‘A fine-looking woman. Therefore, not likely to frequent a place like this.’ Samuel’s skin was lighter than Pyke’s but his thick, wiry hair and flat nose indicated his mixed ancestry.
‘I was told this was a place where black men and women came to drink,’ Pyke said.
‘Who told you that?’
‘No one you’d know.’
‘Since a couple of black stevedores were beaten nearly to death just around the corner, for taking jobs that could have been filled by white dockers, they’ve been keeping a lower profile.’
Pyke noted that Samuel had referred to ‘them’ rather than ‘us’. ‘She hasn’t been here, then, as far as you know.’
‘That’s right.’ Samuel smiled, shaking his head and revealing more gum than teeth. ‘And a woman like that, I’d know. Believe me, I’d know.’
‘How about a man just off the boat from Jamaica by the name of Arthur Sobers?’ Pyke described him as best he could.
‘Ain’t seen him either.’
As he prepared to leave, Samuel called out, ‘You could try again one night after the sun’s gone down. It tends to look a bit different then. Different folk drinking here, a whole different atmosphere.’ He placed a glass of rum on the counter.
Pyke went back, lifted the glass to his lips, tipped it back and opened his throat. It was as though he’d swallowed burning oil. Gagging, he bent forward, hands on his knees, forehead popping with sweat. For a moment, his vision blurred and a flash of white exploded behind his eyes. The taste the drink left in his mouth was bitter. Pyke put the glass down on the counter.
Samuel was grinning at his reaction to the rum. ‘They call it kill-devil. Most white folks drink it with a little water.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Former slaves in the Caribbean.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Some folk reckon it has medicinal properties; reckon it can cure all kinds of disease and perhaps even ward off evil spirits.’
‘Have you ever heard about the practice of embalming a corpse with rum?’
Samuel rubbed his chin while he considered Pyke’s question. ‘Can’t say I have, but then again, I might not be the best person to ask.’
‘And who might be?’
‘Come back at night, any night, and she’ll be right over there.’ Samuel offered a gummy smile and pointed to a table next to the counter. ‘Buy her a few kill-devils, and she’ll tell you anything you ask.’
FIVE
It was late by the time the hackney cab dropped Pyke outside his uncle’s apartment in Camden Town. Felix would be fast asleep by now, and as he banged on the door, Pyke wondered whether he had planned it this way or not. It was true that he was slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t tried harder to win over his son, but it was also true that he didn’t exactly know how to do this; whether to give the lad a few days to get over the sight of him taking Maginn apart or to grasp this nettle as soon as possible. In the end, he’d dithered and done neither.
It was Jo, rather than Godfrey, who opened the door, and as she led the way to the front room, she explained that Godfrey was dining out. She had been sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace and an open book rested on one of the arms. Hurriedly she closed it and tried to hide it under the chair but Pyke had already recognised its leather cover. He didn’t say anything, though, at least not straight away. Instead, he excused himself, found a full bottle of claret in the pantry and returned to the front room with the bottle and two empty wineglasses, which he filled to the brim. At first, Jo tried to protest, saying she didn’t drink wine, but Pyke insisted that he wouldn’t take no for an answer and, finally, she relented.
She was wearing a simple cotton dress and her flame-coloured hair glistened softly in the candlelight. Her cheeks were slightly rosy and, when she smiled, laughter lines framed her blue eyes. She wasn’t beautiful by the standards of genteel society; for a start she was too petite, no more than five feet tall, and her hips were too wide for her to be considered slim. But she was spirited and good natured and Pyke knew he’d never find a better governess, nursemaid and companion for Felix; for her part, she seemed to love the boy as her own.
‘I’m sorry, Pyke. I didn’t mean for Felix to see the fight…’ Jo couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
‘How was he? Did he talk about it on the way back here?’
Jo shook her head. ‘He was very quiet. He’s been very quiet today, as well. But…’ At the last moment she seemed to lose her nerve.
‘But what?’
‘He’s barely ten.’ There was a hardness to her voice. ‘Seeing that man close up, seeing the blood, I’d say it affected him.’
Pyke thought about the way he’d beaten Maginn, and how it must have looked to Felix. ‘Did you see it?’
‘I saw that man lying in the gutter.’ She bit her lip and took another sip of wine. Her neck was flushed.
‘Did you know that Maginn was harassing a prostitute, and that he’d plotted to have me killed?’
This time she didn’t answer. Perhaps she was worried about criticising him. Pyke wanted to tell her that he didn’t mind — that he wanted to hear what she had to say — but it didn’t seem appropriate.
‘Sometimes I see the way the world is and I can feel the insides of my stomach crawling.’ He looked down at his boots. ‘That’s not true. I see what I’ve done, the way I’ve let people down, and I want to tear out my own throat. But I’ve no right to say these things to you. I’m sorry, I should go. I’m not good company.’
‘You’ve only just got here,’ she said, fiddling with her silver bracelet. ‘Stay a little while longer.’
A few moments of silence passed between them. Pyke took another sip of wine. ‘Did he talk about me when I was away?’
‘A little.’
‘In what sense?’
‘I think the fact that you were in prison frightened him.’ She saw his face and added, ‘He was scared you wouldn’t come back.’
‘And yet now I am back, he won’t talk to me.’
‘Just give him time. Losing his mother and then losing you, it was a lot to cope with.’
‘For a while, after she died, I thought he was coping quite well. I thought we all were.’ Pyke looked up at Jo and remembered some of the things they had done as a threesome; the long walks in the grounds at Hambledon, plucking pheasants that Pyke had shot with a rifle, and telling ghost stories around the fireplace in the old drawing room.
‘I’m sure we all still miss her terribly,’ Jo said, staring down at her boots.
‘But it was five years ago.’
For a moment the only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock. ‘He so wants your approval, Pyke,’ Jo said, as she ran her fingertip around the rim of her wineglass. ‘I’d say that’s why he’s been reading the Newgate Calendar.’ She hesitated. ‘Rightly or wrongly, Felix believes that the stories represent the world you come from.’
Pyke had learned to read from the pages of the Newgate Calendar, scouring it for tales of murder, piracy, highway robbery, theft and even cannibalism, and the idea that Felix was doing the same made him feel oddly satisfied, even if the reading matter itself was upsetting.
‘But now, in addition to that, Felix seems to have found a copy of Godfrey’s damned book.’
Jo shrugged her shoulders. ‘That wasn’t my doing.’ She saw that Pyke was looking at the book she’d been reading when he arrived. ‘For obvious reasons, I’ve tried my best to keep it from Felix.’
‘I’m not blaming you, but the other night he came within a whisker of accusing me of being that character.’
‘I wasn’t even aware he’d read it, but when I asked him why he was so interested in the Newgate Calendar, he told me he’d been trying to find a story about you.’
‘About me?’ Pyke let out an exasperated sigh. ‘But I sat him down and explained I was only going to prison because I owed people money.’