‘When you see the way the police are used to keep the poor in their place, it’s not hard to understand why people might be reticent about coming forward.’
Sarah looked at him and nodded. ‘When I was about twelve, a carriage arrived outside our cottage. It had come from the big house, the landowner. His only son was desperately sick and someone in his household had told him about my mother’s . . . abilities. In the end, and I’m guessing despite her better judgement, she agreed to help. I don’t know what she did or didn’t do but two days later the son died. That same night, some men on horses came and took my mother; the next day my father found her charred remains about a mile from our village. Later, we found out that she had been burned alive. No one was ever arrested for her murder.’
It was a bleak story, and for a moment or two neither of them spoke, the only noise a log spitting in the grate.
‘I’m sorry, Sarah. Really I am.’ Pyke wanted to reach out and touch her.
‘A wealthy man tells a poor man what to do in order to serve his own interests. That’s all the law is.’
Ten years ago Pyke would have agreed with her but his views had mellowed or hardened, depending on the way you viewed it. ‘Maybe you’re right, but what’s the alternative? Without some kind of law, we’d end up devouring each other.’
‘A community like this shows that it’s possible to live a different life.’
‘And in the East End of London?’
She took another sip of the cider. ‘You know why I suggested that you stay?’ She was staring at him through her long, curly lashes.
Pyke felt his stomach tighten. ‘I wouldn’t like to put words into your mouth.’
‘Nice answer.’ She smiled. ‘Sometimes it gets lonely out here. The people are good but their experience is limited.’
‘So I’m just a bit of company?’ Pyke said.
This made her smile and the lines wrinkled at the sides of her eyes. ‘Good company. Does that sound better?’
‘A little.’ Pyke paused, an idea forming in his head. ‘If you’re starved of good company, why not come back to London?’ Realising he’d perhaps given the wrong impression, he added, ‘You could help me to unravel this mess with Malloy.’
Her smile vanished and she shook her head. ‘I can’t. I couldn’t . . .’
‘But with your experience and the fact you might know some of Druitt’s friends, his associates, you could be of real use.’
‘To you?’ she said, softening a little.
‘If this murder is Druitt’s work, do you want to see him go unpunished?’
He saw at once he’d hit the target but Sarah Scott hesitated. ‘I just can’t face going back. Not there. Not yet.’ Immediately Pyke felt bad about having pushed the point.
‘That’s all right,’ he said, quickly. ‘I understand . . . Believe me, I know how much time it takes to grieve.’
When she looked up at him, the tips of her eyelashes were slightly wet. ‘You’re talking about your wife?’
Pyke nodded.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die?’
‘She was shot.’
Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘By who?’
‘A rifleman.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of her political views.’
She reached forward and touched him on the hand. ‘It’s not always easy, is it? Being subjected to someone else’s personal questions.’ Her tone was gentle and disarming.
Pyke stared into the fire, but he was aware of how close her hand was to his and his heart beat a little more quickly.
‘The cottage next door should be warm now,’ she said, without looking up at him. ‘I’ve left some blankets on the table.’
Pyke was lying in the dark, under the blankets, thinking about how quiet it was, the cider warming his stomach, when he heard the door open and saw a silhouette against the frame. Closing the door behind her, Sarah Scott moved towards him with the smoothness and grace of a cat and, without saying a word, she knelt down next to him, and gently put her finger to his lips. Her eyes had a faraway look that stayed with her even after they kissed. It was a soft, gentle kiss and immediately he wanted more. Her lips, plump and moist, still tasted of cider. He ran his fingers through her coarse black hair and pulled her into an embrace; as he did so, he lifted up the blanket and without further invitation she lay down next to him. She was wearing just a petticoat, and as he ran the tip of his finger across her chest, each rib, he realised, was prominent to his touch. Their mouths came together and Pyke felt a hunger in her that he recognised in himself, and as she fumbled at his undergarments he lifted the silk petticoat up over her head. It was her sadness which touched him most, a private cocoon deep within her, and even as she guided him into her, and they were, for a few moments at least, as close as a man and woman could be, it was as if she wasn’t actually present. He could taste her desire, feel her need, but there was another part of her he would never know, never get close to. The thought struck him that it might also feel the same way for her.
Later, once it was over, and they were lying under the blanket staring up at the wooden rafters, he was about to say something when he saw a tear rolling down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away, to tell her that everything would be all right, but even in his head the words sounded hollow.
‘I didn’t think you liked me,’ Pyke whispered, trying to break the trance she’d seemingly fallen into.
Turning to him, she kissed him on the cheek and whispered, ‘You’ve got rough hands and a weathered face but you speak well. I like that. It tells me you’ve made something of yourself.’
Pyke thought about the story she had told about her own upbringing and the fact that a gallery in London was now selling the canvases she painted.
When he woke up, it was already light outside and he was alone in the room. Dressing quickly, he laced up his boots and stepped out into the crisp morning air. It had rained during the night but the clouds had moved on and the sky was perfectly clear. The door to Sarah’s cottage was unlocked but she was nowhere to be found. Later, after he had rinsed his face in water from the stream, he asked some of the other colonists whether they had seen Sarah and was told that she had left camp at first light and that she wasn’t expected back until the afternoon.
At eight, and with nothing in his stomach, Pyke started the long walk back to Ipswich.
TWELVE
In Pyke’s absence, the whole of London, it seemed, had been made aware of Francis Hiley’s status as the chief suspect in Guppy’s murder. But it wasn’t simply the newspapers which reported, and indeed exaggerated, Hiley’s supposed infamy and apparent predisposition towards violence. The previous day’s route-paper, circulated within the police, had also effectively identified Hiley as the only viable suspect. The hunt had been stepped up, with as many as ten constables from the executive department now specifically involved in the search, all under Wells’s command. In fact, although Pyke had been away for little more than a day, it felt as if control of the investigation had imperceptibly slipped from his grasp.
Whicher tapped gently on Pyke’s half-open door and peered into the office. ‘I heard you were back.’ He hesitated, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Pyke hadn’t seen a lot of him that week, since he’d sent the younger man to investigate the burglary in Belgravia and had also asked him to look into a garrotting incident in Smithfield.
‘Jack, come in.’ Pyke gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Please, have a seat. Any developments in the burglary? Or the garrotting?’
Shaking his head, Whicher sat down and gave Pyke a very brief outline of the two investigations. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about something else. Well, a couple of things, actually.’
Pyke nodded for him to continue.
‘I saw one of the daily route-papers. It said a fence, Alfred Egan, had been arrested on suspicion of receiving stolen goods. I thought I should look into it.’
‘Egan
? The man who was going to buy the Saviour’s Cross?’
‘It has to be the same person, doesn’t it?’
‘We had to let him go the last time . . .’
Whicher agreed but he seemed uncomfortable. Pyke knew he still felt responsible for the fact that Egan’s accomplice, Sharp, had hanged himself while in their custody.
‘Go and talk to the arresting officer, see what he says. What was the other thing?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got what I suspect will be bad news.’ Whicher shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘They let Brendan Malloy go.’
‘Who let him go?’
‘Wells. But I’m told that he had Mayne’s approval.’
‘Mayne sanctioned it?’
‘This morning.’ Whicher pressed his lips together. ‘I tried to argue otherwise but I was overruled.’
Pyke stood up and told Whicher to wait for him there in the office. He took the stairs three at a time and pushed his way past the clerks into the commissioners’ office. Mayne was sitting at his desk and was clearly annoyed at being interrupted.
‘Why did you sanction Brendan Malloy’s release without consulting me?’
Mayne peered at him through his spectacles. ‘I was told that some business had taken you out of town for a day or two.’
‘Malloy is still central to this investigation, sir.’
‘I disagree, Detective Inspector. I consulted the available evidence and decided he couldn’t possibly be brought before a magistrate.’ Mayne removed his spectacles and sighed. ‘From now on, the full resources of this institution are to be directed towards the capture and arrest of Francis Hiley. I have consulted widely on this issue. It is a decision that I have approved.’
‘Then how do you explain Guppy’s surplice? It went missing the night of his murder and turned up at an address in Soho: an address where Brendan Malloy - who’d been to see Guppy in the spring - lived at the time.’
‘As one of the commissioners, Detective Inspector, sometimes I have to make decisions, difficult decisions that are, in my opinion, in the best interests of the police.’ He looked around, picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and raised his voice. ‘We have an eyewitness account, from a police constable no less, that places Hiley at the scene of the crime; we have another account that confirms his flight from the aforementioned scene of crime.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘I see your point, Detective Inspector, but do you really believe it was this priest who killed Guppy?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know. But I do know that if we don’t keep this line of investigation open, we might end up looking very stupid, indeed. All of us, Sir Richard.’
‘Just find Hiley. Then this other business will fall into place.’
For a moment there was silence. ‘Malloy knows something. And now we might never find out what it is.’ Pyke wanted to say more but he realised he could not jeopardise his already precarious status further. ‘I’ve made my point. That’s all I can do.’
He continued to stand there. The commissioner looked up at him and sighed. ‘We’ll need to appoint a replacement for William Gerrett. I’ll draw up a list of candidates. That will be all, Detective Inspector,’ Mayne said, his gaze returning to the document on his desk.
Pyke could taste the bile at the back of his throat.
Whicher was still in his office when Pyke returned to the detective department. He told him about his argument with Mayne. ‘Wells is the one who advised him. Maybe he thinks that serving up Hiley’s head on a plate will get him the assistant commissioner’s position.’
‘I don’t know about that, but he took Shaw out with him first thing this morning. I think the idea was to look for Hiley in Bethnal Green.’
Pyke looked out of the window and thought about the hidden lines of division within his team. Wells was a more astute political animal than Pyke had given him credit for, and now he was trying to court Frederick Shaw.
‘Has Lockhart reported back yet?’
Whicher was puzzled. ‘I thought he was just sick?’
Pyke wondered what Lockhart would say when he heard the news about Billy Gerrett. Deciding to ignore Whicher’s question, he said, ‘Tell me. How did Shaw react to Gerrett’s dismissal?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.’
‘And you?’
‘Gerrett made his bed . . .’ Whicher paused. ‘And you know what I thought about him as a detective.’
Later, Pyke found Frederick Shaw in the main office, picking mud from the soles of his boots. He wouldn’t meet Pyke’s eyes, at least not until Pyke had summoned him to his office and asked him directly whether anything was the matter.
‘No, nothing’s wrong,’ he said, still not looking directly at Pyke.
‘Once I’d found out that a debt collector had visited Billy here, at his place of work, I had no choice but to refer the matter to the acting superintendent.’
In fact, Pyke had been to see Clapp later and had paid off the debt in full. Although he didn’t like Gerrett and he didn’t want him to be part of the Detective Branch, especially if he was passing information back to Pierce, he knew what it was like to owe money and didn’t wish to exacerbate another man’s problems for the sake of it.
‘But that’s just it, isn’t it?’ Shaw’s expression was hot and tight. ‘I told you about Billy’s gambling in the first place, didn’t I?’
‘So?’
‘So I’m asking: was it just a coincidence that this debt collector came looking for Billy here?’
Pyke held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Gerrett brought this on himself. No one else is responsible but him.’ He put his hand in his pocket, retrieved a ten-pound note and slid it across the desk towards Shaw. ‘But I don’t want to see one of my men out of pocket. That’s for you. It’s not everything you lent Gerrett but it should help. If and when Gerrett repays you, you can pay me back. Until then, consider it a loan.’
Shaw looked at the banknote and then at Pyke. ‘I just don’t like to think I had anything to do with Billy’s dismissal.’
‘You didn’t, Frederick. I promise you.’ Pyke tried to smile. ‘But it does mean I’ll be relying on you and Jack even more than usual.’
Shaw reached out and took the note, as Pyke knew he would. ‘Actually, sir, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about . . .’
‘Call me Pyke, please.’
The young detective sergeant shuffled his chair closer to the desk. ‘I was thinking about the letter you received, the lines from the poem about the serpent.’
Pyke looked at him, intrigued.
‘The serpent is a symbol of the Devil, right?’
‘Some would see the serpent as the Devil himself.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘A few years ago, before the Detective Branch was established, I was transferred from D Division to assist on a murder investigation. Perhaps you remember it? A boy from St Giles was beaten to death with what we thought at the time was a cudgel.’
‘This would have been about five years ago?’
‘I’d say so. I’d have to check the records, though.’
‘It sounds familiar, but I don’t recall the details.’ In fact, Pyke had no recollection of such an incident, but five years earlier he had been imprisoned in Marshalsea for not paying his debts.
‘That was the first boy. But a couple of weeks later, another boy was found. This one’s hands and feet had been nailed to a door.’
‘And that’s what made you think of Guppy?’
Shaw shook his head. ‘Not exactly, but soon afterwards we made an arrest. A night-soil man called Morris Keate. We searched his tool-chest at his lodging house and found a hammer. It still had traces of dried blood on it.’
Pyke put down his pen. ‘And what became of this man, Keate?’
‘He was tried, found guilty and hanged.’
‘And you think this might have a connection to our current investigation?’ Pyke
asked, still a little sceptical.
‘Not just me. I talked to Eddie about it. He suggested I come and talk to you. Said it might be relevant.’
‘All right,’ Pyke said, still trying to work out how the various members of his team felt about one another. Certainly there was more to Frederick Shaw than initially caught the eye. ‘What can you tell me about this man, Keate?’
‘He was a Devil worshipper. That letter someone sent you made me think about the case.’ Shaw waited and added, ‘Keate used a hammer to kill the first boy, so . . .’
The Detective Branch Page 17