Who or what linked Mary Edgar and Lucy Luckins?
The manner of their deaths was the same — they had been strangled and their eyeballs removed — but there the similarities ended. Lucy was poor, white and flirting with prostitution. Mary Edgar had good looks and a degree of security by dint of her connection to Bedford and Charles Malvern. Desperate and afraid, Lucy had turned to prostitution as a last resort while Mary had had to beat off a number of potential suitors.
The bells of St Martin’s-in-the-Field had just chimed midday when Pyke saw Tilling striding towards him, suited in black and wearing his matching stovepipe hat.
‘Let’s walk,’ Tilling said, his expression and demeanour devoid of any warmth.
Pyke started to say something but Tilling cut him off. ‘Are you out of your mind? Does the Great Fire mean anything to you? What you did was reckless and irresponsible and it put untold lives at risk — and for what? Did you achieve what you wanted or was it just to make yourself feel better?’
‘At least Crane isn’t going to be trading for a while.’ They continued for a few steps in silence. ‘Is that a problem for you?’
‘The problem is you, Pyke.’ Tilling turned to face him. ‘And the fact you don’t seem to accept that the law is the law. It’s a blunt instrument, I’ll grant you, but it’s all that separates us from anarchy.’
‘So you think what I did was wrong?’
‘The sanctity of private property is the bedrock of our legal system.’
‘Then arrest me,’ Pyke said, half joking.
That drew an irritated chuckle. ‘Oh, believe me, Mayne would like nothing better than to put you behind bars. But the only way an arrest warrant can be issued is if Crane makes an official complaint and at the moment no one seems to know where he is.’
‘So I’m still a free man?’
Tilling shrugged. ‘For the time being.’
As they walked down towards Haymarket, Pyke thought about Crane and the robbery he was planning. How was he planning to breach the Bank of England’s impregnable security? Was it possible to countenance such an action? In less than two days, Jerome Morel-Roux would hang before an expected crowd of fifty thousand. Before he’d gone to Jamaica, Bessie Daniels had whispered the valet’s name to him. Why? The only explanation Pyke could think of was that Bessie had overheard Crane mention that the robbery had been planned to coincide with the hanging. Still, he didn’t know this for certain and it paid not to jump to any conclusions.
‘The reason I wanted to see you is that I might have found out the whereabouts of Lord Bedford’s butler.’
Stopping, Pyke turned to face his erstwhile friend. If the butler admitted to knowing about Mary Edgar and the arrangement Bedford had struck with Charles Malvern, then they might be able to insist that the investigation into both murders be reopened. In any case it might be enough temporarily to halt the execution.
‘Can I come with you to talk to him?’
Tilling put his hand up to his eyes. ‘I’d rather do it on my own. But come around to the house tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have more news for you then.’
Pyke’s thoughts switched back to the robbery that Crane was, or might be, planning. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Is Mayne at all concerned by the prospect of fifty thousand men and women, mostly the poorest of the poor, pouring into the city on Sunday night and Monday morning?’
‘Concerned in what sense?’
‘I don’t know.’ Pyke hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘That the crowd might be infiltrated by radicals intent on pursuing their own cause?’
This time Tilling’s face creased with worry. ‘Have you heard something to this effect?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘If I were you, I’d ask the Bank of England about additional security provisions taken in light of the crowds expected to gather on Monday morning.’
That did nothing to ease Tilling’s concern. ‘Why the Bank of England? What exactly have you heard?’
‘Just ask.’ Pyke looked at him and waited. ‘Like you said, we can talk about it tomorrow afternoon at your house.’
He watched Tilling walk off in the direction of Whitehall.
About an hour later, Pyke found Samuel Ticknor in a coffee house on St John Street, just around the corner from the offices of the Vice Society. He was a timid, bald-headed man with rancid breath and a punctilious manner that put Pyke in mind of a headmaster or clergyman. Indeed, there was a well-thumbed copy of the King James Bible next to his empty plate. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d knowingly set out to profit from the exploitation of his charges.
‘Perhaps you might enlighten me as to the precise nature of your enquiries, sir? I am a busy man.’ He checked his gold pocket watch.
‘You’ve been a difficult man to find.’
‘A private matter demanded my attention in the West Country. But I’m here now, so perhaps you might be so bold as to tell me why this matter couldn’t wait until next week.’
‘Do you remember a woman called Lucy Luckins?’
‘Luckins, you say?’
‘From Shadwell.’
That seemed to make the difference. ‘Ah, indeed. Lucy. If I’m not mistaken, I helped to find her work as a seamstress last year. Not the most glamorous or well-paid occupation, I’ll admit, but a good deal better for her soul than walking the streets.’ He gave the Bible next to him a supercilious tap. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Do you know Elizabeth Malvern?’
Ticknor’s expression darkened. ‘I used to be acquainted with her.’
Pyke felt his throat tighten. ‘What was the precise nature of your acquaintance?’
‘She used to raise funds for the society and on occasion she would accompany me on field visits.’
‘Did she ever accompany you when you visited Lucy Luckins?’
‘I can’t remember exactly.’
‘Then think.’
‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re going to have to tell me the precise nature of your interest in Miss Luckins…’
Pyke cut him off. ‘She’s dead. She was strangled and then both of her eyes were cut out.’
Ashen-faced, Ticknor immediately retched on to the table. A spool of saliva hung from his chin.
‘I’ll ask you again. Did Elizabeth Malvern accompany you when you visited her?’ Ticknor stared at Pyke and nodded. ‘Miss Malvern was the one who found her work as a seamstress.’
Pyke found himself gripping the edge of the table. ‘Just now, you said she used to raise funds for the society?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not any more?’
‘She was asked to leave.’
‘ Why? ’
‘On account of the company she kept.’
Pyke slammed his fist down on the table. ‘What, precisely, do you mean by that?’
‘A gentleman. A particular gentleman.’ Ticknor’s hands were trembling.
‘Was his name Jemmy Crane, by any chance?’
Ticknor’s mouth fell open. ‘How did you know?’
‘And there’s no possibility you could have been mistaken about the nature of their association?’
‘I saw them with my own eyes.’
‘When?’
‘Some time in the spring. April, perhaps.’ Ticknor’s stare was solid, even defiant. ‘I saw them, sir. I saw them embrace.’
When Pyke arrived at Pitts Lane Mews, someone had evidently beaten him to it. The back door had been kicked open and, inside, shards of broken glass and crockery covered the downstairs floor. Upstairs, wardrobes had been overturned and sheets had been ripped off the beds. In the kitchen, he paused at the table they had sat around the previous night. The table they’d fucked on. The room, the whole house, smelled of her.
So Elizabeth Malvern was Jemmy Crane’s mistress. It was just as Field had said. Field and Ticknor.
But what did that mean?
What if Elizabeth had put Lucy Luckins in touch with Crane rather than finding her a job as a seamstress?
And what had happened in the intervening period — from the time Elizabeth and Lucy met to the moment Lucy’s strangled corpse had been hauled out of the river by Gilbert Meeson?