The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [77]
PART II
Belfast, Ireland JULY 1829
FOURTEEN
Pyke had no idea what type of dog it was, except that it was not a pure-bred. It possessed an unkempt coat and a deformed ear, and hauled itself along on three stubby legs, the fourth being entirely lame. It was no larger than a moderate-sized ferret, and was about as lovable, but for a reason Pyke could not explain the animal had developed a fierce loyalty to him in the short time since he had disembarked from the steamship. So much so that even when he retired to his room for the night, the dog would still be waiting for him the following morning. Finding this attachment irritating rather than endearing, Pyke had tried to shoo the dog away, to no avail. It did not seem to want his affection in any explicit manner, and Pyke was far too sensible to try to pet it. Rather, it simply followed him wherever he went in the town, happily trotting behind him on its three good legs. After a day or so of this, and when a firm kick to the dog’s groin had not managed to drive it away, Pyke had relented a little and deigned to address the animal merely as ‘dog’. It seemed content with the name.
The inn, if it could be called that, jostled for attention alongside the taverns, music halls and spirit shops of North Queen Street. The area also housed the town’s main infantry barracks, which perhaps explained the large number of brothels located in the immediate vicinity. In fact, it had taken Pyke a few hours to work out that his own place of residence offered more than simply room and board. It was the kind of place in which you could die and not be discovered for days. For one thing, there was the odour: the corridors were not just damp and musty but smelt of something riper and more obscene, as though human flesh in an adjacent room had turned gangrenous. For another thing, he never actually saw any guests. He heard them, though; heard them beg for sexual relief through the paper-thin walls of his room, which was no bigger than a coffin and much less hospitable. If he’d had the money, he would have stayed in one of the hotels overlooking the Linen Hall, but his funds - effectively what he had retrieved from Godfrey’s apartment in London - were running perilously low. Such a dilemma, unfortunately, necessitated prudence.
Pyke’s search for Davy Magennis had led him to Ireland - he had been reliably informed that Magennis had long since fled London - but in Belfast he felt both anonymous and hopelessly visible. He sensed acutely the fact of being a stranger in a town where people seemed to be warily accustomed to each others’ faces. The previous day, Pyke had gone out with the intention of asking for Davy Magennis in the public houses and terraces of Brown’s Square, but had soon realised the futility and, indeed, the danger of such a mission. It was not that the pubs were any more menacing than those in St Giles in London, or that the district was any poorer, though it probably was. It was simply that, in Belfast, his reputation counted for nothing, and when he had walked into one particular pub, the Boot and Crown on the north side of Smithfield Square, the hostile silence he had provoked and the collection of brickbats, swords and knives hanging up on the wall behind the counter had convinced him of the need for a subtler approach.
On his first morning in the town, Pyke was approached by a scruffy adolescent. ‘How’ye,’ the lad said, nervously pushing past the dog. ‘You here for the celebrations, mister?’
The dog growled and bared its teeth. The lad retreated a little.
‘The celebrations?’ Pyke said, uncomprehendingly, even though he had been asked the same question by others.
‘You know, the parades.’
Pyke stared at him blankly. ‘What parades?’
‘To celebrate King Billy’s victory.’ The lad sounded breathless with excitement. ‘You know, over the papists at the Boyne.’
‘Oh, you mean the Dutchman’s victory over the French king a hundred and fifty years ago?’
‘Eh?’ the