The Detective Branch

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘That sounds like him.’ Sarah pulled her coat a little tighter around her shoulders. ‘And the other part?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t really know what his interest is. But one thing is certain: if I’m to unravel any of this, I need to find and talk to Brendan Malloy.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d arrested him?’

  ‘They let him go while I was in Suffolk and now I can’t find him. He moved out of the room he was renting in Soho.’

  A faint smile spread across Sarah’s lips. ‘So there is something I can do, then.’

  ‘Yes . . . I suppose so.’

  A loose strand of hair fell down into Sarah’s face and she tucked it behind her ear. ‘I did live with him for more than a year. I might have a better chance of finding him than you, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Call me Pyke. Please.’

  When Pyke proposed they turn around and head back towards the house, Sarah Scott didn’t object. There was a gas-lamp outside Pyke’s house and they stopped under it. ‘Will you come in, for a hot drink or a bite to eat?’ He waited and added, ‘If you need a bed for the night, we have a spare room . . .’

  In the gaslight, her soft skin was the colour of butter. ‘That’s very kind of you but I have a place to stay.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to meet my son,’ Pyke said, looking up at Felix’s bedroom window. A candle was burning behind the drawn curtains.

  ‘Another time, maybe,’ she said apologetically. ‘At the moment, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.’

  ‘How will I know where to contact you?’

  Sarah pulled up her scarf and tied it around her head. ‘I’ll contact you when I’ve found Brendan.’

  Pyke moved quickly to grab her hand and dragged her into an embrace. Her lips were cold and soft but she didn’t push him away. In fact they parted just a little and she gave him a short, breathy kiss that was both passionate and withheld, as though she hadn’t quite decided what to do. He slid his arm around her back and pulled her in tighter, but just when he felt her begin to yield, she pushed him away, a startled look on her face, her eyes unreadable.

  ‘Not yet,’ she mouthed. ‘Not like this.’ She pulled the scarf back over her head and hurried off down the street.

  Felix was in the living room, curled up on the sofa, reading a book. Copper was asleep at his feet. This time, Felix did not attempt to conceal the book when Pyke entered the room. Instead he held it up and said, ‘The Confessions of St Augustine. Martin gave it to me.’ It took Pyke a few moments to work out he was referring to Jakes.

  ‘Did you go to St Matthew’s after school again today?’

  Felix didn’t bother looking up. ‘Martin said it would be all right. I helped out around the place. He said he was glad to have me.’ The way Felix said it made it seem like a barbed remark. ‘By the way, the pigs were out again. Mr Leech came here to report it. He was angry. One of them, Alice, I think, had turned his lawn into a quagmire.’

  ‘How could they get out? I’ve just fixed the sty.’

  ‘You know there’s not enough room for them all.’

  Sighing, Pyke went over to the window and peered into the darkness. ‘I’ll go out there and rescue Alice, then . . .’

  ‘We already did,’ Felix said, gesturing down at Copper.

  Pyke sat down at the other end of the sofa and patted Copper on the head. The ageing mastiff looked up and wagged his tail. His formerly black muzzle had turned white. It was a strange life, the one he had made for Felix, Pyke supposed: the fact that it was just the two of them now, that the boy didn’t have a mother, someone to nurture him, nor any brothers and sisters. It was one of Pyke’s many regrets, both for himself and for Felix, that he hadn’t had more children.

  ‘What kind of things does Jakes get you to do?’

  ‘This afternoon, I helped Kitty sweep the floor in the church and then we polished the brass.’

  ‘You seem to be getting on well with her.’

  Felix looked up from his book. ‘She’s nice. Quiet. Doesn’t say too much.’

  ‘She’s attractive, too.’ Pyke noticed his son squirm. ‘In a quiet, bookish sort of way.’

  ‘She’s ten years old than me, Pyke.’

  Pyke had often wondered whether Felix had lost his virginity. At fourteen he was certainly old enough to have lain with a woman, but Pyke suspected that he hadn’t. For a start, he hadn’t demonstrated much of an interest in the opposite sex. Often Pyke had wondered whether it was one of his responsibilities as a father to educate his son in matters of the heart. Still, no one, least of all Godfrey, had said anything to him. Pyke had just known, and while the first few times had been a disappointment, he had persevered and eventually learned how to enjoy it.

  ‘It’s the quiet ones you need to watch out for.’

  Felix put down the book and gave him a hard stare. ‘Pyke.’ He said it so loudly Copper looked up and barked. In the end they both started to laugh.

  ‘So what about the Confessions? Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Enjoying wouldn’t be the right word.’ Felix thought about it.

  ‘He’s quite candid about his sins.’

  ‘Some wouldn’t consider lust to be a sin,’ Pyke replied. ‘St Augustine certainly seems to have enjoyed himself before his conversion.’

  ‘You’ve read the book?’

  ‘A while ago,’ Pyke said, nodding. ‘I have a copy of it in my study.’

  ‘He talks about his inability to remember all the sins he committed as a boy. I sometimes feel like that.’ Felix paused, as though he’d already admitted too much.

  ‘Have you . . .’ Pyke felt the words catch in his throat and swallowed a few times. ‘Have you ever . . .’

  ‘Have I ever what?’

  Pyke inspected his son’s face for some sign that he knew what Pyke was talking about. ‘Been with a woman?’

  Blood rushed to Felix’s face, and he looked at Copper, at his book, anywhere but at Pyke.

  ‘I thought I’d better ask. In case there was something you wanted to know.’

  ‘Like what?’ There was a haunted look in his son’s eyes.

  Pyke licked his lips. ‘Well . . .’

  A long silence passed between them. Pyke turned his attention to Copper and stroked the dog’s ears.

  ‘But if I did want to know something, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’ Felix’s expression was almost accusatory.

  ‘I’d try to.’

  ‘Because I was wondering . . .’

  When Felix told Pyke what was on his mind, Pyke stared at his son, and not for the first time questioned the wisdom of the sheltered upbringing he’d been given.

  That night, Pyke stayed up late reading Mandeville’s Remarks on the Fable of the Bees, and by the morning he felt neither rested nor ready to confront Ebenezer Druitt. He would have liked to think it was Mandeville’s complex treatment of moral sentiment which had kept him awake, but in truth he was thinking about his uncle, trying to remember what he’d said to Pyke the first time he’d brought him back to the apartment in Camden Town.

  The following morning, after breakfasting in near-silence with Felix, Pyke walked to the Model Prison at Pentonville, the low winter sun barely rising up above the spires and roofs.

  Ebenezer Druitt was just as Pyke remembered him. Lying in his hammock, it was almost as if he had expected Pyke to show up. When Pyke entered his cell, he looked up, opened his eyes and then closed them again.

  ‘I want to know how you knew that the third of December was significant.’

  Druitt opened his eyes and yawned. ‘Good to see you again, Detective Inspector Pyke. I trust you’re well.’

  ‘I told you Isaac Guppy was murdered on the third. You suggested that the date might be significant.’

  ‘Did I? Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve said. Incarceration does strange things to the mind.’

  ‘Why did you tell me that, Druitt?’ Pyke wanted to conceal his frustration but he could see from the smi
le on Druitt’s lips that he hadn’t been successful. ‘Guppy was murdered on the third. So was a boy called Johnny Gregg. He was killed in an almost identical manner five years ago.’

  Druitt’s expression remained unchanged. He put his arms above his head and stretched. ‘A coincidence, you think?’

  ‘Ten days later, another boy, Stephen Clough, was crucified. Someone nailed him to a stable door in Soho. The same stable used by your former friend, Brendan Malloy.’

  Again Druitt received this news with no visible reaction. Pyke wanted to take Druitt into a private room and pummel the truth out of him, but what stopped him was the curious notion that this was exactly what Druitt was willing him to do, goading him so he would lose his temper.

  ‘Clough was killed on the thirteenth of December. So was a City alderman called Charles Harcourt Hogarth. This would have been about three weeks ago.’ Pyke noticed a copy of The Times on the table next to Druitt’s hammock. ‘If you’d read his obituary, you would have heard he died from a cardiac seizure.’

  Druitt saw that Pyke had noticed the newspaper. ‘As a reward for good behaviour, I’m permitted to take The Times.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a terrible rag, really, but it’s reassuring to know there’s a world beyond these four walls.’

  ‘In actuality Hogarth was crucified, just like Clough. But I think you know that. Just like I think you know who killed Hogarth and Guppy - and why.’

  ‘And how would I know that?’ Druitt’s eyes had lost all of their dullness and now glittered with an intensity Pyke found disturbing.

  ‘You tell me. That’s why I’m here. I want to know how Guppy and Hogarth are linked.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Detective Inspector. A shame, because it sounds intriguing.’

  ‘Five years ago, a man called Morris Keate was executed for murdering those two boys. I think Brendan Malloy knew him.’

  ‘Then ask Brendan about it.’ Druitt climbed out of his hammock and stretched. He was taller than Pyke remembered from the last visit.

  ‘A poor man is hungry. He poaches some pheasants and is shot by the landowner. His friend sees this and hides one of the stolen birds in the bag of another poor man who is subsequently found out and shot.’ Druitt took two paces towards the end of the cell then turned around. ‘Should this man be condemned for ensuring his own survival and this other man’s death?’

  Pyke remained silent, trying to work out why Druitt had told him this story.

  ‘Perhaps the question we should ask is what is the initial crime?’ Druitt continued. ‘The theft of the bird or the fact they were forced into such an act because they were poor and hungry?’

  ‘I think you should leave the philosophising to those who understand its complexities.’

  For the first time, Pyke saw that he’d managed to get to Druitt. Deciding to press home his advantage, he said, ‘I had another chat with Sarah Scott. She told me not to believe a word you said.’

  That elicited a smirk. ‘But you’re having trouble with that, aren’t you?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘She didn’t tell you that the child was mine, then?’ Druitt raised his eyebrows and tutted under his breath. ‘But why would she? That is, if she was trying to present herself to you as an object worthy of your desire.’

  Druitt must have seen Pyke’s expression because almost at once he added, ‘You’d like to hurt me, wouldn’t you, Detective Inspector? I can see it in your eyes.’

  Pyke tried to remain calm.

  ‘Admittedly she’s a nice bit of quim but if you see her as anything more you’ll be disappointed. Brendan was. I was. She’ll fuck you and leave you, just as she’s done with all the others.’

  Pyke tried to put what Druitt had said out of his mind. ‘If the child was yours, then why did you kill it?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Druitt laughed and shook his head. ‘Oh, you are so naive, so easily taken in, Detective Inspector. I didn’t kill the child. She did.’

  Perhaps it was the casualness of Druitt’s lie which pushed Pyke over the edge; perhaps it was the way he ran the tip of his tongue around the perimeter of his lips, as though there was something lewd about the child’s death. Or perhaps it was simply that Pyke felt compelled to defend a woman he had grown to like. In any case, he leapt forward, pushed Druitt against the wall and grabbed him by the throat. It felt momentarily good to squeeze it, until he saw the expression in the prisoner’s eyes, the fact that he almost seemed to be willing Pyke to hurt him. As soon as Pyke let go, Druitt reached out and pulled a hand-spring.

  Moments later, a warder unbolted the door and pulled it open. ‘Everything all right in ’ere?’

  Pyke looked over at Druitt, who was gingerly touching his throat.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Pyke said.

  Druitt looked at the warder but made no comment. He waited until Pyke was almost out of the cell before saying, ‘Perhaps Mandeville was right after all; what we claim to value comes not from being good but from greed, cruelty and anger.’

  Pyke felt the muscles in his stomach clench. Somehow Druitt knew he was reading that book.

  ‘Wasn’t it Francis Carlyle who talked about pig philosophy?’ he added a few moments later.

  Pyke tried to push past the warder but the man held his ground and Druitt shrank to the back of the cell. Perhaps the warder could see the hotness in Pyke’s face.

  ‘I think it would be better if you left, sir, before you did something you might later regret.’

  As he went, Druitt said, ‘In the end, Pyke, violence demeans its perpetrators much more than its victims.’

  The governor was an ugly, diminutive man with almost no neck and arms that seemed to extend sideways out of his shoulders. What he lacked in physical grace, he tried to compensate for in sartorial elegance. His dark blue frock-coat looked as if it had been hand-stitched by the most fashionable Bond Street tailor and contrasted with his pale grey trousers, tucked into polished, knee-length leather boots. He listened carefully while Pyke explained his concern that Ebenezer Druitt might somehow be communicating with a party or parties outside the prison.

  ‘Given our separate and silent system, it would be difficult for the man to communicate with another prisoner, let alone someone outside these walls. I just don’t see how it would be possible.’

  ‘Has he received any visits since he came here in June?’

  The governor shook his head. ‘Prisoners have to serve at least a year of their sentence before they are allowed to receive visitors and, as you can imagine, such visits are heavily supervised.’

  It was possible, of course, that Druitt simply knew the man or men who were carrying out the murders and was not in communication with them. But that didn’t explain how he knew that Pyke was reading Mandeville’s tome or that he kept pigs.

  ‘Druitt receives The Times each day. Is that usual for a prisoner?’

  The governor sat forward, hands resting on the edge of the desk. ‘If we’re to convince the felons to alter their behaviour, to see the value of discipline and hard work, then some small inducements are necessary. But if you feel that this prisoner’s receiving of the newspaper has in any way contributed to the affairs you speak of, I won’t hesitate to rescind this privilege forthwith.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, for the time being.’ Pyke didn’t yet know how Druitt was sending and receiving messages, but if he was using The Times to do so, it was probably best to keep the lines of communication open.

  ‘I have to say, sir, I’m a little perturbed by your claims regarding this particular felon. Until now, I regarded him as a model for others. A man who works hard, says little, reads the Bible and attends chapel.’

  NINETEEN

  Scotland Yard had been Pyke’s place of work for almost a year but he still didn’t feel quite comfortable there. It wasn’t necessarily the architecture which he objected to, though in common with all state buildings its intention, he felt, was to overawe and intimidate. Nor did he object to the fac
t that in a building of such apparent scale and grandeur, the Detective Branch had been housed in such poky conditions. Rather it was the idea that of the hundreds of people who worked there, he could count the people he liked and trusted on the fingers of one hand. More than this, he believed there were at least as many again who were actively trying to damage his reputation. These fears may not have been grounded in hard evidence but the whole place seemed to run on gossip and innuendo, and as he walked by huddles of clerks and policemen they would stop talking, and it was difficult not to feel that he was the subject of their conversations.