The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [137]
Earlier, Pyke had bound Swift’s wrists and ankles to the outside of the cage with rope; below Swift’s tethered form was a seething carpet of sinew, wet black fur, whiskers, beady eyes, pincer teeth and ribbed tails the size of horsewhips.
In the end, it had simply been a matter of who had responded quickest. Since Pyke’s reactions had been sharper than Swift’s and Pyke had reached for his knife before Swift could decide what course of action to take, it was Pyke who had triumphed in their skirmish. Pyke had forced the blade of his knife deep into the flesh of Swift’s thigh and immobilised him. He had then transported Swift from Russell Square to the tavern in Swift’s carriage.
Lifting the candle up in order to throw some light on Swift’s unmoving body, Pyke inspected his adversary for a while. He was nearer forty-five than thirty-five, Pyke decided, with bushy, sandy-coloured hair and a gaunt, almost oblong face. He was by no means an attractive man, but there was something arresting about his features; his taut, weathered skin, his slate-grey eyes, his pursed lips and his almost translucent eyebrows gave the impression of someone who had been mummified. But it was his mole that attracted one’s attention; it was an ugly purple mark, almost as large as a half-shilling coin, located in the middle of his chin.
Swift seemed barely alive so Pyke opened a bottle of gin and sloshed it liberally into his eyes. When that did not rouse the man, Pyke took out his knife, heated the metal blade over the flame of the candle for a few moments, steadied himself, sliced the mole from Swift’s chin and then daubed the open wound with gin.
For an instant, Pyke was worried the man’s agonised screams might have attracted the attention of those upstairs in the tavern.
He tossed the remains of the mole into the cage and watched as the long-tailed rats fought one another for the fleshy morsel. Blood poured from the wound and dripped into the cage, sending the rats into an even more heightened state of anticipation.
Pyke rested the candle on top of the cage, next to Swift’s head, and unbound his gag. Swift’s mouth sagged open; his stare was uncomprehending, as though he had not yet adjusted to his new fate.
‘Jimmy Swift. Or should I call you James Sloan?’ Pyke spoke in a soft whisper.
Swift stared at Pyke for a while.
‘Well?’
‘Sloan was my mother’s name. I adopted it when I left Ireland and came to London. Funny, I didn’t want my past catching up with me. The very last thing I did as Jimmy Swift was lead you to St Giles.’ He spoke in a gentle, nasal tone. ‘You walked straight into that one.’
Pyke nodded, ‘I visited your old house in Hamilton’s Bawn. It’s comfortable but a little run down perhaps. Nothing compared to your Russell Square residence. Or Hambledon Hall.’
Pyke’s taunt registered in Swift’s eyes but he said nothing.
‘A seat in Parliament. The daughter’s hand in marriage. And the prospect of one day inheriting a country estate. That’s quite a reward, particularly from someone as ungenerous as Lord Edmonton.’
For a moment, Swift was distracted by the sound of the rats. He was tied to the cage in such a way that he couldn’t see them, but he could hear them.
‘You’re going to kill me anyway, so why should I tell you what you want to know?’ His face betrayed some of the dread that he was, doubtless, feeling.
Pyke took out his pistol and fired a shot into the sea of rats. He must have wounded or most probably killed one of them because the others began to swarm around its twitching form and feed on its carcass.
‘You hear that sound?’ he said to Swift. ‘There are three hundred rats in the cage, three hundred sets of pincer-like teeth. Can you even imagine what short work that many teeth