usually I would abide by the wishes of any Home Secretary without question. But this seemed to be such an unusual situation, and then I started to think about Peel and how the man has unfortunately disgraced himself in the eyes of his Protestant brethren, and I came to the conclusion that it was my duty, as a true believer, to open the letter and inspect its contents.’
‘Very honourable of you,’ Pyke said, half-raising his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure that St Peter is busy preparing a place for you around God’s dining table, even as we speak.’
‘Are you mocking me, boy?’
‘No, sir, but I am waiting to hear about the content of Peel’s letter.’ Pyke yawned again, in an effort to conceal his nerves. The letter would tell him much.
This seemed to placate the governor. ‘Playing it calm, eh? Well, I have to say it’s not good news for you.’ He chortled, then his face turned serious. ‘But it was a strange note, nonetheless; a quotation, though I couldn’t tell from where or even what it indicates.’
‘The Prince.’ Pyke held up his book.
‘Oh?’ Hunt stared at Pyke keenly. ‘How did you know?’
‘Why don’t you read me the quotation, and I’ll tell you whether I was right or not.’
Hunt seemed confused and a little put out. ‘You correspond with the Home Secretary, then?’
‘So it would seem.’
Hunt stared down at the letter in his hand. ‘It just says, “We can say cruelty is used well when it is employed once and for all, and one’s safety depends on it, and then it is not persisted in but as far as possible turned to the good of one’s subjects.” That’s all. Not even a signature.’ He looked up at Pyke. ‘It’s some kind of private message, isn’t it?’
Pyke thumbed through his copy of The Prince. Eventually he found the right passage. ‘ “Cruelty badly used is that which, although infrequent to start with, as time goes on, rather than disappearing, grows in intensity.” ’ Pyke looked up from the book. ‘He’s saying virtue is defined by its consequences, and politicians can be justified in sanctioning morally dubious acts as long as they result in the greater good.’
The governor looked at him, unable to comprehend how he might use this information for his own ends. ‘It doesn’t make much sense to me. But let’s just say for the time being you were privy to truths about the Home Secretary that others might benefit from . . .’
‘Such as yourself?’
Hunt scowled. ‘I am thinking about the greater good of the Protestant brethren.’
‘And you imagine I am concerned about such a sect?’
‘You call the Protestant Church a sect ?’ He seemed appalled at Pyke’s irreligiosity. ‘Truly you are beyond redemption.’
‘And we have nothing further to discuss.’
But Hunt was not quite ready to depart. ‘I’m still intrigued by your business with Peel. By this I mean, what business would the Prime Minister’s right-hand man have with a common murderer?’
‘We share an interest in Florentine philosophers.’
‘Have it your way.’ Hunt shrugged and held up Peel’s note. ‘This merely confirms that the trial goes ahead tomorrow as planned.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Well, that’s settled, then.’ Hunt clapped his hands together and tapped lightly on the door, indicating that he was ready to leave. ‘I almost forgot. I’ve heard troubling rumours about possible escape plans. I take such intimations seriously, even as I find them highly improbable. Newgate has changed since Wild’s days and you, Pyke, are no Jack Sheppard. But just to make certain, I have taken the precaution of posting additional turnkeys outside your cell and you will be required to wear handcuffs and leg-irons at all times, even within your cell.’ His chest swelled with self-importance. ‘Your only escape will be when the hangman fits the noose around your neck. Still, I do not imagine Hades constitutes an especially pleasurable prospect.’
Reading The Times by candlelight, Pyke discovered a story on the second page in the ‘Police’ section which he scanned with mounting horror. The murders were attributed to a fresh wave of anti-Catholic violence that was sweeping the city. The bodies of a young man and woman had been found on Hounslow Heath. Both had been strangled. The report said the victims were Irish. The man, Gerald McKeown, was twenty-one and the woman, Mary Johnson, was seventeen.
Pyke distrusted anyone who openly expressed their emotions, but as he stared down at the words of the report he didn’t in the first instance attempt to decode their meaning. He just opened his lips, thought of not only Gerald and Mary but also Lizzie, and silently mouthed an impotent scream.
TWELVE
When Pyke emerged into the hushed courtroom from the subterranean passage that ran between the prison and the Sessions House on Old Bailey and took his place in the dock, he sensed the consternation of those gathered there to watch the trial. It had something to do with his choice of attire: a soiled smock-frock by no means conformed to the dashing image that had been circulating in fashionable society. It would be the first of many disappointments the spectators would have to bear, Pyke thought, as he scanned the packed courthouse for familiar faces. This was assuming, perhaps arrogantly, that some of the gathered audience wanted to see him walk free. Pyke understood that decadent ladies might find his unrefined charms alluring but was more concerned about reports of a mob assembling outside the building, demanding his head on a platter.
With this thought in mind, his gaze fell upon the portly figure of Lord Edmonton, who had taken up a seat on the bench opposite the dock and was talking amiably to his companion. Ernest Augustus - duke of Cumberland, earl of Armagh and the King’s brother - was a tall man with a hideously scarred face, offset by a carefully manicured moustache and a pumpkin-shaped head. Though his wound had been honourably received during the Napoleonic wars, it transformed what would otherwise have been a merely overbearing face into something monstrous. He was slightly balding and prematurely grey, giving the impression that he was older than he perhaps was. The duke was dressed ostentatiously (and ridiculously in Pyke’s view) in the uniform of a Hanoverian general. Edmonton saw that Pyke was looking at them and ran his index finger across his neck, to simulate the cutting of his throat.
A few places along from him, Sir Richard Fox was engrossed in a conversation with Viscount Lowther, an acquaintance of Peel. Fox looked old and worn, and though he had come to witness the trial he could not bring himself to look across the room and meet Pyke’s stare. Pyke wondered what outcome Fox was hoping for, whether he wanted to see him walk free or not.
Pyke’s gaze shifted to the public gallery and he saw Emily Blackwood. She was wearing an ivory dress and shawl, her hair pinned up and held in place by her bonnet. She seemed frailer than he remembered. For a moment their eyes met, and she smiled and mouthed a silent ‘hello’. She seemed not to want to draw attention to herself. He wondered whether Edmonton knew that his daughter was present in the courtroom.
Pyke’s attention was wrested away from Emily by the wheezing figure of his uncle, who had managed to persuade one of the court officials that he had urgent business with Pyke.
‘Change of plan, I’m afraid,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘The Crown’s case will now be presented by William Gregson. I’ve heard he’s good.’ Godfrey noticed what Pyke was wearing and frowned. ‘What, in God’s name, are you wearing that dreadful outfit for?’
Pyke ignored the question. ‘Peel’s lawyer. He helped to draft the Metropolitan Police Bill. I met him about a month ago.’ It was depressing news but it confirmed what he already knew.
‘Well, in that respect at least, we have got our own ace.’ Godfrey looked around. ‘I wonder where Quince has got to. He’s cutting things a bit fine. Proceedings are due to start at any minute.’
‘I told him I no longer required his services,’ Pyke said, as though the matter was of no consequence. ‘I said I wouldn’t pay him for his time unless he agreed to relinquish his representation. That worked well enough.’
Godfrey stared at him, aghast. ‘You did what ?’
‘It’s a common enough occurrence. Defence attorneys withdrawing at the last minute to take up more lucrative work elsewhere.’
‘Why? ’ Godfrey sounded angry as much as concerned. ‘Who on earth is going to represent you now?’
