garret in the Old Cock tavern. ‘First, I had the good fortune to interrupt a young couple rutting in the alley outside and then, when I had to relieve myself, I discovered what appeared to be a pool of blood on the floor.’ Godfrey had put on some weight in prison and waddled around the small bed to greet him.
Clasping Pyke’s shoulders, he looked at him and said, ‘It’s wonderful to see you, dear boy. Veritably, I did not imagine I would get this opportunity. You look different. Leaner. And the hair, or the absence of hair . . .’ He ran his hands across Pyke’s head. ‘Very becoming.’
‘And it’s good to see you, too.’ Pyke meant it. He was glad to see his uncle. ‘When did you get out?’
‘Last week, dear boy. It was unexpected, I have to say. Geoffrey Quince, the lawyer whose services you so miserably failed to retain, claims to be quite baffled as to why they decided to drop the charges against me.’ Godfrey ran his stubby hands through his mane of white hair and looked expectantly around the tiny room.
‘Did Quince tell you I had need of his services?’
‘You saw Quince?’ Godfrey stared through his bushy eyebrows.
Pyke produced a sheaf of papers from the table next to his bed. ‘I had him draw up a contract. I’ve signed the gin palace over to you.’
‘To me?’ Godfrey’s brow wrinkled with bewilderment. ‘What on earth will I do with it?’
‘Isn’t that akin to asking a lion what he intends to do with a bloodied carcass?’
‘I am no rapacious businessman.’
‘But you are a rapacious drinker.’
‘Ah, indeed.’ Godfrey’s expression lightened. ‘But why sign it over to me?’
‘Call it penance on my part. Or part-payment for time served.’ Pyke handed him the papers.
‘Very decent of you.’ Godfrey nodded. ‘It would seem churlish or ungrateful of me to mention another agreement we had . . .’
‘It would.’
‘Quite.’ His expression became pensive. ‘Of course, you would not have heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘After your escape from Newgate, a lynch mob set upon your gin palace. The staff did what they could to defend it but there were too many of them. The place was stoned and set on fire.’ Godfrey held up the contract and shrugged. ‘I’m sure the lease is still worth a great deal . . .’
Pyke took his time digesting this news.
Downstairs in the gaming room, a ratting contest was taking place. All traces of human and bear matter had been removed from the pit and a sizeable crowd had amassed around the ring. Some carried stop-watches; others ale pots and slips of paper. The betting was furious. In the ring itself, a determined bull terrier had pulled a solitary sewer rat from a larger pile of rats and was biting into its wriggling body. Specks of blood peppered the dog’s snarling mouth. Pyke and Godfrey passed through the room unnoticed and settled in the parlour on the ground floor. Unlike Pyke’s gin palace, this was an older tavern without a counter. They were served at their table by a pot boy who brought their drinks from a bar room in the middle of the building.
Pyke poured a few drops of laudanum into his gin. Godfrey watched him carefully but said nothing. The room was empty, but Pyke wore his black cap low over his face, nonetheless. It was difficult, becoming accustomed to his status as prey. Each time he left his garret it felt as though a phalanx of police constables might be waiting around the next corner to ambush him. But he also knew that the real threat to his liberty came not from the police but from snitches who might hear of his return and happen upon him by chance.
‘Don’t worry, m’boy. After the last time, I made certain that I wasn’t followed,’ Godfrey said, glancing nervously at the door.
‘You think that’s why they released you?’
‘Perhaps they heard you were back in the vicinity.’ Godfrey shrugged. ‘I know for a fact there’s two of ’em watching the shop and two outside my apartment. I’d say it’s a safe bet that someone in a position of authority would like to see you swing from the scaffold.’
Pyke wondered whether these men were police constables and whether they’d been dispatched by Peel.
‘No one knows I’m here. Apart from Villums.’ Pyke had also told Emily but did not mention her.
‘And you trust him?’
‘Not really. But I’m paying him well. Too well. And he hasn’t seen a penny of it, as yet.’
‘I won’t ask what your plans are, but just be careful, will you?’ A glint appeared in Godfrey’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to have to rescue you from Newgate for a second time.’
Pyke was about to speak when he noticed someone he recognised on the other side of the room. His first instinct was to bolt. Godfrey noticed his reaction and turned around, saying, ‘What is it?’ He sounded breathless and afraid. Standing on the threshold of the parlour room, wearing a simple brown dress and white bonnet, was Emily Blackwood. Despite her efforts to dress in a manner appropriate to her surroundings, she looked as out of place as a peacock in a pit full of snakes.
Her anxiety seemed to lift as soon as she saw them; she gathered up her dress and hurried across the room to greet Pyke. He introduced her to his uncle, who was delighted to make her acquaintance, and when the pot boy came to take her drinks order, she surprised both of them by asking for a pint of porter. This delighted Godfrey even more. For a while they talked about his imprisonment.
‘I was in Coldbath Fields rather than Newgate, my dear, but generally I found everything to be most agreeable. The food, which was brought to me from a bakeshop, was quite acceptable, under the circumstances, and the pot boy kept me in plentiful supplies of ale and claret.’
Emily had sufficient good sense not to try to patronise Godfrey or act in a deliberately pious manner, but Pyke could tell she was bothered by some of the stories he was telling.
‘Perhaps if you were poorer or without connections your stay might not have been as agreeable?’
‘On the contrary, my dear. The common lags seemed to be having a whale of a time. On occasion, it was hard to tell the difference between the ward and a tavern.’
‘I think the question Emily is seeking to ask is whether it is appropriate for convicts to behave in such a manner.’
Emily glared at him. ‘I can speak perfectly well for myself, thank you.’ Then her smile returned as she turned to Godfrey. ‘Isn’t it desirable that the prison is run well enough to ensure that prisoners’ clothes are occasionally fumigated, that the genuinely sick have the chance to consult a doctor, and that the child thief is separated from the adult murderer?’
Godfrey clapped his hands together. ‘Well said, my dear. Well said, indeed. What have you to say to that, eh?’ He looked across at Pyke and grinned.
‘I would simply point out that in the new Millbank prison, where everyone has their own cell, suicides have tripled, scurvy and dysentery are rife and that, very recently, prisoners rioted, and even hung the warder’s pet cat, just so they could be transferred to one of the hulks.’
‘A good point,’ Godfrey said, scratching his chin in mock contemplation. ‘My dear?’
‘You could perhaps inform your nephew that all the evidence indicates individual cells arrest the moral infection of the young by the old.’
‘Moral infection?’ Godfrey said, frowning. ‘Sounds like something that I might be responsible for spreading.’
‘I’ve heard it can make you go blind,’ Pyke said.
‘Now you’re both mocking me.’ She looked at them, with a smile on her face.
‘Not at all, my dear. I think the point you make is an excellent one.’
Pyke stared at her, waiting. It was true that he enjoyed their verbal sparring and that they both had sufficient intelligence to discuss highfalutin subjects, but he also wanted to fuck her with an urgency and intensity that even he found surprising. ‘In the end, I think we do what we do because we want to. Whether that’s robbing a blind man or helping him across the street.’
Emily thought about this for a moment. ‘And what would you do? Rob the blind man or assist him?’
‘You really need to ask?’
She regarded him across the table with an amused stare. ‘It’s funny, Pyke. For all your cynicism, you have a peculiarly romanticised vision of yourself.’
‘I am a romantic now?’
‘You see yourself as a dying breed. There’s a certain romanticism in that.’
