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 so 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 ste
pped 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.
Half an hour later, the carriage dropped Pyke off in Scotland Yard. He noticed that a candle was burning in one of the Detective Branch’s rooms. A porter let him into the building and told Pyke that there was a boy waiting for him in his office. He explained that his shift had just started and he didn’t know the boy’s name. Entering the office, Pyke saw Lockhart before he saw Felix. His son was sitting listlessly in one of the chairs. Lockhart looked up at Pyke, relief on his face. ‘Your son was already here when I arrived. I thought I’d better wait with him. We didn’t know where you were . . .’
‘What is it?’ Dry mouthed, Pyke looked into his son’s face and felt his entire world tilt on its axis.
‘I thought you’d want to know,’ Felix said, flatly, as though the issue were an academic one. ‘Godfrey passed away in his sleep last night.’
Bunhill Fields
DECEMBER 1844-JANUARY 1845
FIFTEEN
Almost a week passed between Godfrey’s death and his funeral, and although he had requested a simple, private affair, such was the level of interest that it took Pyke almost that long to send out funeral cards, liaise with the undertakers and make arrangements for the burial. True to his uncle’s request, and much to Felix’s chagrin, there was to be no religious aspect to the ceremony.
All of the snow that had fallen the previous week had long since melted, and on a dull Monday morning, the hearse, pulled by four horses and accompanied by the undertaker and six pallbearers, left their home in Islington. Pyke and Felix followed in an open-topped phaeton, behind them the assorted vehicles of the other mourners. Pyke wore a plain black cloak over his frock-coat and cravat and an unadorned black hat. Felix was similarly attired in plain black clothes. They sat apart, each lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to the breeze and the drizzle, barely noticing the people on the pavements, their solemn faces and their hats removed as the procession passed by. For days after Godfrey’s death, Pyke had wandered around their house, numb, not quite able to comprehend that his uncle had really gone. Then the night before the burial, he’d come across the book Godfrey had written, loosely based on Pyke’s exploits as a Bow Street Runner. The True and Candid Confessions of a Former Bow Street Runner had upset readers with its frank portrayal of an anonymous man seemingly unconcerned by moral strictures. It wasn’t the book which caused Pyke to break down, though - it was Godfrey’s simple inscription. ‘To my dear boy, who has made my life immeasurably richer.’ Pyke had taken the book with him to bed and had read it over and over, until his tears had run dry.
From the Angel, they proceeded west on City Road, as it curved around what had once been the northern reaches of the metropolis, and was now a ribbon of factories, warehouses and brickyards. They passed the pavements crowded with commuters heading to work in the City, turned on to Bath Street just past the City Basin and followed it across Old Street on to Bunhill Row. Bunhill Fields, adjacent to the narrow street bearing its name, had once been called Bone Hill. Originally a plague pit, it had become a final resting place, just beyond the city walls, for nonconformists, non-believers and religious dissenters.
As the hearse pulled into the burial ground Pyke squeezed Felix’s hand and leaned over to kiss him on the head. Godfrey’s death had brought the two of them closer, but he worried about the future, how they would get along without the old man’s reassuring presence.
Felix seemed bewildered by the scene that greeted them, the sheer volume of people, a seething mass of bodies, all clad in black and wanting to pay their respects. Later, Pyke heard that Harriet Martineau, Francis Carlyle, Charles Dickens and the booksellers John Chapman and John Tallis had attended the burial.
‘Godfrey knew a lot of people,’ Pyke whispered, by way of explanation. ‘He was loved by a lot of people.’ Felix smiled and gripped his hand more tightly.
It was a simple affair. At Godfrey’s instructions, there were no feathermen, with their trays of black plumes, or mutes carrying wooden staffs dressed with black weepers. The coffin was lifted and carried by the pallbearers, Pyke and Felix following closely behind. They made their way slowly along a path, graves on either side, eventually coming to a halt at a freshly dug plot. The pallbearers laid the coffin down at the side of the grave and the mourners assembled around them. With no vicar to orchestrate proceedings, Edmund Saggers had agreed to assume the role of master of ceremonies, and one by one he invited various speakers to offer their thoughts. John Fisher Murray, a sketch writer, read a piece Godfrey had penned for Blackwood ’s about the ill-effects of overindulgence, which, as Pyke had hoped, elicited a few laughs, and Francis Place read a piece Godfrey had written for an unstamped magazine about the terrible suffering of the Spitalfields weavers. This drew a round of applause from the Chartists and trade union leaders who had known Godfrey in his rabble-rousing days. Saggers gave a witty account of one of his prodigious lunches with Godfrey and then invited Pyke to address the mourners.
Pyke cast his gaze around the crowd gathered by the grave, and waited for a few moments. The sky was sealed with thick, grey clouds and the wind whipped at the hats of the mourners, some of the women having to hold on to their scarves and hoods.
He thanked everyone for coming
and invited them to join him and Felix afterwards at the Turk’s Head Coffee House and Hotel on the Strand.
‘I was going to give a long speech about Godfrey Bond’s extraordinary life as a writer, journalist, publisher, radical and general thorn in the side of the establishment.’ He waited for the murmur of approval to subside. ‘I was going to commend his skill as a writer, the fact that you were never bored by anything he’d penned, his eye for a good story, his willingness to take on pieces that no one else would publish, his love of the grotesque and the low, his belief that the published word could excite men’s minds and change the way they perceived the world, his refusal to back down from a fight, his willingness to take on the establishment, whatever the cost to him personally.’ Pyke felt a tide of sentiment well up inside him and took a deep breath. Godfrey really was dead. That thought struck him with all the force of a sledgehammer.
‘I was going to say all these things about the man I called my uncle, the man I loved and respected above all others.’ He turned to face the coffin. ‘I was going to give a speech about your death being the end of an era, and in many ways it is. You were always a man out of step with our more sober, moralistic times.’ He felt his voice begin to crack and looked over at Felix, saw the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘But in the end I just want to say this: you didn’t judge me, you didn’t desert me, you put a roof over my head and food on my plate; you read to me, you educated me, you nursed me, you made me laugh, you let me do what I wanted to do, you wept with me. You counselled me, you forgave me, you came to my rescue more times than I can remember and you loved me. I owe my life to you and I will never, ever forget you. You were the best of men and my life will be immeasurably poorer now you’re gone.’
The Detective Branch Page 21
