‘You think that I’m simple?’
‘Did I say simple?’ Godfrey feigned indignation.
‘What about ingenious?’ Pyke said, lightly.
Godfrey looked at him. ‘You do understand I’m talking about a creation.’
‘You don’t think I am?’
Godfrey studied him for a while. ‘You forget I know you as well as anyone, Pyke. I know for a fact that you can be a cold-hearted bastard . . .’
‘Is there a but?’
‘Would I be here if there wasn’t?’ He reached out and patted Pyke on the arm. ‘This creation. He would just be a larger-than-life version of you.’
‘A man without morals,’ Pyke said, still trying to make sense of his uncle’s comments.
‘He would have morals. The story wouldn’t. There’s a difference.’ Godfrey hesitated. ‘Will you at least think about it, dear boy?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Really?’ Godfrey stared at him through bushy eyebrows. ‘Actually, I met this chap the other day, a young shorthand reporter, rents an office close to mine, at number five Bell Yard. I happened to mention I was your uncle and he was keen to meet you; expressed a real interest in your case. I said I’d see what I could do. He’s a novelist with big ideas.’
‘Let’s just deal with the matters at hand for the time being, shall we?’ Pyke said, gently.
‘Of course.’ His uncle nodded vigorously. ‘But you will give it some thought?’
‘Yes, I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Splendid.’ Godfrey slapped him on the back. ‘Now perhaps we might pull the cork on this claret.’ Then his mood seemed to darken and he looked up at Pyke and said, his eyes clear, ‘I didn’t say anything before but I just want you to know I’m sorry. Lizzie was a fine woman. As loyal and loving as they come.’
Pyke could not hold his stare and said nothing, as he felt guilt and sadness building within him in equal measures.
Two days before his trial was due to commence, Pyke was visited by Godfrey and the Reverend Arthur Foote. Both men reeked of gin, though Foote’s stench was particularly noxious, an acrid mixture of fungi, rank breath, stale alcohol and soiled clothing. He stumbled into the room, took a moment to get his bearings, pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles right up against his bloodshot eyes, and farted loudly before falling into the room’s only chair. Though Foote was maybe thirty years older than him and had a fuller girth, the two of them were of a similar height. Godfrey perched on the end of the bed, his chubby legs dangling over the edge. Pyke, meanwhile, stood by the door and listened while Foote waffled about his role in the case of prisoners awaiting execution.
‘Well, boy, I suppose now’s the time to unbosom yourself, ’ he said, finally.
Pyke did not respond.
‘You see, as the Ordinary of this venerable establishment, it is incumbent on me - yes, it is my responsibility, nay prerogative - to elicit, at the behest of the condemned person, of course - elicit from him, at an appropriate time - yes, that would be right - elicit a confession in which the aforementioned unburdens himself to me of his sinful ways and waywardness.’ His leer revealed a set of teeth that resembled decrepit gravestones in their unevenness. ‘You’re not a sodomite, by any chance?’ He saw Pyke’s expression and mumbled, ‘Of course, I didn’t imagine that you were.’
As Foote continued to ramble, Pyke studied him closely, making a mental note of the man’s mottled, vein- ridden face, the stubble, the large wart on the end of his nose, the calluses on his hands, the hunched-up way he carried himself.
After Foote had departed, Godfrey stayed behind and Pyke asked whether he had heard from Townsend.
‘Indeed I have, my boy. There are two turnkeys on the condemned ward who might be amenable to an approach.’
Pyke told Godfrey to instruct Townsend to make them an offer.
Godfrey nodded. ‘Of course, if Quince were to win the trial, all these plans would be rendered null and void.’
Pyke said he had finally met Quince, and had been impressed with the man’s capabilities. The lawyer had called at the prison that morning and Pyke’s favourable reaction to the man had surprised him. His uncle nodded warmly. Pyke explained that the judge was to be the Recorder of London himself, Lord Chief Justice Marshall. Godfrey asked whether this was good news or not. Pyke just repeated what he had been told by Quince: Marshall was ‘well liked’ by the Duke of Wellington’s administration. ‘Let Quince earn his money, Pyke.’ Godfrey didn’t bother to hide his concern. ‘He told me that we have a strong case.’
‘Would he say anything different?’
Godfrey looked concerned. ‘Promise me you won’t try anything . . . reckless until after the trial?’
Pyke ignored the question. ‘Did you manage to pass on the note to Peel in person?’
‘Peel was in the Commons yesterday. There was a debate on the Catholic Emancipation Bill. Peel was presenting the case for the government. Knatchbull gave him a torrid time. They say the police bill will sail through next month but, as for Catholic emancipation, there’s still a lot of opposition.’
‘Did you give him the note?’
‘A friend invited me to watch the proceedings. During lunch, I made a point of bumping into Peel. I handed him the note, yes, and he took it and glanced at it in front of me. Certainly it registered, but then again I couldn’t exactly say what his reaction indicated. Peel’s a hard one to read. I’d say he’d be a devil to play cards with.’
The tension drained from Pyke’s body. All he could do was wait for a response.
The next morning Pyke awoke to find that an envelope had been slipped under his door. It was an unwelcoming day and a squally wind rattled the window frame. Pyke convinced himself he did not want to get out of his bed because of the icy temperature, but once he had retrieved the envelope from the floor he was still hesitant about opening it. Inspecting the envelope, he found that it did not appear to be a missive from Peel, at least not an official one. There was no name or seal attached to it. Upon smelling it he noticed a faint perfume. Eventually his curiosity overcame his anxiety and he tore the envelope open; the note was a short one. It simply said: Keep your spirits up. And it was signed with the letter ‘E’.
It took Pyke a moment to work out who ‘E’ was and another moment to realise that he was not disappointed it was not from Peel.
The prison governor, Hunt, had a glistening, hairless head formed in the shape of a large egg. He was by no means an old man but was sufficiently aware of his own lack of follicles to want to wear a brimless hat, even indoors. In other ways, Hunt was a more old-fashioned dresser, preferring a short double-breasted jacket when the fashion was for longer and slimmer garments and trousers rather than breeches. Though they were alone and the door to Pyke’s cell had been bolted from the outside, he seemed wary about moving any farther into the room than was necessary.
‘I wanted to say I hope they find you guilty tomorrow and decide to string you up. I don’t care for your type and I have to say it would be a pleasure to entertain you in our ward for the condemned, preferably just for a very short period of time.’ His look was contemptuous but concealed something else.
‘It didn’t stop you taking my money, did it?’ Without looking up, Pyke continued to read from The Prince.
‘I agreed to your request because I felt it would be in the best interests of the prisoners if you billeted on your own.’ Hunt smiled easily. ‘Less chance of contaminating others.’
‘How philanthropic of you.’ Pyke yawned.
The governor waited for a few moments. ‘A rather unusual letter arrived for you this evening.’ He saw he had Pyke’s attention and smiled. ‘The book no longer interests you?’
Pyke said nothing and waited for the governor to continue.
‘The letter was hand-delivered and sealed. It carried the personal seal of the Home Secretary, no less. It was delivered to me, with an attached note, from Robert Peel himself, instructing me to hand it to you without inspecting the contents. Which, I have to say, piqued my curiosity even more. I was concerned it might be a pardon, even though such matters are usually dealt with through official channels. Now I’m a respecter of authority and
