a fact you’ve already been paid well for attending this evening.’
‘What do
I
want?’ Maginn took out his purse and threw it dramatically to the floor. ‘I spit on your uncle’s thirty pieces of silver. I want satisfaction for young Hunt and for being led astray by this monstrosity.’ He was still brandishing a copy of Godfrey’s book.
I
want?’ Maginn took out his purse and threw it dramatically to the floor. ‘I spit on your uncle’s thirty pieces of silver. I want satisfaction for young Hunt and for being led astray by this monstrosity.’ He was still brandishing a copy of Godfrey’s book.
‘What kind of satisfaction?’
‘Satisfaction.’ He removed his torn shooting jacket and started to roll up his sleeves.
‘You intend to fight me?’ Pyke tried to keep the incredulity from his voice. Maginn was tall and rangy but his body was devoid of muscle and his arms were as thin as pipe-cleaners.
‘I don’t intend to fight you, sir. I intend to shoot you.’ With that, he retrieved a wooden box and opened it, to reveal two duelling pistols. ‘One shot in each but one shot is all I’ll need.’
‘You’re challenging me to a duel?’ Pyke looked for Godfrey, but he’d been swallowed by the crowd.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Look at your hands. You couldn’t hit a cow if you were standing two yards away from it.’ They were shaking so badly it looked as if he were suffering from some terrible disease.
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