‘If they all died from natural causes, I don’t see how they could be of any interest to us.’ Pyke yawned. He’d hardly slept in the past forty-eight hours.
‘But that’s just it. How do we know for certain that all these people did die of natural causes? Do you see my point?’
‘Anyone who dies in suspicious circumstances has to be seen by the coroner. You can’t just put someone in the ground.’
Lockhart shrugged. ‘It was just an idea.’
But it was the only idea any of them had had and so Pyke sent Lockhart and Whicher to collect a list from the coroners of everyone who had died in suspicious circumstances since Monday. They came back with three names. A retired bank clerk from Somers Town called Willis, who had stepped out in front of a fast-moving phaeton, a sanitary inspector from Walworth who’d died in his bed, and a bank director and alderman who’d collapsed suddenly and without explanation at his place of work. In addition, four still-unidentified men and women had frozen to death as a result of the cold weather.
Pyke asked whether there was any more information about the alderman. Lockhart shook his head.
‘Was the death reported in the newspaper?’
Frowning, Whicher went to retrieve The Times from his desk. ‘There was something, I believe.’ He looked through the copy he’d been reading earlier in the day but couldn’t find any mention of it. But when he retrieved the previous day’s newspaper from a pile under his desk, he found what he’d been looking for. He handed it to Pyke, open at the relevant page. There were few details about the death itself. Seemingly the man in question, Charles Harcourt Hogarth, had been working alone in his private chambers and had suffered a seizure or stroke. His body had been found the following morning by one of the porters. Pyke read on:
Charles Harcourt Hogarth, 55, was the second son of John Harcourt Hogarth. Educated at Eton college, he entered his father’s engineering firm at the age of eighteen. In 1808 he was admitted as a partner in the contracting firm Lovell and Lyne under whose stewardship the London to Sittingbourne and London to Epsom turnpikes were macadamised and part of the Regent’s canal was built. In 1820 he joined the board of the Regent-Colonial Bank and, in 1829, he was invited to join the City Corporation as a councilman. In 1835 he was elected for life to a Court of Aldermen which he served until his death and was thought to be a future candidate for the position of Lord Mayor. In his role as court Alderman, he was responsible for improving the state of the City of London’s roads and pavements and more recently he had spoken of the need to establish public baths and washhouses in the capital, the first of which is due to be founded in Goulston Square, Whitechapel. Charles Harcourt Hogarth is survived by his wife, Helen, and their children, Mark and George.
Putting down the newspaper, Pyke looked at Lockhart and then Whicher. ‘Go back to the coroner, find out exactly what happened and where the body is now.’
They returned about two hours later, and told Pyke that the coroner had confirmed the cause of death as a massive heart seizure and that the body had been taken to the family home in Chelsea in anticipation of the funeral, which was planned for the end of the week.
‘He was nervous, though,’ Whicher said. ‘Especially when he realised it was Hogarth, and not the others, we wanted to talk about.’
‘By the end, he was sweating like a pig,’ Lockhart added.
‘Do you think he was trying to hide something?’
‘It was hard to tell.’ Lockhart looked over at Whicher. ‘You know anything about this man, Hogarth?’
‘A man in his fifties, an alderman who’s probably eaten and drunk too well, keels over at his desk.’ Whicher said. ‘It happens all the time.’
‘True, but aren’t you sufficiently curious to want to pay the family a visit?’ Pyke rose from his seat. ‘Anyone want to join me?’
Charles Harcourt Hogarth may have inherited his wealth and business from his father but everything about his mansion and indeed his widow suggested new rather than old money. With its pillars, porticos and pediments all designed in the classical style, the property, situated just off the King’s Road, screamed ‘parvenu’ even to someone like Pyke, who wasn’t especially knowledgeable about architectural styles. It was as if someone had built the house with the sole intention of impressing others; the white stone walls, the smooth, marble floors, the statues in the entrance hall, all testament to the owner’s relentlessly upward mobility. Eventually, when the butler finally granted Pyke and Whicher five minutes with the lady of the house, they saw that Helen Hogarth conformed to the same maxim: she was wearing black, of course, but the style of her dress and the cut of the fabric were remorselessly fashionable. As befitted someone who hadn’t been born into wealth, Helen Hogarth treated the two of them with palpable disdain. She shook their hands as though the act itself were a violation of her bodily purity, and as soon as Pyke asked about her late husband, she informed them, with a haughty, almost fey flick of her hand, that she couldn’t possibly answer any questions about her darling Charles, especially since the funeral was still so fresh in her mind.
‘Do you mean that the funeral has already taken place?’ Pyke looked over at Whicher, unable to contain his surprise.
She looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘That’s exactly what I mean, sir.’
‘But it was my understanding, madam, that your husband only passed away two nights ago.’
‘And?’
‘It was always my understanding that the arrangements for such affairs always took at least a week.’
They were sitting in the parlour and the butler and another servant were hovering near by.
She smiled blandly. ‘I could ask what business is it of yours how I or my family choose to conduct our private affairs.’ The rictus smile started to fade. ‘But since you’ve come here as a representative of the law, I’ll say only this. Charles had always talked about wanting a small, private family funeral. As such, I saw no reason for dillydallying. The parish church was able to accommodate the funeral and dear Charles was laid to rest in the family’s mausoleum at the London and Westminster cemetery.’
‘But the coroner’s inquest often takes a couple of days to arrange
…’
Helen Hogarth nodded, her expression almost pained. ‘Yes, I suppose we were fortunate that he was able to expedite things a little.’
Still thrown by her revelation, Pyke said, ‘It’s Wednesday. Your husband died on Monday and he’s already been buried. Do you see why I’m a little puzzled?’
Her face hardened. ‘No, not really. I made a decision that I felt was in the best interests of my family and my dear, departed husband. Now you come to my house and imply that I’ve done something wrong.’
‘Not wrong, madam. Just a little unusual. The coroner indicated that your husband died of a cardiac seizure. Is that correct?’
‘If that is what the coroner said, sir, why ask me?’
‘I’m not disputing the coroner’s findings. I’m just wondering how he was able to arrive at this conclusion. Perhaps your husband had a long history of chest pains?’
That drew an exasperated sigh. ‘Can you please tell me the purpose of these questions, sir? Are you suggesting that my husband might have done something wrong?’
‘Not at all…’
Helen Hogarth cut him off. ‘Because he was a gentle, law-abiding man and I would be greatly concerned if I felt his reputation was being unfairly impugned.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything of the sort.’ Pyke waited for a moment or two then smiled. ‘It’s just there are some procedural irregularities that still require an explanation.’
‘Such as?’
‘For a start, as I understand it, there was no official inquest. In circumstances where the cause of death isn’t absolutely self-evident, a jury is required to deliberate on the evidence.’
‘Who said the cause of death wasn’t self-evident?’
‘Your husband collapsed in his office. I’m sorry for being s
o blunt, but what’s to say he wasn’t poisoned?’
That drew an irritated frown. ‘But why would anyone want to poison my dear Charles? Anyway, I was told the coroner declared it to be a cardiac seizure.’
‘Exactly my point, madam. The coroner made this decision, not a doctor.’
Helen Hogarth pulled her shawl around her shoulders and shook her head. ‘Really, sir, I’m quite at a loss to understand your interest in my husband’s death.’
‘I mean no disrespect, madam.’ Pyke glanced over at Whicher and got up, as if to leave. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Please excuse our intrusion and accept our sincere condolences.’
That seemed to placate her a little, although, on reflection, Pyke felt that her indignation had been too demonstrable, too forced.
Outside, their driver was waiting for them but another carriage had pulled up and two policemen in uniform stepped out. They introduced themselves as Sergeant Russell and Constable Watkinson from the Kensington Division and asked Pyke and Whicher what had brought them to the Hogarth residence. Pyke showed the men his warrant card.
‘One of the servants turned up at the station house,’ Russell explained sheepishly. ‘He said there were two detectives at the house wantin’ to speak to the lady. I think he was afraid you wasn’t who you claimed to be.’
‘We showed the butler our warrant cards.’
Russell removed his stovepipe hat and cradled it in his hands. ‘Well, no harm done, eh, sir? Better to be safe than sorry.’
Pyke looked at the man and frowned. ‘Is it usual for you to rush to the aid of one of your rate-payers?’
‘We do what we can, sir.’
‘But to arrive here as quickly as you did, you would’ve had to have dropped everything.’
The two policemen looked at one another but said nothing.
‘Can I ask you a question, Sergeant Russell? Was there a general command to attend any business at the Hogarth residence as a matter of urgency?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’ Russell banged his hands together to warm them up. He was in his forties, Pyke estimated, with thick black, curly hair, small eyes, a beaked nose and a thin mouth. ‘We came as soon as we could because the servant was worried. No harm done, eh?’
As Russell walked away to the waiting carriage, Pyke noticed the man’s limp. He didn’t pay it much attention at first but as soon as he’d joined Whicher in their carriage, his expression must have given him away.
‘You remember the old crossing-sweeper who claimed he saw a uniformed policeman loitering outside the pawnbroker’s shop on Shorts Gardens at the time of the robbery? He said the policeman had a limp.’
Whicher regarded him with scepticism. ‘You’re saying that Russell could have been that man?’
‘The description fits.’
‘It’s hardly conclusive, though. I mean, how many policemen do you reckon walk with a slight limp?’
Pyke shrugged. Whicher was right. It was probably just a coincidence, but in his years as an investigator Pyke had learned not to trust coincidences. Still, rather than pursue it, he asked, ‘So what did you make of all that, then?’
‘The widow, or the two policemen turning up when they did?’
‘Both.’
Whicher shut his eyes briefly. ‘I don’t know. The widow certainly didn’t want to answer any of your questions.’
‘An apparently great man dies; a man perhaps even destined to be the Lord Mayor. One might have expected the funeral to be an occasion befitting his office.’
‘And in spite of what the coroner told me, it isn’t usual for him to rule on the cause of death himself.’
‘But is it something we should be concerned about?’
‘It’s unusual. You were quite right about that. But maybe the old girl was telling the truth. Maybe the family saw no reason to wait.’
They had made a little progress along the King’s Road when Pyke made his decision. He didn’t tell Whicher about it but slid down the glass, banged on the roof and told the driver to turn around and take them to the London and Westminster cemetery.
Whicher looked at him and shook his head. ‘If you’re thinking of doing what I suspect you might be…’
‘What? You’re telling me you’re not the slightest bit intrigued?’
‘Go to a magistrate, get an order of court, and I’ll be right there behind you.’
‘Really? Even in these circumstances, how likely do you think it is that such an order will be granted?’
‘What you’re proposing is a crime. It’s grave-robbing and it carries a sentence of up to fifteen years’ imprisonment.’
‘I’m going to the cemetery; you can do as your conscience dictates.’ Pyke settled into the cushioned seat.
Whicher folded his arms and looked out of the window.
As the wind changed direction, the temperature rose a little and turned the snow into slush. The ground itself was still hard but the air was damp rather than cold and the sleet now fell as rain. In the dark and with no moonlight to guide them, it took almost an hour to find the family’s mausoleum. The mist swirled around them, gravestones drifting in and out of sight. Even though Whicher remained silent throughout their search, Pyke could tell he was agitated. Apart from the sound of the wind and the rustling of the branches, the graveyard was silent and Pyke was glad of Whicher’s company, even if the man had no desire to be there. It wasn’t that Pyke believed in spirits or ghosts, but he knew the tricks that the mind could play in these situations. Unsurprisingly, given the size of the Hogarth residence, the mausoleum was one of the largest and most elaborate in the cemetery, but it was also one of the most fortified. Pyke rattled the steel chain, which was fed through the door handles and secured with a shiny, brass padlock.
Whicher backed away and held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Pyke, but I can’t be party to this. I didn’t think I was a superstitious man but I do believe the dead should be left to rest in peace.’
Pyke already had the picklocks in his hand. He noticed his fingers were shaking, more from the cold than because he was frightened.
‘I’m not going to stand here while you openly break the law. If you’re really going to do it, I’d prefer not to be a witness.’
‘Jack, just stay for a while. Please. I might need you.’
Whicher dug his hands into his pockets and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Pyke. I just can’t do it.’
‘Then go.’
With a mixture of frustration and admiration, Pyke watched Whicher trudge off into the night until he was alone in the cemetery. For a few moments, he stood there and watched the inky darkness, sensing that perhaps Whicher had changed his mind. Something caught his eye and he turned around suddenly. Was there someone out there? In the long grass away to his left Pyke thought he heard something move, a rat or a rabbit perhaps. That seemed to relax him and he told himself again that he wasn’t a superstitious man. What was it that Godfrey had said? When you go, you’re gone. Pyke repeated this to himself a few times.
Holding his hands steady, he set to work on the padlock, his skin exposed to the cold. It took him ten minutes, and by the time the lock sprung open he felt much calmer and was breathing normally. Unravelling the length of chain from around the handles, he opened the oak door and stepped into the cool chamber, which was barely high enough for him to stand up straight. His heart started to beat a little more quickly. As much as it was true that he wasn’t superstitious, he didn’t relish the prospect of coming face to face with an embalmed corpse. Hesitating, he lit a match and held it up; there were two coffins visible but it was clear which one was newer. The polished walnut glistened in the flare of the match-light. Pyke waited for the light to die out, put down the box and tried to prise the lid from the top of the coffin, only to discover it had been nailed shut. In the end, he had to use a stone to bash it open. The air suddenly smelled of embalming fluid. Now his eyes had adjusted to the near darkness, he could see that the corpse was fully clothed; for some
reason he had expected Hogarth to be naked. He took one of the limp arms, undid the cuffs and rolled back the sleeves. With his other hand, he struck a match and waited. Pyke saw it immediately; the blue-black hole in the centre of the dead man’s hand. His stomach lurched. Quickly he inspected the other hand and saw the same mark. When Pyke unlaced the dead man’s shoes and pulled down his socks, he found similar holes at the top of his feet. But the most visceral proof that Charles Hogarth had been murdered still awaited him. When Pyke tore open the man’s pristine white shirt, there was a gaping hole in the middle of the stomach, as though someone had tried to disembowel him.
Heart thumping, Pyke was fitting the lid back on to the coffin when he heard someone or something moving outside. ‘Jack? Is that you?’
When no one answered, Pyke remained perfectly still and listened. The only sound was the wind whispering through the trees. He emerged from the mausoleum and looked around him. Something moved in the bushes to his right. Pyke felt his stomach tighten. He moved towards the foliage, wishing he had his pistol or at least a knife. As he neared the spot, he heard another sound, and this time he shouted, his voice echoing around the deserted graveyard. It must have been some kind of animal because there was a rustling of wet leaves and then silence.
Back at the mausoleum, Pyke wrapped the chain around the door handles and snapped the padlock back into place, then retraced his path through the cemetery to the spot where the carriage was waiting. Whicher wasn’t there. Pyke told the driver to take him at once to Scotland Yard. He would return to the cemetery in the morning with a warrant signed by a magistrate.
As he relaxed, he thought about what he’d just seen and what it meant. Charles Hogarth had been killed in the same way as Stephen Clough, and yet someone had gone to quite extraordinary lengths to cover it up. Pyke would go to the coroner in the morning and force the truth out of him. The fact that he had lied would be easy enough to prove, once the body was produced; and then there was the porter at Hogarth’s place of work who had allegedly found the body. He would also have to be brought in and questioned.
The Detective Branch pm-4 Page 19
