‘It is barbaric, what they are planning to do to you.’
‘Is it?’ Pyke wasn’t absolutely sure but thought he saw her wink at him. ‘The last time we were in Newgate together I said that we live and die according to the whims of chance. This is merely confirming the truthfulness of that sentiment.’
‘But with chance perhaps comes hope?’ Emily seemed suddenly unsteady on her feet.
Pyke asked whether she cared for a seat.
‘No, I’m fine.’ But she did not seem to be well. Again she wobbled a little and when, a few moments later, she fell forward, Pyke instinctively reached out to break her fall. As he did so, he felt her press something cold and hard into his open palm. Jenkins did not seem to know what to do, but from outside the cell Pyke heard one of the older turnkeys say, ‘Step away from the visitor.’ Ignoring his demand, Pyke carefully laid Emily on the bed. The turnkey reiterated his demand and hurried into the cell. Pyke held up his hands, as if to protest his innocence. He had already transferred what Emily had given him into his mouth.
On the bed, Emily was sighing and holding her forehead. The older turnkey looked at Pyke, unimpressed. He asked Emily whether she felt better. Emily said yes, she did, but she couldn’t explain what had happened. All of a sudden she had felt faint and hadn’t been able to stop herself from falling. The turnkey nodded in a manner that suggested he did not believe her explanation.
‘Well, you’ve seen the prisoner now and said your farewell. Jenkins, perhaps you could escort the lady back to the keeper’s house.’
Gingerly Emily rose to her feet and took a deep breath. Turning to leave, she exhaled. ‘Who knows, Mr Pyke. Perhaps the governor may yet opt for clemency.’
‘I’m afraid the time has long passed.’ He looked at her for some indication of what she might be referring to but saw little in her blank stare. ‘And it is not in the governor’s powers to grant such clemency. Only the Home Secretary’s intervention will make a difference and I fear this will not be forthcoming.’
‘But surely the governor’s office is not entirely closed to you, even at this late stage?’
Pyke said that, unfortunately, it was. As he bade her farewell, he felt sickened by the idea that he might never see her again.
Once she had departed, the older turnkey folded his arms and said, ‘What was all that about, then?’
Pyke said nothing. The small key was hidden under his tongue.
‘Hands,’ the turnkey barked. ‘Show me your hands, prisoner.’
Pyke held out his palms.
‘Turn out your pockets.’
Again Pyke did as he was asked.
The turnkey edged closer to him. ‘Open your mouth.’
Pyke forced the small key as far back under his tongue as it would go.
‘Open your fucking mouth.’
The turnkey peered gingerly into Pyke’s open mouth but could not see much because of the poor light. He seemed reluctant to do more than this; doubtless the thought that Pyke might bite him had crossed his mind.
The cell door was bolted from the outside and the turnkey checked to see that Pyke’s handcuffs and leg-irons were secure and then settled down on a chair inside the cell.
An hour or so later, the man was asleep. While he dozed, Pyke spat the key out into his cuffed hand. It took him a while to find a way of manoeuvring it into the lock of his handcuffs, but upon doing so he was astonished to discover that the key not only fitted the lock but also released the cuffs. Freeing his hands, he set to work on the leg-irons. It took him less than five minutes to unshackle himself. For a few moments, Pyke sat on the bed, staring at the sleeping turnkey and then at his unlocked handcuffs and leg-irons, thinking about something Emily had said: But surely the governor’s office is not entirely closed to you, even at this late stage? What had she meant? Of course the governor’s office was closed to him. But what if he could arrange an audience with Hunt in his office? Might there be some route of escape open to him from there?
The sheer granite walls that rose up fifty feet from the ground were impossible to scale, a task that was made even harder by a row of inward-facing iron spikes attached to the wall about three-quarters of the way up, and another row of even larger spikes that protected the top of the wall. But if he could drop down from the governor’s quarters on to the top of the wall, there might be a chance.
Carefully Pyke secured the cuffs and leg-irons and pressed the key into the palm of his hand.
‘Turnkey.’ The shrillness of Pyke’s tone startled the older man from his slumber.
‘Eh?’ He looked around the cell, still disoriented.
‘I want you to take a message to Governor Hunt. Tell the governor that I am willing to divulge to him the exact nature of my business with the Home Secretary but, and this is my one demand, only if he grants me a private audience in his office.’
The turnkey seemed unconvinced. ‘Why should I wake the governor at this time of night?’
‘The governor will want to hear what I have to say to him.’ Pyke shrugged. ‘And if, at some later point, he hears that you failed to avail him of the opportunity to hear my revelations, I can promise you he will not be happy.’
The turnkey still looked unsure so Pyke said, ‘If you pass on the message, and he refuses to see me, what have you lost?’
Later, when the old man had been replaced by another turnkey, all that was left for Pyke to do was wait.
‘This is a most unusual situation,’ the governor said, as he lightly tapped his fingers on his desk. His bald head glistened in the candlelight. ‘But I cannot pretend that I am not a little intrigued by the nature of your business with the Home Secretary.’
Pyke was separated from the governor only by his mahogany desk. The turnkeys had brought him into the room and checked his handcuffs and leg-irons. He had also been searched, once in his cell and again before he entered the governor’s office. The two of them were now alone. Pyke asked whether he might take a seat. The governor said that he did not see why not. With the desk to obscure Hunt’s view of his hands, he set to work with the key.
Outside, the skies were beginning to lighten. He was due to hang in less than two hours.
‘If I am honest, I am also curious about your motives for sharing this information with me, since there is nothing I can offer you in return.’
Pyke nodded, as though he had been expecting this response. ‘But you are no supporter of the Home Secretary, either.’
Hunt licked his lips. ‘And you feel this information might be damaging to his prospects, eh?’
‘Perhaps even more than damaging,’ Pyke said, nodding.
‘Is that so?’ Hunt seemed both pained and excited by such an idea. ‘You think it might even force Peel’s resignation?’
‘It might.’
‘That’s a grave assertion.’ He seemed to be weighing up what he might gain from such a situation. ‘But how can I attest to the information’s authenticity?’
‘Its authenticity would be legitimised by the reaction of the Home Secretary.’ Pyke freed his handcuffs.
‘I see,’ the governor said, nodding carefully. ‘Perhaps you might share this information with me now?’
Pyke looked around at the closed door and whispered, ‘Are you certain that no one will be listening?’
‘The turnkeys won’t be interested in our conversation.’
‘But the information is only valuable if it is wielded carefully and by the right people,’ Pyke said carefully.
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Since I cannot write while shackled,’ Pyke said, holding up his handcuffs, ‘perhaps I might venture a little closer, so that I can be sure we’re not overheard.’
The governor considered his proposal. ‘Your hands will remain shackled. But I can see no reason why you might not come closer, so long as you maintain a respectful distance.’
Pyke heaved himself up off the chair and shuffled around Hunt’s desk in his leg-irons and advanced a few paces towards the governor, until the man held up his hand and said, ‘That’s far enough.’ It was near enough too. Pyke let the metal handcuffs slip from his wrists and managed to catch them before they struck the floor by
