‘That he’d raped me? That James was his child?’ Sarah laughed bitterly.
‘And was it your idea to implicate Druitt?’
Sarah’s face was hard. ‘Brendan went along with it because it was what I wanted. But I always knew the guilt would be too much for him.’
‘Why didn’t Druitt defend himself in court? I read the transcript of the trial. He didn’t mention any of this.’
‘He isn’t like you or me. I don’t understand him. I don’t think he even cared. It was his lawyer who argued the charge down from murder to manslaughter. All I can think, and I don’t like to think about him for reasons I hope you now understand, is that he’d done his work. He’d ruined our lives. That’s what he’d wanted to do from the start.’ Sarah’s face was red and blotchy from her tears. ‘I didn’t even need to testify in the end.’
‘Why didn’t we have this conversation at the start?’ But he knew why: he was a police officer and she had broken the law.
‘You think that would’ve alleviated your suspicions?’
‘Someone who knew this woman, Kate Gibb, described her as beautiful, an artist and someone affected by strange visions,’ Pyke explained. ‘The coincidence seemed too great and I jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
‘Then why did you just sleep with me? I don’t understand . . .’
‘I did it because I wanted to. No other reason.’
Sarah was sitting up against the wall. ‘Before you go, Pyke, there’s something else I should tell you.’
Bending over, Pyke picked up his shirt from the floor and put it on.
‘For the past month I’ve been sleeping very well, nothing bothering me. It’s why I haven’t been able to paint since, well, since you came to visit me in Suffolk.’ Her smile was almost too much for him to bear. ‘Well, for the last couple of nights, I’ve woken up with a terrible sense of dread hanging over me.’
Pyke looked at her but said nothing.
‘I know you think this is all poppycock but the dream was very clear.’
Pyke stopped what he was doing and knelt by the mattress. He wanted so badly to help her, to tell her it would all be all right, to make it better, but he knew it was too late. He could tell by the look on her face. ‘What is it, Sarah?’
‘You should go and see your son . . .’
‘Ssshhh.’ Pyke pressed his finger against his son’s lips.
‘Pyke.’ Felix sat up in bed, disoriented.
Pyke had slipped past the two constables stationed outside the vicarage easily enough, but it had been harder to creep up the rickety staircase without disturbing Jakes, Kitty or one of the servants. Once upstairs, he had found Felix’s room and had watched his son sleep for several minutes.
‘I can’t stay for long. It’s too dangerous. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’ Pyke was crouching beside the bed. He was relieved to see that his son was fine, but he still felt empty from his encounter with Sarah Scott.
‘I went back to school. No one’s said anything to me but they’re all looking at me in a funny way. I don’t like it.’
The masters, the parents, they would all have read about him in the newspapers. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. If I could’ve done it differently, I would have.’ He was tired of apologising, tired of hurting the people he cared for.
‘That’s all right.’ Felix’s demeanour was suddenly belligerent. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I know you can.’
Felix went to retrieve something that had fallen down beside the bed. It turned out to be a book. Felix thrust it into Pyke’s hand. ‘Kitty gave it to me but I want you to have it.’
It was the Book of Common Prayer. Pyke’s first instinct was to return it, but he saw Felix’s expression and relented. ‘Are they treating you well?’ he asked, stuffing the book into his pocket.
‘We say prayers in the morning, prayers before food, prayers last thing at night.’
Pyke did his best to keep a straight face and said, ‘That sounds like a lot of praying.’
‘We pray for you; for your safe keeping; and for the false charges against you to go away,’ Felix added, in a small, quiet voice.
‘Martin believes the charges are false?’
Felix nodded.
‘I need another week.’ Outside, they heard footsteps on the landing and they waited for them to pass by.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Felix hesitated. ‘I’d like you to answer it as honestly as you can.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Why do you hate the church so much?’
‘If I hated the church, why would I have asked Martin to look after you?’
‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘Give you your room and board, then.’
Felix considered this. ‘Have you ever wondered why I turned to the Bible when I did?’
‘Often,’ Pyke replied. He could hear the accusatory tone in his son’s voice.
‘Or why I got on better with Uncle Godfrey, when he was alive, than I did with you?’
This was something Pyke had expected to hear from his son but he wasn’t sure he was ready for it. ‘He was gentler with you, more forgiving. I know.’
‘That was part of it.’
‘And the rest?’
‘I was frightened of you.’ Felix stared down at his hands. ‘Scared of what you’re capable of.’ He raised his eyes to meet Pyke’s. ‘A part of me still is.’
‘You know I’d never hurt you.’
‘That’s not what I mean. I lie awake at night and think about the things you’ve done, things I’ve seen with my own eyes, and I start to tremble and sometimes I can’t stop.’
Pyke fell to his knees. It was like someone had reached inside him and scooped out his insides. ‘And that’s why you started to read the Bible?’
‘It became something I wanted to do for myself.’ He paused. ‘I hated you for a while. I’d while away the days, imagining what my life would be like if I had a different father. That’s why I turned to Uncle Godfrey. It’s why I picked up the Bible. I wanted to get as far away from you as possible.’
Pyke couldn’t bring himself to look up at his son. He felt the shame wash over him. ‘I never knew . . .’
‘You never asked.’
The next morning was clear, and this time it was Pyke who arrived first at their bench in Golden Square. Jack Whicher was a few minutes late and sat down next to him wordlessly, taking a moment to catch his breath. ‘I looked into that thing you asked me to,’ he said finally. ‘I’m told the Fourteenth Dragoons have their headquarters near Ely. I plan to go up there later today.’
‘Thank you, Jack. I do appreciate everything you’re doing for me, and the investigation.’ Pyke’s mind was still on the conversation he’d had with Felix and how he could have been a different father.
‘They found the coroner’s body,’ Whicher continued. ‘Someone had buried it in a shallow pit in Deptford. Wells has taken charge of the investigation.’
‘I don’t suppose it changes much, does it? I mean, we both knew the man wasn’t long for this world.’ The porter who had found Hogarth’s body would doubtless be buried in another pit.
‘I heard yesterday that Ebenezer Druitt has been transferred back to Pentonville.’
Pyke thought about the last time he’d seen Druitt; battered and chained to the wall like an animal. ‘You think he told them anything?’
Whicher shrugged.
‘I still think he knows the identity of the man we’re looking for,’ Pyke added.
‘Luke Gibb?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘The question is, how might Gibb and Druitt know each other?’ Pyke stared up at the dull, grey sky. ‘If one or both of the Gibb brothers went to see Malloy at number twenty-eight Broad Street, perhaps they’d heard something about Morris, a rumour purporting to his innocence. Perhaps they felt a need to consult Malloy. After all, he had tried to exorcise spirits from their half-brother. Maybe they trusted hi
m and thought he knew something that might help prove Keate’s innocence. They could have met Druitt then. Or Druitt could have heard about Keate’s death through Malloy and been intrigued.’
Whicher seemed bemused. ‘Whether Gibb knows Druitt or not isn’t going to help you, though, is it?’
That made Pyke smile. ‘What would help me is if Palmer, Russell and Pierce were rounded up into an iron cage and dropped into the middle of the sea.’
Whicher sat bolt upright, suddenly alert. ‘You’ve just reminded me of something. You know I said that Palmer had become a virtual recluse?’
Pyke looked at him and nodded.
‘I heard yesterday about a banquet that is being held in his honour. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him away.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘The Guildhall.’
‘When?’
‘Early next week.’
‘If Palmer is too well guarded in his house, perhaps whoever we’re looking for will try to move against him then.’
‘Whether or not you’re right the police presence will be enormous. The prime minister is due to attend. The City of London force is asking us for two hundred additional men,’ Whicher said, raising his eyebrows.
‘And this will be Palmer’s first public engagement in a month?’
‘More than a month.’
‘However many policemen there are, Palmer will be vulnerable in a place as large as the Guildhall. He’ll be aware of that, too.’
‘But is he really in danger?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘He certainly seems to think so, or someone does. Why else bother to make such elaborate security arrangements?’
They sat for a moment in silence, watching the traders sell their wares. ‘I forgot to say, Wynter’s back in the city. Wells told us that two constables have been assigned to watch his house.’
‘Did he say why? I mean, it’s not typical, is it? An archdeacon having to be guarded by two policemen?’
That drew a meagre smile. ‘He just said that these are extraordinary times.’ Whicher pushed himself up on to his feet. ‘If I have to go up to Ely today, I may not be back in time for our meeting tomorrow. Why don’t you come to my apartment tomorrow evening, say around six?’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Edmund Saggers was eating a lunch of roast venison in the Cheese on Fleet Street; he saw Pyke out of the corner of his eye and put down his knife and fork, waved him into the alcove where he was sitting. ‘It’s good to see you, old chap,’ he whispered, looking around to make sure no one was watching them. ‘That’s right. Just keep your hat pulled down over your face and sit with your back facing the room. We’ll be safe for a few minutes.’ His face was wet with excitement. ‘I won’t be so vulgar as to ask for your side of the story now but I do want an exclusive at some point. Whether they hang you or not.’
‘Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’ Pyke looked down at the remains of the venison haunch. ‘Or your appetite.’
‘That was quite a trick you pulled at the courthouse. I wish I could have been there to see it for myself.’
‘Much as I’d like to chat, there are more pressing matters at hand.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as, I was wondering whether you’d got any farther with your investigations into the matter we discussed.’
‘Funny you should mention it, old chap. I spent a rather revealing afternoon in the land registry office the other day. In the last five years, Palmer’s construction company, Palmer, Jones and Co., has sold quite literally hundreds of properties all over London to the City Corporation.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, that’s pretty much the sum of it, at the moment.’
‘I take it Palmer, Jones and Co. hasn’t always been so well endowed with properties to sell.’
‘That’s just the thing. I didn’t have time to conduct a particularly thorough search but in all the sales I looked into, the City Corporation was always the buyer.’ He looked up at Pyke, not quite finished. ‘And the previous owner was almost always the same too.’
‘Let me guess. The Church of England.’
Saggers seemed disappointed that Pyke had already guessed this. ‘Well, not exactly. A company wholly owned by the Church of England called City Holdings Consolidated.’
‘So this company, City Holdings Consolidated, has sold hundreds of properties to Palmer, Jones and Co. in the last few years and Palmer, Jones and Co., in turn, has sold them on to an arm of the City Corporation.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But we don’t yet know what kind of money changed hands on each occasion, and who turned a profit.’
‘That’s right,’ Saggers said, leaning as far across the table as his girth would permit. ‘As far as I can see, there’s nothing illegal about any of these transactions. I mean, they’re registered with the appropriate bodies.’
‘But what we don’t know is how this company, City Holdings Consolidated, came to own these properties in the first place.’
‘That’s true.’ Saggers’s expression shifted as he looked over at Pyke. ‘But you seem to have your suspicions . . .’
‘About five years ago, a fund-raising campaign was launched to raise enough capital to build as many as fifty new churches in the city. So far, ten have been built or are being built . . .’
Saggers finished what was in his wineglass. ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’
‘Just be patient. I’m trying to think . . . One aspect of this campaign was to persuade as many people as possible to leave an endowment to the Church in their wills.’ Pyke thought about what the old man living on Cheapside had told him. ‘Let’s assume that the campaign was a success, but that people didn’t just leave money to the Church, they also left their properties.’
‘That seems plausible enough.’
‘But in order to turn these properties into capital, the Churches Fund, or those overseeing it, would’ve had to put these properties on the open market.’
‘There’s nothing illegal about that,’ Saggers said.
Pyke rubbed his beard, the part under his chin that itched the most. ‘But what if City Holdings Consolidated sold these properties to Palmer’s company for well under the market value and then Palmer, Jones and Co. sold them on to the City Corporation at the full price?’
That seemed to prick the journalist’s curiosity. ‘If we’re talking about a lot of properties across the entire city, and if the mark-up was great enough, we could be talking about a vast amount of money.’
Pyke was thoughtful. ‘Did you know that Isaac Guppy, rector at St Botolph’s, died with more than forty thousand pounds to his name, in six different bank accounts? And Guppy served in an administrative capacity on the fund-raising arm of the Churches Fund - the arm that tried to persuade people to leave endowments to the Church in their wills?’
Saggers took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘None of this has been reported, has it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I take it no one has yet proved that the forty thousand was stolen from this fund.’
Pyke shook his head. ‘Before all this happened . . .’ He gestured at the cap and clothes he was wearing. ‘I was allowed to inspect the Churches Fund’s accounts. Everything seemed to be perfectly in order.’
‘Seemed?’
‘It struck me just now. What if there was another set of accounts? A set that gave a fairer sense of the large sums that were paid into the Fund and the much smaller sums that were made available for the church building programme.’
‘You’re saying there might be a discrepancy?’
Another set of accounts.
Pyke had said the words without realising what they meant. Saggers must have seen his expression because he reached across the table and touched his arm. ‘What is it?’
Whoever had broken into the archdeacon’s safe in March of the previous year hadn’t been after the Saviour’s Cross - the accounts had been the real p
rize.
‘I know someone who works for Palmer, Jones and Co.,’ Saggers said. ‘Perhaps I could quietly talk to him. He’s involved in the new road they’re building through St Giles - the one they had to demolish those slum houses on Buckeridge Street for.’
It was suddenly so obvious that Pyke was astounded he’d missed it for so long. For the second time in as many minutes he sat there, unable to speak.
The Detective Branch Page 38