The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [79]
Arnold was a younger man than Pyke had been expecting, no more than forty years of age. He cut an ungainly figure, with large jug-like ears and a thick wall of black hair which had been cut into the shape of a pudding bowl. On first impression, he seemed like the kind of man who had once been bullied, but then Pyke noticed his cold, symmetrical face, his wax-like skin and his studied gaze, and understood that this was a man who was comfortable with violence. Pyke took against him immediately and reluctantly consented to a tour of the factory during which Arnold wasted no opportunity to laud his own achievements and business acumen.
Throughout this drawn-out introduction to the intricacies of wet-spinning flax, Pyke had thought about getting straight to the point and asking Arnold whether he knew where Davy Magennis was hiding, but he managed to bite his tongue and limit himself to an apparently innocuous question about the employment of Roman Catholics in the mill.
For a moment, it was as though he had unbuttoned his fly and urinated on the floor. Arnold’s stare suggested incomprehension as well as revulsion.
‘Are you a card player, Mr Hawkes?’ This was the name Pyke had given himself.
Pyke shrugged.
‘Perhaps we could continue this conversation later, in more . . . relaxed surroundings.’ Arnold grinned, as though pleased with something he had said. ‘There’s a card game, takes place tomorrow night in a gentleman’s club called the Royal on the south side of Smithfield.’ He was about to dismiss Pyke but instead focused on his unprepossessing attire and started to frown. ‘It’s just a silly wee game, nothing fancy, you’ll understand, but, if I were you, I’d think about wearing an outfit that better suited your rank and station.’
Without another word, he left Pyke to ponder the implications of his parting remark.
Entering his room, Pyke was greeted by the sight of a young woman standing over the bedside table, carefully inspecting his gold fob-watch. More surprising, for Pyke, was the fact that she displayed no embarrassment at being caught. When she finally turned to acknowledge him, still holding the fob-watch, he saw that she was quite attractive: mid-twenties, with a firm, almost plump figure, thick coal-black hair that flowed down her back practically as far as her waist, and the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. She wore a simple white cotton dress and plain black shoes.
‘Lookit,’ she said, holding up the watch. ‘Make no mistake, mister, you’ve been cheated.’ Her accent was softer than many he had heard, but it still had a vaguely unappealing twang.
‘And you were going to do me the favour of taking the watch away, I suppose?’
‘Why in the Lord’s name would I want a cheap old watch?’ She studied him warily for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, what are ye doing with a cheap old watch?’
‘Maybe I like cheap old watches,’ he said, amused now it was clear she wasn’t a threat.
‘What? Ye just playin’ at bein’ rich?’ She paused for a moment and looked him over. ‘That could be it, because ye don’t look too comfortable in your new clothes. And if ye were rich, ye wouldn’t be stayin’ in a boggin’ room like this.’ She looked around the room, shaking her head.
‘How do you know they’re new?’ He’d purchased shirt and jacket from a gentlemen’s outfitters on Castle Place.
She shrugged, as though the answer was obvious. ‘Why else would ye be scratchin’ yourself under the collar like you got the fleas?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Cleaning the room, what does it look like?’ She raised her eyebrows and then nodded, as though coming to some kind of realisation. ‘I was thinkin’ ye travelled awful light for a gentl’man. No clothes to speak of, no servants. Still, ye hide your money well. Friend of mine, works in the new bank in Castle Place, happened to mention a fellow fitting your description changed