The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [62]
‘Of course.’ His uncle nodded vigorously. ‘But you will give it some thought?’
‘Yes, I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Splendid.’ Godfrey slapped him on the back. ‘Now perhaps we might pull the cork on this claret.’ Then his mood seemed to darken and he looked up at Pyke and said, his eyes clear, ‘I didn’t say anything before but I just want you to know I’m sorry. Lizzie was a fine woman. As loyal and loving as they come.’
Pyke could not hold his stare and said nothing, as he felt guilt and sadness building within him in equal measures.
Two days before his trial was due to commence, Pyke was visited by Godfrey and the Reverend Arthur Foote. Both men reeked of gin, though Foote’s stench was particularly noxious, an acrid mixture of fungi, rank breath, stale alcohol and soiled clothing. He stumbled into the room, took a moment to get his bearings, pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles right up against his bloodshot eyes, and farted loudly before falling into the room’s only chair. Though Foote was maybe thirty years older than him and had a fuller girth, the two of them were of a similar height. Godfrey perched on the end of the bed, his chubby legs dangling over the edge. Pyke, meanwhile, stood by the door and listened while Foote waffled about his role in the case of prisoners awaiting execution.
‘Well, boy, I suppose now’s the time to unbosom yourself, ’ he said, finally.
Pyke did not respond.
‘You see, as the Ordinary of this venerable establishment, it is incumbent on me - yes, it is my responsibility, nay prerogative - to elicit, at the behest of the condemned person, of course - elicit from him, at an appropriate time - yes, that would be right - elicit a confession in which the aforementioned unburdens himself to me of his sinful ways and waywardness.’ His leer revealed a set of teeth that resembled decrepit gravestones in their unevenness. ‘You’re not a sodomite, by any chance?’ He saw Pyke’s expression and mumbled, ‘Of course, I didn’t imagine that you were.’
As Foote continued to ramble, Pyke studied him closely, making a mental note of the man’s mottled, vein-ridden face, the stubble, the large wart on the end of his nose, the calluses on his hands, the hunched-up way he carried himself.
After Foote had departed, Godfrey stayed behind and Pyke asked whether he had heard from Townsend.
‘Indeed I have, my boy. There are two turnkeys on the condemned ward who might be amenable to an approach.’
Pyke told Godfrey to instruct Townsend to make them an offer.
Godfrey nodded. ‘Of course, if Quince were to win the trial, all these plans would be rendered null and void.’
Pyke said he had finally met Quince, and had been impressed with the man’s capabilities. The lawyer had called at the prison that morning and Pyke’s favourable reaction to the man had surprised him. His uncle nodded warmly. Pyke explained that the judge was to be the Recorder of London himself, Lord Chief Justice Marshall. Godfrey asked whether this was good news or not. Pyke just repeated what he had been told by Quince: Marshall was ‘well liked’ by the Duke of Wellington’s administration. ‘Let Quince earn his money, Pyke.’ Godfrey didn’t bother to hide his concern. ‘He told me that we have a strong case.’
‘Would he say anything different?’
Godfrey looked concerned. ‘Promise me you won’t try anything . . . reckless until after the trial?’
Pyke ignored the question. ‘Did you manage to pass on the note to Peel in person?’
‘Peel was in the Commons yesterday. There was a debate on the Catholic Emancipation Bill. Peel was presenting the case for the government. Knatchbull gave him a torrid time. They say the police bill will sail through next month but, as for Catholic emancipation, there’s still a lot of opposition.’
‘Did you give him the note?’
‘A friend invited me to watch the proceedings. During lunch, I made a point of bumping into Peel. I handed him the note, yes, and he took it and glanced at it in front of me. Certainly it registered, but then again I couldn’t exactly say what his reaction indicated.