TWENTY-FOUR
When Pyke visited Hambledon Hall for the second time, the conditions were just as foul as they had been on the first occasion. It was not quite as cold, for it was October rather than February, but a fierce easterly wind drove billowing clouds across the flat, unprotected valley with such intensity that rain fell horizontally rather than vertically. Still, the inclement weather suited his mood and, anyway, Pyke could not have imagined the ugly monstrosity of Hambledon Hall bathed in warm sunlight. The hall had been constructed on marshy terrain and the relentless uniformity of the landscape gave the setting a menacing feel, as though the land had been cursed.
This time Pyke had not been invited to the hall, nor did he make any attempt to enter its grounds. Rather, he tied up his horse well out of sight of the track leading up to the hall, positioned himself across from the main gate behind a large holly bush and prepared for a long wait. About an hour later, a carriage pulled by two horses skidded through the gate; Pyke could not see its occupants but supposed that the carriage belonged to James Sloan. As he waited for it to reappear, he wondered what kind of man Sloan was.
If he had struck some kind of deal with Edmonton, he could not be honest or virtuous or, for that matter, nice, but what if he was handsome or intelligent or attractively roguish? What if Emily found herself liking him? Pyke found this thought as unlikely as it was distasteful, but was it beyond the bounds of possibility? He knew Emily didn’t have to like this man. In order to safeguard her income and inheritance, all she had to do was tolerate him. And, of course, Sloan would want to come across as generous and courteous. A lot was at stake for him.
Pyke wondered whether he might be jealous. It was certainly an odd sentiment, as irrational as it was consuming. Old prejudices towards privilege surfaced: what had this man done to merit Emily? He had, no doubt, led a sheltered, comfortable existence. Perhaps he had been set up in business by his father. He would have a sizeable private income, in order to satisfy Edmonton that he was an appropriate match for his daughter and in order to pay for the parliamentary seat Edmonton had given him.
It felt strange, spying on Emily. As he did so, he wondered whether she had instructed Jo to tell him about this meeting. Was he there at Emily’s implicit behest? If so, for what purpose had he been summoned? What did he plan to do with the knowledge he hoped to gain from this particular outing? What might Emily want him to do? Again the thought struck him that she might be ambivalent about rather than hostile to the prospect of an arranged marriage: Emily was by no means materialistic, but she was passionately committed to her charity work and, if she saw this marriage as a way of securing a much-needed source of income for the work, then what was to say she wouldn’t accept this man’s proposal?
An hour later, he watched as the same carriage journeyed up the well-maintained drive from the hall and swept through the gate; he caught a brief glimpse of Emily through one of the windows but could not see whether she was alone or had company.
When the carriage finally pulled up outside a smart-looking terraced residence in a pleasant, leafy street that adjoined Russell Square, the footman climbed down from the roof and waited until a servant appeared from inside the house holding an umbrella before pulling down the steps and opening the door. The servant held open the umbrella and escorted Emily up the steps to the Doric porch. Pyke watched as they disappeared into the entrance hall; the brightly painted front door closed behind them.
As he waited on the far side of the street, watching a sweeper move through the traffic collecting coins from passing cabs and carts, Pyke wondered how long Emily would remain in the house. What would be an appropriate amount of time? Would an hour be too long? What if she stayed there for the entire morning? What might this indicate in terms of future intentions?
He was so occupied with these thoughts that he almost didn’t notice Emily scampering down the steps in front of the house after only a few minutes and hailing a passing cab.
His first inclination was to go after her, to find out what had taken place and to make sure that she was all right. But he could not be certain she would appreciate such a gesture, especially if she hadn’t actually instructed Jo to tell him about this meeting. She might resent him for spying on her and say nothing of what had happened in the house.
Instead, Pyke watched the cab turn into Russell Square and found himself standing in front of the man’s residence.
Pyke’s curiosity had been sufficiently piqued to risk approaching the front door. He didn’t know what he might say to Sloan, but if Sloan represented Edmonton’s parliamentary interests there might be some advantage in confronting him. If he seemed to be virtuous, Pyke could take this opportunity to further besmirch Edmonton’s reputation. And if he seemed to be a rogue, Pyke could make his accusations and see how he responded.
It did not cross Pyke’s mind that the man himself might open the door, particularly given his earlier sighting of at least one servant. That said, even before the door was opened, he heard the man mutter angrily, ‘I wondered if you might reconsider,’ as though he believed the visitor to be Emily.
Up close, the mole on his chin was purple rather than brown.
‘You’re a formidable man, Pyke. Formidable indeed,’ Peel said, without bothering to stand up or shake his hand.
Tilling had ushered Pyke into his front room and pointed to one of the horsehair chairs. Pyke assured him that he was more comfortable standing.
Peel was much as he remembered: tall, elegantly dressed, with a long angular face and reddish hair.
‘I think Fitzroy has already told you of my regrets at not being able to do more for you. It was with a heavy heart that I permitted your execution to proceed.’
‘What about the man who was hanged for the St Giles murders? Was it with a heavy heart that you permitted his execution to proceed?’
For a moment, Peel seemed flummoxed. Then irritation and anger appeared to take over. He stared at Pyke and asked, ‘Do you think I am immoral?’
‘I think you are a politician. The two are perhaps not unrelated.’ Pyke sighed, not really wanting to further provoke the man.
This seemed to irritate Peel. ‘Servants of the state who are responsible for enforcing the law are justified in taking certain actions only if, as a whole, they result in greater freedom and happiness for the state’s citizens.’
‘I’m sure the top brass who dispatched troops to quell the working poor at Peterloo said much the same thing as they quaffed their cognac.’
Peel was outraged. Springing to his feet, he spluttered, ‘Take that remark back, sir.’
‘Perhaps it was just tea they quaffed.’
Tilling shot him a hard stare. ‘I’m sure Pyke didn’t mean his flippancy to cause serious offence.’
Peel sat down, a little sheepish at his outburst. ‘Well.’
‘What I’m suggesting is that when virtue is defined by its consequences, it is possible good intentions can be hijacked for other purposes.’ Pyke shrugged, as though the matter were of no consequence.
Peel nodded, calmer now. ‘Nonetheless we have to make decisions - difficult decisions, sometimes - because we feel that they are in the best interests of the majority.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure you have been compelled to make such decisions too.’
‘But if the innocent are slaughtered and the guilty go unpunished only because it better serves the greater good, is that morally acceptable?’ Pyke said, surprised he had proposed this argument.
‘But morality and real politics are sometimes strange bedfellows.’ Peel shook his head. ‘As a follower of Machiavelli, I would have thought you might be sympathetic to this dilemma.’
Pyke nodded amiably. ‘I am well aware that people such as yourself have to make difficult decisions at every turn, but my point is simply that the very nature of those decisions makes it difficult for you to be wholly good.’
‘Are you suggesting that I am somehow not good?’ This time, Peel seemed puzzled more than angry.
‘Neither good nor bad,’ Pyke smiled. ‘Like me.’
‘I would hope and pray I am nothing like you,’ Peel said coldly.
‘No.’ Pyke was suddenly weary of the sound of his own voice. ‘You are much more powerful.’
‘And now you want me to use my power to grant you clemency?’
‘Yes,’ Pyke said, folding his arms.
