were no longer worth discussing. She kissed him gently on the mouth.
Pyke wanted so badly to reciprocate, to give in to the kiss, but he managed to pull back from her embrace. In the ebbing candlelight, he could tell from her puzzled reaction that she did not know what he was thinking.
‘What is it?’ Her voice was taut with expectation.
Pyke waited for a moment. Outside on the street, a man and woman were shouting at each other. ‘But if it’s all so hopeless,’ he said, no longer trying to hide his frustration, ‘I don’t understand why you came here tonight.’
It was Emily’s turn to look confused.
‘I understand that you want what is owed to you . . .’
‘What was stolen from my mother,’ Emily said, this time with real anger in her voice.
‘Not simply for yourself but perhaps for your work,’ he agreed.
She nodded gently.
‘It is certainly hard to explain our inclinations and actions in straightforward ways.’ He hesitated and took a deep breath; he knew that now was the time to tell Emily about her mother, but at the very last moment he could not bring himself to do so. It had been his plan to tell her what he had done in order to elicit some kind of favourable response. She would want him because of what he had done. Now, though, he wanted her to want him without knowing what he had done. Perhaps it was stubbornness but dangling her mother in front of Emily seemed, all of a sudden, like a cheap bribe.
‘But?’
‘In the end we all have to make choices.’ Pyke could not bring himself to look at her. ‘And with choices come consequences.’
‘You’re saying I have to make a choice between you and my rightful inheritance?’ She sounded pained.
‘No,’ he said, as softly as he could. ‘That’s what you seem to be saying.’
Emily turned away from him and stared at the wall.
‘Just now, when I said choices bring consequences . . .’
‘Yes?’ But she did not turn around.
‘One might be that when I walk out of this door, we never see one another again.’
He saw that her whole body quivered but still she did not turn to face him.
Later, when Pyke could not sleep, he returned to the living room and found Godfrey sitting up in his easy chair, a blanket wrapped around his legs. His uncle put his book down. ‘You couldn’t sleep either?’
‘Afraid not.’
Godfrey nodded. ‘She’s a lovely girl. And she seems devoted to you.’
‘You think?’ He laughed bitterly.
‘Have to be blind not to see it,’ Godfrey said, reaching for his brandy glass.
‘Perhaps I am.’
‘What? Blind?’
Pyke just shrugged. His whole body felt listless.
Godfrey laughed. ‘Since I rarely find you in such a confessional mood, can I ask you a question?’
‘So long as it has nothing to do with this damned book you want me to write.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Godfrey said, shaking his head. ‘But don’t think I’ve forgotten about your promise.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘In all the time I’ve known you, you haven’t once asked me about your father; or, for that matter, about your mother.’
Pyke felt his chest tighten. ‘So?’
‘Don’t you want to know what kind of a man he was?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because he was your father, for a start,’ Godfrey said, exasperated.
‘You were more of a father to me than he was.’ Pyke looked away, uncomfortable with this subject.
‘It’s kind of you, my boy, and I’m gratified to hear you say it, but your father produced you.’
‘Let me ask you a question, then. What good would it do me, to hear what a great man or, alternatively, what a fool he was?’
‘I just thought you might be interested,’ Godfrey said, sounding disappointed. ‘That’s all.’
Pyke took a piece of paper from his trouser pocket, unfolded it and handed it to his uncle. ‘I’ll be gone tomorrow by the time Emily rises. Could you possibly take her to this address for me?’
Godfrey stared at the address for a few moments and frowned. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
Pyke shook his head.
‘Will Emily know?’
‘She won’t at first,’ Pyke said, choosing his words carefully. ‘At first, it’ll be a terrible shock. If she can’t guess, tell her I visited an asylum in Portsmouth . . .’
‘An asylum?’ Godfrey screwed up his face. ‘Really, Pyke, what is this about?’
Pyke stared at the fire but didn’t give his uncle an answer.
Brownlow Vines was dining alone at Simpson’s on the Strand. He was eating boiled mutton and washing it down with a bottle of claret. Dressed in a stylish black frock-coat, fitted trousers, polished leather boots and a starched white cravat, he looked every inch the dandy. His foppish sideburns and tousled hair completed the look. Pyke waited until he had finished his meal before he appeared. He took a seat opposite him without being invited. Vines stared at him, open-mouthed.
‘Pyke, my God. This is a . . . surprise.’ Vines glanced around the crowded restaurant for assistance.
‘You have to answer for what you did,’ Pyke said, taking his time. He was not in any hurry.
Vines picked up his glass and finished what was in it. ‘Listen, man . . .’ His voice was hoarse. He took off his frock-coat, and Pyke noticed a large sweat stain underneath each armpit.
Pyke leaned forward across the small table and whispered, ‘At any moment, you will start to experience stomach cramps. These will get progressively more painful. Eventually, you will not be able to breathe. The poison you have just ingested’ - Pyke motioned at the empty plate in front of him - ‘is quite deadly but, unlike cyanide or arsenic, it is not a fast-acting agent. I’m afraid you will experience a fair amount of pain. You’ll vomit. You might lose your sight. Eventually you won’t be able to move. I’m told that’s the first indication you’re close to death. Once paralysis sets in, you might have another five or ten minutes of life.’
Vines stared at him for a while, unable to fathom what he had just been told. ‘But I didn’t kill her,’ he said, eventually, quivering with indignation. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with me.’
Pyke stood up, pulled his jacket down and shrugged. ‘I know.’ As he turned to leave, he saw Vines clutch his stomach.
Pyke had one final stop to make before he started out on the journey to Hambledon Hall for the last time.
Fox was a difficult man to fathom and it was hard to warm to him: he was cold, often aloof and possessed an air of his own superiority that was the product of perceived intellectual prowess rather than breeding. Perhaps it was this intellectual snobbery that drew him to Pyke, and vice versa, or perhaps Fox was frightened of him or, rather, had needed him to perform tasks that other Runners were unable or unwilling to do. Whatever it was, there was a bond between them that went beyond familiarity. Fox may have been vain and high-handed but he was also fair and scrupulous. He had risked censure and ridicule for treating those who exhibited some remorse for their crimes and whose recidivism could be explained by social circumstances with compassion. He also turned a blind eye to many of Pyke’s moral lapses, and did so without demanding any of the proceeds from his illicit activities.
‘I fancy I can guess why you’re here,’ Fox said, wearily, as though he were indifferent to the whole matter. He offered Pyke a cadaverous smile.
Pyke pulled back his jacket to reveal the pistol that he had tucked into his belt. ‘Vines is dead. So is Swift.’
