The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [129]
Pyke had inserted a thin metal instrument between the sash windows at the back of the house and undone the catch.
While he waited for Tilling to return, he perused the books lining the walls of the back room. He was surprised at the overlap with his own interests, but whereas he was self-educated and could read the works of Machiavelli or Descartes only in translation, Tilling had their original works in Italian and French.
Tilling finally arrived home shortly after seven in the evening. He was dressed in the same jacket and trousers as he had worn the previous time they had met in the basement of Whitehall. Beneath the jacket, his white linen shirt glowed against dark skin. His gaze swept the room, his bug-like eyes pulled close together with worry, as though he sensed that something was amiss even before he spotted Pyke sitting on one of his horsehair chairs in the front room.
Tilling did not seem unduly concerned or surprised by Pyke’s presence in his home, though on closer inspection his tar-black hair, which had seemed greasy at first, was slick with perspiration.
‘I fancied it would only be a matter of time before you tried to make contact,’ Tilling said, entering the small front room. Walking towards a cupboard at the back of the room, he asked Pyke whether he wanted a drink.
Tilling poured them both a brandy. At the last minute, Pyke took the glass Tilling was about to drink from.
Tilling smiled at the switch. ‘After all that’s happened, I can understand why you might be nervous.’ His smile became a smirk. ‘That’s quite a trail of destruction you have left behind. Governor Hunt and John Arnold. And now I read about arson attacks and rioting on land owned by Edmonton. You’re a veritable one-man Armageddon.’ He held up his glass and said, ‘To your health.’ He looked at Pyke and smiled. ‘So tell me something. Have you got a particular problem with authority figures or do you just like killing them?’
‘It would depend on the authority figure in question.’ He regarded Tilling with a dispassionate stare. ‘Why is Peel nervous?’ He felt tired and washed out from the laudanum he had taken the previous night, and bloated from the pastries and sweet cakes he’d consumed that morning.
‘Should he be?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out.’
‘Holding a gun to the Home Secretary’s head with half of London looking for you.’ Tilling raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘I’m a little impressed.’
‘Only a little?’
‘I’m impressed you haven’t been captured.’ Tilling smiled. ‘You’re the most wanted man in the country.’
Pyke took a sip of brandy. ‘I didn’t get the impression you were on particularly friendly terms with John Arnold.’ The fiery liquid did little to settle his stomach.
‘I wasn’t.’ Tilling shrugged. ‘I couldn’t stand any of the Orange Order. Neither could Peel, despite the nickname O’Connell gave him. Still, aside from his bluster, Arnold wasn’t the worst of them.’
Pyke watched his expression carefully. ‘You’re sorry to see him dead?’
‘Not really.’ Tilling shrugged.
‘But when you were stationed in Ulster, you agreed to assist the man, didn’t you? On his request, you rode to Armagh and recruited a brawny Protestant thug into the Irish Constabulary.’
‘It’s the way political business is conducted, Pyke. As I remember, Peel required the order’s assistance in some matter.’
‘So you went to Loughgall and told Davy Magennis the new Irish Constabulary needed good strong Protestant men like him.’
‘I can’t remember exactly what I said to him.’
‘But you washed your hands of him quick enough, when he nearly beat a Catholic man to death in front of a thousand witnesses.’
‘No, in fact I was keen to prosecute him, but I was told such a practice wasn’t conducive to the long-term stability of the Union. As it was explained to me, how could I punish a young lad from an upstanding Orange family for simply doing what came naturally to him?’
Tilling shrugged and looked down, as a ginger cat with white paws strolled into the room and jumped