different cell. A turnkey sat with Pyke inside the cell. Additional turnkeys guarded the cell from the outside. The governor made regular visits throughout the night and the following day, Sunday, to make certain that his keepers remained vigilant; through the grated hole, he informed Pyke that Foote’s throat had been so badly damaged by the assault he might never speak again. He explained that Godfrey had been charged with assisting an escape attempt and would be spending considerable time in prison. He said the two turnkeys whom Pyke had bought off had been dismissed and also charged with aiding and abetting. He told Pyke, with some glee, that one of the turnkeys had been overheard in a nearby tavern boasting about his role in Pyke’s escape bid and the money he was to receive. He reminded Pyke he would die the following morning, adding that such was the interest in Pyke’s execution - an interest that had been further stoked by Pyke’s ‘cowardly’ escape bid - crowds had already started to gather in the street outside Debtors’ Door.
‘If the hangman doesn’t get you,’ the governor said, almost drooling, ‘then the angry mob will.’
Inside the cell Pyke stared at the tarred wall and listened to the lowing of cattle as they were driven into their stalls and pens.
The bells tolled. Outside, beyond the walls of the prison, he heard them baying for his blood; working people who had been gathered since early in the morning drinking, laughing, shouting, singing and, above all, waiting for the greatest show on earth to begin. The scaffold outside Debtors’ Door would now be finished, a single noose hanging from the wooden beam. Across the street, the King of Denmark would be crawling with moneyed flesh. Viewing spots on roofs and up lamp-posts would be taken. The procession of clergymen, sheriffs, visitors and, of course, Pyke began to make its way from the press room down a flight of stone steps into an underground passage.
He was walking down the aisle of St Paul’s Cathedral with a younger woman dressed in white on his arm. Above him the grand dome was full of chirruping blackbirds.
Dead Man’s Walk, they called it. His own father was reading from the scriptures. Emily was next to him. Then it was Foote who was reading, but just his disembodied head. Damnation and forgiveness. Pyke could still taste the sweetness of the wine on his parched lips.
They were walking up some steps and Pyke found himself in a small hall. They waited momentarily. Ahead of them lay Debtors’ Door, and beyond that he could hear the crowd. He could smell them: their excitement, their fear, their hatred of him. Closing his eyes, he saw his own father fall, arms raised, under their stamping boots. He heard his father scream; heard the screams of animals being slaughtered.
Does anyone deserve to die? Do I deserve to die?
When he stepped out of the gloom of the prison into the foggy sunshine, followed by the Ordinary, the clergymen, the under-sheriffs and the visitors, he might have been forgiven for mistaking the squalid din of human noise that greeted him for approval, but almost at once the mood turned ugly: the gallows were pelted with food. The dignitaries held back and waited for the marshals to bring the mob to order. On the gallows, Pyke watched the hangman tug on the noose, to check it was properly attached to the beam. He was ushered towards the beam by Foote, who made a point of neither touching him nor looking at him. Foote waited for the crowd to settle before he turned to address Pyke. His vein-knotted hands shook ever so slightly while he read from the Bible. Standing on the gallows next to him was Sir Richard Fox.
‘You have another moment between this and death, and as a condemned man I implore you in God’s name to tell the truth.’ Fox was staring at him. ‘Have you got anything to repent?’
Edmonton guffawed. He ran his index finger across his bulbous throat.
Pyke said nothing. He felt detached even from himself. He tasted laudanum at the back of his throat. Folk in the crowd gathered below him, a faceless mass of people that stretched as far as he could see up Giltspur Street and along Old Bailey. The hangman was carrying a cloth sack. Pyke looked up and saw himself in the crowd: a scared, orphaned boy. He heard his own youthful sobs. The hangman pushed him towards the beam and put the sack over his head. He arranged the noose around his neck.
In his fitful dreams, he heard himself ask: What kind of life have you led when no one mourns?
‘Hush,’ one of the turnkeys said.
The ‘new’ Ordinary - Arthur Foote’s replacement, a stern-looking man who seemed genuinely enthused by the prospect of Pyke’s death - clapped his hands. Standing in his pulpit, dressed in ceremonial robes, he surveyed the chapel and its occupants with what appeared to be contempt.
‘Let us sing to the praise and glory of God,’ he said.
Everyone except Pyke stood.
The sheriffs and under-sheriffs in their gold chains and fur collars and their footmen sat on one side of the chapel. In the pews in the middle the general mass of the prison population took their seats. The schoolmaster and juvenile prisoners were arranged around the communion table opposite the pulpit. Pyke himself sat alone in a large dock-like construction in the centre of the chapel. It had been painted black. Pyke had been allowed to take his seat only once everyone else had taken their places. Shackled and gagged, he kept his head up and met no one’s stare.
‘This service is for the dead,’ the Ordinary bellowed from the pulpit, once the hymn had been sung. ‘The condemned man who is about to suffer the gravest penalty of the law will read from the prayer book and sing the lamentation of a wretched sinner.’
An elderly clerk shuffled across to the black pew and removed Pyke’s gag. Pyke stared down at the prayer book opened in front of him. He closed his eyes. The Ordinary reiterated his demand; Pyke looked down at the words in front of him. When it was clear that Pyke would not do as he was asked, the Ordinary began his sermon and a hushed silence fell over the dour chapel. He painted a grim picture of Hell, insisting that the time for forgiveness had passed and judgement would soon be upon Pyke. He described the brutality of Pyke’s crimes and reminded the congregation that Pyke had attacked a venerable man of the cloth.
Pyke looked around at the unfamiliar faces gathered in the galleries and pews around him.
It was six o’clock on Sunday evening. He would hang in a little more than twelve hours.
Pyke asked for food and porter but even as he did so it struck him as an odd tradition: eating in order to prepare for one’s death. He was not hungry, nor did he want to dull his senses with alcohol.
The victuals arrived about an hour after he had been returned to his cell: stewed mutton with carrots and barley and a jug of porter. Food and drink were also brought for the turnkey in his cell. Pyke picked at the food for a while with his cuffed hands but did not eat anything. Instead he watched, without interest, as the young man scooped the mutton from the bowl in front of him and shovelled it into his mouth, gravy dripping down both sides of his chin. Outside the cell the mood seemed almost festive. Everyone, it appeared, was looking forward to the hanging. Pyke listened as the turnkeys talked excitedly about the vantage points they were going to occupy in relation to the scaffold. One of the turnkeys said there were already thirty thousand people gathered in the streets outside the prison. Another reckoned there would be close to a hundred thousand by the following morning.
The young turnkey had an unnaturally thin face, as though his head had somehow been deformed in childbirth. He had tried to compensate for this deformity by growing an excess of facial hair, which meant that scraps of food and drops of porter gathered in his beard.
Pyke heard footsteps, hard-soled shoes clicking against the stone floor. They came to a stop outside his cell. He listened to voices and heard a jangling of keys. From outside, one of the turnkeys inserted a key into the lock, twisted it, slid the iron bolts back and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Candlelight illuminated the gloomy cell. Pyke looked up. Another turnkey issued an instruction, telling whoever it was out there that they would be searched on the way in and the way out as well. ‘Governor’s orders.’ The turnkey added, ‘Remember what we agreed, madam. The door remains open at all times and young Jenkins stays in the cell with you. To make sure there ain’t no funny stuff.’
Emily Blackwood stepped into the cell, removed her bonnet and looked at him. Her smile was warm but awkward.
‘Mr Pyke. I’m sure it is unnecessary for me to ask how you are.’ She stepped farther into the cell. ‘But I did want to see you before . . .’ The words died in her mouth.
Pyke stood up and bowed. He smelled her perfume. Her face was composed but alert.
‘I have porter. I have food.’ He pointed at the untouched plate. ‘What more could a man ask for?’
