‘If you don’t answer me truthfully, I’ll slit your throat and leave you to bleed to death like a slaughtered pig. I’ve killed men before and I’ll do it again. Nod once, very slowly, if you understand.’ Pyke was standing over him, whispering in his ear, the knife still pressed against his throat.
For a moment Rowbottom was too terrified to do anything, but eventually it came, a slight tilt of his head.
‘Mary Edgar docked here a little over two weeks ago, on one of the ships that arrived from the West Indies. I want two names, that’s all; the ship she disembarked from and the man who met her.’
‘I don’t know…’
Pyke dug the blade deeper into Rowbottom’s neck. ‘Think very carefully about what will happen if you don’t answer my question.’
‘The Island Queen,’ Rowbottom croaked, in barely more than a whisper. ‘That’s the name of the ship. And that’s all I know. I promise you.’ It was the same ship the docker had told him about.
Pyke tutted under his breath and drew the blade very slightly across the clerk’s throat. A faint line of crimson appeared. ‘She was taken somewhere in a gentleman’s carriage. I just want the name of the man who arranged it.’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t give me his name; he just told me he wanted to meet someone arriving on the Island Queen. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’
‘One more jerk of my wrist and I’ll sever your jugular vein. And you know what’ll happen if I do that? You’ll be dead within five, ten minutes. No one saw me come in here and no one will notice me leaving. And you will have died for what? To protect the name of a client or associate who, if the roles were reversed, would have told me your name in a second.’ Pyke licked a line of saliva from his bottom lip.
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Then you’re dead.’
‘No. Please.’ Rowbottom seemed to be losing control of his bowels. The smell was appalling.
‘A name. One last chance.’
‘Alefounder,’ Rowbottom sobbed. ‘William Alefounder.’
Pyke kept the blade to his throat but eased the pressure a little. ‘There; that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
A wail of despair spilled from Rowbottom’s mouth.
‘Who is he and where can I find him?’
The clerk fell on to his desk. ‘He’s a sugar trader… His offices are located in St Michael’s Alley just off Cornhill… across from the Jamaica Coffee House.’
In quieter moments, Pyke liked to think of himself as fair and even-handed in his dealings with others: someone who didn’t take account of status, wealth, religion or colour but who dealt with people on their own terms. But this was not true. In fact, he had always pursued the wealthy and privileged as though they had personally done him wrong.
‘Go and fetch the police.’
William Alefounder looked at Pyke from his place at the end of a polished mahogany table in what was evidently the company boardroom, then glowered at the apologetic assistant who’d been unable to prevent Pyke from interrupting the meeting. Around the table were five or six smartly attired men, in addition to Alefounder, all of whom Pyke could have beaten in a fight with one arm tied behind his back.
‘Do it now.’
The assistant fled from the boardroom but left the door open. A couple of clerks had gathered at the threshold, alerted by the brusque, even violent, way in which Pyke had forced his way through their various lines of defence.
Pyke strode over to where Alefounder was sitting and put the charcoal etching of Mary Edgar down on to the table.
‘Her name is Mary Edgar, but you already know that. She was murdered about a week ago. Her naked corpse was found just off the Ratcliff Highway. You met her off the Island Queen when it arrived at the West India Docks some time before the twenty-fifth of last month.’
Alefounder’s impassive stare and cool, almost translucent eyes gave little away. Pyke couldn’t tell how tall he was, but his solid chest, broad shoulders and lantern jaw suggested he should not be taken lightly. In other circumstances, Pyke might even have described him as good looking. His skin was dark and smooth and his black hair, cut short, was flecked with a few grey hairs, the only indication that he was middle-aged rather than young.
The eyes of the other men gathered around the table had shifted from Pyke to Alefounder. Now it was up to the trader to explain himself, and Pyke thought he saw a chink in his armour: a hint of nerves, a smile that was a little too wide and a slight quiver of his top lip.
‘Yes, her name is familiar but I’ve never actually met her.’ Alefounder glanced down at the drawing in front of him. ‘You say she’s been murdered?’ He tried to appear unconcerned but droplets of sweat were massing on his forehead.
‘She was strangled then tossed away like night soil.’
Alefounder’s hands began to tremble. ‘I’m disturbed you can talk about another human being in such a manner.’
‘I saw her corpse. I stood over her grave while they buried her.’
‘Please leave. I don’t have to answer your questions, sir, or justify myself to you.’
‘How did you know Mary Edgar?’ Pyke asked.
‘I didn’t know her.’
In the ten years he’d served as a Bow Street Runner, then five years as a partner in his own bank, Pyke had learned to tell when someone was lying. It was what made him a decent card player, too. Sometimes it was just an instinct; a feeling that was hard to put into words. At other times you could actually see that someone was lying. In this instance, it was a little of both.
‘Then why did you meet her from the ship?’
‘I didn’t.’ Alefounder even managed a slight smile. ‘I arranged for my carriage to meet her and transport her to an address in town.’
‘Why?’
‘As a favour to an old friend.’
‘His name?’
‘As I said, I don’t have to answer your questions, sir. And I don’t care for your tone, either.’
Pyke folded his arms. ‘So whereabouts in the city did your carriage take her?’
‘I had no idea until now that she was dead and I shall, of course, make myself available to the police to answer any questions they might wish to ask me.’
‘You’re saying you never laid eyes on her?’
Alefounder floundered and looked around the room for support. None seemed forthcoming.
‘Just answer me this.’ Pyke waited for the man to meet his stare. ‘Why did you try to force a clerk called Rowbottom at the West India Dock to keep your name out of the affair?’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’ But Pyke could see very well that he did.
‘Were you fucking her or did you just want to fuck her?’
That was enough to bring the support of the room back behind Alefounder. Pyke had seen it before. Sooner or later, people rallied to their own. In this instance, it was perfectly acceptable for a man to sleep with his mistress in private, but the moment someone made a reference to sexual congress in public, the outrage on their faces was inevitable.
‘So, you were consorting with Mary and your wife or someone else found out, and you decided the best thing to do would be to get rid of her.’ Pyke checked the size of Alefounder’s hands. They were small, like a squirrel’s.
‘Really, sir, your ability to cause offence to one and all…’ One of the men sitting behind the table rose to his feet.
Pyke realised he’d overplayed his hand because he’d given Alefounder the chance to play peacemaker. The trader held up his hands, interrupting his associate, and turned to Pyke. ‘The police have already been summoned; you should go now before you are led away in manacles.’
Pyke noticed a print hanging above the fireplace detailing a lush, tropical landscape. ‘A slave owner I once had the misfortune of knowing raped one of his female slaves. Later on, he heard she was pregnant, so he waited until she gave birth and then strangled his own progeny in front of her, as soon as it had emerged from her womb. Don’t you dare lecture me about manacles.’