Finally she pushed him away and wiped her eyes on the vaguely flounced sleeve of her dress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffing and trying to breathe at the same time.
Pyke withdrew to his sofa and looked around the tastefully furnished room. He noticed a drawing by Blake on the wall and wondered whether it was an original.
‘And William?’ she whispered, trying to compose herself.
‘He died, too.’
That elicited another gasp but no more tears. The street below was absolutely quiet.
‘Does my father know?’
‘I told him.’
‘Oh God.’ She shook her head and buried it in her hands. ‘Poor Father. If this doesn’t kill him, I don’t know what will. And if you’ve made the journey already, he’ll be expecting me home any day. What will I say to him? How will I explain I wasn’t there? Of course, he’ll assume I’ve already made the arrangements to have Charles’s body shipped back here. I’ll just have to tell him the truth, won’t I?’ This thought seemed to fill her with dread. ‘You won’t tell him about me just yet. Please, sir, I beg of you. I can tell you’re a kind man. Give me a few days, that’s all I ask.’
He contemplated this strange, disjointed speech; how little concern she’d displayed for her father’s grief and well-being and the emphasis she’d placed on her own self-inflicted plight.
‘What you choose to tell your father has nothing to do with me.’ The skin wrinkled at the edges of her eyes as she smiled. ‘Thank you.’ A strand of hair had fallen down over her face and she tucked it behind her ear.
‘I should leave you,’ Pyke said, looking at her; she seemed composed all of a sudden.
‘You came here to ask about Mary, didn’t you?’ She hesitated. ‘My father told me what had happened to her.’
He nodded. ‘That was one of the reasons.’
‘Father told me about her visit to the house. All it took was the mention of money for her to drop her claim on my brother. Poor Charles.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘Not that it matters much now. I suppose if I had felt that her feelings for him were at all genuine I might not have disliked her as much as I did.’
‘And how much did you dislike her?’
Elizabeth looked over at Pyke, apparently shocked at his question. ‘You can’t actually think I had something to do with her death? I may have disliked her but I would never have hurt her.’
Pyke looked away, trying to decide on the best way of phrasing what he wanted to say. ‘But it can’t have been easy, the idea of welcoming her into the family.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her expression was unreadable.
‘Before emancipation, your father used to own her. I can easily see how the idea of her marrying your brother would have caused your family difficulties.’
‘Because she’s black?’
Later Pyke would think about the assumption she’d made — that Mary was black or had been born to a black mother and hence could be categorised as black and that she, by contrast and without question, was white. If anything, Elizabeth was perhaps a little darker than Mary, but could claim to be white because she was Silas Malvern’s child and hence people saw her as white.
‘In part, yes,’ he said, thinking about the rumours pertaining to her affection for her brother, Charles. ‘If you’ve seen someone as servile for your entire life, I wonder how it’s possible to suddenly imagine them as your equal.’
‘My father never saw his workers as lesser creatures,’ she said firmly. Pyke noted she had used the term workers rather than slaves.
For his part, Pyke wanted to stay and ask, among other things, about her attachment to Crane, her work for the Vice Society and her interest in daguerreotypes. But he knew that if questioned her directly, she might not be forthcoming. He needed a different strategy; he needed her to like him.
‘It’s late and I’m sure I’ve outstayed my welcome.’ He took out a notepad, scribbled his address on one of the pages, tore it out and handed it to her. She let it flutter on to the Turkish carpet. ‘If you remember anything at all about Mary Edgar, however insignificant it may seem, you can find me at that address.’
She followed him down the stairs and, at the bottom, said, ‘You can leave through the front door, if you like.’
He turned to face her but she was closer than he expected and he tried to back away.
‘Why did you really go all the way to Jamaica?’ Her stare was curious.
‘I thought Mary’s murderer had fled there, so I followed him.’
‘You mean you thought William had killed her?’ She even managed a little laugh.
‘He lied about knowing her. I put pressure on him. He ran. Those aren’t the actions of an innocent man.’
Elizabeth seemed perplexed by his answer. ‘You really do seem to care who killed her, don’t you?’ She took a step towards him and stopped. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to judge you or suggest that what you’re doing isn’t a noble enterprise.’
‘But you’re wondering why I, or anyone else for that matter, should give a damn about a poor, dead mulatto girl?’ Pyke’s armpits were damp with perspiration.
To his surprise, her gaze softened a little. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I meant.’
Pyke took a step towards the door. ‘It was good finally to meet you, Miss Malvern.’
He held out his hand but she ignored it and instead leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek, lingering there for a few moments before whispering, ‘Please call me Elizabeth. I hope we’ll meet again soon.’
Outside, Pyke stood for a while staring up at the night sky, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had she noticed the way he had been looking at her? Had she somehow manipulated him from the start? Or had his questions caused offence to an essentially innocent person? As he walked along the street, Pyke took one final look at her house and saw her face disappear behind the curtains.
TWENTY-THREE
The window was open in the dining room and a soft breeze was blowing through the house. Felix was eating a piece of toast and marmalade. Pyke could hear Jo in the kitchen. He sat down next to Felix and ruffled his hair. Copper hopped into the room and rested his head on Pyke’s lap, wagging his tail.
‘Will Uncle Godfrey be coming to visit us soon?’ Felix asked, his mouth full of toast.
Pyke looked up at Jo, who’d entered the room carrying a pot of coffee and a smaller jug of milk. He told her to sit down, said he would make his own breakfast, but she poured him a cup of coffee and said she was cooking them both eggs and had to get back to the range or else they would burn.
‘We’ll invite him round for a meal. How does that sound?’
Felix smiled. ‘Can we have chicken? I like chicken.’
‘Whatever you like.’ Pyke waited for a moment. ‘Godfrey and Jo tell me you haven’t seen anything of Eric, the older boy who used to hang around outside Godfrey’s apartment.’
Felix stiffened. ‘No.’ But he wouldn’t look directly at Pyke.
‘No, you haven’t seen him?’
‘I did see him one more time. He said he’d kidnap me, force me to do whatever he told me to.’ Pyke expected Felix to well up or tremble at the memory but his eyes were clear and his voice steady.
‘And what happened?’
Felix stared down at the table.
‘Well?’
‘I found out where Uncle Godfrey hid his pistol.’ Felix bit his lip and then looked down at his hands. ‘I borrowed it. Next time I saw Eric, I aimed the pistol at him and said if he didn’t leave me alone, I’d use it.’
Pyke looked at his son, open mouthed. He tried to picture the lad waving a pistol in broad daylight and fought to reconcile two conflicting sentiments: anger, that Felix had put himself in such potential danger — if the pistol had gone off and he’d wounded or killed the older boy, he could have been facing a lengthy spell in prison or worse — and delight that he’d tried to address the problem himself.