‘Yeah, I know the cull. Folk called ’im Filthy but I knew ’im as Phillip. He brought me plenty of the biggest, nastiest sewer rats I ever saw. Creatures the size of small dogs with tails like leather whips. Would give even the best dog a run for its money.’ The Duke of York was well known as a ‘ratting’ pub; twice a week, rats and dogs fought for their lives in a wooden enclosure and drinkers would bet on the outcome.
Pyke tried not to show his excitement. ‘You’re quite certain about his real name?’ This was the confirmation he’d been looking for.
‘Course I’m sure.’ Flack scratched his arm. ‘But I ain’t seen ’im for a while. To be honest, I’m disappointed. No one brings me rats like Phillip.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Two, three months ago.’
‘And before that, would he come here on a regular basis?’
Flack nodded. ‘At least once a week.’
Pyke considered this for a short while. ‘Did he ever tell you where he found his rats?’
‘He trawled the sewers, I’d say, from the smell of ’im. That’s how folk came to call him Filthy.’
After he left, Pyke stood at the counter, listening to the harsh, guttural accents and the casual obscenities, and wondered whether Phillip Malvern was still in London or, more to the point, whether he was still alive.
It was just getting dark when a hackney carriage dropped Pyke off at the end of Pitts Head Mews just across from Hyde Park. The air was humid with just a hint of rain and there was barely a breath of wind. He walked along the street as far as Elizabeth Malvern’s house, looked up at the drawn curtains for any sign of light or movement behind them, then knocked on the front door. No one answered. He tried again, to no avail. There was a break in the terrace about halfway along the mews and Pyke made his way around to the back of what he thought was Elizabeth’s house and looked up at the windows once more. The curtains were drawn but this time what looked like a light or candle was burning in one of the upstairs rooms. He climbed over the wall and dropped down into the back yard. Waiting to be sure no one had heard him, he removed his picklocks, trying to make as little sound as possible. The lock wasn’t a sophisticated one. Pyke had the door open in less than a minute and stepped into the house.
She was carrying a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. She moved towards him quietly and carefully, like a cat, keeping the pistol aimed at his chest. She wore a cotton print dress and her dark hair was gathered up and held by a comb. It took him a few moments to realise how beautiful she was, with her smooth complexion, the colour of milky coffee, and her dark, staring eyes, like pools of liquid.
‘You’re Elizabeth, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t move a muscle, sir. Tell me your name, why you’ve broken into my house, and why I shouldn’t shoot you here and now.’ She spoke in a polished, elegant tone that put him in mind of Emily.
‘My name is Pyke. I was charged with the task of finding Mary Edgar’s murderer. I’ve just returned from Jamaica.’
It was the last piece of information which seemed to soften her resolve. She lowered the pistol and held up the lantern so she could see his face better. ‘Do you often break into other people’s houses?’
‘Only if they persistently refuse to answer their doors.’ Pyke waited. ‘I came here just before I sailed for the West Indies. I think I saw you in one of the upstairs rooms at the front of the house.’
‘Oh, that was you.’ She seemed both curious and unmoved by this revelation.
‘Can I ask why you’ve decided to turn yourself into a prisoner in your own house? And why you feel it’s necessary to possess that thing?’ He pointed at the pistol.
‘I thought my father might have sent you.’ She hesitated, wondering whether this explained it, and then added, ‘He thinks I’m in Jamaica.’
‘Why would he think that?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘And the pistol?’
She didn’t have an answer for that one.
‘You told him that you’d make the journey to break the news to your brother, Charles, about the deaths of his fiancee and his godfather.’
That seemed to amuse her. ‘I see you’ve spoken to my father.’
‘We had a conversation. It didn’t end well. To be honest, it didn’t start well, either. But you’re right, I did talk to him. And he’s under the impression you sailed for Jamaica at the beginning of May.’
‘And now you must be wondering what I’m doing here.’
‘The question had crossed my mind.’
‘In that case, I think you and I should retire to the living room. I sense we have a lot to talk about.’
He followed her into the house, up a flight of stairs and into a large, immaculately tidy room at the front of the building. Elizabeth put the lantern on the table in the middle of the room and sat down on one of the sofas. Pyke took the other one and they sat in silence for a moment. He could smell her musk, a raw, earthy smell that made him think of whisky and put him on guard at once.
‘Whatever must you think of me?’ She was perched on the edge of the sofa, shaking her head. ‘Hiding in my own home, not answering the door, lying to my father.’
Pyke tried not to notice the way she was looking at him. ‘Why did you offer to travel to Jamaica in the first place?’
‘Did Father tell you that?’ She laughed. ‘Even though we live in the same city, we only seem to communicate by post these days. I received a letter from him suggesting I go to the West Indies, to break some tragic news to my brother. I wrote back saying that I’d consider it but then I fell ill and I heard that a mutual friend was making the journey out there so I persuaded him to pay a visit to Charles in my place. I detest that journey more than you’ll ever know, and I fancy I saw the opportunity to stay here and hibernate from the world.’ She hesitated and looked across at him. ‘I know it makes me sound appallingly selfish and I can see you don’t believe one word I’ve said but I really was ill for a while; I barely moved from my bed for the months of June and July.’
Pyke tried to keep his stare opaque. She was right that he didn’t believe her. How likely was it that someone of her standing would shut herself away for the whole Season? And hadn’t Charles told him that Elizabeth and their father enjoyed a very close relationship?
Reading his mind, Elizabeth added, ‘Of course, I did have some help. I had to swear my oldest, most faithful servant to secrecy. Frankly, I don’t know what I would have done without her. She agreed to visit my father’s house in Belgravia on my behalf. That was how I first heard that William intended to sail for Jamaica…’
‘Alefounder.’
She touched the top of her lip with her tongue. ‘You know him?’
‘I’ve met him, and his wife. For obvious reasons, she didn’t exactly recommend you to me.’
‘Oh.’ Elizabeth reddened slightly. ‘No, I don’t imagine she would have.’
‘Is that all you’re going to say?’
‘It happened a long time ago. We were both young and stupid.’ She looked at him, clear eyed. ‘But I’m quite sure an affair that went stale years ago isn’t the reason you broke into my house.’
Pyke didn’t know what to say. After all, he couldn’t very well tell her the real reason for his visit.
‘Did you see my brother while you were in Jamaica? Is he terribly upset? I hate to think of him sad.’
‘He’s dead.’ He saw her face plummet and added, ‘I’m sorry. He died in a storm. Part of the roof at one end of the great house at Ginger Hill collapsed.’
She began to weep, quietly at first, but then louder, as she absorbed the news. Pyke didn’t take any joy from imparting this news, and when her crying turned into loud sobs, he went over to the sofa. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated as he knelt down in front of her, not sure how to comfort her or whether he should even try. But without thinking about it, she opened her arms and attached herself to him, wailing so her entire ribcage shook. He tasted the saltiness of her tears on his cheeks and lips and patted her silky hair. He didn’t want to admit, to himself or her, that grief made her even more attractive but it was true; her tears humanised her and each sob transformed her from a hardened vixen into someone much more real and complicated.