Read Online Kill-Devil and Water by Andrew Pepper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew Pepper
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Crime, England, London, Murder, London (England), Crimes against, Investigation, Jamaica, Prostitutes, Sugar Plantations
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forward, all the way over the desk, and whispered, ‘And if I find out that Mary Edgar docked here, and you knew and didn’t tell me, I’m going to come back and smash your head against the desk until your skull cracks.’
Rowbottom’s indignation got the better of his fear, but only just. His chest swelled up and he spluttered, ‘I shan’t be spoken to in such an outrageous manner in my own office ...’
But by the time he had summoned up the courage to say these words, Pyke had already left the room.
‘An artist can only think, I mean truly think, in surroundings that befit him,’ Edmund Saggers said, glancing dismissively around the taproom at Samuel’s. ‘Do you imagine the Bard scribed King Lear while surrounded by gnawed chop bones, dead rats and sawdust that smelled like a hog’s arse?’ He tried to squeeze his giant backside into the wooden chair but it was like manoeuvring an omnibus into a space previously occupied by a wheelbarrow. ‘You’d better have a damned good reason for dragging me to such a lacklustre place at this ungodly hour of the morning.’
Pyke knew of cabmen who refused to take Saggers in their vehicles on account of his gargantuan girth, fearing he might permanently damage their vehicles’ axles. Their fears were not entirely misplaced, either. He wasn’t a tall man, standing at less than six feet, nor were his legs particularly broad and stout, considering the load they had to transport. What made the difference was his appetite and, as a consequence, a girth of quite staggering proportions. Roll upon roll of fat hung from the man’s midriff so that it seemed his whole body might sink into the ground. Feeding such a monstrosity mightn’t have been a problem for someone of George IV’s means but, for Saggers, who earned his living as a penny-a-liner, the task of satiating his appetite constantly preoccupied him. Because of his girth, he also had to have his clothes made for him: as a result, he possessed one outfit - tweed trousers, a tweed waistcoat and a tweed frock-coat - which he wore all the time, regardless of the weather, and which reeked of his unwashed body.
‘If you do exactly as I tell you, I’ll take you to lunch at the Café de l’Europe or any of those fancy restaurants on Haymarket.’
Saggers eyed him cautiously. ‘Anything on the menu?’
Pyke nodded.
‘Even the half-buck of Halnaker venison?’ It was a cut of meat that could easily have fed ten men. ‘Washed down by a bottle of their finest claret?’
‘Anything.’
‘Well, sir, as long as it doesn’t involve me having to morally compromise a young child, I’ll do it.’ He patted his stomach and grinned.
Saggers wrote ‘copy’ for newspapers about the grubbier aspects of London life - murders, suicides, coroner’s inquests, fires and all manner of calamities - and was paid one and a half pence for each line, a halfpenny rise from the sum that had given his ilk their name. A column in a morning paper might earn him thirty shillings, and he would then try to sell the same story to other newspapers, thereby tripling and sometimes even quadrupling this sum. Pyke had first met him through Godfrey; the penny-a-liner had chased down some details for his uncle’s book and had liaised with Pyke regarding some of his recollections. In fact, Saggers was closer to Pyke’s age than to Godfrey’s, but given their mutual appreciation of good food and fine wine, it was perhaps not surprising that Saggers and his uncle were friends, even if Godfrey always ended up paying for their meals. Indeed, Pyke had often wondered whether the obese journalist was merely using his uncle to indulge his colossal appetite. Still, Godfrey had always raved about the man’s ability to ferret out buried truths and any whiff of scandal. ‘I tell you,’ he had once said, ‘that fellow could walk into a temperance meeting and pick out a couple who’d been rutting on the
Rowbottom’s indignation got the better of his fear, but only just. His chest swelled up and he spluttered, ‘I shan’t be spoken to in such an outrageous manner in my own office ...’
But by the time he had summoned up the courage to say these words, Pyke had already left the room.
‘An artist can only think, I mean truly think, in surroundings that befit him,’ Edmund Saggers said, glancing dismissively around the taproom at Samuel’s. ‘Do you imagine the Bard scribed King Lear while surrounded by gnawed chop bones, dead rats and sawdust that smelled like a hog’s arse?’ He tried to squeeze his giant backside into the wooden chair but it was like manoeuvring an omnibus into a space previously occupied by a wheelbarrow. ‘You’d better have a damned good reason for dragging me to such a lacklustre place at this ungodly hour of the morning.’
Pyke knew of cabmen who refused to take Saggers in their vehicles on account of his gargantuan girth, fearing he might permanently damage their vehicles’ axles. Their fears were not entirely misplaced, either. He wasn’t a tall man, standing at less than six feet, nor were his legs particularly broad and stout, considering the load they had to transport. What made the difference was his appetite and, as a consequence, a girth of quite staggering proportions. Roll upon roll of fat hung from the man’s midriff so that it seemed his whole body might sink into the ground. Feeding such a monstrosity mightn’t have been a problem for someone of George IV’s means but, for Saggers, who earned his living as a penny-a-liner, the task of satiating his appetite constantly preoccupied him. Because of his girth, he also had to have his clothes made for him: as a result, he possessed one outfit - tweed trousers, a tweed waistcoat and a tweed frock-coat - which he wore all the time, regardless of the weather, and which reeked of his unwashed body.
‘If you do exactly as I tell you, I’ll take you to lunch at the Café de l’Europe or any of those fancy restaurants on Haymarket.’
Saggers eyed him cautiously. ‘Anything on the menu?’
Pyke nodded.
‘Even the half-buck of Halnaker venison?’ It was a cut of meat that could easily have fed ten men. ‘Washed down by a bottle of their finest claret?’
‘Anything.’
‘Well, sir, as long as it doesn’t involve me having to morally compromise a young child, I’ll do it.’ He patted his stomach and grinned.
Saggers wrote ‘copy’ for newspapers about the grubbier aspects of London life - murders, suicides, coroner’s inquests, fires and all manner of calamities - and was paid one and a half pence for each line, a halfpenny rise from the sum that had given his ilk their name. A column in a morning paper might earn him thirty shillings, and he would then try to sell the same story to other newspapers, thereby tripling and sometimes even quadrupling this sum. Pyke had first met him through Godfrey; the penny-a-liner had chased down some details for his uncle’s book and had liaised with Pyke regarding some of his recollections. In fact, Saggers was closer to Pyke’s age than to Godfrey’s, but given their mutual appreciation of good food and fine wine, it was perhaps not surprising that Saggers and his uncle were friends, even if Godfrey always ended up paying for their meals. Indeed, Pyke had often wondered whether the obese journalist was merely using his uncle to indulge his colossal appetite. Still, Godfrey had always raved about the man’s ability to ferret out buried truths and any whiff of scandal. ‘I tell you,’ he had once said, ‘that fellow could walk into a temperance meeting and pick out a couple who’d been rutting on the
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