The Detective Branch

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘Egan’s a fence. A common criminal.’

  ‘But he was there in the cells that night and he’s willing to testify that he saw you and that he heard you kill Sharp. He’s also going to confirm that you and Sharp were partners from the beginning.’

  So there it was. Pyke had to admit that Pierce had done a good job. But the situation wasn’t devoid of hope. Admittedly, it did look bad for him, but the evidence against him wasn’t as strong as it first appeared. The credibility of the witnesses left a lot to be desired; the length of time since the summer played in his favour; and there was no proof that Sharp had, in fact, been killed. The coroner’s inquest had returned a verdict of suicide. The fact that the cross had been found in his garden was a mark against him, of course, but his neighbour’s testimony could be discounted because of their long history of animosity.

  ‘So what happens next?’

  Wells took another pinch of snuff. ‘Well, the Crown’s lawyers feel they have sufficient evidence to move directly to trial. Of course, you have the right to a hearing and if you do decide to exercise this right, the various bits of evidence against you will be laid out. You can waive this right on condition that the Crown comes clean and tells you what they’ve got in their arsenal. In which case, they’ll tell you pretty much what I’ve just told you.’

  Pyke tried to make sense of what Wells had just said. ‘You’re implying I’d be better off going straight to trial?’

  ‘Look, old man, it’s my guess that the trial will go ahead anyway. As I’ve just said, they have enough evidence to convince a magistrate. If you agree to waive your right to a pre-trial hearing, I can arrange for you to stay here. As we speak, I’m having someone prepare the old felons’ room, a coal fire, a proper mattress, food, drink - whatever you want, within reason, of course. I can also arrange for you to see visitors here, again within reason. If you have a pre-trial hearing, it’s very likely the magistrate will send you to Coldbath Fields and I won’t be able to do anything for you there. And the greeting that awaits you, as a policeman, won’t be the warmest.’

  Pyke could certainly see the logic of what Wells was suggesting; how it would benefit him to remain where he was at Bow Street.

  ‘I’ll think about it, Walter,’ he said. ‘And thanks for everything you’ve done for me already.’

  Wells gathered up the papers on the desk. ‘Hang in there, old man. We’ll find a way of beating Pierce yet.’

  Pyke pondered what he should do next. Egan was the ace in their hand. All Pyke had to do was find a way of getting to him before the trial began.

  True to Wells’s word, Pyke was transferred to the felons’ room later that afternoon and the space had been prepared just as Wells had promised. A coal fire was burning in the grate, a flock mattress, with bedlinen and blankets, had been pushed up against one of the walls, and a tray of food and drink - cold meats, cheese, fresh bread and a tankard of beer - had been left for him. With its barred window and metal-plated door, the felons’ room was still as impregnable as any of the cells, but, presumably at Wells’s insistence, Pyke’s leg-irons were removed, meaning he was free to move around.

  Pyke’s first visitor was Felix. Pyke offered him the mattress but Felix said he’d prefer to stand. Proudly, he offered Pyke a hip-flask filled with gin which he’d smuggled past the guards.

  ‘Obviously I can’t ask him myself but I’d like you to go and stay with the Reverend Jakes, at least until the trial.’ Pyke paused. ‘Do you know if he has the room?’

  ‘I think so.’ Felix bowed his head, perhaps contemplating his future if Pyke didn’t earn his freedom.

  ‘Good. I’ll write to him and send a note to Mrs Booth. I’ll get her to look after Copper.’

  ‘Can’t I stay at the house, too?’

  ‘I think you’d be better off at the vicarage with Jakes and Kitty.’

  Felix seemed torn and remained silent.

  ‘I also need you to do something very important for me,’ Pyke said a few moments later. He didn’t like the lad to see him in these circumstances, but there were practical things he needed Felix to do. In the past Pyke would have relied on his uncle for assistance but now he’d been forced to turn to his son. The gaping hole that Godfrey had left in his life, in both of their lives, was even more apparent than usual.

  Felix nodded. ‘Anything. I’ll do anything.’

  Smiling, Pyke reached out and squeezed his son’s hand. ‘I need you to find a man called Ned Villums. He has an office on St John’s Square in Clerkenwell. I want you to tell him what’s happened; that I’ve been arrested for stealing something called the Saviour’s Cross. I want you to tell him the police have Alfred Egan. He’ll know what to do, what it all means.’

  In fact, Pyke had not seen or heard from Villums since the summer, and he still felt that Villums blamed him for letting Sharp die in police custody, therefore robbing him of the opportunity to avenge Harry Dove’s death. Dove had apparently gone to Cullen’s pawn shop to inspect the Saviour’s Cross. Most likely, Sharp had entered the shop, pistols blazing, and had stolen the cross for himself. So how had it fallen into Pierce’s hands, and how had it ended up in his garden?

  Pyke tried to remember the name of the third victim. Johnny Gibb. Was that the name Shaw had told him?

  In a small, quiet voice, Felix looked at the flint walls and said, ‘Is it true what they’re all saying? That you stole this cross and buried it in our garden?’

  ‘No, it’s not true. Someone put it there to make me look guilty. I plan to prove that in court.’

  Pyke could see at once that his son wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘But before . . . you did steal some gold bars and you buried them at the allotment near our old house.’

  Pyke pursed his lips. This much was true: he had acquired the gold during an investigation three or four years earlier and had made the mistake of showing the bars to Felix. Now the lad clearly believed he was in the habit of stealing valuable items.

  Clasping his hands around Felix’s shoulders, he looked into the lad’s eyes. ‘I didn’t take that cross. I swear it on your mother’s grave. I need you to believe me.’

  Felix relaxed a little. ‘I do believe you, Pyke.’ This time it sounded as if he really did.

  ‘I need you to find this man, Ned Villums. If he’s not in his office, you’ll have to go to his home. He lives on Park Road, overlooking Regent’s Park. I don’t know which house, so you’ll have to ask.’

  ‘Copper must have gone berserk after you were arrested. When I got home, he’d torn up the living room.’

  Pyke smiled. ‘Come back and see me tomorrow, if you can.’

  Felix lingered by the door, biting his lip. ‘What if you don’t manage to get out of here?’

  ‘I will; one way or another.’

  ‘But if you don’t?’

  This time Pyke had no answer.

  With some decent food and a pint of ale in his stomach, Pyke slept well that night and had already eaten breakfast by the time Fitzroy Tilling was ushered into the felons’ room at eight the following morning. Tilling embraced Pyke and regarded him with an expression that combined disappointment and concern. ‘God, what a mess you’ve got yourself into this time, Pyke.’

  ‘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?’

  P
yke 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 Vill
ums; 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.