The Detective Branch pm-4

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘Don’t mistake me, Sarah. I think the rationality we all cling to is paper-thin. Scratch a little and you’ll find an ugly world where goodness and morality have no place.’

  Sarah seemed to agree with his point. ‘That’s what I feel when I paint.’

  Pyke thought about the image he’d seen in her cottage. ‘What I saw in your canvas was either the punishment of a sinful woman by a vengeful God, or a world in which God doesn’t exist.’

  ‘That’s what I liked about Brendan. Even as a priest, he was able to countenance the notion that perhaps God wasn’t, isn’t, who we’re told he is.’ She drew closer to Pyke. ‘God is never simply vengeful on the one hand, and omnipotent and forgiving on the other.’

  Pyke looked into her eyes, wanting to bridge the gap that existed and had always existed between them. He thought briefly about Ebenezer Druitt’s claim that she had killed her own child but dismissed it at once. Druitt, he decided, had been trying to play games with him.

  ‘But you do believe in the existence of a spirit world?’

  ‘Just because we can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.’ She paused, seemingly afraid to say more.

  Pyke thought fleetingly about what Godfrey had said just before his death: once you’re gone, you’re gone. It was just starting to sink in that the old man wasn’t coming back. ‘In the end, life is arbitrary. Things happen for no ostensible reason, good and bad. To acknowledge that, to truly acknowledge it, is terrifying.’

  ‘But patterns do exist, even if we call them coincidences. Or premonitions.’ Sarah let her hand settle on top of his. ‘I know you don’t give any credence to what I might see…’

  Pyke wanted to dismiss this idea out of hand but even in the darkness he was aware of the anxiety in her face. ‘What is it, Sarah?’ he said gently.

  ‘I’m worried about you.’ She withdrew her hand and turned away from him. ‘The other night I had a dream. I found you in a room. Your nose had been cut off, your teeth pulled out, your fingers had been removed. And your eyeballs were being gouged out by a flock of birds.’

  ‘Some people would call that a nightmare.’

  ‘The last time I had a dream that vivid, my son died the following night.’

  They stood for a moment or two in silence. Pyke dismissed her premonition, but there were other less charitable thoughts he couldn’t let go of. Since his last exchange with Druitt, he had been racking his brains to think how the felon could have known about his choice of reading. The only answer was that someone had broken into his house and passed the information back to Druitt. And for some reason, he had thought about Sarah. In one sense it was ridiculous, absurd even, to imagine that she would do anything to help Druitt. Druitt had murdered her child; she despised him; the two of them despised each other. But what if they didn’t? What if their mutual loathing was just a front? Sarah knew where he lived. She could have slipped in unnoticed, just as she could have sent Pyke the letter directing him to No. 28 Broad Street. Pyke didn’t like to believe she might be capable of such deception, but how well did he really know her?

  ‘I’m telling you this because I care for you; not because I’m trying to frighten you.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. If you’re right, what can I do? If you’re wrong, and I hope you are wrong, well, life continues as before.’

  Sarah bit her lip and looked away. Then she threaded her arms around him and pulled him close, her head resting just under his chin. He could feel her shivering. When she next looked at him, her eyes were distraught. She was grieving, Pyke told himself, for her child, and perhaps also for Brendan Malloy. That was it. She needed him and he could help her. That thought reassured him, until he felt the tightness in his stomach, the familiar stirring in his groin.

  When they finally embraced, it was a coy, almost chaste kiss, their lips barely touching. Her eyes were closed as she whispered, ‘I’ve taken a room that’s not far from here.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The following morning was bitterly cold, and despite the fire burning in the grate of the main office of the Detective Branch, they’d all decided against shedding their outdoor clothes. Still, the collective mood was not one that reflected the icy temperature. Shaw and Lockhart had some information they wanted to impart.

  ‘It’s about the men who tore up Mrs Keate’s room, just after she’d moved out,’ Shaw said, beaming.

  ‘We went back to the building and talked to the neighbours,’ Lockhart chipped in. ‘This time, one of them was willing to talk to us. He said he recognised a couple of the men. Told us they worked for George Culpepper.’

  Wells had just walked into the room and Pyke repeated what Lockhart had just said. ‘For those of you who don’t know him,’ Pyke added, ‘Culpepper runs what we think is the largest swell mob in St Giles. He’s a suspect, perhaps the main suspect, in the matter of Sean Rafferty’s murder.’

  Given Wells’s reaction the last time he’d mentioned this, Pyke half-expected a similar outburst, but the acting superintendent merely nodded.

  ‘The two boys who were murdered, Gregg and Clough, were part of Flint’s mob,’ Pyke said. ‘We think Culpepper killed Flint and took over.’

  And now Culpepper’s men had gone after Keate’s mother. Pyke tried to work out what this meant but for the moment the connection was beyond him.

  ‘What it does mean,’ he said, a few moments later, ‘is we should make Culpepper’s life as uncomfortable as possible.’ Looking at Wells, he added, ‘Can we rely on reinforcements from the executive department to make that happen?’

  Wells sucked in some air through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll do what I can but I’m short on men as it is.’

  Briefly Pyke’s thoughts turned back to Sarah Scott, the warmth of her body next to his, the softness of her creamy white skin. He had left her unwillingly at dawn and could still taste her parting kiss.

  ‘Culpepper runs gin palaces, brothels, gambling clubs, teams of pickpockets and numerous slop-shops, a whole empire. At the moment, he’s secure and in control. We need to change that.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll round up all the men I can spare. But I’ll do it in my own way and in my own time.’

  Jack Whicher found Pyke in his office; he was carrying a file and placed it carefully on the desk. ‘I got that from one of the clerks in the commissioners’ office. It’s information about Sergeant Mark Russell’s career as a metropolitan policeman.’ Pyke had asked Whicher to dig up information about the man only the day before, and was surprised at how quickly he’d been able to do so.

  Pyke took the file and scrutinised its contents. ‘Beat constable for three years, K Division, Stepney, followed by two years in A Division here at the Yard and then a promotion to sergeant and a transfer to Kensington Division.’ It didn’t tell him much. There was nothing else in the file to indicate that Russell was either good or bad at his job. Given that the man had been promoted, Pyke had to assume the former.

  ‘A Division,’ Whicher said, a few moments later. ‘You’d think Wells might remember him.’

  Pyke had already arrived at the same conclusion. ‘Perhaps. But it’s the largest division and there must be, what, two or three hundred constables.’

  Later, Pyke ran into Wells at the bottom of the staircase. ‘Walter, I need your help with something. I’m looking into the way the London Churches Fund has been administered.’

  Pyke had thought long and hard about whether to tell him about Sir St John Palmer and his association with the Fund. In the end, he’d decided that Wells would find out soon enough and, anyway, he needed as much support within the New Police as he could get.

  Briefly he explained what the Fund was and who sat on its executive board. Wells’s face darkened as he did so. ‘Has it occurred to you that they won’t allow your investigation to taint the Fund’s good name?’

  ‘And by “they” you mean?’

  ‘The prime minister sits on the board. So does the Bishop of London. Doesn’t th
at tell you something?’

  ‘And I’m meant to turn a blind eye to any malpractice that has occurred?’

  ‘I sympathise with your predicament, Pyke, but I’ve heard of this man, Palmer. He’s well connected.’

  ‘His company is overseeing the renovations of the station-house. I met him briefly a few days ago. He was talking to Sir Richard.’

  Wells digested this new piece of information. ‘That doesn’t make your task any easier, does it?’

  Pyke waited for someone to pass by and said, ‘You remember that sergeant I was asking you about, Russell? He used to be a constable under you in A Division.’

  ‘Russell, you say?’ Wells looked thoughtful. ‘No, I can’t remember the man. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason.’

  Wells seemed exhausted. ‘Look, have you got any evidence to back up these suspicions regarding Palmer and the Churches Fund?’

  When Pyke didn’t answer, Wells shook his head. ‘In that case, they’ll flay you alive and throw the morsels to the birds.’

  It made Pyke think of Sarah’s dream; a flock of birds pecking out his eyes.

  The brothel that Clare Lewis ran was situated above a gin and beer shop at the corner of Great White Lion Street and Queen Street, just along from the Seven Dials. There were ten other brothels that Pyke knew of in the vicinity, and probably more that he didn’t know of. None of them was especially salubrious, at least in comparison with the gentlemen’s clubs of St James’s and Haymarket, where you could smoke a cigar and drink a brandy before availing yourself of the services. Still, most of the men who visited these places didn’t expect or even demand refinement. They wanted a private room, a solid mattress and a woman who would do as she was told and pretend to enjoy it. Clare’s place was as good as any other, was better even, because she treated her women well and paid them a decent wage. But Pyke hadn’t known it belonged to George Culpepper. If he had known, perhaps he wouldn’t have gone there. It was Clare who kept drawing him back. Her slim, wiry figure, her straw-blonde hair cut unfashionably short in the style of a pageboy and her dirty laugh, which never failed to make him smile. And it was the information she sometimes fed him. As Pyke always told his men, a detective was only as good as his sources.

  He found Clare in her room. She had been writing a letter and the quill was still in her hand when he knocked on the door and pushed it open. Clare glanced at his reflection in her looking glass. ‘I didn’t think I’d seen the last of you,’ she said, once he had closed the door behind him.

  Pyke took a few steps into the room and stopped. The bed was unmade, and for a brief moment he wondered who else had been there that morning. ‘I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory the last time we met.’

  This time Clare turned around. ‘Is that as good an apology as I’m likely to get?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said what I said.’ He hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t have said it in the way I did.’

  Clare spun around on her stool, so that she was facing him, and ran her fingers through her short, fluffy hair. ‘That’ll have to do, I suppose.’

  ‘But I stand by the general sentiment. And I was still hoping you might ask a few well-placed but discreet questions.’

  ‘I’ve done so already. What master wants, master gets.’ She folded her arms and waited.

  ‘Are you going to make me beg?’

  ‘A nice idea but I haven’t got anything to tell you.’

  Pyke waited for her to continue.

  ‘I mentioned it to someone. They’ll remain anonymous. I was told if I valued my life, I wouldn’t bring it up again. The last person who did, the mother of one of the boys, ended up dead. Strangled and dumped in the river. I’m told the body was never recovered.’ The strain on her face was visible.

  ‘I was under the impression both boys were orphans.’

  ‘They are now.’

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think Georgie had done something to those boys himself. Or at least he knows what happened to them.’

  Clare fiddled with the brooch attached to her blouse. She may not have remembered but Pyke was the one who’d bought it for her. ‘You should have seen him after you left the other day. He beat the lad who was guarding the door, the one you walked past, within an inch of his life. All that was left was a quivering mass. He made us all watch, too.’

  ‘At least now you know who you’re dealing with.’

  Clare looked at him and shook her head slightly. ‘You think I don’t know Georgie is an animal?’

  ‘Then why are you still working for him?’

  ‘I don’t have a choice. Morals are a luxury of the wealthy. Maybe you’ve forgotten that.’

  ‘I don’t want you to do anything that puts you or anyone you know in danger,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

  ‘But if you were to hear something about those boys… or why Georgie is interested in the family of a dead man called Morris Keate

  … I’d like to think you’d come and find me.’

  ‘Keate?’

  ‘He was the one who was executed for killing the boys.’ Pyke looked searchingly into her face. ‘Have you heard the name?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Clare turned around and glanced at her reflection in the looking glass.

  ‘But you’re not sure?’ He had seen the look on her face and heard the hesitation in her voice.

  Clare picked up her quill and dipped it in the pot of ink. ‘Goodbye, Pyke. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure.’

  Pyke had to wait for over half an hour in the marble-floored entrance hall of Sir St John Palmer’s enormous neoclassical house before the butler returned and said that Palmer would see him in the drawing room. During this time he’d noted the three men guarding the gates at the front of the property, all armed with pistols, and, after a brief excursion to the back of the house, a similar presence in the rear garden.

  As he followed the butler to the drawing room, their footsteps echoed through the building. Palmer was standing in the bay window overlooking the front lawn. Even after he’d been introduced, Palmer’s attention remained fixed on something outside, and it was only after the butler had retreated, closing the door behind him, that Palmer finally turned around.

  He looked older and frailer than Pyke remembered, his silver hair not quite as neat as it had been, his face thinner and his shoulders slightly hunched. But he moved across the room with a surprising grace and took Pyke’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Detective Inspector?’ He smiled easily, as though he and Pyke were old friends.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me about your relationship with Charles Harcourt Hogarth.’ Pyke looked into Palmer’s face. ‘He died a few weeks ago.’

  Palmer’s expression didn’t change. ‘Do you mind telling me why you’d like to know this, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘We’re currently investigating a possible link between his death and the murder of Isaac Guppy.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with me?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘Well, for a start, I am right in thinking you knew Hogarth, aren’t I, sir?’

  ‘Hogarth was an alderman in the City Corporation. Inevitably our paths crossed from time to time.’

  Pyke looked around the sparsely furnished, high-ceilinged room. ‘Was he involved with the London Churches Fund?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Palmer said, without having to think about it. ‘Why would you ask that, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Guppy was, though, wasn’t he? I believe he held a relatively minor administrative role,’ Pyke said, remembering the words of the bishop.

  ‘I’m afraid I never met this man Guppy. I knew Hogarth slightly, although I still don’t understand why you felt it necessary to come to my house to ask me these questions.’

  ‘I’m told that you’re one of the leading figures in the London Churches Fund. Is that correct?’

  ‘I’ve played my own smal
l part in bringing religious education to the darker quarters of the capital.’ Palmer gave a bright smile. ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Detective Inspector. I wouldn’t like to think I’m a suspect in some matter or another. For your sake as much as mine.’

  Pyke frowned. ‘Why for my sake?’

  Palmer went back to the window and almost put his face against the glass pane. ‘I’ve made it my business to amass a good number of friends in the New Police — an organisation for which I have a great deal of admiration. If I felt my reputation was being unfairly maligned, I would have to let one of my friends know, and I’m guessing they could make life very difficult for the person involved.’

  Pyke looked down at the polished marble floor; he could almost see his reflection in it. Sensing he had to tread more carefully, he adopted an abject tone. ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything, Sir St John. I’m just making it my business to talk, discreetly and of course confidentially, to anyone who knew both Hogarth and Guppy.’

  Palmer nodded firmly. ‘Just doing your job, eh? Well, I suppose I can’t object to that.’

  Pyke took a few steps towards Palmer. Through the window, he could see the men patrolling the back of the house. ‘I’ve never heard of a building contractor having to be guarded by men armed with pistols. Tell me, is that normal in the circles you move in?’

  For the first time, Pyke saw the faintest of cracks in Palmer’s facade. ‘What I do, sir, in the privacy of my own home, is none of your business.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re worried that someone might be intending to cause you harm. In which case, maybe we, as the Metropolitan Police, could be of some assistance?’ Pyke looked at the contractor and smiled.

  Palmer’s response was interrupted as the butler opened the door and cleared his throat. ‘You wanted something, Sir St John?’

  Palmer turned around and looked out on to his perfectly manicured lawn. ‘Please show the detective inspector to the front door.’

  It was difficult to tell whether anything had been gained from the exchange with Palmer, and as Pyke travelled back into London, he thought about the older man’s threat to go over his head and wondered how Sir Richard Mayne would react to such an overture.