Pyke assimilated this piece of information. Eventually he said, ‘You think it’s been on his mind.’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Where this interest has come from, for example?’
That drew a sharp frown. ‘He’s fourteen. He’s old enough to have his own questions.’
Pyke wondered whether someone at the school had been encouraging his son, but then dismissed the thought. One of the reasons Pyke had chosen the school in the first place was its non-denominational status and the fact it offered no religious instruction.
They heard Felix’s footsteps returning and Godfrey whispered, ‘I don’t want you to say anything to the lad just yet…’
They both looked up at the same time. Felix, who was almost as tall as Pyke and the spitting image of his mother, cocked his head and said, ‘Were you talking about me?’
Godfrey held out his hand to receive the glass of claret. ‘I was just asking your father about the Drury Lane murders. The three men shot dead in the pawnbroker’s.’
‘Oh.’ Felix thought about this for a moment. ‘It looked like you were talking about me, that’s all.’
‘Well, I was just asking your father whether you’d expressed an interest in the case,’ Godfrey added.
Pyke would have liked Felix to have been more interested in what he did for a living but the lad seemed to regard his work as vulgar. Long gone were the days when Felix had devoured the tales of the Newgate Calendar. Now, he was far more likely to have Plato’s Republic or a book about Florentine art on his bedside table.
‘Why on earth would I be interested in the exploits of criminals?’
‘You’d prefer it if such actions went unpunished? That men be permitted to kill each other with impunity?’ Pyke tried — and failed — to keep the irritation from his voice.
‘Maybe you’re right, Pyke, but the world can be such a beautiful place.’ Felix had taken to calling him Pyke in recent months, just like everyone else. He had also adopted an affected way of speaking and, on occasions, Pyke had come close to slapping him.
‘Beautiful for those who can afford beautiful things. For those who can’t grub together enough to live, it’s a different story.’
Felix shrugged. ‘Does the sunset cost anything? Or the view from the top of Primrose Hill?’
‘I don’t suppose someone living in the middle of Spitalfields has ever heard of Primrose Hill.’
Felix looked at him and glared. He was now caught in an argument he couldn’t win.
Later Pyke wondered whether he might have pressed his point too hard because Felix stood up suddenly and left the room without saying another word.
‘It’s just a phase, dear boy,’ Godfrey said gently.
‘I hope so.’ Pyke looked at his uncle and shook his head. ‘For the lad’s sake as much as mine.’
That night, Pyke lay in bed thinking about Felix and how different his life was to the one Pyke had known as a boy. He often wondered what his own childhood had really been like, whether it had been as good or as bad as he remembered. It was true that prior to his father’s death they had been poor, but he wouldn’t have known it at the time. Felix took so much for granted because for the most part he’d always been comfortable, well provided for. Pyke remembered sleeping under hessian sacks that scratched his skin; he remembered roaming the streets with other children, stealing his first apple; he remembered the hunger pains in his stomach when he had to go to bed without a meal and the smell of the Macassar oil that his father used to put in his hair before going to the tavern. It was funny what you remembered as you got older, things that you thought were lost for ever. When Felix was born, Pyke had never known a joy like it, and when his son was a young boy, Felix’s adoration had carried him through many a dark hour. Now all of that was gone, and though he wanted to be a better father he didn’t know how.
Lying there in the dark, his thoughts turned to Godfrey and how different life would be without him; mostly how different it would be between him and Felix. With Godfrey gone, it would just be the two of them, no one to mediate between them as the old man had done for as long as Felix had been able to talk. Why was it, Pyke wondered, that he didn’t know what to say to his son, how to talk to him? And why did he always feel he wasn’t doing enough for the lad? That he’d always somehow let Felix down? Or that he was a disappointment or an embarrassment to him? Still unable to sleep, Pyke turned his thoughts finally to the robbery. He imagined the first shot being fired, the gunman waiting for the smoke to clear, then firing again and again, until the room was silent. He thought about Walter Wells and his desire to cast the Irish as villains; about Pierce and his apparently ‘magnanimous’ decision to take up the vacant position as the head of Holborn Division; and finally about the detectives under his own command. But the last face he saw before he drifted off to sleep was Harry Dove’s: it was pressed against a dirty pane of glass, twisted and contorted, mouthing something that Pyke couldn’t quite fathom.
FOUR
The sky was the colour of dishwater, the air still damp from the rain that had swept in from the west, accompanied by a vicious wind that had torn lead slates from the roofs. It was no longer raining; a faint drizzle, almost a mist, had succumbed to the mild glow of the sun rising in the east, and the pavements and cobblestones were just beginning to dry.
The first wagon stopped at one end of Buckeridge Street and six police constables in uniform — long-tailed coats and top hats — alighted; a few minutes later, a second wagon pulled up behind it and then a third, just short of twenty hand-picked men assembling on the corner of Buckeridge and Church Streets, trying not to make a noise or draw attention to themselves. From within the rookery — a dense jumble of decrepit tenements, alleyways and courts that extended as far north as the British Museum — a cockerel crowed and a dog barked. The men conversed in whispers, glancing nervously up and down the narrow street as a shaft of watery sunlight cut through the surrounding rooftops. Finally a fourth wagon arrived and Walter Wells alighted. The acting superintendent stepped over the water pooled in the gutter and strode out in front of the other officers, the military man in his element, inspecting his troops before battle. Wells inhaled a pinch of snuff and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. The men had breakfasted well, Wells had seen to that; as a soldier, he knew that any army marched and fought on its stomach. Everything seemed to be in order.
Some of the dwellings were derelict — Buckeridge and Bainbridge Streets had both been earmarked for demolition; a new road linking High Holborn in the east and Oxford Street in the west was planned, cutting a swathe through the worst part of the rookery. Most of the buildings, however, were still occupied, if only by squatters, the poorest of the poor, who slept eight or ten to a room, defecated in the street, and cooked food on open fires in the yards or courts.
Wells took out his truncheon and indicated for his men to do likewise. Raising it up in the air, he waited for a moment, like a conductor, and then brought it down with a sudden jerk of his wrist. The constables filed out along the street, two congregating at each door. When they were all in place, Wells gave the signal and they issued a collective belly roar and crashed through the doors in unison, the noise shattering the silence and echoing up and down the narrow street. Wells stood there, sniffing the air, as the first bedraggled men were slung out on to the street, arms protecting their heads, while other policemen moved forward to throw them into the waiting wagons. Ignoring the screams of women and children, who had also been herded into the street, the policemen moved systematically from house to house, not stopping until the entire street had been cleared, and their truncheons were coated with a patina of blood. Only then did they consider the desolation they had caused, the screaming and the wailing as the first of the wagons, jammed full of bodies, lurched forward, the horses buckling under the strain despite the crack of the driver’s whip.
Wells gave P
yke a full description of what had happened later that morning when Pyke found him in the corridor outside the holding cells underneath the old watch-house. Wells’s division and number — A1 — was manifest on the collar of his coat; his truncheon was clipped to his belt.
The cells were full to the point of overflowing and the confined space smelled of body odour and gin. Wells greeted Pyke enthusiastically and told him that the raid had been a qualified success. They hadn’t found the gunmen but he assured Pyke that it would only be a matter of time.
Pyke listened, trying to reconcile his anger with the notion that Wells outranked him and hence wouldn’t welcome the criticism. It was stupid, what they had done, stirring up unnecessary trouble, but Pyke didn’t want to make an enemy out of Wells just yet.
‘I spoke to one of the Rafferty brothers yesterday at the Blue Dog on Castle Street. He told me that a hundred men would vouch that he and his brothers were there at the time of the robbery.’
‘And you didn’t think to share this information with me?’
‘Your mind seemed to be made up.’ Pyke waited. ‘Just because a handful of Irishmen were seen firing their guns on wasteland doesn’t mean they walked into Cullen’s shop and shot three men in cold blood.’
Wells eyed him suspiciously. ‘I don’t like to say it, sir, but you’re beginning to sound like a papist appeaser.’
Pyke let the insult linger in the air between them. It didn’t especially bother him — he’d been called a lot worse.
Perhaps sensing he’d pushed the matter too far, Wells softened his expression. ‘Notwithstanding the smoke and mirrors of their idolatrous religion, if you’d seen what I saw this morning, fifty men, women and children crammed into dwellings that weren’t built to house more than ten, you might agree that we are being overrun by papists.’
‘And beating a few of them over the head with truncheons is going to take care of the problem?’
Wells looked up and down the narrow corridor and shook his head, disappointed by Pyke’s response. ‘I see we’re never going to agree on this issue but perhaps, Detective Inspector, I could have some assurance that in the future you will keep me informed on matters pertaining to this investigation?’
‘If you’ll let me know when you intend to drag half of the Irish poor in here to answer questions.’
They regarded one another for a moment or two but it was Wells who broke the silence. Brightening, he slapped Pyke on the arm and said, ‘I’ll do what I can, Detective Inspector. I hope you’ll do likewise.’ When Pyke nodded, he smiled and added, ‘I’m quite certain we will get along together just fine.’
Pyke said he hoped this would be the case and waited. He could tell that Wells had something else on his mind.
‘Actually, Detective Inspector, I wanted to talk to you about Superintendent Benedict Pierce.’
‘Pierce?’ As ever, when the man’s name was mentioned, Pyke felt his skin prickle.
‘Your antipathy towards him is hardly a secret. And by all accounts he is less than fond of you. I heard that he sought to thwart your appointment as head of the Detective Branch?’
Pyke just shrugged. He’d heard the same rumour and suspected it to be true. ‘I’ve made no secret of my low opinion of Pierce.’
‘Quite, quite,’ Wells said, suddenly adopting a more amicable tone, ‘and between you and me, I commend your judgement. While I would never articulate such thoughts in public, I am happy to concede that I find the man to be untrustworthy and unctuous. I am telling you this in confidence, of course.’
‘Fine,’ Pyke said, trying to assess whether Wells’s disparagement of Pierce was genuine or not — and why he had chosen to talk to Pyke about it.
‘You will perhaps have wondered why Superintendent Pierce volunteered to assume command of the Holborn Division.’
‘I have my ideas.’
‘Such as?’
‘He intends to meddle in this investigation. Perhaps he wants to take the credit for any success, or he simply wants to show me up. He still has his admirers in the Detective Branch.’
Wells considered this. ‘Perhaps you know information that could scupper his ascent up the greasy pole.’
A moment’s silence passed between them. Pyke held Wells’s gaze and tried to work out whether he was just fishing for information. ‘Perhaps, but I’m sure he knows things about me that could be just as damaging,’ Pyke said, eventually.
‘Then it might be as well to collect as many friends in high places as possible.’ Wells paused. ‘Perhaps you know that the assistant commissioner’s position is soon to be filled. What you may not know, however, is that Pierce intends to offer himself as a candidate.’
‘But he’s only just been appointed as superintendent of the Holborn Division.’
Wells shrugged. ‘You’ll understand, Pyke, I am not without self-interest in this matter. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I consider myself to be a worthy candidate for the position — or at least more worthy than Pierce.’
‘If it came down to a straight choice between you and Pierce, you can rest assured that I wouldn’t recommend Pierce.’
That seemed to gratify the former soldier and he grinned and clapped Pyke on the back. ‘Capital, old chap. Capital. And I’ll do my utmost not to interfere in your investigation. How does that sound?’
When Lockhart brought the crossing-sweeper to Pyke’s office later that day, the dishevelled and slightly pungent man kept to his story and confirmed everything that Lockhart had said. As soon as the shots were fired, the crossing-sweeper said, the policeman had hurried off in another direction. That was how he knew the man had a limp, he added. Lockhart remained in the room while Pyke questioned the sweeper, his expression slightly smug. Once the man had said his piece, Pyke thanked both him and Lockhart and gave the former a few shillings for his time.
Pyke barely had a moment to gather his thoughts when Billy Gerrett knocked on his door and fell into the room. His large, round face was still glistening with sweat from the run up the stairs. ‘We know who one of the victims was.’
If it had been Whicher or Lockhart, they might have seen Pyke’s involuntary flinch. As it was, Gerrett was too wrapped up in his news.
‘Who?’
A drop of sweat fell from Gerrett’s chin and landed a few inches from the tip of Pyke’s boots.
‘Harry Dove,’ Gerrett said. ‘The one who was shot in the back.’
‘And this identification has been corroborated?’
Gerrett nodded briskly. ‘Two independent witnesses. Both credible.’
Pyke stared up at Gerrett’s jowly face and his mop of greasy blond hair. ‘And what could they tell us about this man?’
‘One said he used to work at the Old Cock in Holborn; the other that he lives somewhere on Finsbury Square.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘Well, I told Lockhart and Shaw…’
‘That’s fine,’ Pyke said, trying to appear more genial. ‘Just don’t divulge his name to anyone outside the department. That understood?’ When Gerrett nodded, Pyke added, ‘Have you checked the files?’
Again Gerrett nodded.
‘And?’
‘There’s nothing on Dove.’
Pyke knew this already, but he tried to appear sanguine. ‘Of course, it could be that he was just a customer. Unlucky man finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
But the implications were lost on Billy Gerrett. He nodded blankly and waited for Pyke to congratulate him on a job well done.
After Gerrett left, Pyke opened the filing cabinet, removed a wad of route-papers from the previous six months and put them on his desk. It took him half an hour to find what he’d been looking for. On the fifth of March, a burglary had been reported at the private residence of Archdeacon Wynter; the items stolen included a communion plate and a jewelled cross. Pyke made a note of the archdeacon’s address, put the reports back in the cabinet, and sat in his chair, trying to recall why no one in t
he Detective Branch had been asked to investigate this particular burglary.
The following day, a Sunday, Pyke spent the morning with Felix, a ritual they had fallen into following Emily’s death. At first it had been a genuine pleasure to go for a walk or a ride in a carriage with his son, a weekly event he would look forward to and which the boy seemed to enjoy as well. In the last few years, however, this ritual had dwindled from a weekly event to a monthly one, a slow, unspoken retreat from the intimacy they’d once known, and now, when Pyke suggested they go to the zoo or take a ride out to the country, his son responded with a dead-eyed shrug, not rejecting the idea but not showing any enthusiasm either. Pyke wasn’t necessarily upset by this but he couldn’t stand Felix’s distance, the fact that the lad spent so much time with his head in a book. He’d tried to ask, on a few occasions, what interested the boy or what exactly he saw himself doing in the future, but Felix would only look at him with a pained expression and say he didn’t know. Pyke loved him, of course, but he worried about what the school that cost him so much money was turning Felix into. Privately he was glad Felix had not yet become some kind of adolescent gentleman, but the lad’s apparent thirst for knowledge had turned him against more earthly pursuits.
That morning, they had aimlessly toured the deserted streets of the West End in the back of a hackney carriage, then Pyke had given up the carriage and made them walk from the edge of Regent’s Park all the way to Holborn. It had started to rain after the first ten minutes and they completed the hour-long stroll in grudging silence, Felix a few steps behind him, hands buried in his pockets.
‘There’s a man I need to talk to,’ Pyke said, as they neared his intended destination. He reached into his coat and retrieved a few coins. ‘Here, that’s for the fare home.’
Felix took the coins, his eyes barely acknowledging Pyke. Pyke supposed no more would be said, but then the lad surprised him.
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