The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [148]
Edmonton cowered as Pyke stood over him, holding the pillow with both hands. ‘There won’t even be an investigation.’
‘Now really, Pyke, be a good chap. I’m sure that we can come to some kind of . . . manly accommodation.’
‘Swift is dead. So is Fox. It’s time to answer for what you have done.’ Pyke stood over him, waiting. ‘I found your wife in an asylum in Portsmouth. Very soon, she’ll be back here at Hambledon where she belongs.’
The shock in Edmonton’s eyes was as palpable as his disbelief. But before he had the opportunity to register it in words, Pyke pressed the pillow down on his face. As he did so, he said, ‘Before you die I want you to be aware of what is going to happen. Your daughter will inherit your estate. I will marry your daughter. If or when Emily produces a son, then he will inherit your title. My son will inherit your title.’
Edmonton struggled, of course, but he was no match for Pyke’s superior physical strength. All in all, it did not take more than a few minutes. Once it was finished Pyke placed the pillow down on the bed, wiped the saliva from his mouth, and arranged Edmonton’s corpse to make it seem as if he had passed away in his sleep.
Pyke should have felt elated, but as he contemplated the previous days and months - and thought about his own complicity in what had happened - he felt no satisfaction. Instead, as he wandered across to the window and looked down at the protesters who were gathering outside the main gates, he felt a gnawing sense of guilt and loneliness that would not be easily put to rest.
Outside, he heard a rifle shot.
Lord Edmonton’s funeral was a solemn but elaborate affair. His giant coffin, covered with a pall embroidered with the family’s coat of arms, was carried into St Paul’s Cathedral by eight heavy-set pall-bearers, preceded by two feathermen carrying trays of black plumes, a man holding a staff with a black ribbon tied around it, countless pages and attendants and, of course, the mourners themselves. The roll-call of those who attended the funeral read like a ‘who’s who’ of London society. There was an impressive turnout from the Tory party grandees. Lord Eldon attended in a wheelchair. The duke of Cumberland arrived wearing the uniform of a Hanoverian general and wept bitterly throughout the long service. The duke of Wellington - the Prime Minister himself - represented the government and studiously avoided, among others, Lord Winchelsea, with whom he had recently conducted an aborted duel over the issue of the duke’s apparent ‘about-turn’ over the Catholic question. During the service, Sir Edward Knatchbull was heard to utter to his friend Lord Newcastle that Edmonton’s death marked ‘the end of an era’. Peel did not attend but sent a garland. The men were indistinguishable in their black coats, black trousers, black cloaks and tall black hats. A few of the hats had weepers tied around them.
As Edmonton’s surviving child and heiress to his estate, Emily wore a black scarf and hood over a black dress. As she followed the coffin up the aisle at the end of the service, Pyke, who had watched the proceedings from a concealed position in the cathedral’s gallery, studied her reaction carefully. Her face was a mask of composure.
Earlier in the week, Pyke had asked his uncle how Emily had reacted when she had first laid eyes on her mother. Godfrey chuckled and said, ‘After the shock had subsided?’ He waited a moment and added, ‘She burst into tears.’
‘And then?’
‘She hugged her, wouldn’t let go. The poor old woman didn’t know what had happened to her.’
‘And then?’
‘You mean did she say anything about your role in the business?’
‘Well?’
‘She wanted to know how you’d found out . . .’
‘But was she . . .’
‘Grateful? Indebted? Happy?’
Pyke shrugged,