Pyke had decided to start his search in Guppy’s study. Pausing at the door, he looked at the desk, now emptied of papers, and the shelves, cleared of books. Perhaps there had been evidence of malpractice hidden there, but it was too late to worry about it. Pyke cleared the room of the remaining items of furniture, took the jemmy he’d brought with him and prised off the skirting boards one by one. He didn’t find anything so turned his attention to the chimney. It wasn’t a large one and he couldn’t fully stand up inside it, so he had to reach in and pat the walls with his hands. Taking up the floorboards was a much larger job, and he moved across the floor looking for any loose ones first. When he didn’t find any he returned to the corner nearest to where the desk had stood and started there. Using the jemmy, he had got six rows along when he reached down into the space below and touched what felt like a cloth package. Pulling it up, he put it on the floor and started to unwrap it.
Pyke wanted to believe that his motives were transparent, and that his actions could be explained in terms of the particular task he had to perform. So when he entered St Paul’s Cathedral via the west door, and after some minutes found the archdeacon, Adolphus Wynter, dressed in his ceremonial robes, talking to parishioners, he told himself that he was simply going where the investigation took him. But at some deeper level, he knew this claim to neutrality was a lie and that he wanted to cause the archdeacon as much discomfort as possible: to tear off the mask of piety that men like Wynter hid behind.
Sometimes it was best to come at your adversaries from an oblique angle, in a way they least expected. At other times it paid to adopt a more direct approach: to shake the tree and see what fell out. Wynter doubtless believed that he was safe, standing there in his place of worship, wearing his colourful robes, surrounded by people who hung on his every word. Pyke intended to disabuse him of this notion. Wynter saw him as he was walking up the aisle but kept talking to his circle of admirers, as though Pyke wasn’t worth bothering about. Pyke pushed his way through and said, his voice slightly raised: ‘I want to know exactly what Guppy did for the London Churches Fund and why he was permitted to steal from under your noses.’
For a moment, no one in the circle spoke, all looking towards the archdeacon for reassurance. Wynter seemed unable to comprehend that he had been treated with so little respect not merely in a place of worship — his place of worship — but in the most sacred place in the entire city. Pyke couldn’t have done a better job if he’d unbuttoned his trousers and relieved himself on the floor.
‘Are you insane?’ Wynter whispered finally, his small, quick eyes darting around the group.
‘Did you know one of your flock was nakedly corrupt? Did you just decide to turn a blind eye, or were you an active participant in his corruption?’
‘This, sir, is a place of God,’ the archdeacon murmured. ‘Take your grubbiness and leave at once.’
Another man, also in robes but older than Wynter, approached Pyke, ashen faced. ‘Who are you, sir, and what do you want?’
This interruption gave the archdeacon a chance to recover. His lips puckered with barely repressed anger. ‘Your superiors will hear about this.’
Pyke didn’t doubt that Mayne would hear about this confrontation, and perhaps also his interrogation of Palmer, but now he had what he’d found under the floorboards in Guppy’s study as ammunition, he could throw it back at his accusers. Still, he knew that he was taking a risk, and that his position was now vulnerable. As he pushed his way through the crowd and walked back up the aisle, he could hear the consternation among the parishioners. As he stared up at the cavernous ceiling, his thoughts turned suddenly, and without apparent explanation, to the man he’d known as the Owl.
It took a little over three hours for Sir Richard Mayne to hear about the incident in St Paul’s and another hour for him to assemble the necessary people to deal with the situation. When Pyke was finally called up to Mayne’s office, he was surprised to see that his friend and the former assistant commissioner, Fitzroy Tilling, was there, together with Rowan and Mayne. There was nothing accidental about the way in which the room had been arranged either. The chair left for Pyke was directly opposite the ones occupied by Tilling and Rowan: they were the jury; Mayne, sitting behind his desk, was the judge. As Pyke entered, they were discussing the injuries that Benedict Pierce had sustained in an assault that had taken place near his place of work.
‘Detective Inspector Pyke,’ Mayne said, coldly. ‘Please take a seat. Of course, you know Commissioner Rowan and Fitzroy Tilling, who is here in his capacity as private secretary to the prime minister.’ Mayne paused. ‘It would seem that the prime minister was visited a day or two ago by Bishop Blomfield and was forced to reassure the bishop that the Metropolitan Police was not investigating the activities of the London Churches Fund which the prime minister represents as a member of the executive board.’ The commissioner’s face was hot with anger. ‘I also received a visit from a good friend of mine, Sir St John Palmer, who told me that you had interrogated him regarding his associations with Hogarth and Guppy.’
Pyke exchanged a brief look with Tilling. He had known Tilling for fifteen years and during this time their mutual suspicion and, at times, antipathy had slowly changed into something approaching friendship. Tilling was a big, clumsy man with olive skin, a receding hairline and dark, bug-like eyes. For most of his working life, he’d faithfully served Sir Robert Peel in one capacity or another, first in Ireland and then in Whitehall. More recently he had served as the assistant commissioner, but after Peel had won the election in ’41, Tilling had been called back into the fold.
‘Perhaps you would care to tell us what possessed you to walk into a place of worship and accuse one of the most important clerics in the city of corruption?’ Mayne asked. His face was tight and hard.
‘I didn’t accuse the archdeacon of corruption. I asked him why he hadn’t acted to curtail the corrupt practices of a person in his charge.’
‘But in St Paul’s Cathedral, man?’ Rowan interrupted. ‘And in front of the congregation? Have you no discretion?’
‘As the commissioners, Detective Inspector, we’ve had to field visits from a respected businessman and the archdeacon himself. Both of these men have categorically demanded your head on a pole,’ Mayne added.
‘Your behaviour, as an ambassador of the Metropolitan Police, has been unacceptable. Totally unacceptable,’ Rowan spat. ‘I’m proposing that we suspend Detective Inspector Pyke with immediate effect and move to dismiss him, if the accusations made against him are found to be true.’
In spite of the seriousness of these threats Pyke chose to ignore them and direct his remarks to Mayne. ‘Perhaps the question you should be asking, Sir Richard, is what drove me to make these accusations in the first place.’
‘Defaming a churchman in his place of worship is sufficient to warrant your immediate dismissal,’ Rowan said.
‘I’ve just been doing my job, Sir Charles,’ Pyke said, turning to look at him. ‘But if you’d rather I take what I’ve found elsewhere, to the newspapers, for instance, that of course is your prerogative.’
Almost at once, Pyke noticed a subtle shift in the mood of his inquisitors. For the first time Tilling spoke. ‘I think we should hear what Detective Inspector Pyke has to say and assess his findings on their own merit.’
‘Elaborate, Detective Inspector,’ Mayne said.
Pyke removed what he had found under the floorboards in Guppy’s study and slammed the documents down on Mayne’s desk.
‘Did you know that Isaac Guppy, the recently deceased rector at St Botolph’s in Aldgate, had managed to accrue a little over forty-three thousand pounds in six different bank accounts by the time of his death?’
Tilling shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked at Mayne, who was inspecting the documents Pyke had presented to him. ‘I’d say this changes the situation somewhat.’
‘The question is: how did the rector of a moderately wealthy parish manage to squirrel
away that amount of money? It would be quite impossible to do so simply out of parish funds. The gross annual income of the parish, I’m told, is no more than four thousand pounds, and out of that salaries are paid and expenses defrayed. It would take many, many years to build up as much as forty thousand from general funds, and Guppy had only been rector for three.’
An uneasy silence descended while all three men digested the information that Pyke had just presented them with.
‘But I’m assuming you have nothing to indicate that Guppy took this money from the London Churches Fund,’ Tilling said eventually.
Pyke now understood why Tilling had come to the meeting.
‘Guppy served in an administrative capacity on the Churches Fund, I believe. It should be investigated.’
‘A very minor capacity, as I understand it,’ Tilling retorted. ‘But I’m told that Bishop Blomfield is happy for the Fund’s accounts to be inspected.’
Pyke nodded. He grasped what he was implicitly being told: you won’t find anything amiss. ‘I also want to interview a prisoner who was transferred from the Model Prison at Pentonville to an undisclosed location by order of the Home Office.’
Mayne was about to speak but Tilling cut in and said, ‘I think that can be arranged.’ It told Pyke all he needed to know; that Druitt’s transfer had been sanctioned at the very highest level.
‘You have to learn some tact, Detective Inspector, some basic respect for the offices of church and state,’ Rowan stated, glancing over at Mayne. He had clearly wanted to wound Pyke and seemed disappointed.
Mayne nodded vigorously. ‘Further outbursts such as the scene today in St Paul’s will not be tolerated. Is that understood?’ He waited a moment then added, ‘And you’re to leave Sir St John Palmer alone.’
Pyke composed himself then said, ‘Children have been killed. Do you understand? Children. And no one cared because they were poor. All you seem to be concerned about is not upsetting men like Palmer and Wynter…’
Neither Mayne nor Rowan seemed to know how to respond. Perhaps, Pyke speculated afterwards, no one had ever spoken to them in such a manner. He stood and walked over to the door. He’d reached the bottom of the stairs when Tilling called out his name.
‘It isn’t a good idea to antagonise a man like Sir Richard,’ he said, once he’d caught his breath.
‘Nice to see you too, Fitzroy.’ That elicited a wry smile. Pyke added, ‘Even if your role here is to make certain nothing untoward about the Churches Fund ever comes to light.’
A flash of irritation passed across Tilling’s face. ‘You always did have a flair for making others feel morally soiled. And you never did have much time for the Church.’
‘I’ve never found piety and crookedness to be an attractive combination, if that’s what you mean.’
Tilling took out his fob-watch and checked the time. ‘You’re quite right that Peel won’t tolerate the Fund’s good name being dragged through the mud.’
‘Is Peel telling me how to do my job?’
‘No one could possibly do that.’ Tilling laughed bitterly. ‘Peel knows that, as well as I do.’
Pyke acknowledged the barbed compliment with a nod. ‘Tell me, Fitzroy. How did you know about the prisoner being moved from Pentonville?’
‘Who said I did?’
‘I want to know who put in the request to have him moved.’
Tilling stared at him, as though assessing how much he knew. ‘I was concerned to hear about the horrendous assault on Superintendent Pierce.’ When Pyke didn’t respond, he added, ‘You were never on friendly terms with the man, were you?’
Pyke had been wearing gloves to hide the cuts and bruises on his knuckles. Instinctively he put his hands behind his back. Tilling gestured at Pyke’s gloves. ‘I wonder what I might find if I asked you to take them off.’
‘My hands, Fitzroy. You’d find eight good fingers and two thumbs.’
Tilling said as he walked away, ‘There’s always a line, Pyke. I hope for your sake you haven’t already crossed it.’
Two days later, after Pyke’s painstaking scrutiny of the Churches Fund’s accounts had revealed no evidence of malpractice, he presented himself at Traitor’s Gate at the Tower of London. Minutes later, he was escorted over the dry moat and past the Wakefield Tower to the Queen’s House, where Druitt was being held. Pyke hadn’t realised that the Tower was still being used to house prisoners, and being within its ancient walls made him think about the way in which the authorities had once dealt with threats to their authority: the rack, the press, hanging, drawing, quartering. Such monolithic power had long since dissipated in this enlightened, democratic time, or so they were told, but as Pyke looked up at the Bloody Tower and thought about all of those who had been killed there, he wondered how much had really changed.
After a flight of stone stairs, Pyke was led along a narrow passageway, through a reinforced door guarded by a turnkey, and then to a row of cells, all of which were empty, apart from the final one. The warder produced a key and inserted it into the lock. Then he slid back the iron bolts at the top and bottom of the door and, with both hands, pulled it open.
Ebenezer Druitt was sitting on a pile of straw, head bowed. His ankles and wrists were in chains. When he looked up and saw Pyke, his expression didn’t change. He had been badly beaten; his nose was broken, there was bruising around both of his eyes, his cheek was swollen and one of his teeth was missing.
‘When I realised they were bringing me here, I expected to be subjected to torture. Unfortunately the methods my interrogators have used have been drearily predictable.’ When he smiled, Druitt revealed his bloodied gums.
Pyke stood with his back to the door. ‘What have they been asking you?’
‘What do you imagine, Detective Inspector?’
‘I’m guessing they want to know who killed Guppy and Hogarth. They want the killer’s name.’
Druitt moved a little and winced from the pain. ‘Unfortunately for them, I was unable to provide this information. I rather fear my relocation has been a waste of time.’
‘And do you know who they are?’ Pyke looked down at him. ‘These men who’ve been interrogating you?’
‘Funny you should mention it, Detective Inspector, but to be quite honest, they haven’t bothered to introduce themselves.’
‘You could always tell me what you’re keeping from them.’
Druitt rolled his eyes. ‘Very clever, Detective Inspector. Forge a bond with the prisoner by implicitly establishing a common enemy.’
‘Who said they’re my enemies?’
‘Oh, they will be, if you push hard enough.’ Druitt tried to smile.
‘Push hard enough at what?’
‘Do you imagine we’re so very different, Detective Inspector? That we want such very different things?’
‘I couldn’t say. I have no idea what you want.’
‘But I can see in your eyes you’re less hostile than you were. You’ve found out some things, haven’t you? It’s put you in a difficult position vis-a-vis your superiors.’
Pyke tried to conceal what he was thinking. Druitt’s grin widened. ‘They don’t want you to continue with your investigation… they want you to crawl back under your stone and pretend everything in the garden is sweet-smelling.’
‘Guppy stole more than forty thousand pounds,’ Pyke said, eventually. ‘Did it come from the London Churches Fund?’
‘The fact that you’re good at your job is threatening to many people. I can’t emphasise enough how careful you need to be.’
‘Perhaps if you were to give me a nudge in the right direction, I could do my job a little better.’
Druitt leaned back against the bare wall and shut his eyes.
‘I’ve seen the Churches Fund’s official accounts. Perhaps you know something I don’t.’ Pyke waited. ‘Is there another set of accounts?’
Druitt opened his eyes suddenly. ‘Just do your job, Detective, and let me worry about the rest.’
/> ‘The rest?’ When Druitt refused to answer, Pyke added, ‘Is whoever killed Guppy and Hogarth planning to strike again?’
That elicited a subtle shake of the head. ‘A predictable question, Detective Inspector. Very predictable.’
‘When I visited you in your Pentonville cell, how did you know I was reading The Fable of the Bees?’
This time Druitt just stared at the wall in front of him. ‘I didn’t. But I suspect we’re both attracted by Mandeville’s bleak vision, his desire to rip off the veil of hypocrisy that surrounds us and see virtue for what it really is.’
The sky was still blue by the time Pyke returned home. Felix hadn’t come back from school and Mrs Booth had gone to the shops. With only Copper for company, Pyke let himself out into the garden to check on the two remaining pigs. The ground was still hard from the previous night’s frost. As Pyke peered over at the lowest point of the wall into his neighbour’s garden, he saw Mabel’s carcass still lying where he’d killed her, all the blood having long since drained into the soil.
Back in the house, he had just heated up a pot of coffee when someone knocked on the door. Copper sniffed the air and hobbled on his three legs into the hallway. Shoving the mastiff into the living room, Pyke turned the handle on the front door and pulled it open, expecting to see a delivery boy or a door-to-door hawker.
There were five or six of them; police constables, all wearing their uniforms. Pyke didn’t recognise any of them.
Two of them rushed towards him and bundled him on to the floor. The coffee cup fell from his hand and Copper started to bark and scratch at the living-room door. Two of the constables sat on him while the others attached handcuffs and leg-irons. It all happened in the blink of an eye.
‘Who authorised this?’ Pyke said, thinking it was all a terrible mistake.
The Detective Branch pm-4 Page 29
