The Detective Branch

by Andrew Pepper

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ The former priest took another look at the letter. ‘But I recognise the poem from somewhere . . .’

  ‘Blake.’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked at Pyke. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what did you find there?’

  ‘Nothing. The rooms on the top floor are empty. It seems no one’s lived there since the summer.’

  Pyke took a moment to assess Malloy’s reaction; his blank, glassy stare. Then he noticed that Shaw was troubled by a book he’d taken from the former priest’s shelf. ‘What is it, Frederick?’ Pyke asked.

  ‘Malleus Maleficarum,’ Shaw said, to Malloy rather than Pyke. He’d been reading from the spine of the book. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Literally? The hammer of witches.’ Malloy must have realised he’d said something of interest because almost at once he added, ‘Why are both of you lookin’ at one another like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like I’m guilty o’ something.’

  Shaw turned the pages until he found the engraving he was looking for. He showed it to Pyke: a Dominican monk was standing over the disembowelled body of a young man with a hammer in one hand and an axe in the other. Pyke nodded: they both knew he’d dug up something important. Shaw showed the engraving to Malloy. ‘What did he do, to deserve such an end?’

  ‘That there is a Devil worshipper.’

  ‘And the monk is punishing him for his sin?’

  ‘These days we tend not to think of Satan as flesh and blood.’ He tapped his right temple. ‘But those monks knew better; they knew Satan was someone you had to fight out there, not just in here.’

  Pyke noticed the change in the former priest’s demeanour. He was sitting up straighter, and his eyes suddenly seemed clear and lucid.

  ‘You think that’s a fair punishment?’ Shaw asked.

  Pyke was watching Malloy’s reaction carefully and he was impressed with the subtlety of Shaw’s questioning.

  ‘Those were different times, sir. Different times.’ Malloy struggled to find the right words. ‘If the Devil doesn’t exist, at least as flesh and blood, then how come he’s still able to sow his discord?’

  Pyke picked up the leather-bound edition and had a look at it himself. The words were Latin but the few engravings were truly horrific. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  Suddenly Malloy sat forward and gripped the arms of his chair. ‘How can we believe in Heaven if there’s no such place as Hell? How can we believe in God, if the Devil is just a figment of our imagination?’

  Pyke and Shaw exchanged a quick glance. It was the first indication that Malloy had a temper, if sufficiently riled. ‘So you believe that the Devil is walking among us?’

  ‘I do,’ Malloy replied solemnly.

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  Malloy looked around the tiny room and bowed his head without answering the question.

  ‘Have you ever come across an Anglican vicar by the name of Isaac Guppy?’ Pyke asked, suddenly.

  The former priest’s face remained entirely blank.

  ‘He was the rector at St Botolph’s, Aldgate.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Guppy was murdered the day before yesterday in the grounds of the church. Someone beat him to death with a hammer.’

  ‘I never heard o’ him.’ Malloy’s gaze drifted over Pyke’s shoulder. ‘May God bless the poor bugger’s soul.’

  ‘Are you quite certain?’

  ‘I don’t make a habit of befriendin’ Protestant clergy.’ He waited and then added, ‘You can search this place, too. Regardless of what I might read, I don’t own a hammer.’

  ‘And you don’t have any idea who might have wanted me to visit number twenty-eight Broad Street?’

  Shaking his head, Malloy stood up and went over to his desk. There, he retrieved a clutch of papers and thrust them into Pyke’s hand. ‘That’s my handwriting, sir. Just so you can be sure it wasn’t me who sent you the letter.’

  Outside, Pyke buttoned up his greatcoat and took shelter from the freezing rain under the awning of a butcher’s shop. Gaslit flares illuminated wooden trays of unappetising meat in the window. ‘It was good work, finding that book.’

  Shaw’s freckled face reddened; he wasn’t used to being praised. ‘He didn’t seem to know about the letter, though - or Guppy’s murder.’

  Pyke nodded ruefully. ‘Guppy dies at the hands of someone wielding a hammer. And Malloy owns a book called “The Hammer of Witches”.’

  Shaw looked at the dark clouds gathered overhead. ‘Do you think he had something to do with the rector’s death?’

  Considering the question for a moment or two, Pyke shook his head. ‘Why? Do you?’

  Later that afternoon, Pyke found Martin Jakes in front of his church serving meat and vegetable broth to a line of poorly dressed men, women and children; there was no pushing and everyone seemed grateful for the chance to fill their stomachs. As Pyke watched Jakes and his ward, Kitty Jones, fill the bowls with wooden ladles, he tried to imagine the archdeacon performing such a service and wondered whether Wynter had ever come into close proximity with the city’s working poor.

  Jakes must have seen Pyke at the gate but he waited until the crowd had been fed before he came over to join him. ‘Welcome to my church, Detective Inspector,’ he said, taking Pyke’s hand and shaking it firmly. ‘Would you care for some broth?’

  Pyke thanked him but declined. Those who’d been fed had fanned out across the yard and were chatting in small groups. ‘I was wondering if you’d heard from Francis Hiley.’

  Jakes nodded his head, as though he’d been expecting Pyke to ask this. ‘Unfortunately not. It would seem he’s vanished into thin air.’

  Pyke wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, wondering how to proceed. ‘There’s a growing feeling among my colleagues that Hiley killed Guppy. I can see their point of view, but I’m trying to keep an open mind. Do you understand?’

  Jakes nodded. ‘That only by coming to you first of all will Francis get a fair hearing.’

  ‘And you’ll advise him to do this, if he tries to contact you?’

  Jakes’s genial expression vanished. ‘I don’t concur with your colleagues’ poor opinion of Francis, but I do understand and respect my obligation to the law.’

  ‘There is an eyewitness, a police constable no less, who’s willing to swear that he saw a man matching Hiley’s description standing over Guppy’s body in the churchyard.’

  Jakes assimilated this new piece of information with a stony face. ‘Maybe Francis came upon the body by chance and fled for fear of being accused of the murder himself?’

  Pyke had considered this scenario but decided to keep his views on the matter private. ‘When I visited you at the vicarage, you told me that Guppy had come to you to request Hiley’s presence at St Botolph’s.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Jakes said.

  ‘But he never told you why he wanted to have Hiley around.’

  ‘Not in so many words.’ Jakes paused. ‘It was clear that someone had upset Guppy. He wasn’t his usual belligerent self.’

  ‘When would this have been?’ Pyke asked.

  ‘March, April.’

  ‘Could you be more precise?’

  ‘Late March or early April.’ Jakes paused and suggested that they take a walk around the yard to keep warm. When they’d taken a few steps, he turned to Pyke and added, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m speaking too harshly of the man. Guppy had his faults, as we all do, but he was my immediate superior and I respected the work he did as rector.’

  ‘Last time, I think you said there were other vicars under Guppy’s wing.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jakes replied. ‘Seven of us at present, all stipendiary curates. You can see for yourself that St Matthew’s was built in the last century, but the others were all appointed in the last year or two to new churches: St John’s, St Peter’s, St James’s the Less, St James’s the Great, St Bartholomew’s and St Jude’s. There ar
e three or four other churches being built.’

  ‘And St Botolph’s is the mother parish for all these churches?’

  Jakes nodded. ‘That’s why I said that the rector of St Botolph’s is an important figure.’

  The idea of traipsing around all these churches and talking to the curates depressed Pyke, but it was clear this needed to be done.

  ‘A parish,’ Jakes went on, ‘especially one as wealthy at St Botolph’s, is like a small kingdom. The rate is collected and the income has to be dispersed. The rector is ultimately responsible for everything that happens.’

  Pyke turned to face Jakes. ‘Do you know if Guppy had a disagreement with any of the other curates?’

  ‘Not a public one. But I think it’s fair to say we all felt like poor relations of the mother parish.’

  ‘And such resentments can fester.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jakes said, ‘but I certainly can’t imagine any of the curates going after the rector with a hammer.’

  Jakes walked ahead and Pyke increased his stride to catch up. ‘Tell me, was Guppy involved in the planning and building of these new churches?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m only a perpetual curate, so I’m afraid I know very little about the administration of our church family. But the situation we face here in London is quite anomalous, as the bishop realises. There are thirty clergymen attached to St Paul’s, some with incomes in excess of fifteen thousand. But just a mile or two to the east, here in Bethnal Green, there’s one clergyman for every ten thousand souls.’

  ‘The bishop is keen on reform, then?’

  ‘He’s keen but the Church as a whole is a tradition-bound beast, inured against change.’ Jakes hesitated, perhaps wondering whether he had said too much. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I respect the bishop and wholeheartedly agree with the reforms he’s attempting to push through.’

  ‘And the archdeacon?’

  Jakes chose not to answer Pyke’s question but his silence was damning.

  ‘Tell me something. When you were the vicar at St Luke’s in Soho, did you ever come across a Catholic priest by the name of Brendan Malloy?’

  Jakes’s face had scrunched into a frown. ‘The name’s familiar . . .’

  ‘He left the Catholic Church under a cloud a few years ago and fell into the bottom of a gin bottle.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I do believe I remember hearing about such a chap.’ Jakes looked searchingly into Pyke’s face. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. His name was mentioned. I just wondered whether you knew him or not.’

  ‘Not personally, I’m afraid.’ Jakes dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I have to admit that I miss those days, Detective Inspector. Soho isn’t a wealthy district but compared to here, well, there is no comparison. And there was such intellectual vigour. In a tavern, I might find myself in conversation with a philosopher or a poet. Here,’ he added, ‘the poverty is overwhelming and, rightly or wrongly, the locals resent anyone who claims to speak for the establishment.’

  ‘It wasn’t your choice to come here, then? You would have happily stayed in Berwick Street?’

  Jakes didn’t appear to have heard the question. Instead he waved at his ward, Kitty Jones, who was collecting the discarded soup bowls. ‘Do you have children, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘A son. He’s fourteen.’

  ‘A grand age,’ Jakes said, smiling. ‘Kitty was a little older when she first came to me. That would have been almost five years ago now. I’ve tried to convince her to think about marriage, a life of her own, but she tells me she’s wedded to the Church.’

  Pyke hadn’t intended to say anything else about Felix but this last reference, as casual as it was, changed his mind. ‘Recently I’m afraid to say my son’s been showing an unhealthy interest in the Bible.’

  ‘And such a thought upsets you?’ Jakes asked, amused rather than wounded by Pyke’s insinuation.

  ‘I visit a man like the archdeacon and I’m truly horrified.’ Pyke looked around him and shrugged. ‘Then I come here and I’m not so sure.’

  Matilda Guppy didn’t seem angry or resentful when Pyke was ushered into the drawing room at the rectory, but there was no warmth in her greeting. She was wrapping wineglasses in sheets of paper and packing them into a wooden crate.

  ‘I suppose the servants could do all of this,’ she said, in a dull tone, ‘but it helps to keep my mind occupied.’

  Pyke looked at the pile of china plates stacked on the sideboard. ‘On my last visit, I was led to believe, by others more than by yourself, that your husband had grudgingly agreed to give Francis Hiley food and shelter. Now I’m told it was the other way around; that he actively courted Hiley’s presence because he wanted someone to keep an eye on things.’

  Guppy’s widow looked straight through him. ‘I’m afraid my husband didn’t consult me about the decisions he made.’

  ‘This would have been in late March or early April. Can you think of something that happened just prior to this, something that might have upset or unsettled him?’

  ‘As I’ve just explained to you, Detective Inspector, I wasn’t privy to my husband’s affairs. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.’

  ‘Perhaps your husband mentioned something. Perhaps he’d been threatened by one of his parishioners, or he had money worries. Perhaps you noticed a change in him. Or someone came here to the rectory . . .’

  ‘I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, Detective Inspector, because that would be lying.’ She picked up a china plate from the sideboard.

  Pyke stood his ground. ‘Please try to think, madam. It could be important.’

  Matilda Guppy put down the plate and rested her hands on her hips. ‘This would have been in late March?’

  Pyke nodded.

  She wandered across to the bay window, and when she turned around to face him, it was as if she had finally reconciled herself to answering his question. ‘A strange fellow came here to the rectory about that time. After he left, I could tell that my husband was upset. I tried to find out what this man wanted, and what they’d discussed, but my husband wouldn’t tell me. He was still upset for at least a couple of days after that.’

  ‘Can you describe this man, the one who visited? I mean, did you actually see him?’

  ‘See him? I was introduced to him, sir. It would have been before he’d spoken to my husband.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘Not his name but I remember he was a funny-looking man. Rather shabby, if truth be told. I do remember his brogue, though. Rather nice, even if it was Irish.’

  ‘If you saw him again, would you recognise him?’ Pyke waited. ‘Would you be able to pick him out of a group of men?’

  Pyke arrested Brendan Malloy on suspicion of murder, transported him back to the station house at Great Scotland Yard and locked him in one of the cells in the basement. Later he would think it a little strange that Malloy had remained in his room; that he hadn’t tried to make a run for it as soon as he’d realised Pyke had gone to see him regarding Guppy’s murder. In that sense, staying put didn’t seem like the action of a guilty man, but then again, when Pyke had found him for the second time, the man had imbibed a bottle of gin and needed to be carried to the carriage.

  By late afternoon, when Malloy had sobered up enough to be able to stand, Matilda Guppy had presented herself at the Detective Branch. Malloy was led up the stairs and told to line up in a parade of similarly dishevelled men. Guppy’s wife filed up and down all of them, like a sergeant major, and picked out Malloy at the first attempt.

  An hour later, after he’d penned a route-paper and sent one of the clerks upstairs with it, Pyke was summoned to Mayne’s office. The commissioner had someone else with him, and when Pyke pushed open the door, Mayne and his companion looked up, a little startled.

  ‘Could you give us a moment, Detective Inspector?’ Mayne said, glancing at the well-dressed man with him.

  ‘Is that necessary, Sir Richard
? I think our business here is complete.’ The man was in his fifties; his silver hair was smooth and smelled of lavender oil. He carried himself with the air of someone who had done well for himself.

  Mayne grunted and looked over at Pyke. ‘Detective Inspector Pyke, this is Sir St John Palmer.’ He waited as they acknowledged one another. ‘Sir St John has kindly agreed to oversee the renovations of the old station house.’

  Pyke had another look at Palmer. He was in good shape for his age; his hair was thick, and his complexion clear. ‘I never trust a businessman who’s being kind to me.’