an immodest question, but are you aware of who I am?’
Jo stared down at her feet. ‘My mistress felt it was necessary to inform me of certain things.’
‘Such as?’ He raised his eyebrows, half-aware that he might be flirting with her.
‘That, unless crossed, you were not a dangerous man. That you didn’t tolerate fools. That your bark was worse than your bite.’ She looked away and blushed slightly. ‘She also warned me you were . . . rather dashing.’
‘She said that?’
‘Well, she actually said exceedingly dashing but I thought I’d appeal to your modesty.’ Jo laughed nervously. She seemed more confident of herself now and even allowed her gaze to meet his.
‘And why do you think Emily furnished you with this information?’ Pyke watched her carefully. She was remarkably attractive. He wondered whether she was aware of this fact.
‘I don’t know. To warn me, perhaps.’
‘Warn you to be on your guard?’ Pyke could not help but smile at this prospect. Clearly Emily did not trust him, but did he trust her? And could he be certain that her loyalties did not, as she put it, lie at Hambledon?
‘Have we met somewhere before?’ He studied her features closely.
‘Aside from when you first visited my mistress in Islington . . .’
‘Your face seems familiar,’ he said, absent-mindedly. ‘It’s a pretty face, of course . . .’
Jo blushed again and edged towards the door. Impulsively, he moved into the space between them, leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. She did not resist but nor did she make any attempt to reciprocate. Unthinkingly, he tried to pull her closer, smelling perfume on her clothes, but this time she baulked and, instinctively perhaps, her entire body recoiled backwards. For a brief moment, they stared at one another, opaquely, neither certain what the other was thinking. Finally, without saying a word, Jo turned to depart, leaving Pyke angry at himself that he had done such an utterly stupid thing and wondering whether Jo would tell her mistress.
It was only later that it struck him where he had seen her before. It was not her face that he recognised but her voice - the voice that had warned him in the Blue Dog. He could not be absolutely certain of this but, if it was the case, it meant that Emily’s servant had been keeping an eye on him even before he had first visited Hambledon Hall.
TWENTY
In thick early-morning fog that made it all but impossible to see for more than a few yards ahead, the armoured carriage departed from the Bank of England on Thread-needle Street shortly after six o’clock, just as Emily had predicted. It had rained heavily during the night and the streets, though empty of traffic, were muddy and treacherous. The occasional gas light illuminated the otherwise gloomy route. Pyke followed the carriage at a respectful distance, riding a clapped-out nag Townsend had procured from a band of gypsies on Hampstead Heath. The carriage was a converted stagecoach: iron bars protected the doors and windows. Alongside the driver were two heavy-set figures dressed in black cloaks and hats. Pyke presumed them to be security men and supposed they were armed. The coach itself was pulled by four sturdy horses. The newly macadamised turnpike beyond would be more heavily patrolled and, on such ground, the carriage would be able to outrun them without difficulty, which was why they had opted to attack it in the city. Such a tactic also meant they would be able to lose themselves in the vastness of the metropolis before any alarm could be raised.
The thickness of the fog made it hard for Pyke to keep the armoured carriage in sight but he did not mind the inconvenience because the poor visibility would assist them in the robbery.
It was still too early for traders to be setting up their stalls - it was barely light and in this part of the world commerce did not properly commence until eight or nine in the morning - but the streets were not entirely clear of carts and barrows. As they rattled along Bishopsgate Street they passed the occasional street sweeper and beggar pushing a makeshift cart, scouring the roadside for scraps of food. Sewer rats as large as dogs scuttled down deserted alleyways, startled by the clip-clopping of iron hoofs on stone cobbles.
The laudanum Pyke had ingested earlier had calmed him slightly, but as they reached the outskirts of Shoreditch he felt his nerves jangle and the muscles in his stomach tighten. Reaching down, he made sure that the two pistols and length of iron pipe were safely tucked into his belt. Nearing the spot where the attack was due to take place, Pyke kicked his boots into his horse’s midriff and urged it on. The beast responded, though less willingly than he would have liked. Evidently concerned by Pyke’s presence, the driver of the armoured carriage conferred with the two guards and proceeded to lash his whip against the horses’ backs to quicken their pace. Pyke stepped up his pursuit. Ahead of him, the carriage bounced more vigorously as it raced across the uneven surface of the road. The guards were shouting at each other and, as far as Pyke could make out in the fog, had turned to look at him, rather than focus on the road ahead.
It meant they would not see the wire that Goddard and Townsend had pulled taut across the entire width of the road and fixed to gas lamps on either side of the street.
Ahead were the rising spires of St Leonard’s church. Pyke prepared himself for the attack. The carriage was now speeding across the uneven cobbles at such a velocity that when it passed under the wire - for it had been set at such a height to ensure that the carriage and horses would pass under it without any problems - the three figures sitting on top were pulled from their seats and dumped on the road.
Pyke heard them land on the cobbles with a dull thump but did not have time to determine the exact nature of their injuries, though he was relieved to see that there had been nothing as calamitous as a beheading. This had been Townsend’s fear: that the wire, if placed at the wrong height, might slice clean through their necks and behead the driver and guards. Rather than concerning himself with these matters, Pyke took care to duck underneath the wire himself and pursue the now driverless carriage as it careened onwards, zigzagging across the road and narrowly avoiding a fruit seller who was hauling his barrow up on to the pavement. It had been his plan to overtake the carriage, if this was possible, and somehow bring the horses under control, but such was their speed, or his own nag’s weariness, that the best he could do was pull alongside the back wheel of the now out-of-control carriage and thrust the length of lead piping into the wheel’s spokes. The effect was instantaneous. Pyke pulled back behind the carriage as the wheel splintered and disintegrated; the carriage teetered momentarily on its one good rear wheel before toppling sideways and crashing into the pavement, where a chestnut seller was setting up his stall. The carriage obliterated the wooden stand and narrowly missed the man himself, who just managed to take evasive action. The impact of the crash snapped one side of the yoke and freed two of the horses, but the other side of the yoke somehow held together, and the petrified beasts continued to surge forward, dragging the stranded carriage on its side through mud and puddles, producing a grim, ear-splitting noise.
Eventually, the effort of having to drag a heavy object on its side through thick mud took its toll and the two horses slowed to a trot and then a complete stop, and neighed to show their unease. As Pyke dismounted, he saw that Goddard and Townsend were rattling towards him on their horse and cart. All of them had pulled black handkerchiefs up over the lower part of their faces.
Afterwards Pyke could not remember exactly what had happened next, though he knew, for obvious reasons, that it was Goddard who had first approached the rear door of the prostrate carriage. Later, Townsend told him Goddard was attempting to rip off the damaged rear door when a shot, fired from inside the carriage, struck him squarely in the chest. He died before either of them reached him.
While the guard who had fired the shot attempted to reload his pistol, Townsend tore open the door, hauled the trembling man out and kicked him into an unrecognisable mess of quivering, bloody flesh.
Pyke attended to the contents of the carriage. A small crowd had gathered, albeit at a distance, around the crash site, and he knew they did not have much time. He had expected the carriage to be empty of everything except its cargo, but as he peered into the darkened recesses of the coach, through fog and gunpowder smoke, he came upon the dazed face of William Blackwood. Edmonton’s brother had scrambled on top of a metal trunk. His expression was a mixture of fear, veneration and defiance. Somehow, during the crash, he had managed to retain his pistol, which he held in trembling hands.
Pyke pulled the handkerchief from his face and watched Blackwood’s fortitude dissolve as easily as the carriage’s wheel.
Once Pyke and Townsend had, between them, carried the trunk to the waiting horse and cart, Pyke returned to Blackwood; the banker had started to weep.
