The Detective Branch pm-4

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘I didn’t get myself into anything. I was just doing what I’m paid to do. I was fine when my only suspect was a former convict. But as soon as the investigation threatened to implicate men like Sir St John Palmer, the Saviour’s Cross suddenly turned up in my garden.’

  ‘So what do you do now?’ Tilling asked, looking around the cell.

  ‘The case is going to go directly to trial. Neither the prosecution nor I want a committal hearing. I know the basis of their case against me. It’s up to me, and the barrister I instruct, to dismantle it piece by piece.’ As Pyke said this, he realised that he’d already made up his mind to accept Wells’s offer.

  ‘Is that wise? What if the Crown’s lawyer comes up with something you aren’t expecting in the trial?’

  Pyke considered this for a moment. It wasn’t just the question of trusting Wells that he was hesitant about. ‘After a committal hearing, the magistrate would be duty bound to send me to somewhere like Coldbath Fields. At least here I can see visitors and prepare my defence with relative ease.’

  Tilling glanced around the cell again and said, ‘Yes, I suppose you do seem to be rather comfortable.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I didn’t steal this crucifix. I’d swear to that, on my son’s life.’

  ‘And for what it’s worth, I believe you. But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you this time. Nothing at all. Peel just wants this to go away. The last thing he needs is a scandal involving a project his name has been attached to.’

  ‘And so I’m the sacrificial lamb?’

  Tilling ignored the question. ‘Who do you think orchestrated this whole thing?’

  ‘Pierce.’

  Tilling made his way over to Pyke and inspected his hands, bruises still visible on his knuckles. ‘Because of what you did to him?’

  ‘This has been much longer in the planning. But I should have killed him when I had the chance.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ Tilling said, impassively. ‘So if not Pierce, who is leading this investigation for the police?’

  ‘Walter Wells, the acting superintendent.’

  ‘And is that a good thing? For you, I mean?’

  ‘I think he and I understand one another; I don’t think he has any great love for Pierce, either.’

  ‘I don’t know him very well, but I’ve heard on good authority that he’s going to be the new assistant commissioner. My old position.’

  ‘Not Pierce?’

  ‘Pierce? I’m not sure he was ever a possibility.’ Tilling looked at Pyke and sighed. ‘Just don’t expect Wells to ride to your rescue. He’s going to do as he’s told by Mayne and Rowan. The last thing he’ll want to do is rock the boat — or let you rock it for him.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Later that night, just before his candle burned out, the gaoler and two assistants came into the felons’ room and without explanation put Pyke in handcuffs and leg-irons. An hour or so later, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. They stopped outside his door. Pyke heard a jangling of keys and waited while the bolt was drawn back. Finally the door swung open. Squinting, Pyke looked up at the cloaked figure silhouetted in the half-light from the passageway. He saw the walking stick before he saw the man’s face, which was partly concealed by a top hat. The man limped into the cell and Pyke knew at once who he was. In his other hand, Benedict Pierce was carrying a wooden club. He pushed the door closed.

  ‘I’d like to tell you that I’ve come here to gloat, Pyke, but that would be a lie.’ Pierce looked around the room disapprovingly. ‘I can’t say I would have permitted such luxury. In the long run, I don’t suspect it will matter.’

  Each step caused Pierce to wince, and by the time he had made it to where Pyke was sitting, his face was lathered with sweat. Without another word, he raised the club and slammed it against the top of Pyke’s arm, the pain arriving a few moments later, a scalding sensation that tore up and down one side of his body. Grunting, Pierce raised the club again and this time drove it into Pyke’s midriff, cracking his ribs in the process. Another streak of pain tore across his chest.

  Pyke heard the club scything through the air before he saw it, the smooth, round end striking him in the midriff again. Pierce rested for a moment and then brought the head of the club down on Pyke’s hand, then his groin. The pain was unlike anything Pyke had ever known, and before he passed into unconsciousness, his agonised shriek bounced off the walls of the cell.

  When Pyke came around, it was already light and someone had removed the handcuffs and leg-irons, but even the slightest movement caused him to shout out in pain. Keeping as still as possible, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep. When he opened them next, he saw that Walter Wells was kneeling down next to him. ‘Drink this, old man, it’ll help with the pain,’ he said, cupping the back of Pyke’s head with his hand. Pyke tasted the laudanum on his lips and swallowed. ‘I don’t know how this could have happened. I left very clear instructions that he was not to be admitted to this room. I suppose it is his station house, but I can promise you it won’t happen again. Not that I can use this against him. Officially no one saw him. Officially you tripped and fell and did this to yourself.’ Pyke sipped some more of the laudanum and waited for it to have an effect. The relief spread from his stomach, a warm, numbing sensation. A few minutes later, his eyelids drooped and his arms became leaden.

  When Pyke next woke up, it was almost dark. Someone had lit a candle and a fire was spitting in the grate. Pyke raised his head slightly and grunted from the pain. He felt a hand on his brow, a soft, feminine touch; Sarah Scott was sitting next to him. When she saw that he was awake and had recognised her, she smiled and kissed him softly on the lips. Her skin glowed in the candlelight. She was so lovely to him in that moment that Pyke forgot about the pain. He tried to speak but she put a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Save your strength for now.’ She fed him some more laudanum and held his hand, her fingers coiled around his.

  He woke later in the night as someone shook him roughly by the collar. Startled, he sat up, the pain from his ribs causing him to wince. He hadn’t even heard the door open. Looking up, he saw Sergeant Russell. The man was grinning. There was someone else in the cell, too. Sir St John Palmer stepped out from behind Russell, his expression a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘I did try and warn you, Detective Inspector, but you refused to listen.’

  ‘Warn me about what?’

  ‘I have nothing against you personally but I’m afraid there’s no way back for you.’

  ‘No way back from what?’

  ‘I’ve heard about you, Detective Inspector; a curious specimen, by all accounts. I’m told you’re not averse to lining your own pockets. It made me wonder whether you were a man I could have done business with. You want to know why you’re there and I’m here?’

  ‘Does it look like I’m in need of a sermon?’

  ‘Two men each acquire a hundred pounds. For the sake of argument, let’s say that the spirit, if not the letter, of the law has been broken in both instances. The stupid man tries to spend the money and is caught. The clever man takes the hundred pounds and shares it out among his friends. Not as gifts, you understand, but as donations to worthy causes: charities, political campaigns. Very soon most men of a certain rank have received a little of this money. The man keeps some of it for himself, of course, but when questions are asked about the origins of this money, well, the man who’s asking the questions is quietly advised to stop. And when he doesn’t stop, the consequences are grave. Do you see what I’m trying to tell you?’ He was kneeling down in front of Pyke, as though addressing a child.

  ‘And who has benefited from your generosity in this instance? Mayne? Rowan? Pierce? The prime minister?’

  ‘Names are irrelevant. What matters is that the institutions of church and state are protected.’ He stood up and stretched his legs. ‘After all, no one wants to see socialism or anarchy.’

  ‘But there are plenty who’d pay good money
to see you swing from the noose.’

  Palmer glanced across at Russell, seemingly bored. ‘Now who’s giving the sermon?’

  ‘Tell me, then. Just how much did you steal from the Churches Fund?’

  But Palmer wasn’t listening. Instead he was looking at Russell. ‘What do you think? Shall we leave the good detective inspector with a parting gift?’

  Russell grinned, leaned over Pyke and drove his fist into Pyke’s already cracked ribs.

  It was another two days before Pyke could sit up properly and two more before he could think with any degree of clarity about his predicament. The laudanum had kept the pain at bay, but it had slowed him down and made his thinking foggy and vague. During that time, he had received further visits from Felix, who had been unable to find Villums; from Wells, who’d kept him abreast of developments in the case; from Sarah, who sat with him and kept him amused, and from his lawyer, Geoffrey Quince, QC, who Pyke had used before. He went through the Crown’s case and tried to work out a plan for their defence.

  Since the Crown’s case rested on Egan’s testimony, they had to destroy Egan’s credibility as a witness. Pyke knew that Egan would try to present himself as a businessman who imported silk and wine from the Continent. In part this was true, but it disguised the fact that the man earned most of his money from fencing stolen goods. Egan had been convicted of this crime twenty years earlier, and had served four years in Fleet prison. He had also been arrested within the past month on charges of receiving stolen goods. What had Whicher said? A few crates of wine. Perhaps Egan had offered to lie on the stand in the hope that the charges in this other matter would be dropped. In any case, Quince would tear him apart, if and when he stepped up to give evidence. The key to everything, Pyke decided, was finding Ned Villums, because he would know who had got to Egan. But Ned was nowhere to be found. No one knew where he was, Felix explained, a hint of panic in his voice.

  About a week after he had first been arrested, Pyke was visited by Wells and then by Quince. It was a Thursday afternoon. They both told him the same thing: the date of his trial had been set. He was due to go before the magistrate across the road at the Bow Street courthouse at nine o’clock on Monday morning.

  That meant he had less than three days to prepare his defence.

  ‘How is everything at St Matthew’s? Are they treating you well?’ Pyke tried to keep his tone upbeat.

  Felix nodded. The trial was just two days away and the boy looked scared.

  ‘As I understand it, you have your own bedroom?’

  Martin Jakes had written him a letter, explaining that he was happy to give Felix a roof over his head, but that Pyke would have to find an alternative arrangement if he was found guilty.

  ‘I miss our home. I miss Copper. I lie awake at night and I think about what’ll happen if they send you to prison.’

  Pyke shook his head, as though this wasn’t a possibility. In actuality, it wasn’t a possibility. If he was found guilty, it would be the noose.

  ‘And you have enough money for cab fares and to contribute to the expenses at the vicarage?’

  Felix chewed his lip and stared down at the stone floor. ‘Pyke.. if you’re found guilty, they’ll hang you, won’t they?’

  Pyke looked at his son and tried to think of a way of answering that didn’t involve telling the truth.

  On Saturday afternoon, Pyke was resting on his mattress: he had just finished the last of his laudanum and felt relaxed, even confident that Pierce wouldn’t prevail. A thin shaft of light had penetrated the barred window, casting its shadow on to the opposing wall. He heard footsteps and a rattle of keys. Moments later, the door swung open. Jack Whicher had removed his hat to enter the room and stood for a few moments, waiting for Pyke to say something.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me… but then again, in the light of what I’ve just found out, I couldn’t not come.’

  In truth, Pyke was glad to see his former confidant, even if the news he’d brought didn’t appear to be good.

  ‘You have to understand, Pyke, I had no knowledge that any of this was going to take place.’

  ‘Just tell me what you’ve heard, Jack.’

  ‘I’m assuming you know that Alfred Egan is going to testify against you? And they’ve managed to twist the old gaoler’s arm, too.’

  ‘Wells told me,’ Pyke said.

  Whicher nodded; Pyke could see the strain on his face. ‘But did he also tell you they’ve got another testimony?’

  Pyke sat up straight and felt his stomach knot. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone called Villums. Ned Villums. I take it you know who I’m talking about.’

  Instinctively Pyke dry-retched: he tried to stand up but his legs wouldn’t carry him. For a moment, he sat on the mattress, dazed. ‘ How?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know any of the details. I have a contact who works as a clerk in the courthouse across the road. He gave me a list of prosecution witnesses.’

  Pyke sat there on the mattress, shaking. It was inconceivable, unthinkable, that a man like Ned Villums would testify against him, or anyone else, in a courtroom. But somehow Pierce had got to him; somehow Pierce had broken him; and if Villums stood up and told the court what he knew, Pyke was as good as dead. It wasn’t just that Villums could lie about him having stolen the Saviour’s Cross; the man had first-hand knowledge of the many crimes Pyke had committed over the years. There were thefts he could talk about. Even murders.

  ‘Wells would have known about this, wouldn’t he?’

  Whicher pursed his lips and nodded. ‘I’d say so.’

  And he’d played it quite beautifully, Pyke thought. Convince Pyke to waive his right to a pre-trial hearing and keep him in the dark regarding the true threat to his liberty. Meanwhile, distract him with luxuries and laudanum. It was perfect. But why did Wells want him out of the way? Was it conceivable that he had been acting in consort with Benedict Pierce from the outset?

  ‘Who is he?’ Whicher asked, a few moments later.

  ‘You mean Villums? You don’t want to know. But he’s the one man whose testimony will almost guarantee I’ll swing from the noose.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘If he stands up and tells the court even a fraction of what I’ve done, what we’ve done together, I don’t stand a chance.’

  Whicher stood still, arms folded. Pyke couldn’t tell whether he was appalled by this revelation or not. ‘So what are you going to do?’ Whicher asked, finally.

  Rising unsteadily to his feet, Pyke shuffled across to where he was standing and clasped his shoulders. ‘You’re a good friend, Jack. I’m sorry about what I said before.’

  ‘I’m sorry too.’ Whicher’s smile turned into a grimace. ‘Pierce isn’t interested in me any more, now you’re in here.’

  ‘I could always try to delay the trial but I don’t think that would help. If Villums testifies, I’m finished.’

  Whicher offered an uncomfortable shrug. ‘I have no idea where they’re keeping him. I don’t imagine anyone knows.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack.’ Pyke tried to smile. ‘I’m not going to ask you to do anything illegal.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  Pyke returned to his mattress and sat down; he needed time to think. He was in a deep hole and there was no obvious way out.

  ‘I can’t ask you to do anything for me, Jack, but I’m hoping you could be persuaded to bring someone to see me.’ The first inkling of an idea was forming in Pyke’s head.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You remember Sean Rafferty? He was shot dead some time last month. His brother Conor drinks in the Blue Dog in St Giles.’

  ‘You want me to find him and ask him to come here?’

  ‘He’ll refuse at first, so you have to try and convince him it’ll be in his best interests. He’ll want to avenge the death of his brother. Tell him I can help.’

  Whicher didn’t speak for a moment or two. ‘Are you quite sure you want your fate to depend
on someone like Rafferty?’

  ‘In a day and a half, I’ll stand in front of a judge who’ll happily send me to the scaffold, if that’s what the jury tells him to do. I don’t see I have a choice in the matter.’

  The situation was too far gone for Pyke to feel any real anger towards Wells or indeed Pierce. That could come later, if and when he made it out of there. Nor did he have the time to engineer an escape. It was true that he’d been given the freedom of the cell, but he knew there were two men on the door at all times and everyone going in and out of the cell was searched. Still, for a while at least, he imagined what he would do when he next came face to face with Wells. Or Villums. That had been the bitterest of blows. He had known Villums for twenty years and had developed a certain respect for him. The loss of face for Villums was unimaginable, too. Even if he was testifying against a policeman, no one would do business with him again.

  Pyke found it hard to settle; he paced around the oblong room until he felt dizzy. And even though the pain from his ribs and broken fingers was almost unbearable, he resisted the temptation to finish the laudanum. That was how Wells wanted him; docile, strolling oblivious into an ambush. No, he had to stay focused and the pain would help him. Turning his thoughts back to Conor Rafferty, he tried to think what he might do if Whicher wasn’t able to find him or Rafferty decided not to come. Did he have another idea? It was Sunday tomorrow and the city shut down for the day. He took to counting the hours: thirty-nine until he was due to take his place on the stand.

  Later that evening Wells did come to see him. ‘You have to believe me,’ he said, almost pleading. ‘I knew nothing about it. I was just as much in the dark as you. I found out an hour ago and came here as quickly as I could.’ He shook his head. ‘I assume it’s bad news.’

  Pyke said nothing for a moment or two. ‘Jack Whicher came to see me this afternoon. He broke the news to me.’