‘I liked you, Pyke. But, in all honesty, given what you did and given the lack of faith you had in me, how could I ever trust you again?’ When he didn’t say anything, she added, ‘Perhaps we’re just too different.’
Pyke didn’t bother to disagree with her. On the train from Colchester back to London, he thought about the canvas she’d been working on: a naked woman being eaten alive by a pack of wild dogs. One of the animals, its snout wet with blood, was tugging her entrails out of a gash in her stomach.
Early the following morning Pyke found Ned Villums in his Clerkenwell office and for a while, as Villums poured them both a whisky and they sat in silence contemplating each other, it was as though nothing had happened. But eventually Villums began to explain how Wells had been able to turn him.
‘He had enough on me to make it a straight choice between you or the scaffold . . . Maybe with hindsight I made the wrong decision.’
Pyke stared at his old friend, sad at what they had become. ‘It would be better if I never saw or heard from you again. At present, only a few people know you were, in effect, a police informer. For old time’s sake, I’m prepared to allow that to remain a secret. But you need to retire, disappear, for good.’
Villums nodded and even managed a smile. He didn’t need to say it - Pyke could tell he knew it was too good an offer to turn down.
At the end of the week, a ceremony for Luke Gibb was held at an unconsecrated burial field in Limehouse. Martin Jakes said a few words, mostly for the sake of the mother, a frail, broken woman who had now lost all of her four children. Pyke attended it, as did Jack Whicher and Frederick Shaw, out of respect for the man they had worked with for almost two years. Afterwards, as Whicher and Shaw helped the elderly mother back to a waiting carriage, Pyke and Jakes stood and watched the masts and rigging of ships as they glided past on the Thames. Earlier that morning Pyke had risen from Clare Lewis’s bed; she now owned the brothel that she had run for the past ten years. Conor Rafferty had taken over the rest of Culpepper’s concerns.
‘I’m told a new archdeacon is about to be appointed. The bishop’s choice; a reformer,’ Jakes said, eventually.
‘You think it will make a difference?’
‘He’s promised to recover every penny that was taken from the Fund and put it back into the church building project.’
It was as Pyke had expected. The Church was going to try to clean up its own mess. ‘To do that, he will need the real accounts. He’ll need to know exactly what was stolen and by whom.’
Jakes stared out at the expanse of water in front of them. ‘I was hoping you would be able to help there.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Pyke turned to him and added, ‘I have no idea where the accounts are. I think the only person who knows is Druitt.’
‘And what’s his price?’
‘Druitt wants to rip down the Church brick by brick. And I don’t know what he wants to put up in its place.’
‘At one time I might have wanted to do that, too.’ Jakes tried to smile. ‘Anger can do terrible things to you.’
‘Not any more?’
‘Collectively, we can do terrible damage, but if we give up, if we turn our backs on everything that’s made this world what it is, what’s left? It’s the dilemma we will always face.’
Pyke pondered this while he looked at the ships sailing past in front of them. ‘I’ve tried to do what I can, not always what’s best, but what suits the circumstances best. Yet somewhere along the way I’ve lost my son. Do you think that’s the price I have to pay?’
‘I always tell my congregation that no one’s lost to Him for ever.’
‘I’m not talking about God . . .’
‘I know. But in your case, it’s not too late. That’s all I meant.’
The ceremony for Luke Gibb had taken place on Friday afternoon. On Sunday morning, when he woke up, Pyke found that a package had been left on his front doorstep. It was wrapped in brown paper. Taking it into the kitchen, where he’d left a mug of coffee, Pyke put it down on the table and tore off the paper. When he had had the time to inspect them carefully, the missing accounts revealed that more than a quarter of a million pounds had been embezzled from the Churches Fund coffers. Pyke had no idea who had delivered the ledger to his doorstep but perhaps that wasn’t important.
Pyke’s hearing had been scheduled for Monday morning at nine; he’d already been told that his fate would be decided by the two commissioners alone. No one else would be present. In the entrance hall of the police building, Pyke ran into Benedict Pierce. Pierce, Pyke noticed, still walked with a limp, and you could still see the discoloration around his face where the bruises had been. Later, Pyke realised that Pierce knew about the hearing and had been waiting for him.
‘I’m prepared to acknowledge that you were misled by the acting superintendent about my intentions towards you, as I was misled by him about your intentions towards me. As such, I bear no ill will towards you regarding our altercation. I would hope you might do me the same courtesy regarding my actions towards you while you were incarcerated.’
Pyke had the accounts ledger for the Churches Fund under one arm. He transferred it to the other. ‘It’s not what you and I have done to each other that concerns me, Pierce. One of my officers went to you in good faith, in the aftermath of a tragedy, and you knowingly exploited this knowledge and in the process almost ruined a good man. That tells me more about your character than I ever wanted to know.’
‘I did what I did to protect myself. I was led to believe that you were conspiring against me. I needed someone in the department to confirm or disprove this suspicion.’
Pierce had always been able to get under his skin and this time was no exception. Even when he was wrong, when he knew he was wrong, Pierce would never admit it.
‘Five years ago, you led the investigation into the murders of those two boys. If you’d done your job properly, Keate would still be alive and none of this would’ve happened. You’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life.’
Pierce started to say something but Pyke walked off. Pierce caught up with him on the stairs. ‘I want you to know I put in a good word for you with Mayne and Rowan.’ His cheeks were red and blotchy and he seemed to want something from Pyke; either gratitude or approval. Later, Pyke realised what had brought about this change of heart. With Wells gone, Pierce would now become the new assistant commissioner.
‘And you do know that Palmer contributed ten thousand to Peel’s election campaign; that he belongs to the same lodge as Mayne and that Rowan is a non-executive director of City Holdings Consolidated?’
He left Pyke with that thought.
As he walked up the rest of the stairs, Pyke wondered whether Rowan - one of the men about to decide on his future - was really implicated in the Churches Fund fraud. He considered what Culpepper and others had said to him and realised he had no idea how far or how deep the corruption in the New Police went.
With these thoughts in his mind, it struck him, not for the first time, that he still didn’t know what he planned to say. Did he want his old position back? Whicher and Shaw had made it clear they wanted him to return, but was it what he wanted? Wells was gone but some of the men he’d commanded, and who had perhaps killed on his orders, remained in their jobs. Still, he was reminded of Martin Jakes and what he’d been able to achieve, despite the lack of support from his seniors. The clerks in the commissioners’ office looked at Pyke but wouldn’t meet his eyes. Gathering himself, Pyke clutched the leather-bound ledger under his arm and made his way towards Mayne’s office.
At the door, he paused and took a breath, then he knocked hard and waited for an answer.
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The Detective Branch Page 43
