The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [74]
Emily Blackwood stepped into the cell, removed her bonnet and looked at him. Her smile was warm but awkward.
‘Mr Pyke. I’m sure it is unnecessary for me to ask how you are.’ She stepped farther into the cell. ‘But I did want to see you before . . .’ The words died in her mouth.
Pyke stood up and bowed. He smelled her perfume. Her face was composed but alert.
‘I have porter. I have food.’ He pointed at the untouched plate. ‘What more could a man ask for?’
‘It is barbaric, what they are planning to do to you.’
‘Is it?’ Pyke wasn’t absolutely sure but thought he saw her wink at him. ‘The last time we were in Newgate together I said that we live and die according to the whims of chance. This is merely confirming the truthfulness of that sentiment.’
‘But with chance perhaps comes hope?’ Emily seemed suddenly unsteady on her feet.
Pyke asked whether she cared for a seat.
‘No, I’m fine.’ But she did not seem to be well. Again she wobbled a little and when, a few moments later, she fell forward, Pyke instinctively reached out to break her fall. As he did so, he felt her press something cold and hard into his open palm. Jenkins did not seem to know what to do, but from outside the cell Pyke heard one of the older turnkeys say, ‘Step away from the visitor.’ Ignoring his demand, Pyke carefully laid Emily on the bed. The turnkey reiterated his demand and hurried into the cell. Pyke held up his hands, as if to protest his innocence. He had already transferred what Emily had given him into his mouth.
On the bed, Emily was sighing and holding her forehead. The older turnkey looked at Pyke, unimpressed. He asked Emily whether she felt better. Emily said yes, she did, but she couldn’t explain what had happened. All of a sudden she had felt faint and hadn’t been able to stop herself from falling. The turnkey nodded in a manner that suggested he did not believe her explanation.
‘Well, you’ve seen the prisoner now and said your farewell. Jenkins, perhaps you could escort the lady back to the keeper’s house.’
Gingerly Emily rose to her feet and took a deep breath. Turning to leave, she exhaled. ‘Who knows, Mr Pyke. Perhaps the governor may yet opt for clemency.’
‘I’m afraid the time has long passed.’ He looked at her for some indication of what she might be referring to but saw little in her blank stare. ‘And it is not in the governor’s powers to grant such clemency. Only the Home Secretary’s intervention will make a difference and I fear this will not be forthcoming.’
‘But surely the governor’s office is not entirely closed to you, even at this late stage?’
Pyke said that, unfortunately, it was. As he bade her farewell, he felt sickened by the idea that he might never see her again.
Once she had departed, the older turnkey folded his arms and said, ‘What was all that about, then?’
Pyke said nothing. The small key was hidden under his tongue.
‘Hands,’ the turnkey barked. ‘Show me your hands, prisoner.’
Pyke held out his palms.
‘Turn out your pockets.’
Again Pyke did as he was asked.
The turnkey edged closer to him. ‘Open your mouth.’
Pyke forced the small key as far back under his tongue as it would go.
‘Open your fucking mouth.’
The turnkey peered gingerly into Pyke’s open mouth but could not see much because of the poor light. He seemed reluctant to do more than this; doubtless the thought that Pyke might bite him had crossed his mind.
The cell door was bolted from the outside and the turnkey checked to see that Pyke’s handcuffs and leg-irons were secure and then settled down on a chair inside the cell.
An hour or so later, the man was asleep. While he dozed, Pyke spat the key out into his cuffed hand. It took him a while to find a way of manoeuvring it into the lock of his handcuffs, but upon doing so he was astonished to discover that the key not only fitted the lock but also released the cuffs. Freeing his hands, he set to work on the leg-irons. It took him less than five minutes