‘Do you mind me asking how you found me here?’ she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
‘I’ve been talking to Brendan Malloy.’
That drew a non-committal nod. ‘I suspected as much.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because he’s one of the few people in London who knows where I am.’ She waited for a moment. ‘Is Brendan in some kind of trouble?’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘Well enough.’ She fiddled with her paintbrush.
‘Would it be fair to say that you and Malloy were . . . attached?’
‘Have you come all the way from London just to badger me about my private affairs?’ she said, not quite smiling.
‘Please answer the question, madam.’ Pyke tried to keep his tone civil and disinterested, but he couldn’t help noticing the fullness of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes.
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘That he and I were once attached.’
‘No.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘But I got the feeling that he still cares very much for you.’
That silenced her for a while. Pyke thought he saw her jaw tighten slightly. ‘Did he leave the Catholic Church to be with you?’
Her expression remained inscrutable. ‘How much did Brendan tell you about his work as a priest?’
‘A little. He told me about having to perform mass and hearing confessions in a stable on Cambridge Street.’
Sarah Scott nodded. ‘Did he tell you about the exorcisms he used to perform?’
‘No.’ That took Pyke by surprise.
‘That’s what first took me there, to see him. I suppose, in our little part of the world, he was famous, or should I say notorious.’
‘You mean, you went to him to be exorcised?’
She passed off his question with a shrug. ‘Anglican vicars stopped performing exorcisms some time during the last century.’
Pyke tried to reconcile this notion with the sense he’d derived of her so far - a woman who didn’t suffer fools. ‘And was this exorcism successful?’
Instead of answering the question, she stood up and gestured for him to follow her over to the easel. There was just enough light for him to be able to see the painting.
It almost made Pyke gasp out loud, though later he wasn’t sure whether his reaction was one of astonishment or horror. The painting depicted a young woman devouring her infant child, the proportions deliberately askew. The naked woman was clutching her child around its tiny waist, and there was nothing but a bloody stump where the head had once been. But it was the woman’s expression which really caught your eye: a maniacal glee mixed with an undertow of sadness or regret, as though she knew what she was doing yet couldn’t quite stop herself. The details were exquisitely rendered, as one might find in a painting by Vermeer: the blue-black veins on the woman’s forehead, the creases in her flesh, the creamy-white softness of the child’s skin and the viscous blood congealed around her mouth. If part of the intention had been to render the scene in as realistic a manner as possible, this was undercut by the lush, sensuous colours of the background, giving the painting an eerie, dreamlike quality. Yet the painting seemed to demand that you understood it literally, that you felt its pain and sorrow as intensely as you might your own. In the end, he had to look away. As he did so, Sarah Scott smiled, as though pleased by his reaction.
‘I read somewhere that Goya once painted an image of Satan devouring a child,’ Pyke said. ‘I haven’t seen it, of course . . .’
‘You know Goya?’ She stared at him, hands on hips, seemingly amazed by this notion.
Pyke stared back at her, wondering how she knew who Goya was. ‘I once saw a book of his engravings in my uncle’s shop. The Caprichos, I think. I’m told it was extremely rare.’
She gave him a sceptical look but her eyes were still glistening. ‘Too rare for a poor country girl like me to know about?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But it’s what you meant.’
Pyke tried to gauge whether she felt she’d been insulted. ‘I simply pointed out that your work reminded me a little of Goya. That was all.’
This seemed to appease her. She relaxed a little and had another look at the canvas. ‘A gallery owner came to see my work a few years ago - actually at Brendan’s bidding. He liked what he saw and offered to represent me. I sell the occasional painting. It was he who introduced me to Goya’s work. It haunted me for months.’
‘I can see the influence,’ Pyke said, staring at the violent brushstrokes. The pain and fury seemed to leap off the canvas.
Sarah Scott suddenly seemed distracted. ‘For as long as I can remember, I’ve seen things, grotesque things, things that won’t let me sleep at night; at the time I thought Brendan might be able to cure me.’
‘It’s funny how our worst fears always seem to come true . . .’
She gave him a quizzical stare. ‘You’re referring to what happened in the summer?’
‘I’m sorry about your baby. I have a son. He’s fourteen. I can’t imagine how painful it must be to . . .’
She held up her hand, as if to stop him. ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated and looked up at him, dry eyed. ‘Perhaps now you could tell me the reason for your visit?’
Pyke hesitated, trying to decide whether to push for more information about what had happened at No. 28. ‘When you lived in London, did you ever come across a man called Isaac Guppy? He was the rector at St Botolph’s, Aldgate.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why? What’s he done?’
‘Someone beat him to death with a hammer in the yard outside his church.’
Pyke looked into her dark, liquid eyes and felt something stir deep inside him. He saw her shock, or what he believed to be her shock. But she masked her reaction very quickly.
‘Let me guess, Detective Inspector. You’re labouring under the mistaken assumption that Brendan had something to do with the murder.’
‘Why would it be mistaken?’
‘Brendan wouldn’t harm a fly. I doubt he’s capable of even lifting a hammer, let alone using it in anger.’
‘Two days ago I arrested him for the murder of the rector.’
This time the shock on her face lasted. ‘But Brendan just wouldn’t do something like that.’
‘You know him that well?’
Sarah Scott lowered her gaze. ‘At one point I did. Or I thought I did. But I don’t believe he’d knowingly inflict physical harm on another human being.’
‘The dead man’s surplice turned up in one of the upstairs rooms at number twenty-eight Broad Street. And Malloy lied to me; he assured me he’d never met the deceased.’
‘And he had?’
‘He visited this man, Guppy, in late March of this year. Perhaps he might’ve mentioned it to you?’
‘No, I don’t think he did.’
‘He claims he was warning Guppy that another man, Ebenezer Druitt, had somehow foreseen his death.’
Sarah Scott visibly flinched at the mention of Druitt’s name. ‘You don’t think he’s telling the truth?’
Pyke removed the anonymous note, with the Blake verses and the address in Soho, and handed it to her. ‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’
She looked at it, squinting, then shook her head. ‘You know Blake was born at number twenty-eight; probably in one of those upstairs rooms.’
‘Yes.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘Was that the reason you chose to live there?’
‘Me?’ She laughed. ‘I’ve no particular interest in William Blake, I’m afraid.’
‘Then it was Brendan’s decision?’
She shook her head. ‘He was the one who loved Blake. We moved into a room that he rented to us.’
‘Druitt?’
Sarah Scott eyed him carefully. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say that name again in my presence.’
‘I can quite understand your antipathy . . .’
‘Antipa
thy? Is that what you think this is?’ She sounded angry for the first time. ‘That bastard murdered my child and the judge sent him to prison for five years. Does that sound like justice to you?’
Pyke waited for a moment before replying. ‘As I understand it, the weakness of the Crown’s case was their inability to prove that he had any reason to do what he was accused of.’
‘You think a man like Ebenezer Druitt acts according to the dictates of reason?’
Her face was now glowing with anger.
‘I was interested to see that you didn’t provide any testimony at the trial.’
‘I didn’t witness what happened. Brendan did. It was decided that his testimony would be sufficient.’
‘Not by you?’
‘I would happily have taken the stand and told the court what I thought of him.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Outside, Pyke noticed, it had turned dark. ‘Actually,’ Sarah Scott said, ‘the whole business with the letter and the vicar’s surplice . . . that sounds just like his sort of thing.’
‘Druitt’s?’
Her stare was hard. ‘He always liked to play games. Let you know how clever he was.’
‘But he’s in prison. The new prison at Pentonville, I believe.’
‘So? You think it’s beyond him to arrange this kind of thing? He knows a lot of people and he can be very persuasive.’
Pyke considered what she was implying; either that Druitt might have arranged for the letter to be sent and the surplice to be planted at No. 28, or that he’d somehow planned the murder.
But there was something else he’d noticed, too. He can be very persuasive. It was almost as if Sarah Scott had just acknowledged the charm of the man.
‘If Malloy’s telling the truth, he obviously believed in Druitt’s powers sufficiently to want to warn Guppy about this premonition.’
‘Like I said, a lot of people believed that Druitt had special powers, not just Brendan.’
‘And you?’
She ran her fingers over one of the creases in her dress. ‘He liked to see himself as something of an anarchist. I think he’s just a man who feeds on other people’s suffering, takes delight in turning people against each other.’
Pyke mopped his forehead. It was warm in the room now, with the fire roaring in the grate. ‘Is that what happened to you? Did he turn you and Brendan against one another?’
Sarah sat very still on her chair, as though she hadn’t heard the question. ‘Did you know he’d trained as a mesmerist?’
Pyke nodded.
‘For a while, at least, what he did to me made the visions in my head go away,’ she said finally.
‘And what exactly did he do to you?’
Sarah Scott flinched and her face reddened slightly. ‘He put me to sleep, Detective.’
‘And this had a beneficial effect? In a way that Malloy’s exorcism hadn’t?’ Pyke found himself looking at her full lips and her fine cheekbones. It had been a while, he realised, since he had been with a woman he liked; a woman he hadn’t paid for.
She seemed to sense this interest, the way he was looking at her, and softened. ‘You’re a perceptive man, Detective Inspector.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll allow me to make another remark. I was going to say that you don’t strike me as a particularly religious person.’
‘That depends on what you mean by religious.’
He tried to imagine her with Brendan Malloy; tried to imagine what the exorcism he’d carried out was like.
‘You seem composed, quite sane, to be honest.’ Pyke managed a smile. ‘Malloy, on the other hand, seems a little deranged . . .’
‘He wasn’t always like that,’ she said, gently.
‘Just before I left him in his cell, he grabbed my wrist and told me that Druitt is the Devil himself.’
‘It’s been sad, to watch him lose his grip on reality.’ Sarah Scott looked away and shook her head.
‘And that’s why the two of you are no longer together?’
Instead of answering him, she put her hand to her mouth and yawned. ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired. I was up at dawn with everyone else.’
‘Perhaps you don’t want to talk about your relationship with Malloy?’
‘Tell me, Detective; who does like to talk about their past, especially when there’s so much to forget?’
Pyke nodded.
‘Do you have much reason to make the journey to London?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t been back to London for a number of months.’
He thought about the woman he’d met by the gate and what she’d told him but decided not to press the issue.
‘I’m assuming you’re not intending to travel back to London tonight,’ she said, bending down to put another log on the fire.
‘I thought I might walk back into Ipswich and find a room there.’ He had already sent a note to Felix and Mrs Booth saying he wouldn’t be back until the following evening.
‘The cottage next to me is empty for the next few days. You could always sleep there.’
Pyke assimilated this piece of information. To his surprise, a part of him didn’t want to go. He liked the fact that just when he thought he had worked Sarah Scott out, she surprised him.
‘In case you’re worried about what other people will say, this isn’t anything like the society you may be used to. People are honest and open minded, or at least most are, and they don’t rush to pass judgement. They accept you for who you are.’
Pyke had a quick look at his watch. ‘Well, it is late . . .’
‘That’s settled, then.’ She was smiling. ‘I’ll go next door and light the fire.’
While Sarah Scott cooked a dinner of stewed vegetables over the fire, she told him that she’d grown up in the area; that her father had been a farm labourer and her mother had been what was known as a cunning-woman. This, she said, was someone who was believed to have the power to heal the sick, tell fortunes, induce love and ward off evil spirits. She said it in a way that suggested to Pyke she was, at best, ambivalent about such claims. After dinner, though, when she was visited by successive guests, it was clear that they deferred to her in a way that required explanation. She said some people in the colony had known her mother and believed that she had inherited some of her mother’s powers. Afterwards Sarah managed to turn the conversation back towards him, and to his surprise Pyke found himself telling her about Felix and about his wife, Emily. She must have sensed his unease because she then asked why he’d decided to become a police detective. Pyke tried to explain the simplicity of his decision: he enjoyed the work, the challenge of it. When she asked him whether he felt that the law was fair, he just laughed. Perhaps it was the cider she’d poured for him, but he felt comfortable in her presence. Once they’d cleared away the bowls, they brought their chairs closer to the fire.
‘You don’t believe in magic, do you?’ she said, sipping the sweet, strong liquid from a clay pot. Her tone was playful rather than accusing. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not offended.’
Pyke smiled. ‘To be fair, there were moments when I could hear the scepticism in your own voice.’
‘Really?’ Sarah Scott seemed intrigued to hear this. ‘Maybe you’re right. It’s a force of habit. Self-protection. And maybe I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of lunatic.’
‘I suppose I tend to believe that most things have a rational explanation.’
‘You know, most folk around here would rather come to me if something of value has been lost or stolen than go to the local magistrate.’
‘And how would you assess your record as a retriever of lost or stolen goods?’
‘Honestly?’ She giggled. ‘I think they would have fared better with the magistrate. I do tell people this.’ Her expression became serious. ‘I never charge anyone money and I won’t deal with anyone I don’t personally know.’
The Detective Branch Page 16