‘I spoke with the commissioner of the City of London police a few moments ago. He’ll be swayed by the governor’s recommendation.’
Pyke felt the anger swelling up inside him. ‘You say Crane and the others have been taken to the police office at the Guildhall?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the constables who took them there; you made sure they knew not to let anyone speak to or even approach Crane.’
‘I made that point as firmly as I could but the New Police doesn’t have any jurisdiction here.’
Pyke swore under his breath. Everything was starting to unravel. Crane might even be released in a matter of hours. ‘Have you talked to this man Trevelyan?’
‘The governor wouldn’t let me. Apparently he’s made a statement to the commissioner of the City police.’
‘Surely before they actually let Crane go free, they’ll need some kind of confirmation about the sewer-man?’
Tilling nodded. ‘That’s where Crane’s story is weakest. He says he doesn’t know where this man is.’
Pyke let this remark pass without comment.
‘But apparently Crane has suggested that, if and when he’s located, the sewer-man could make a statement to his lawyer, in front of a witness, to corroborate his story.’
‘Why not to the police?’ Pyke hesitated, thinking about Phillip Malvern. ‘And anyway, surely Crane’s in no position to dictate terms to anyone. If he knows where the man is, he should tell someone and have done with it.’
‘That’s why they took him away to the cells. For now. But I’d guess that if a credible statement is produced, that will be enough to ensure Crane’s release.’
Pyke gave this some thought. ‘The question is, how’s he going to arrange all this from inside his cell?’
‘Someone will have to come to him, but for the time being no one knows where he’s being held.’
‘Trevelyan knows.’
Tilling contemplated what Pyke had just said. ‘Go on.’
‘The story about Crane performing a public service is utter tripe. We both know it. We just need to find out why Trevelyan is willing to corroborate Crane’s story.’
Tilling scratched his head. ‘You think he’s been coerced into doing so?’
‘Crane’s smarter than I gave him credit for. He planned for this, for something going wrong. You’re right, I think he knew that Trevelyan would have to support his story.’
‘And lose his position at the bank in the process?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘What if he was a customer of Crane’s shop? Better to lose his job than be unveiled by Crane as some kind of sexual monster.’ He looked around the saloon. ‘Can you point Trevelyan out to me?’
‘I don’t think he’s here.’ Tilling’s gaze swept the room. ‘He’s been shut away in the governor’s chambers all morning.’
‘Can you at least describe him to me and find his address?’
That drew a heavy frown. ‘I won’t countenance any private action
…’
The man who’d waved to Tilling earlier had returned and was loitering as if he needed to speak with Tilling as a matter of urgency.
‘What if I could persuade someone close to Crane, someone he trusts absolutely, to go and see him and find out the whereabouts of the sewer-man?’
‘Could you do that?’
‘I might be able to.’
Samuel Ticknor was sitting at his desk in his private office, drinking a cup of tea, when Pyke pushed open the door.
‘How well did you know Elizabeth Malvern?’
Pyke’s sudden appearance in his office caused Ticknor to spill his tea. He tried to mop it up with the sleeve of his coat.
‘How much time did you spend in her company — when she volunteered for the Vice Society?’
This time Ticknor met his gaze. Pyke had to stop himself from jumping over the desk and grabbing the man’s throat.
‘I knew her well enough to see her for what she really was.’
‘Enough to remember what colour her eyes were?’
Ticknor removed his spectacles and blew on to the lenses. ‘Green. They were green, no question about it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite positive, sir. Now will you tell me what this is all about?’
Pyke stood there, trying to hold himself together. Different thoughts collided with one another in his head. He saw it clearly now; suddenly everything had fallen into place — about Mary, Elizabeth, the Malvern family, even Lord Bedford.
‘I presume you know there’s a rotten corpse out in the yard?’ Godfrey said, as soon as Pyke had stepped into his basement shop.
‘There wasn’t anywhere else to put it.’ The previous day, he had pushed Bessie Daniels’ corpse on a costermonger’s wheelbarrow, hidden under a canvas tarpaulin, from Dowgate Hill to St Paul’s Yard. He’d told Godfrey he needed the keys to the shop, but not why he needed them. Now, clearly, his uncle had found out.
‘And how long were you hoping to keep it out there?’
‘Another day, two at most.’
Godfrey ran his hands through his bone-white hair and sighed. ‘I called at the house to see you. Jo told me the news. I don’t have to tell you what I think. You’re mad to let her go, a complete fool.’
‘I’m not letting her go. She’s leaving.’
Godfrey pushed his spectacles back up his nose and made a dismissive gesture towards Pyke. At times like this, he felt like more of a father than an uncle to him and Pyke hated disappointing him.
‘So who is it? I couldn’t bring myself to give it a proper look.’
‘Hard to tell for certain but I think it’s Bessie Daniels. I found this ring on one of her fingers.’ Pyke held up the amethyst ring for his uncle to see. ‘The woman in the copperplate you bought from Crane.’
Godfrey collapsed into his armchair, suddenly looking his age. ‘Jesus. Poor, poor girl. And to think…’
Pyke just nodded. His uncle was momentarily lost for words.
‘Who killed her?’ he said, after a while. ‘Crane?’
‘Looks that way.’ Pyke drew in a breath. ‘By tomorrow her corpse will be gone, I promise. But I have to do what I have to do. I hope you understand.’
‘To punish those responsible?’
Pyke nodded again. Godfrey stood up, walked over to the sideboard, took the decanter and poured himself a glass of claret.
‘I want you to talk to anyone who’s worked at Crane’s shop,’ Pyke told Saggers, after he’d found him in the Cole Hole on The Strand. ‘Be discreet but offer a financial inducement to anyone who’s willing to testify in court that a man called Abel Trevelyan was a customer there.’
‘How much of a financial inducement?’
‘Up to fifty pounds, depending on the quality of the testimony. To be paid if and when Crane is convicted.’
Saggers whistled, seemingly taken aback at the money Pyke was prepared to offer. ‘You must want this testimony a lot.’
‘I don’t expect you to do this for nothing, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
The fat man put on a wounded expression that was so clearly feigned even he gave up on it. ‘Well, I do remember you promising me a story a long time ago.’
‘Murder, pornography, robbery.’ Pyke watched Saggers’ nonchalance disappear. ‘Is that enough to be getting on with?’
‘That sounds more than acceptable.’
‘And I want you to find anyone who knew a girl called Bessie Daniels.’ Pyke handed Saggers a scrap of paper with Bessie’s old Whitechapel address scribbled on it. ‘Anyone, that is, who can identify this as belonging to her.’ He took out the amethyst ring and showed it to the penny-a-liner. ‘I can’t let you have it, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to describe it as best you can.’
Saggers inspected the ring and handed it back to Pyke. ‘So how quickly do you need all this?’
‘By tomorrow.’
Abel Trevelyan lived in a Palladian mansion overlooking Regent’s Park. Pyke could see how some people might have been impressed by the house’s neoclassical grandeur, and its size alone meant that it was hard to miss, even from the other side of the park. But he found it too ostentatious, as though an already over-egged pudding had been doused in cream and butter. It was a square brick box with five large bay windows on each of the floors. In the middle of the building, a pair of stone columns supported a pediment. There were extensive gardens at the back of the mansion. Earlier in the afternoon Pyke had positioned himself behind a shrub, close to one of the windows, and observed the comings and goings of the household. As far as he could work out, Trevelyan had a wife — a plump, dowdy creature who wore her hair in tight ringlets — and a number of young children. There were also as many as a dozen servants, and Pyke spent some of the afternoon speculating about how damaging the loss of his position at the Bank might prove to be. Trevelyan was definitely at home; from the description Pyke had been given, he recognised the man sitting at his desk in the ground-floor study at one end of the house. Trevelyan had been there for most of the afternoon, leaving only to take an early supper with his family at about six. Still, he had returned to his study by about half-past seven, and Pyke’s patience was finally rewarded. Just as it was beginning to get dark, Trevelyan stepped out on to the veranda to smoke a cigar.