The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [64]
‘So it would seem.’
Hunt stared down at the letter in his hand. ‘It just says, “We can say cruelty is used well when it is employed once and for all, and one’s safety depends on it, and then it is not persisted in but as far as possible turned to the good of one’s subjects.” That’s all. Not even a signature.’ He looked up at Pyke. ‘It’s some kind of private message, isn’t it?’
Pyke thumbed through his copy of The Prince. Eventually he found the right passage. ‘ “Cruelty badly used is that which, although infrequent to start with, as time goes on, rather than disappearing, grows in intensity.” ’ Pyke looked up from the book. ‘He’s saying virtue is defined by its consequences, and politicians can be justified in sanctioning morally dubious acts as long as they result in the greater good.’
The governor looked at him, unable to comprehend how he might use this information for his own ends. ‘It doesn’t make much sense to me. But let’s just say for the time being you were privy to truths about the Home Secretary that others might benefit from . . .’
‘Such as yourself?’
Hunt scowled. ‘I am thinking about the greater good of the Protestant brethren.’
‘And you imagine I am concerned about such a sect?’
‘You call the Protestant Church a sect ?’ He seemed appalled at Pyke’s irreligiosity. ‘Truly you are beyond redemption.’
‘And we have nothing further to discuss.’
But Hunt was not quite ready to depart. ‘I’m still intrigued by your business with Peel. By this I mean, what business would the Prime Minister’s right-hand man have with a common murderer?’
‘We share an interest in Florentine philosophers.’
‘Have it your way.’ Hunt shrugged and held up Peel’s note. ‘This merely confirms that the trial goes ahead tomorrow as planned.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Well, that’s settled, then.’ Hunt clapped his hands together and tapped lightly on the door, indicating that he was ready to leave. ‘I almost forgot. I’ve heard troubling rumours about possible escape plans. I take such intimations seriously, even as I find them highly improbable. Newgate has changed since Wild’s days and you, Pyke, are no Jack Sheppard. But just to make certain, I have taken the precaution of posting additional turnkeys outside your cell and you will be required to wear handcuffs and leg-irons at all times, even within your cell.’ His chest swelled with self-importance. ‘Your only escape will be when the hangman fits the noose around your neck. Still, I do not imagine Hades constitutes an especially pleasurable prospect.’
Reading The Times by candlelight, Pyke discovered a story on the second page in the ‘Police’ section which he scanned with mounting horror. The murders were attributed to a fresh wave of anti-Catholic violence that was sweeping the city. The bodies of a young man and woman had been found on Hounslow Heath. Both had been strangled. The report said the victims were Irish. The man, Gerald McKeown, was twenty-one and the woman, Mary Johnson, was seventeen.
Pyke distrusted anyone who openly expressed their emotions, but as he stared down at the words of the report he didn’t in the first instance attempt to decode their meaning. He just opened his lips, thought of not only Gerald and Mary but also Lizzie, and silently mouthed an impotent scream.
TWELVE
When Pyke emerged into the hushed courtroom from the subterranean passage that ran between the prison and the Sessions House on Old Bailey and took his place in the dock, he sensed the consternation of those gathered there to watch the trial. It had something to do with his choice of attire: a soiled smock-frock by no means conformed to the dashing image that had been circulating in fashionable society. It would be the first of many disappointments the spectators would have to bear, Pyke thought, as he scanned the packed courthouse for familiar faces. This was assuming, perhaps arrogantly, that some of the gathered audience wanted to see him walk free. Pyke understood that decadent ladies might find his unrefined