‘But it must have been awful.’ Pyke shook his head. ‘For you and for his family.’
‘At the time they were very close knit, they all doted on Morris. To be honest, I didn’t always like the way they treated him, as if he was a lame dog that needed taking care of. But they loved him, would’ve done anything for him. It hit them terribly hard. Especially the mother. At the time she would’ve been quite devout. I’d say that’s where Morris got some of his beliefs from.’
‘I guess it must’ve shaken them badly. These things always do. You’re never quite the same afterwards.’
Matthew took another swig from the gin bottle. ‘Morris was the oldest, and the only one fathered by her first husband. That’s why he called himself Keate and the rest of them were Gibb.’
Pyke felt a bolt of excitement shoot up his spine. Gibb. It had been the name of the third man who’d been killed in the Shorts Garden robbery.
Wanting to prod him gently in the right direction, Pyke said, ‘Something like this happens, the whole family can fall apart.’
‘Too true in this case, Doc.’ Matthew stood up and went to pat his horse. ‘Morris had two stepbrothers and a stepsister. One of them, Johnny, was a bad lot, always getting drunk and fighting. I don’t know what happened to him. The other, Luke, joined the army. This would have been before Morris was arrested, though. I remember noticing him at Morris’s trial, in his uniform.’
‘Luke Gibb?’ Pyke said, as though he recognised the name.
Matthew came back and sat on the damp straw. ‘Dragoons, I think; I remember him telling me he was based somewhere in Cambridgeshire. Morris was always so proud of him.’
‘And what became of the others? The mother and the daughter?’
This was a more direct question but Matthew was sufficiently lubricated by the gin, so he didn’t seem to mind. ‘Last I heard, the mother had gone a little crazy. The sister was an interesting fish. I always thought she was the good-looking one in the family. An artist of some kind. But she was troubled, just like Morris and the mother. She talked about having these strange visions.’
Pyke felt his stomach somersault. Good looking. Strange visions. An artist. He had to pretend everything was fine. ‘I think I remember reading about it, now you mention it. You know, the murders, the trial. Was the sister involved?’
‘Who, Kate?’ Matthew screwed up his face. ‘ Nah, not her.’
Instinctively Pyke gave a sigh of relief, although he knew the fact that Keate’s half-sister was called Kate didn’t prove a thing. He took the bottle, had one final drink and handed it back to Matthew. The cheap gin scalded his throat. ‘Be hard, I reckon, for them to stay in the area,’ he said. ‘Everyone pointing their fingers at you.’
‘The mother stayed, I know that much. But I haven’t seen her for a couple of years.’
‘And the beautiful half-sister?’ This time Pyke tried to keep his tone light.
Matthew looked at him and grinned. ‘Don’t go asking me, Doc. My Laura would have my guts on a plate if she heard me talking about another woman.’ He stood up and yawned. ‘I’m for bed, anyhow. I’ll see you tonight at eleven.’
Pyke nodded. He now had all the information he was going to get — at least out of Matthew and the crew. A part of him felt sad that he wouldn’t be there in the evening, that they would think badly of him — especially Matthew.
At his lodging house, Pyke took off his clothes in the yard and, in spite of the freezing temperature, scrubbed himself down with soap and cold water. He had done little to his appearance apart from grow a beard and dress in a manner that befitted his status as night-soil man, but, by and large, people had left him alone. In the days just after his escape from Bow Street, when no one seemed to know whether he was dead or alive, he had expected to be recognised at every street corner, but he had forgotten how easy it was to lose oneself in the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. Still, he didn’t take unnecessary risks; he avoided constables walking their beats and he had tried to contact Felix only once since the incident in the courtroom.
Pyke had made a point of seeing Felix as soon as possible, going almost directly from Bow Street to St Matthew’s. Still, their reunion had not been a good one. Initially the lad had thrown his arms around Pyke and wept, relieved that he was alive and hadn’t, in fact, been shot. But quickly this relief had turned into anger that Pyke hadn’t told him of his plan in advance, that he had allowed him to think he was dead. He’d been to every hospital in the city, Felix said, and each one he’d entered, he’d expected to be told that Pyke hadn’t made it. Pyke had tried to explain: he told Felix that in time the police would come and question him and if they had an inkling that he knew in advance about the escape bid, he could be arrested. He tried to explain that he’d kept Felix in the dark in order to protect him. At the time, Felix hadn’t been ready or willing to accept this and their meeting had ended acrimoniously. Since then Pyke had been back to the church twice, but on each occasion there were too many police constables watching the place, so he couldn’t run the risk of trying to speak to his son. He had seen the lad, though, and knew he was safe; and when this whole thing was resolved, if it was ever resolved, Pyke knew he would owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Martin Jakes.
He was equally indebted to Jack Whicher, who met him every morning in the middle of Golden Square. Maybe Whicher felt he had to make amends for what he had done, or maybe he simply believed Pyke was innocent and therefore deserving of his help. In any case, Whicher was there on the same bench every morning at eight, and he kept Pyke informed about both the investigation and the status of the manhunt to find him.
The fact that Pyke’s escape had taken place under the noses of two of the city’s most senior officers was, apparently, the most galling thing, especially for the men involved. They, in turn, had tried to shift the blame: who, they demanded to know, had been the constable who’d carried one end of the stretcher? Who had authorised the removal of the irons? And why hadn’t anyone else insisted on accompanying Pyke to the hospital? Whicher, who had been on the scene and, unbeknownst to Wells and Pierce, had known some of Pyke’s plan, had attracted a fair amount of ire, but no one had yet accused him of actively conspiring to aid the escape bid. Most embarrassing of all, the authorities had let the gunman — one of Rafferty’s men — do what he’d done in front of everyone and then allowed him to slip through their fingers. For this, Wells, Pierce and the whole police force had been ridiculed in the newspapers and scandal sheets.
Today Whicher had arrived slightly before him and was drinking a cup of hot chocolate. Pyke sat down next to him and said, ‘You remember the third man who was shot in the robbery in the summer?’
‘Gibb, wasn’t it?’
‘Keate’s mother and siblings are called Gibb. Keate was the result of an earlier marriage. One of the half-brothers, Johnny, was our victim.’
‘So what do you think it means?’
‘Well, first of all I think he was there in Cullen’s shop to try to sell the Saviour’s Cross to this Harry Dove. Cullen was there to broker the deal.’
‘So it was Johnny Gibb who stole the cross from the archdeacon’s safe?’
‘I think so.’
Whicher took a sip of his hot chocolate. ‘How does any of this relate to what happened to Keate — and Guppy?’
‘I don’t know, let’s just think about it.’ Pyke paused, trying to arrange his thoughts. ‘All right. Guppy knew Morris Keate. We know this from Martin Jakes. We know Guppy was sniffing around Keate at the time the two boys were murdered. Let’s say the two boys had stumbled on to something they shouldn’t have and someone decided to get rid of them. What if Keate was picked to be the scapegoat?’
Whicher nodded but didn’t seem convinced.
‘Keate is arrested, tried and eventually executed,’ Pyke said, confident in what he’d said so far. ‘His family and close friends don’t believe he did it but the evidence seems to contradict that belief. A few years go by. Then Keate’s family, his half-brot
hers, start to hear rumours. At some point Johnny breaks into the archdeacon’s safe; perhaps new information comes to light suggesting their brother’s innocence. What would you do? One thing I wouldn’t do, in their shoes, is go to the police. Let’s just say they opted to take matters into their own hands. Perhaps they learnt that Guppy was involved; Charles Hogarth, too. What we do know is that the deaths were planned to coincide with the dates on which the two boys were murdered. Why? It’s obvious, isn’t it? Whoever killed Guppy and Hogarth wanted to send us a message. They wanted to rub our faces in the truth. Morris Keate didn’t kill those two boys. But they also wanted us to look into the original murders again. They wanted us to find out what really happened.’
Whicher nodded. ‘I suppose there might be a certain twisted logic to what you’ve just said.’
‘But?’
‘It still doesn’t explain where the theft of the Saviour’s Cross fits in.’
Pyke could see Whicher’s point. ‘All right. Let’s think about what happened to the cross after it left Cullen’s shop.’
‘Suppose Gibb had the cross with him at the time, and Sharp killed him and the other two for it,’ Whicher said.
Nodding, Pyke said, ‘We know Sharp tried, almost immediately, to sell the cross on to Alfred Egan. That’s when we interrupted them at the Red Lion.’
‘Six months later, the cross turns up in your garden,’ Whicher said, frowning. ‘So how did it get from Sharp to there?’
‘I don’t know.’
But Pyke had a good idea, even if he couldn’t prove it. Instinct told him that he had been set up, either by Wells or Pierce. Therefore, he suggested to Whicher, it followed that one of them had managed to retrieve the Saviour’s Cross from Sharp. Perhaps they had been in league with Sharp from the beginning and had taken the precaution of ending Sharp’s life before the man had been able to denounce them.
Whicher looked at him, the concern apparent in his eyes. ‘You really think one of them is involved?’
Pyke just shrugged.
‘Did you bring the daguerreotype we made of Sharp after his death?’ he asked, changing the subject.
Whicher dug his hand into his pocket and produced the copperplate. The image looked almost real and Pyke was taken back to the fight he’d had with the man in an alleyway behind Field Lane.
‘Any news on Palmer? Or Wynter?’
‘By all accounts, Palmer is unwell. He’s taken to his bed and hasn’t been seen at his place of work for more than two weeks. I’m told his house is better guarded than the Tower.’ Whicher sniffed. ‘Sergeant Russell’s called in sick, too.’
Pyke pondered this for a moment. ‘And the archdeacon?’
‘He’s left the capital on business. No one seems to know where he’s gone or when he’ll be back.’
It seemed clear that all three men were afraid of appearing in public and had taken the necessary precautions. ‘How are things at the Detective Branch, then?’
That drew a wry smile. After Pyke’s arrest, Wells had refused to sanction Whicher’s return to uniform and he’d been reinstated. Briefly, Whicher explained that Wells had taken temporary charge of the department. They’d been forbidden to bring up the subject of the Churches Fund; and had been told Charles Hogarth had died of natural causes, that Isaac Guppy had stolen from general parish funds and that this theft was to be treated as an isolated case. ‘Wells has gone back to trying to find Francis Hiley. Meanwhile, we’re investigating a house burglary in Clapham.’
‘What about Lockhart and Shaw?’
‘Everyone’s trying to keep a low profile. Wells is hardly ever there. It’s like a rudderless ship.’
‘I’d like you to do something for me, if you have the time. But it’s going to entail a trip out of the city.’
‘Aside from the burglary, my desk is clear.’
‘Keate’s stepbrother, Luke Gibb, served in the Dragoons. I don’t know, maybe he still does. I was told he was stationed somewhere in Cambridgeshire. I’m afraid that’s all I know, but there can’t be too many regiments in the county.’
‘You’d like me to find out which one he served in and talk to someone who knew him.’
Pyke smiled. ‘Exactly.’
Whicher stood up and stamped his boots on the frozen ground to warm his feet. ‘Same time tomorrow, then?’
Pyke stood up, too, and looked at the slate-coloured sky. ‘I wanted to say how grateful I am, for all you’re doing. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.’
‘I’m glad to do what I can.’
Pyke thought about their previous encounter in the privy at work, when he’d punched Whicher and told him he never wanted to see him again. It was funny how quickly some things turned around. On that occasion, Whicher had told him awful things about his family circumstances and Pyke had said nothing to him about them since. All of a sudden, he felt ashamed.
‘Jack, I don’t want you to think I…’ He tried to find the right words. ‘What you told me before, about your wife and child.. ’
Whicher seemed uncomfortable. ‘I know.’
‘Do you still go and see her?’
Whicher looked around the square and exhaled loudly. ‘Sometimes. Not often, though. She’s still in the same… place.’
‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I can’t imagine how terrible the whole thing must have been.’
Whicher bit his lip. ‘Sometimes life has a way of cutting off your arms and legs and then defecating on you from a great height.’
Nodding, Pyke wondered whether he should mention the child, who’d died from cholera, but in the end he resorted to patting Whicher on the shoulder. ‘You’re a good man, Jack. A good man and a good detective.’
In his dirty workman’s clothes, and with a soiled oilskin cap covering his shaved head, it took Clare Lewis a few moments to recognise him. When she did, she smiled and shook her head. ‘Somehow I knew you weren’t dead.’ But she wouldn’t turn around to face him and Pyke quickly saw why. The whole left side of her face was swollen and had turned purple and yellow, and her eyes were ringed by smudges of black. She held out her hands, as if to pacify him. ‘I know what you’re going to say and I’m not interested. Do you understand?’
Pyke gently turned her face towards him. The bruising was worse close up. ‘I don’t need to ask who did this to you, do I?’
‘I’m glad you’re alive. I really am. But I want you to leave.’
‘And the next time he comes for you, this time with a knife or a cudgel, what will you do then?’
‘You don’t understand.’ She folded her arms and looked up at him for the first time. ‘Even your presence here in the building is putting me at further risk.’
‘I used the back entrance. Nobody saw me.’ As he said this, Pyke wondered how true it was.
This seemed to make her even angrier. She took a few steps away from him and turned towards the window. ‘He did this to me because someone told him I was asking questions about those two boys.’
Pyke tried to reconcile his curiosity with the guilt he felt for putting her in danger. ‘And what did you find out?’
She shook her head as though she’d expected him to say this but was still disappointed. ‘No words of contrition? No “I’m so sorry my demands led to this ”?’ Gingerly she touched the bruised side of her face.
‘Would it help if I was sorry? Would it make it more bearable?’ When she didn’t answer, Pyke said, ‘What did you find out?’
‘Culpepper is adamant that no one in his mob even whispers those boys’ names. The last anyone heard of them, they’d just turned over a house on Cheapside. Number twenty-three. That’s all I know; that’s all I want to know.’
Pyke decided not to push the issue. Instead he took the copperplate from his pocket and handed it to her.
Reluctantly she took it and glanced down at the image of Sharp’s face. Her expression remained inscrutable.
‘Do you recognise him?’
Without answeri
ng, Clare stared down into the yard. ‘I wondered why I hadn’t seen him around,’ she said, keeping perfectly still.
‘So he did work for Culpepper, then?’
This time she turned around and nodded once. ‘He wasn’t part of the inner circle.’
Pyke didn’t smile, but he felt an inner satisfaction spread through him. It was starting to come together, to make some sense. So it was Culpepper who had dispatched Sharp to retrieve the Saviour’s Cross, and maybe kill the three men in the shop on Shorts Gardens. But on whose orders?
‘I take it you didn’t like him.’
‘What gave you that idea?’ For the first time since he’d arrived, she seemed to relax. ‘No, you’re right. I always thought he was an animal.’
‘And Culpepper isn’t?’
‘If you’ve come to judge me, you can go to hell.’ Softening a little, she gestured at the marks on her face. ‘He did this to me with a leather strap.’
Pyke felt his anger — and guilt — return. He took a step closer to her. ‘You have to understand, Clare, I’m not trying to judge you. But ask yourself this: do you still want to be answering to a man like Culpepper in a year or even five years’ time?’
That made her laugh. ‘And you think I have a choice?’
‘We always have choices.’
‘In your world, perhaps. But in my world, you do what you’re told. And if you step out of line, you’re crushed.’
Pyke looked around the nicely decorated room. ‘He comes here, doesn’t here? Perhaps not to you but he comes here as a client.’
The fact that she didn’t answer straight away told him all he needed to know.
‘Just go, Pyke. Leave me alone. I’ve done what I can for you.’
‘And the next time he decides you’ve let him down? Because once this kind of thing starts, Clare, it doesn’t stop.’ He scribbled his address on a scrap of paper and pressed it into her hand.
‘Spare me the cheap sentiments, Pyke. I can make my own decisions.’
It took a few minutes of grubbing around in the scrubland behind the Coach and Horses in St Giles to find what Pyke was looking for: a plank of wood that he could easily hold in his hands. Clutching it, he kicked down the same door he’d used about a month earlier, and swung the piece of wood into the face of the first man who tried to block his path. Another man stepped out of a room leading off the dank corridor and Pyke smashed one end of the plank into his stomach and watched him collapse to the floor. Feeling his fury gather momentum, he kicked open the door at the end with the heel of his boot and looked for any sign of Culpepper: there were two men he didn’t recognise from the previous card game but otherwise the room was deserted. From somewhere else in the building, Pyke heard the sound of urgent footsteps. Before the two men could get up, Pyke had taken the plank of wood and swung it against their respective heads. He looked around, the blood pulsing through his veins.
The Detective Branch pm-4 Page 33
