The Detective Branch

by Andrew Pepper

  Fifty minutes after Lockhart had climbed into a hackney carriage, Russell emerged from the station house dressed in his dark blue uniform. He glanced furtively up and down the High Street then turned right out of the building, walking briskly to the first corner and crossing the road. Having pointed out who Russell was, Pyke watched as his son set off after the policeman and waited for a few moments before following. Pyke could just about see Russell’s stovepipe hat bobbing up and down among the other pedestrians, their umbrellas raised to shield themselves from the rain. It took twenty minutes to walk from the station house to the Hogarth residence at the top of the King’s Road, and once Russell was safely inside, Pyke joined Felix in his hiding place across the road. Despite the rain and cold, Felix’s face glistened with excitement. Their wait on the other side of the quiet street was not a long one. About five minutes later, Russell reappeared and, after looking up at the darkening sky, he continued on his way, this time heading back in the direction in which he’d come. Again, Pyke let Felix take the lead and this time allowed a little more distance between himself and Russell because the streets this far away from the High Street were not busy.

  About halfway between the King’s Road and Kensington High Street, Pyke noticed that Felix was walking more quickly, and moments later he broke into a jog. Pyke was fifty yards farther back, and by the time he reached the place where Russell and Felix had turned on to a quieter street, he had lost them. Pyke raced to the next corner and looked both ways along the residential street, a row of stout terraces facing one another. There was no sign of either Russell or Felix. Suppressing an urge to call out, Pyke turned suddenly, hearing something move behind him. He found himself staring into the ruddy face of a policeman he didn’t recognise. Russell stepped out of the shadows, a grin spreading across his face. He had a truncheon in his hand and it was raised. Pyke searched his peripheral vision for any sign of his son; at the same time, Russell whipped his arm through the air and Pyke felt the thick end of the truncheon connect with the side of his head. His legs buckled and a flash of light exploded behind his eyes; after that, he put his hands out to break his fall and slipped into unconsciousness.

  TWENTY

  Pyke had no idea how long he had been unconscious. It was still dark and the air was damp, although it was no longer raining. His shoes and coat had been taken, as had his purse, knife and pistol. He stood up gingerly, his bare feet sinking into the mud. It took him a moment to remember what had happened and another to remember that Felix had been with him. Panic turned his stomach to ice. He looked around and shouted Felix’s name. His voice echoed off the walls of the alley he’d been left in. Pyke’s head was throbbing and the pain was acute, but he didn’t think the blow had damaged his skull. Limping to the end of the alley, he half-expected to find Felix’s body lying in the mud. He shouted his son’s name again but there was no response. His feet were entirely numb, and without his frock-coat he was shivering, but the panic meant he hardly noticed the cold. He retraced his steps back to the residential street, and from there it took him another ten minutes to get to the cab-stand on Kensington High Street. There, he was told that it was eight in the evening, which meant he’d been unconscious for two hours. As he waited for a cab, he tried to think what might have happened to Felix and what the best course of action would be. He could go to the station house and confront Russell, if indeed he’d gone back there, but what would the sergeant say? If they were split up, the plan had been for him and Felix to meet up back at the house, so when a cab finally pulled up, Pyke instructed the driver to take him to Islington. It had now been two and a half hours since the assault. If he was safe, Felix would be there at the house to greet him, and for the rest of the journey Pyke clung to this thought.

  When the carriage dropped him outside his home, there were no candles burning in any of the windows. Pyke put his key into the lock, turned it and pushed open the door. He shouted his son’s name but there was no answer. Only Copper came to greet him. There was a note from Mrs Booth on the kitchen table. She had left supper for them in the pantry. He raced up the stairs to Felix’s room but it was empty and the bed was untouched. A fire was still burning in the living room but otherwise the house was cold, dark and unwelcoming. Pyke’s panic had returned, together with a feeling of helplessness. What could he do? What should he do? Stay put and hope Felix showed up? Or go back to Kensington and begin his search for the lad there?

  Pyke dried his feet and hair with a cloth and put on an old coat and pair of shoes. Then he returned to the street and looked up and down for any sign of a carriage. Apart from a dog barking next door, everything was quiet. Pyke strode to the end of the street and looked up the hill towards Islington High Street. The recriminations could come later but it was hard to hold the guilt he felt in abeyance.

  Back at the house, Pyke pushed open the front door and let Copper hobble in ahead of him. In the living room, where at least it was warm, he went across to the window and looked out on to the street. He didn’t hear the sound behind him, didn’t react until he heard Copper whine. When he turned around, Felix was standing in the doorway. Wordlessly they moved across the room to greet one another, Pyke throwing his arms around Felix and Felix doing likewise. They embraced for what seemed like minutes.

  ‘What happened?’ Pyke said finally when they parted.

  Felix seemed taken aback by the welcome he’d received. He reached down and patted Copper on the head. ‘One moment he was there in front of me, the next he was gone. So I ran ahead to the next corner but I couldn’t see him. I doubled back on myself and that’s when I saw him with you and some other man at your back. I saw him raise his truncheon and hit you. I wanted to help but I didn’t know what I could do. You fell to the ground.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I wanted to see if you were all right but I knew you’d be angry with me if I just let him go. I realised if I waited too long, I’d lose him, so I went after him and the other one. He wasn’t careful and didn’t think to look behind him. I don’t think he knew I was with you. They split up and I kept with our man. He hailed a carriage and I did likewise, told the driver I’d pay him double if he kept the vehicle ahead of us in his sight.’

  The words were coming out fast and Felix could hardly contain his excitement.

  ‘I didn’t know where we were going but when the carriage ahead of us finally stopped outside a big white house. I asked the driver, and he said we were on Kensington High Street. It was dark, of course, but I could see parkland on the other side of the road.’

  Pyke listened, not quite able to comprehend that Felix had done all this, and been able to find his way home.

  ‘I paid the driver, and watched as our man presented himself at the gates. There were two or three men guarding the house but they let Russell in. It was a white house, three or four storeys high and twelve windows long. I knew I had to find out who lived there but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I had to wait a long time for someone to pass by. They didn’t know who lived there but a while later someone else came along and told me it belonged to Sir St John Palmer.’

  Pyke clasped his arms around Felix’s shoulders and lifted him clean off the ground. Sir St John Palmer. Pyke had met the man briefly in the office of Sir Richard Mayne.

  ‘Palmer, you say?’ Saggers was looking among the glasses in front of him for dregs of wine or porter.

  It was a Friday night and the taproom was bursting with journalists and actors, a blur of tweed, wool and kerseymere.

  ‘Sir St John Palmer. He lives on Kensington High Street in a large, neoclassical mansion.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Saggers scratched his chin. ‘I think he’s a building contractor. Yes, I’m sure of it now. Quite a significant one, too. Owns his own company, though I can’t think what it’s called.’

  Pyke had gone to Saggers because there was almost no one of repute in the entire city he didn’t know or hadn’t heard of.

  ‘He’s well connected. I believe he’s hea
vily involved in church matters, too.’

  Pyke caught Saggers’s arm. ‘What kind of church matters?’

  Saggers pulled his arm free and frowned. ‘Dammit, Pyke, will you just let me think for a moment?’

  Pyke could feel his heart beating more quickly. This was what he’d been waiting for. He could almost taste it.

  ‘There was a fund set up to help establish a dozen or so new churches in the East End. I think I remember reading he was involved in that.’

  ‘The London Churches Fund?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Saggers looked at him, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

  Pyke tossed a couple of coins on to the table and stood up. ‘A while ago, I asked you to look into the affairs of Charles Hogarth. Have you made any progress?’

  ‘I have other things to do, you know.’

  ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘You’re very impatient tonight, old man . . .’

  ‘Please, Edmund. This is important.’

  ‘So I see.’ Saggers picked up his handkerchief and wiped the corners of his mouth. ‘He was an alderman for the Court of Common Council but I’m sure you already know that. What you might not know is that he was the driving force behind a huge expansion in the number of properties available for rent in the City.’

  ‘Where have all these properties come from?’

  ‘They’re domestic residences, mostly. I’d say he’s been trying to encourage people who live in the City to sell up and move out. You see, if a public company or even a small business rents the same building, the City Corporation can increase the rate. He was quite successful, I’ve been told.’

  Pyke leaned towards Saggers. ‘Keep digging, Edmund; and while you’re at it, see if he has an association with Palmer.’

  The Bishop of London’s official residence was situated in Fulham, but because of its proximity to St Paul’s Cathedral he spent most of his time in his chambers at London House, a handsome brick building on Aldersgate Street. Having presented himself at the front door first thing on Saturday morning, Pyke was made to wait for a full hour before the same elderly servant who’d answered the door reappeared and announced that the bishop would see him in the drawing room.

  The bishop was a tall, elegant man in his late forties, with grey hair and a gaunt, angular face that seemed to radiate the kind of seriousness his office apparently required. He greeted Pyke with a firm handshake and introduced him to his assistant, a sour-faced man called Taylor.

  ‘Now, Detective Inspector, how can I be of assistance?’ He was dressed in a plain black frock-coat along with his episcopal apron and gaiters.

  ‘What can you tell me about the London Churches Fund?’

  Bishop Blomfield exchanged a brief glance with his assistant. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

  ‘Just tell me a little about it. What is it? Why was it established?’ Pyke tried to keep his tone light and breezy.

  ‘It was created about eight years ago, in order to raise funds for building additional churches in the metropolis.’

  ‘And you felt that it was a project that merited your support?’

  ‘Not just I, Detective Inspector.’ He stood up and went to retrieve a document from the bookshelf behind him. ‘A report by the Church Commissioners declared that, and I quote, “the most prominent defect that cripples the energy of the Established Church is the want of Churches and Ministers in our cities”.’ The bishop removed spectacles from his pocket and put them on. ‘In the parishes of the East End, there are now in excess of three or four hundred thousand men, women and children but, as of a few years ago, we could provide church-room for barely a thousand souls and just a handful of clergymen. The Commissioners stated that, and I quote again, “the evil that flows from the state of things” would continue unless a remedy was speedily sought.’

  ‘And that’s why the London Churches Fund was established?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Blomfield said, nodding. ‘The plan was to build fifty churches. At present, we have built or are building just ten, all in Bethnal Green. But ten is a decent start, is it not? And we’re not resting on our laurels.’

  ‘Quite an undertaking,’ Pyke said, pretending to be impressed.

  Blomfield beamed appreciatively. ‘It is the work of prudence and charity, sir, to impart Christianity to the people of this city.’

  ‘And how is this fund administered? I imagine that with such an undertaking there would be a central committee, and perhaps various subcommittees?’

  ‘Exactly so, Detective Inspector. Many hands make light work. And the Lord guides us always.’

  Pyke nodded kindly. He knew he had to tread carefully around Blomfield. As Bishop of London, the man enjoyed serious political connections and he could easily use these to close down the investigation. ‘You chair the main committee, I presume?’

  ‘No, that responsibility falls to the archdeacon.’

  ‘Archdeacon Wynter?’

  There must have been something in Pyke’s tone because Blomfield exchanged another brief glance with Taylor and said, ‘Perhaps you might tell me of your interest in our project, Detective Inspector?’

  Avoiding the question, Pyke tried to regain a lightness of tone. ‘Tell me, Bishop, did the Reverend Guppy serve on one of the committees?’

  It took Blomfield a few moments to work out who Pyke had just referred to. He grimaced slightly and removed his spectacles. ‘Yes, he did; in a very minor, administrative capacity. In fund-raising, I believe.’

  ‘And Charles Hogarth?’

  ‘No, I don’t know that name.’ Blomfield looked at his assistant, who also shook his head.

  ‘What about Sir St John Palmer?’

  ‘St John? Of course. He’s been one of the leading lights; a very fine man and a personal friend of mine; a man of great vision and humility.’

  Pyke could tell the bishop was starting to get agitated. He smiled and said, ‘I’m sure he is. But I was wondering if you could tell me how the funds were raised?’

  In itself, the fact that Sergeant Russell had gone directly from Hogarth’s residence to Palmer’s proved very little. But the notion that Palmer was, in the bishop’s words, one of the Fund’s leading lights had to be significant.

  ‘The Church Building Commissioners provided some of the money; private donations made up the rest. With a board including such luminaries as the Reverend Dr Spry, Mr Joshua Wilson, Mr William Baines, Sir St John Palmer, the Right Honourable William Gladstone, and not forgetting the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel, we did not experience a problem achieving the necessary subscriptions.’

  Pyke had not expected to hear Peel’s name on the list but he knew straight away that it would make his task much harder. If there was even the faintest whiff of scandal attached to the Churches Fund, any attempt to expose it would be stamped on from a great height.

  ‘I really must ask you, sir, to explain the purpose of your visit.’ This time it was Taylor, the assistant, who’d spoken. ‘The bishop has kindly given you of his time and answered your questions with patience and good grace. Now it is your duty to reciprocate.’

  ‘It’s nothing for either you or the bishop to worry about.’ Pyke tried to smile. ‘As you probably know, we’re still looking for the man who murdered Isaac Guppy. It was mentioned that Guppy had been heavily involved in the activities of the Churches Fund.’

  ‘Not heavily,’ Blomfield said, quickly. ‘A very minor capacity, as I said.’

  ‘And I’m grateful to be corrected on that account.’ Pyke stood up and nodded to the bishop. ‘Thank you for your time, Bishop. I’ll show myself to the door. And rest assured, your answers have been most helpful.’

  The riverbank at Billingsgate was a rickety forest of piers, steps, wharves and causeways, water sloshing around under the wooden poles, a dirty heave of sludge and scum carried back and forth by the tide. Above, the sky was almost white with seagulls circling for scraps of fish discarded by market traders,
the shrill din of their cries making conversation difficult. The air smelled of fresh fish and stagnant water, and out on the river an icy wind whipped against the bowsprits and rigging of moored vessels, the smaller ones, the skiffs and dinghies, clanking against one another.

  They paused for a short while and looked out at the vast expanse of river. Sarah Scott had come to him at Scotland Yard and told him there was something he should see. Her grim silence told him all he needed to know. It was cold enough for snow but the skies were clear, apart from the gulls. At the foot of the tide-washed stairs, a plank of wood bobbed up and down in water that looked as black as tar.

  Pyke followed Sarah up the narrow, muddy lane leading away from the river, to Lower Thames Street, and into a ramshackle tenement building. Maybe it had once been a warehouse: its size and proximity to the river certainly suggested that. Now it had been carved up into rooms sleeping ten or fifteen, taken over by the district’s street sellers and scavengers, toshers and mudlarks, pickpockets and prostitutes. Pyke had no idea who, if anyone, collected the rent, but it was the kind of place you ended up in when there was nowhere left to go. Sarah Scott didn’t seem cowed by the lewd remarks directed at her or by the foulness of the air. She paid a shilling for a candle and led him down a flight of crumbling stairs to the basement. At the end of a damp passageway stood a door. She gestured for him to open it. He pushed the door and held up the lantern. He had already guessed that behind it he would find Brendan Malloy and that the former priest would be dead, but nothing could have prepared him for the smell.