At the entrance, major-domos were collecting invitations. There was a policeman in uniform standing there, seemingly in a supervisory role. Certainly the way he was barking orders at other officers attested to his seniority. As Pyke tried to slip past, the man put out his arm and read the division and number on Pyke’s collar: E17.
This was the division and letter he’d chosen because E was Holborn, Pierce’s division, and Pyke had met an inspector who worked there a few months ago. ‘Inspector Connell, Holborn Division,’ he said, ‘I’m to report to the Court of Aldermen.’
The man may have seen his pistol but he didn’t comment on it. Raising his hand, he muttered, ‘Up the main stairs, you’ll see it on the left-hand side.’
Pyke had never worn a uniform before, at least not during his time as commander of the Detective Branch, and he was surprised at how uncomfortable it was, the woollen material coarse and scratchy against the skin. It was also hard getting used to the stovepipe hat, the way it didn’t quite sit comfortably on top of his head. Still, the anonymity it afforded him was priceless. No one batted an eyelid at him and he was allowed to pass freely through into the main banquet hall.
Pyke had been there once before, about four years earlier, and on that occasion he had dragged a murder suspect into the kitchens and thrust his arm into a boiling vat of soup. The hall hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. As austere as it was grand, it was filled with long tables that ran in three lines the full length of the room, and which were now decorated with the finest linen, glass and china. There were monuments to great men who had plundered and murdered their way into the history books, and at each end of the hall were two vast stained-glass windows. Pyke had walked past the City Arms on his way into the hall and had noticed the motto: Domine, dirige nos. Lord direct us. Direct us to do what? he wondered. To embezzle? To murder? The contented hum of a thousand polite conversations rippled around the room. These were the great and the good, come to slap one of their own on the back, a man of sixty years who had lied, cheated, even killed.
Pyke approached someone who appeared to be the major-domo in charge and muttered, ‘Palmer around? I’ve got an urgent message for him.’
The man glanced down at his fob-watch. ‘There’s a private ceremony for him about to start in the Common Council room.’
At the top of the stairs an orderly line of guests was waiting to be admitted into the room. He saw Hogarth’s widow and quickly turned his back to her. There were no other policemen in the vicinity and, worried that he was too visible, Pyke hurried past the queue and turned a corner at the end of the corridor. He made sure that no one was following him then tried the first door he came upon. It opened and he let himself into the room. It was an antechamber off the main council room but was connected to it via a narrow door cut into the stone wall. On the other side, he could hear the excited buzz of conversation.
Emboldened, Pyke opened the narrow door and entered the chamber as the first guests began to stream through the main door. He made his way to the front, where a man he presumed to be the Lord Mayor was whispering in the ear of a guest. Pyke cleared his throat. ‘Urgent message for Sir St John Palmer, sir.’
‘M’lud.’ He peered at Pyke through his monocle and frowned. ‘You should refer to me as m’lud.’
‘I need to pass a message to Sir St John Palmer as a matter of urgency,’ Pyke replied, through gritted teeth.
‘I believe he was called down to the library a few minutes ago by another of you chaps.’ It was the other man who addressed him.
When Pyke turned and began to hurry towards the door, the man called out, ‘You tell him we’d like to make a start here in the next five minutes.’
Back in the vast atrium at the top of the main staircase, the queue had dwindled to almost nothing. Pyke had already started to descend the stairs when he saw Fitzroy Tilling and Sir Robert Peel coming up in the opposite direction. They were deep in conversation, and Pyke thought he might be able to slip past them unnoticed. But as they drew level Tilling turned to him, as if startled from a reverie, and their eyes met. Pyke nodded once and kept on walking. Only when he had reached the bottom of the stairs did he glance behind him. Tilling was still talking to Peel but Pyke knew he wouldn’t let this go, which meant he had even less time than he’d imagined. The library was somewhere on the east side of the building, so he now broke into a run, no longer worried about drawing attention to himself. Passing a servant, Pyke paused momentarily and asked where the library was, then started running again, almost even before the man had pointed it out.
It was quiet at this end of the building, away from the guests and the servants scurrying in and out of the kitchens, and he stopped at the entrance to the library, vast oak bookcases towering from floor to ceiling ahead of him. He couldn’t hear any voices; there weren’t even any librarians or porters around. The library was lit by gas-lamps affixed at regular intervals along the panelled walls, and the jets of light produced a slight hissing sound. He saw a shadow pass across one of the bookcases and moved forward very slowly, his pistol drawn. Making as little noise as possible, he came to the end of one of the cases and peered around the corner. That was when he saw them; Palmer and Wells both dressed in their formal attire. They weren’t talking, they weren’t even moving, and it wasn’t until he moved out a little farther that Pyke saw why. Luke Gibb, the man Pyke had known as Eddie Lockhart, had a shiny, twin-barrelled pistol aimed in their direction. As far as Pyke could tell, no one had noticed him. He slid silently along to the far end of the bookcase, so that he would be nearer Gibb when he made his move.
Unless he acted quickly, Gibb would squeeze the trigger and it would all be over. Gripping his pistol in his right hand, Pyke raised the barrel and stepped out into the light.
Wells saw him first and instinctively turned his head. Perhaps he assumed Pyke was a policeman and was there to save them.
Pyke had his pistol aimed directly at Luke Gibb.
‘Put it down, Luke. Just put down the pistol and we can talk.’ Pyke took another step towards him.
‘Listen to him, Gibb,’ Pyke heard Wells say. ‘We can arrive at an arrangement suitable to all parties. Isn’t that right, Detective Inspector?’
So Wells had recognised him. It changed nothing. Pyke took another step towards Gibb, the pistol still aimed at the man’s head. He was now equidistant between Gibb, Wells and Palmer.
Gibb’s pistol was now trained on Palmer. ‘This is your chance, too, Pyke. These are the men who would’ve seen you step out on to the scaffold.’
In the distance, Pyke could hear raised voices and footsteps. Tilling, and perhaps others, would be looking for him.
‘Let me do what I came to do, and you’ll never see me again,’ Gibbs continued. ‘I’ll send you the accounts. You can do what you want with them.’
Wells said to Pyke, ‘Like it or not, Detective, you’re one of us now.’
‘If we let them walk away, it means my brother, both of my brothers, died for nothing.’
This was the man, Pyke thought, who had taken a sledgehammer to Isaac Guppy, who had nailed Charles Hogarth to a wall and who had stabbed Adolphus Wynter.
Without warning, Pyke squeezed his trigger, the blast shattering the eerie stillness of the room. The shot struck Gibb on the side of his face and tore off part of his cheek, mouth and nose. He slumped to the floor, crashing against the bookcase behind him.
Palmer and Wells remained rooted to the spot, too stunned to move. Calmly Pyke bent over and retrieved the pistol from Gibb’s warm grasp.
Now the shouts were close by and Pyke could hear an avalanche of footsteps closing in. Wells started to say, ‘I knew you’d come around in…’ Raising the barrel of Gibb’s pistol, Pyke shot him squarely in the face, the rest of the sentence lost in a bloody gurgle. Without hesitation, he turned towards Palmer, who had started to run, and fired the other barrel; the shot hit him on the back of his head and he stumbled forward. The air was thick with the smell of powde
r, and it was hard to see more than a few paces in front of him. But while no one knew or could see what had really happened, Pyke knew the smoke would clear quickly and the others would soon be upon him. Bending down, he put the pistol back into Gibb’s hand and, retrieving his own weapon, he held it up in the air and shouted, ‘Three men down. Gibb shot Wells and Palmer, I got here too late. He tried to run; I didn’t have a choice.’
Domine, dirige nos.
Lord direct us.
Pyke let his pistol slip through his fingers and it clattered on to the hard, polished floor. Then there were four, five, six men around him, policemen in uniform shouting at him to yield, the ripe, acrid smell of blood.
THIRTY
The immediate aftermath of the shootings was swift and momentous; with Palmer, Wells and a policeman dead, rumours swirled uncontrollably among the guests that a murderer with a lust for blood was still rampaging through the building, and five hundred guests fought with one another and the army of policemen to escape from the building. Wealthy men wearing satin cravats, silk neckties and velvet waistcoats trampled over panicking women who could barely move in their elaborate crinoline skirts, frantic to reach their carriages and broughams, backed up all the way along King Street and Aldermanbury. It would have been amusing to watch except for the fact that the guests included some of the most powerful figures in the country, not least the prime minister, the home secretary and, as it turned out, both Metropolitan Police commissioners. This meant someone had to shoulder the blame, and quickly, and without it being agreed in any formal sense, Pyke was selected for this role. It helped that he was still wanted on another charge. Very soon the whole debacle, the crushing humiliation it heaped upon the New Police, was dumped at Pyke’s feet.
Escorted by a phalanx of policemen overseen by Rowan himself, Pyke was pushed into a fortified police carriage and transported to Great Scotland Yard, where he was locked in a cell while Rowan and Mayne decided on the best way to proceed. For the next three days, Pyke was questioned over and over about his role in the proceedings and asked to explain why a man they all knew as Detective Sergeant Edward Lockhart had killed not just Walter Wells and Sir St John Palmer but also Isaac Guppy and Charles Hogarth. Unsurprisingly, Mayne and Rowan were not happy with Pyke’s answers, and at first didn’t believe him. They wanted proof, hard evidence, which Pyke was unable to provide. But after recounting the events for the fourth or fifth time, even Pyke’s severest critics had to concede that there was some truth in his version. And bit by bit, elements of his story were confirmed: that Lockhart was in fact Luke Gibb; that Luke Gibb had been the half-brother of Morris Keate; that Gibb’s brother John had been one of the victims in the Shorts Gardens robbery. This left Pyke’s inquisitors in a difficult position. With a welter of circumstantial evidence indicating that Gibb had good reasons for wanting Palmer and Wells to suffer, they couldn’t very well charge Pyke with the murders, even though some in the executive department believed that Pyke had in fact pulled the trigger himself. Nor could they pat him on the back and congratulate him on a job well done, or dismiss him from his position with immediate effect — he knew too much and he could go to the newspapers with what he knew, causing lasting damage to both the Church and the police. No one wanted this, least of all the prime minister, who had taken a personal interest in the situation.
Palmer had been a friend of the police department. But now his role in the fraud was becoming clear, his supporters were running for cover. Later, Pyke was told that Wells had introduced Palmer to Mayne and had arranged for Palmer’s company to secure the contract to refurbish the station house at Scotland Yard. He was also told that Sergeant Mark Russell had been found in his bed, shot in the face.
Pyke’s circumstances improved further when it became apparent that the charges against him regarding the theft of the Saviour’s Cross and the apparent murder of Billy Sharp were not going to stand up. With Wells dead, the case against him quickly fell apart. First, Ned Villums withdrew his evidence, then Alfred Egan followed. The gaoler admitted that Wells had offered him money to testify against Pyke and finally Pyke’s neighbour Leech admitted that he had not witnessed Pyke bury the Saviour’s Cross. At the same time Leech put his house up for sale and Pyke never saw him or his dog again. In the end, Mayne and Rowan had no choice but to let Pyke go free and, with the charges against him shown to be not only false but concocted by a fellow policeman, they couldn’t very well do what they may have wanted to and dismiss Pyke from his position. Instead they suspended him temporarily, pending a hearing, which was set for a week’s time.
Throughout his extensive questioning Pyke had never made it clear to his inquisitors what he wanted, though he did occasionally hint that the price he was likely to demand would be more than they were prepared to pay. He knew, however, that his success or failure in this respect depended on him finding the true Churches Fund accounts.
That week was cold and bright and, having collected Felix from Martin Jakes’s care and returned to their Islington home to be reunited with Copper — who was both excited to see them and disgruntled by their absence — Pyke kept Felix out of school and they spent a couple of afternoons together in the garden erecting a new shelter and sty for the two remaining pigs. They didn’t talk about the conversation they’d had in Jakes’s vicarage but Pyke tried to show the lad a gentler side of his character.
Pyke made only two trips. The first, to the New Prison in nearby Pentonville, was short and unsuccessful. He went there to persuade Druitt to give up the location of the true Churches Fund accounts, if indeed he knew where they were, but all Druitt seemed to want to do was discuss Paradise Lost.
‘Why, according to Milton, did Satan rebel against his maker?’ Druitt swung lazily on his hammock. ‘It was, we are told, because he saw no reason for the extreme inequality of rank and power which God had assumed.’
‘I know Gibb visited you here on a number of occasions. I need you to tell me where the accounts ledger is. The one that was stolen from the archdeacon’s safe.’ Knowing what he had done to Sarah Scott, Pyke could barely look at the man.
Druitt didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘Of course, Satan, who presents a case against tyranny, also became a tyrant himself. Perhaps this was inevitable. Still, I don’t know about you, Detective Inspector, but I would take the earthy rambunctiousness of Pandemonium over the austere dictatorship of Heaven every time.’
Pyke no longer had the patience for these games and he turned to leave.
‘You’ve disappointed me, Detective Inspector. I had higher hopes for you, to be quite frank.’
Pyke stopped and stood facing him, his back to the door.
‘I thought you’d want to rock the boat, at the very least; I’ve heard stories about you. I didn’t think that you’d lie down and roll over; whimper in the face of authority. I have to admit, I’m very disappointed.’
‘Without evidence, what can I do?’
Druitt shook his head. ‘And what would you do, if you had this evidence? Do you see what I’m suggesting? Feather your own nest, no doubt. Meanwhile, the tyranny of the Church and state goes unpunished.’
Pyke felt his skin prickle. ‘You drugged and raped a woman I admire and then exploited Malloy’s jealousy to destroy them both. That’s all I see when I look at you. A pathetic, inadequate man unable to sow his seed…’
Druitt smiled. ‘What? In the way God intended?’
That was the last time they spoke. As Pyke walked through the prison and tried to put the image of Druitt out of his mind, he wondered what pleasure, if any, Druitt had gained from what he’d done. Malloy had died believing him to be the Devil in human form. In reality, he was just a bitter, broken-down man.
Pyke’s second visit was to Stratford St Mary in Suffolk, but he quickly discovered that whatever had existed between him and Sarah Scott had been lost. She greeted him warmly and they talked at length about what had happened, Sarah listening carefully while he tried to explain why he’d suspected her and
how terribly mistaken he’d been. But a gap remained, a gap that couldn’t be bridged, and when Pyke asked her whether she might consider returning to London, she chuckled as though the idea was unthinkable.
‘I liked you, Pyke. But, in all honesty, given what you did and given the lack of faith you had in me, how could I ever trust you again?’ When he didn’t say anything, she added, ‘Perhaps we’re just too different.’
Pyke didn’t bother to disagree with her. On the train from Colchester back to London, he thought about the canvas she’d been working on: a naked woman being eaten alive by a pack of wild dogs. One of the animals, its snout wet with blood, was tugging her entrails out of a gash in her stomach.
Early the following morning Pyke found Ned Villums in his Clerkenwell office and for a while, as Villums poured them both a whisky and they sat in silence contemplating each other, it was as though nothing had happened. But eventually Villums began to explain how Wells had been able to turn him.
‘He had enough on me to make it a straight choice between you or the scaffold… Maybe with hindsight I made the wrong decision.’
Pyke stared at his old friend, sad at what they had become. ‘It would be better if I never saw or heard from you again. At present, only a few people know you were, in effect, a police informer. For old time’s sake, I’m prepared to allow that to remain a secret. But you need to retire, disappear, for good.’
Villums nodded and even managed a smile. He didn’t need to say it — Pyke could tell he knew it was too good an offer to turn down.
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