Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

If it had been Whicher or Lockhart, they might have seen Pyke’s involuntary flinch. As it was, Gerrett was too wrapped up in his news.

‘Who?’

A drop of sweat fell from Gerrett’s chin and landed a few inches from the tip of Pyke’s boots.

‘Harry Dove,’ Gerrett said. ‘The one who was shot in the back.’

‘And this identification has been corroborated?’

Gerrett nodded briskly. ‘Two independent witnesses. Both credible.’

Pyke stared up at Gerrett’s jowly face and his mop of greasy blond hair. ‘And what could they tell us about this man?’

‘One said he used to work at the Old Cock in Holborn; the other that he lives somewhere on Finsbury Square.’

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘Well, I told Lockhart and Shaw…’

‘That’s fine,’ Pyke said, trying to appear more genial. ‘Just don’t divulge his name to anyone outside the department. That understood?’ When Gerrett nodded, Pyke added, ‘Have you checked the files?’

Again Gerrett nodded.

‘And?’

‘There’s nothing on Dove.’

Pyke knew this already, but he tried to appear sanguine. ‘Of course, it could be that he was just a customer. Unlucky man finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

But the implications were lost on Billy Gerrett. He nodded blankly and waited for Pyke to congratulate him on a job well done.

After Gerrett left, Pyke opened the filing cabinet, removed a wad of route-papers from the previous six months and put them on his desk. It took him half an hour to find what he’d been looking for. On the fifth of March, a burglary had been reported at the private residence of Archdeacon Wynter; the items stolen included a communion plate and a jewelled cross. Pyke made a note of the archdeacon’s address, put the reports back in the cabinet, and sat in his chair, trying to recall why no one in the Detective Branch had been asked to investigate this particular burglary.

The following day, a Sunday, Pyke spent the morning with Felix, a ritual they had fallen into following Emily’s death. At first it had been a genuine pleasure to go for a walk or a ride in a carriage with his son, a weekly event he would look forward to and which the boy seemed to enjoy as well. In the last few years, however, this ritual had dwindled from a weekly event to a monthly one, a slow, unspoken retreat from the intimacy they’d once known, and now, when Pyke suggested they go to the zoo or take a ride out to the country, his son responded with a dead-eyed shrug, not rejecting the idea but not showing any enthusiasm either. Pyke wasn’t necessarily upset by this but he couldn’t stand Felix’s distance, the fact that the lad spent so much time with his head in a book. He’d tried to ask, on a few occasions, what interested the boy or what exactly he saw himself doing in the future, but Felix would only look at him with a pained expression and say he didn’t know. Pyke loved him, of course, but he worried about what the school that cost him so much money was turning Felix into. Privately he was glad Felix had not yet become some kind of adolescent gentleman, but the lad’s apparent thirst for knowledge had turned him against more earthly pursuits.

That morning, they had aimlessly toured the deserted streets of the West End in the back of a hackney carriage, then Pyke had given up the carriage and made them walk from the edge of Regent’s Park all the way to Holborn. It had started to rain after the first ten minutes and they completed the hour-long stroll in grudging silence, Felix a few steps behind him, hands buried in his pockets.

‘There’s a man I need to talk to,’ Pyke said, as they neared his intended destination. He reached into his coat and retrieved a few coins. ‘Here, that’s for the fare home.’

Felix took the coins, his eyes barely acknowledging Pyke. Pyke supposed no more would be said, but then the lad surprised him.

‘Why don’t we go to church on Sundays like everyone else?’ There was a note of confrontation in his voice.

Pyke knew that Felix had started to exhibit an interest in such matters but he’d made a point of not encouraging him. ‘You don’t like our Sunday mornings?’

Felix knew better than to confront Pyke directly but he elected not to answer the question.

‘If you like, you can come with me while I visit this man. Perhaps you’ll understand my reasoning better once you’ve met him.’

Pyke didn’t know for certain that Archdeacon Wynter was the objectionable creature he suspected but he felt on reflection that it was highly likely.

‘Who is he?’ Felix wanted to know, a little intrigued now.

‘The archdeacon? One of the most powerful church figures in the whole city.’

‘And why do you need to see him?’

‘A crucifix was stolen from his private safe a few months ago. I think it was the reason those three people were killed in the shop near Drury Lane.’

But already Felix’s interest had waned. Just as a hackney carriage drew alongside them, and without discussing the matter, the lad thrust out his arm. Felix looked at Pyke and shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your work.’

In matters of religion, Pyke was unusual, he supposed, insofar as he didn’t just doubt God’s existence; rather, he was certain, in his own mind at least, that to presume the existence of God was the height of folly. Pyke didn’t shout his views from the rooftops. He was astute enough to realise that such ideas weren’t merely unfashionable in the current climate; they were downright inflammatory. In private, Pyke would describe the Roman religion as mysticism and obfuscation, and the Protestant faith as dour and joyless, a practice whose main function seemed to be social rather than spiritual: to make the unruly docile and compliant. In public, though, he would bow his head if a prayer was said or if God’s wisdom was called upon. He might give a sardonic smile if he was in polite company and grace was being said, particularly if the recipient of his smile was passably attractive and suitably unimpressed with her husband. To such women he would try to appear as irreverent and worldly because, as everyone knew, Christians were earnest hence unattractive, and they made terrible lovers. He would let these women see that he was dangerous and had a bit of the Devil in him, and later, when he was fucking them in the cloakroom or outside in an alleyway, they would know this for themselves.

Wisdom and experience had taught Pyke not to antagonise the pious unnecessarily, but when he met men like Adolphus Wynter, it was hard not to fall back into old habits.

The archdeacon was the kind of man whose smile put you in mind of fingernails being scraped down a schoolroom blackboard. He was about fifty or thereabouts and still looked in rude health, with a ruddy jowl and the kind of sagging chin that came from overindulgence, and when he shook hands, he squeezed hard, as if the ritual weren’t simply a greeting but a test of strength. The ring on his finger told Pyke he was married and later, when Pyke was introduced to his wife, he knew instinctively that the marriage wasn’t a happy one. Sometimes you could just tell. The archdeacon wore a black gown and cassock and Pyke could see that he was the kind of man who felt comfortable in this attire, as though it confirmed to others that he had been chosen by God. But it was Wynter’s eyes which really caught Pyke’s attention. In all the time Pyke was in the man’s presence, he almost never blinked.

‘You’ll understand, I can’t possibly entertain your enquiry today. In fact, I’m surprised you should even think to bother me on the Sabbath.’

They were standing in the entrance hall of Wynter’s impressively proportioned town house on Red Lion Square.