‘Well?’
‘I tracked down Lord Bedford’s butler. He was frightened of something but eventually I managed to get the truth from him.’ Tilling tipped back his gin, the spirit barely touching the sides of his throat. ‘It seems you were right about Mary Edgar staying with Bedford. The butler confirmed it, after I’d threatened him with prison if he didn’t cooperate.’
‘But that’s good news, isn’t it?’ Pyke said, still trying to make sense of Tilling’s sombre expression.
‘I found him in St Albans. I was going to bring him back to London and take him to see Mayne. But he gave me the slip before we could board the stagecoach. Said he needed to go for a piss. I looked everywhere for him but couldn’t find him. He was scared of me, but he was definitely more frightened of someone else.’
‘You think he knows who killed Bedford?’
‘I asked him; he swore he didn’t. But he knows something.’
Pyke absorbed this news, trying to work out what it could mean. ‘What happens now?’
‘I went to see Mayne, told him what I’d found out from the butler.’
‘And?’
‘My word on its own is not enough. Even with the butler’s corroboration, it wouldn’t be sufficient to earn Morel-Roux a reprieve. Mayne told me that unless I could find some hard evidence proving Morel-Roux was set up, he won’t be able to intervene and take the matter to the Home Secretary.’
‘So an official pardon is out of the question.’
Tilling’s stare was listless. ‘It looks very much that way.’
‘In which case Morel-Roux will be executed first thing on Monday morning.’ It was already Saturday afternoon.
Tilling stared down into the empty glass.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Pyke looked directly at him. ‘Do you believe Morel-Roux murdered Bedford?’
‘ Me? What I believe isn’t important right now. It’s what can be proved.’
Pyke nodded, as if this were the response he had been expecting. ‘The question is what we’re prepared to do about it.’
‘What can we do? Our hands are tied.’
‘Are they?’
Tilling lifted up the sleeping cats, sat down in the armchair and rearranged them on his lap. He motioned for Pyke to sit in the other chair. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Could you arrange a visit to Morel-Roux’s cell tomorrow night, under the guise of trying to elicit a last-minute confession?’
‘Isn’t that the job of the ordinary?’
‘What I meant to ask was whether you could get me into the prison so I could talk to him.’
‘Out of the question.’ Tilling licked his lips. ‘How would I do that?’
‘You could always requisition a constable’s uniform for me. I could be your assistant.’
Tilling shrugged, evidently not delighted by this prospect. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but what good would talking to him serve?’
‘If you can get me into the prison, I’ll take care of the rest.’
‘The rest?’ But Pyke could see that Tilling was beginning to understand what he was suggesting. ‘Oh, no. God, no. They’d hang you if they caught you. Me, too, if I was stupid enough to help you.’
‘If Morel-Roux did kill Bedford and Mary Edgar, I’ll force a confession out of him. If he didn’t, an innocent man is going to die unless we do something. I can’t sit around and wait for it to happen.’
For his part, Pyke had gone over and over the evidence in his head and he couldn’t see any reason why Morel-Roux would have murdered both Lord Bedford and Mary Edgar. And why would he have killed her in such a grotesque fashion?
‘It just isn’t possible to break into the prison and help a man to escape. Anyway, he’ll be under constant supervision.’
‘There is a way. There’s always a way.’
‘You’ve actually given this matter some thought, haven’t you?’ Tilling stared at him, incredulous.
‘I won’t deny it’s risky. And you’ll do well to come out of it with your position in the New Police still intact.’
‘What about the risk you’re running? You have a young lad who depends on you. I just have a couple of cats,’ Tilling said, stroking the ginger one’s ears. Pyke could hear it purring from across the room.
He walked over to the window and stared out towards the heath. He’d always liked the view from Tilling’s front room. ‘What if I could offer you something by way of recompense — something that would make you look good in the eyes of your peers?’ He turned around to face Tilling.
‘Such as?’
‘Jemmy Crane wrapped up in a nice little box with a ribbon tied around it.’
‘You’ll have to be more specific.’
‘All right.’ Pyke took a deep breath. ‘What if I told you that Crane had managed to find a way into the Bank of England’s bullion vault via an old sewer tunnel that runs directly beneath it?’
That made Tilling sit up and take notice. ‘That’s why you asked me about the Bank of England yesterday?’
‘It will happen some time tomorrow night, I’d guess, as people gather for the hanging. Certainly before the bank opens for business on Monday morning.’
‘Jesus,’ Tilling muttered. He stood up abruptly, spilling both of the cats and his empty glass of gin on to the floor. ‘Jesus,’ he said again, shaking his head. ‘You’d better sit down and tell me what you’ve found out.’
‘So you’re interested?’
Tilling took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘Of course I’m interested. The question is what do we do about it.’
Pyke waited for a moment. ‘You need to call a meeting of all of the guards in the governor’s office first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Then what?’ Tilling still seemed shocked by Pyke’s revelation.
‘Then you work out how you’re going to set a trap for Crane and his men.’
Later that night, after he had arrived home, Pyke looked in on Felix and watched him sleep, an ache building in his gut. The idea of not being part of his life, of not seeing him grow up to be a man, made Pyke feel so ill at ease that he came within a whisker of calling off his plans.
What did he really care about the Swiss valet anyway?
As he passed in and out of sleep, his dreams took him back to Jamaica and, later, while it was still dark outside, he lay in his bed, listening to himself breathe. Images drifted through his mind like fast-moving clouds. He’d seen something in his dream; something significant. Drawing air into his lungs, he tried to relax, tried to remember what it was, but it wouldn’t come to him. Lying still, he closed his eyes and let his mind go blank. Later, just as he was drifting back to sleep, he heard a voice call out to him. Whatever happens, don’t think badly of me. I don’t think I could bear it if you thought badly of me.
But there was another voice, too, and almost at once he realised it belonged to Harriet Alefounder.
I was a long way away and my eyesight isn’t what it used to be but I swear there was a little of her, of the Malvern woman, in this mulatto girl.
TWENTY-SEVEN
As he was crossing the street, a carriage came to a halt in front of him, almost blocking his path. The door swung open and Pyke found Harold Field pointing a pistol at his chest. Matthew Paxton, Field’s second-in-command, held a brass-cannoned blunderbuss in both hands and grinned.
Pyke had just returned from the tunnel that ran under the bullion vault at the Bank of England and his trousers and boots smelled of decomposing flesh and faeces.
‘Get in, Pyke.’ Putting a cigar to his lips, Field inhaled, opened his mouth slightly and let the smoke drift out through the open glass. ‘Save my friend here the ignominy of having to kill you in broad daylight.’
Pyke did as he was told and sat down next to Paxton. The carriage moved forward and Field pulled up the glass.
‘I was under the impression I’d paid off my debt,’ Pyke said, trying to keep his tone measured.