The Last Days (30 page)

‘You sure that’s a wise idea?’

Pyke shrugged and thought about what Villums had said about not feeling remorse. ‘Do people think I’m a monster?’

‘You really give a damn what people think?’ Villums asked. ‘Back there in the gaming room, you didn’t stand to gain a thing by killing the bear. If you were as self-interested as men sometimes claim you are, then why didn’t you sit back, do nothing and watch the bear maul the duke?’

 

From his seat in the fifth row of the stalls, Pyke looked through a pair of hired binoculars at the figures in the grandest box of the Theatre Royal. The bell had just sounded and a man appeared on stage announcing that the performance of Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia would commence shortly. Along with the rest of the audience, he watched as Emily Blackwood glided elegantly into the box and arranged herself before carefully taking her seat. She wore a delicate pale-pink crêpe dress with thin gauze sleeves that showed just enough of her slender arms; her hair was elaborately tied up, drawing attention to the diamond necklace that was just visible, silhouetted against the milky whiteness of her skin.

It thrilled him to see that she was so obviously trading on her looks for the purposes of the evening - a charity event from which all the money collected during the interval would be donated to her society of women. On their first meeting, he had made the mistake of assuming that her reputation as a do-gooder and her exquisite skills as a pianist marked her as a particular type of woman. Now, as he watched her greet others in the box and noticed the effect she was having on them, especially the men, he felt a pang of jealousy and admiration for the way that she was using her beauty.

For three days since he had arrived back in the city, Pyke had followed Emily at a discreet distance, as she had gone about her business. He had been surprised by the scope and extent of her work; not merely time spent in her organisation’s offices on the Strand but also visits to both prisons and asylums. In one such establishment, a crumbling former nunnery in the village of Stoke Newington, curiosity had compelled him to bear even closer witness to her actions. As far as he understood it, her work involved inspecting premises and living conditions and writing reports in order to lobby for change; he had not expected her to spend time with the Bedlamites, or to be so openly affectionate with them. As Pyke had watched Emily perch on the edge of an elderly woman’s bed and stroke her bony visage, he had thought about her deceased mother and how much, if anything, Emily knew about her fall from sanity and Edmonton’s role in orchestrating her removal to an asylum. Even from a distance, her warmth of character was impossible not to notice, but her good intentions carried a hidden cost. In an alley next to the asylum, she had produced a small flask from under her shawl and, unseen by everyone, except for Pyke, pressed it to her lips and drunk. Startled by the sudden arrival of her carriage, Emily had discarded the flask in a nearby bush. Later, Pyke retrieved it and discovered its content to be gin: something that surprised and pleased him. She was as flawed and vulnerable as everyone else.

Pyke surveyed the charities that were to benefit from the event and the list of people who would be attending the function on their behalf in the performance notes. Emily Blackwood was described as Lord Edmonton’s daughter, reminding him of Emily’s association with the aristocrat. He wondered how much she knew.

Ten minutes after the performance had started, Pyke vacated his seat in the stalls and ascended the theatre’s main staircase from the lobby to the circle. He found a bored attendant and instructed him to deliver an urgent note to a lady seated in one of the boxes. He described Emily and handed him the note, together with a guinea coin.

He felt out of place in such a setting, as though it was as clear to everyone else as it was to him that he did not belong there. He had been more comfortable firing blunderbuss ball shot into a crowded tavern surrounded by some of the city’s most violent criminals than he did in such esteemed surroundings.

It was fifteen minutes before he heard footsteps glide across the carpet over the muffled sounds of soprano and tenor voices reverberating throughout the theatre. As Emily walked towards him, her hips moved gracefully under her dress. When he stepped out of the shadows and approached her, she jumped slightly, as though she had not actually expected it to be him, and it took her a few moments to recover her composure. Pyke took her hand and led her to the female cloakroom.

Alone, in the dimness of the room, they contemplated each other without speaking. He felt his jaw tighten as he took in the whiteness of her neck, her sculpted cheekbones, her gloved hands and smoky eyes. Pyke was about to say something when she reached out and pressed her index finger lightly against his lips. He felt his throat tighten in anticipation but it was she, rather than he, who stepped forward into the space between them and raised her neck to meet his stare, their lips practically touching.

‘All of your lovely hair . . .’ She brushed her fingertips across his freshly shaven head.

Pyke shrugged. He had cut it with a razor even before he had left for Ireland. ‘I had to see you.’

‘We cannot talk here,’ she whispered, her eyes never once leaving his.

‘If not here, then where?’ He did not want her to visit him in a place as sordid as the Old Cock tavern.

Her eyes filled. ‘I thought you might be dead.’

Gently, he took her hand. She made no effort to resist his overture. ‘I wondered if I would see you again.’

‘Where are you staying?’ Her fingers coiled around his thumb.

Pyke opened his palm and allowed her to trace a line down it with her little finger. He told her about his garret.

‘My father owns a town house in Islington. On rare occasions, he permits me to use it, if I have to attend social occasions late in the evening.’ She gave him the address. ‘Will you meet me there after ten? There’s a gate at the side. Come around to the back door and knock twice.’

The desire to kiss her was now so intense that Pyke could barely restrain himself, but Emily acted before he had the opportunity and withdrew; nor would her stare meet his. Later, as he thought about what had happened, he was struck by competing sentiments: on the one hand, the intimacy that they had generated had seemed, to him at least, utterly authentic; on the other hand, he could not help but feel that her attempts to keep him at arm’s length were motivated by more than a respect for social convention.

 

Edmonton’s Islington residence was a three-storey town house on Cloudsley Terrace, a row of new houses looking out over an attractive expanse of common land, ten minutes’ walk from the junction of New Road and High Street in Islington. Although the house was beyond his own financial means, Pyke was disappointed by its size and scale. It was more than adequate for ambitious office clerks who worked in the City, but it seemed far too modest for a titled aristocrat. This impression was reinforced when he was escorted by Emily’s servant to the drawing room on the first floor.

It was a well-appointed and tastefully decorated room, with a Turkey carpet covering most of the wooden floor, a high ceiling adorned by intricate cornice-work, a large bay window at the front of the room and a series of easy chairs and a cream sofa arranged around a grand piano. But as he settled down on the sofa and waited for Emily to appear, it struck him that, aside from the marble fireplace, there was nothing extravagant about its decor. On closer inspection, the sofa and chairs seemed threadbare, and apart from two small but intriguing drawings that hung on one of the walls, the overall impression was one of modesty and even thrift. Again he wondered about Godfrey’s comments about the perilous state of Edmonton’s finances.

Emily had changed into a pale-grey cotton dress with a high-cut empire waist. Alone in the room, there was a palpable awkwardness between them, as though neither of them knew how to greet the other or what to say.

Perhaps to strip away some of this politeness, Pyke told her as much of the truth about what had happened to him as he felt was necessary. He intimated, though only obliquely, that her father was involved in the blood-letting that had taken place, mostly because he did not want to deceive her about his own intentions towards the man. Perhaps he told her too much, because when he had finished her expression seemed to indicate a mixture of bemusement and fear.

Emily was not as brittle as he had first supposed, but he did not yet know whether she was as robust as she pretended to be. Nor, despite her apparently self-evident loathing of her father, did he know where her loyalties ultimately lay. Therefore telling her even a little of the truth had been a calculated risk.

Emily looked at him with an impenetrable expression. ‘One night, shortly before you showed up at Hambledon, I overheard my father talking about an incident in which you had tricked him into paying for the return of goods that you’d stolen from him. He called you a scoundrel but sounded a little impressed too.’ She looked away and shrugged. ‘He’s not a man who’s easily impressed.’

Pyke weighed up this information.

‘I knew my father had something planned for you but I didn’t know what.’ Her expression softened. ‘I should have said something to you.’

‘You have done more than enough to assist me and I will for ever be in your debt.’ He hesitated for a moment, to collect his thoughts.

Blushing slightly, she said, ‘But you still seem bothered by something.’

‘I am not so much bothered as . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t think for a moment I am not eternally grateful for what you did for me but I am struck that your actions carried very grave risks for you.’

‘What? In terms of upsetting my father?’ This time Emily laughed. ‘As you may have noticed, ours is not a warm or even a close relationship.’

‘But he is still your father.’ He studied her reaction carefully. The light from the candle accentuated the shape of her cheekbones.

Emily took her time to respond. ‘When we last talked outside Newgate, you intimated that you were cognisant of certain aspects of my mother’s demise.’ She shook her head. ‘When she finally passed away, he did not even permit me to attend her funeral.’ Pyke waited for her to continue but she seemed to want some kind of acknowledgement, so he just nodded. ‘I hate him. I know that’s a terrible thing to say but I can’t help it . . .’

‘I would imagine he’s not an easy man to like.’

She nodded forlornly.

Pyke decided to push a little further. ‘But you are perhaps beholden to him in other ways?’

‘As are all children of wealthy parents.’ Emily seemed amused by his boldness. ‘It would not surprise me, given your prowess as an investigator, if you already knew something about my own situation.’

‘I’ve heard rumours, that’s all.’

‘About?’

To the effect that your financial well-being is not wholly tied to your father’s generosity. Or lack of.’

Emily had a way of staring at him that he found deeply unnerving. ‘As a result of my mother’s foresight, I have a very modest independent income.’

Pyke thought about the information he had received from Godfrey and Townsend. ‘In which case, taking my side against your father reveals much about your courage.’

‘It reveals much, but not about my courageousness.’ Her tone was playful.

‘Oh?’

‘As you suggested to me on our visit to Newgate, altruism isn’t always divorced from self-interest.’

‘And coming to my rescue was an act of altruism?’ Emily licked her lips. ‘I liked the fact that you weren’t overawed by him. You mocked him without him realising it. Some people find him quite intimidating.’

Pyke bowed his head. ‘Then I accept the compliment.’ For a moment, neither of them spoke. ‘But there is still something you want to ask me, isn’t there?’ she added.

‘You would make a good investigator.’ His laugh ebbed away as he contemplated the subject of his question. ‘There’s a man who might be employed, in some capacity, by your father. I was led to believe that he worked as a security adviser for one of your uncle’s banks. He was the man who led me to the corpses in St Giles. Subsequently I discovered he’s Anglo-Irish and owns a small plot of land in County Armagh. Jimmy Swift. He’s got sandy-coloured hair and a distinctive mole on his chin. Do you know him?’

Emily furrowed her brow. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve come across such a person.’ She shrugged, apologetically. ‘You see, my father has business with so many people . . .’

‘I understand.’

‘Then perhaps I could ask you a question.’

‘I can’t very well say no, can I?’

‘No, you can’t,’ she told him firmly. ‘You come here and tell me these terrible things about my father, what he might have done, what he might be mixed up in, and I don’t challenge or correct you, or stand up for his honour. Then you question me about this man who may or may not work for my father, as though I’m some kind of suspect, or that I’m deliberately concealing something from you.’

‘I certainly didn’t mean to imply—’

‘Ssshhh, for a moment.’ She pressed her finger to her lips. ‘I’d say . . .’ She paused. ‘I’d say you’re not an easy man to get to know.’

Pyke pondered her statement. ‘I’m not sure anyone can truly know anyone else, if that’s what you mean.’

This drew a forced laugh. ‘Spoken like a man.’ But Emily was not finished with him. ‘In your world, I would imagine people have to prove themselves to you, in order to earn your trust.’

‘If I told you I’ve never wholly trusted anyone, would you think me a kind of machine?’

‘Perhaps not a machine but . . .’ Concern was etched on her face. ‘It must be a lonely existence.’

‘It is an existence. Or at least I am still . . . here.’

‘I think you’re missing the point,’ she chided him, gently.

‘It is I who am asking for a little of your trust.’ She seemed puzzled. ‘I would hope I’ve already proved myself to some extent.’