Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

Finally Pyke fell asleep until the light raised him; he lay there for a moment, blinking, trying to remember what had happened. As he sat up, a sharp pain bolted down one side of his body. He peeled off the bandage and inspected the wound; it was six inches long and criss-crossed with stitches. It wasn’t bleeding, though. That had to be a good sign. He tried to swallow but couldn’t; his mouth was dry, all the moisture leached from his body like water evaporating on a hot grate.

Jack Whicher came to see him in the middle of the morning. He offered Pyke the best wishes of the other detectives and told him that he’d passed a message on to his housekeeper, telling her that Pyke had been injured but that she wasn’t to worry. Pyke thanked him for remembering this detail and tried to sit up.

‘Are you badly injured?’ Whicher asked. To Pyke, the concern in his voice seemed genuine.

‘If it wasn’t for the laudanum, I’d feel it right enough. But I’ll live. And I’ll be back at work in a few days.’ Pyke pushed his back into the pillows. ‘Tell me about the man. I assume he’s under lock and key.’

‘He’s not going anywhere.’

‘Egan, too?’

Whicher nodded. ‘Cells at different ends of the passageway.’

‘That’s good.’ It wouldn’t give them the chance to concoct a story. Pyke took a breath. ‘For God’s sake, man, put me out of my misery. Did you find the cross?’

‘I’m afraid not. And so far he’s refused to say a word, he won’t even tell us his name. There wasn’t anything in his pockets to help us identify him.’

Outside the room, a porter rattled by with a trolley. Pyke waited until he had passed. ‘I don’t know if you’ve thought about finding the second witness, the coal-whipper who saw the man in the cloak…’

‘Gerrett and Shaw have gone to find him, to see if he can identify the man we’ve arrested.’ Whicher paused. ‘I might’ve found a gunsmith on the Strand who sold a revolving pistol to a man matching his description.’

A sudden pain across Pyke’s midriff caused him to wince. Looking up, he saw the excitement on Whicher’s face. This was the best part of the job and he was sorry to be missing it: the noose was already halfway around their suspect’s neck. He asked about the man’s condition.

‘Broken nose, broken ankle. Might lose an eye, too. A doctor visited him last night, put a splint on his ankle and gave him some laudanum for the pain.’

‘I’d like you to take charge of the interrogation. Press him for a name, at the very least. And let me know as soon as possible if he’s identified as our gunman.’

‘And Egan?’

‘He’ll deny knowing the other man. He’ll tell you he hasn’t done anything wrong and in a way he’s right. He hasn’t. He’ll demand to be released. Just keep him locked up until I’m well enough to make it to Scotland Yard. And whatever you do,’ Pyke added, ‘don’t let anyone else go near the prisoners. And certainly no one outside of the Branch.’

Nodding, Whicher went to check his pocket watch. ‘I meant to say; your son’s waiting outside. I asked him if he wanted to see you first but he said you’d probably prefer to talk to me.’

A sharp, searing pain streaked up and down his entire left side but Pyke tried to smile. ‘Tell him to come in.’ At the door, Whicher paused and Pyke said, ‘It’s good of you to come and see me, keep me informed.’

Pyke had expected Felix to be his usual nonchalant self but as soon as the lad stepped into the room, he rushed over to the bed and embraced him, suppressing a sob. He assured Pyke that he’d come as soon as he’d heard, even though Mrs Booth, the housekeeper, had told him not to. It took Pyke a few minutes to calm his son and convince him that the injury wasn’t a serious one. When he showed Felix the wound, the lad pressed his nose against it, and informed Pyke that it didn’t smell. This was a good sign, Felix assured him. Pyke sat there, staring at his son, surprised at how much the lad’s concern had touched him. He wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words.

‘What?’ Felix withdrew from him, aware that he was being watched.

‘Nothing. It’s just good to see you, that’s all.’ Pyke smiled.

Felix looked away awkwardly. He stood up and wandered over to the window. ‘So what happened?’

‘I was chasing a suspected robber and I caught up with him. We fought. He did this to me with his knife.’

‘Did he get away?’

Pyke didn’t feel like boasting about the arrest so just shook his head.

‘What had this man stolen?’

‘A crucifix.’

‘That’s what you went to see the archdeacon about, wasn’t it?’

Pyke smiled. ‘Well remembered.’ The lad might not be the strongest fourteen-year-old but he had a quick mind.

Something outside had caught Felix’s attention, and when he eventually turned around his expression was serious. ‘When I first heard, when that policeman knocked at the door, and said you’d been injured, I thought…’ But tears had filled his eyes and he couldn’t carry on.

Ignoring the pain, Pyke reached forward and held out his hand. He could still remember what it felt like to be an orphan. For a moment, Felix remained where he was, unsure what to do, but finally he relented and sat down on the edge of the bed.

The surgeon was a short man with a limp handshake and prominent teeth. He inspected the wound and told Pyke that it was healing well but that he should remain in the hospital for another couple of days. When he had left, and with the help of some laudanum, Pyke tried to get up, but an acute pain scudded down one side of his body. Still, he made it as far as the commode and emptied his bladder. He had just staggered back to bed when Whicher put his head around the door.

‘We put the suspect in a room with ten other men. The coal-whipper picked him out.’

This was good news. ‘What about the gunsmith?’

Whicher was grinning now. ‘He picked out our man, too. According to his records, our suspect’s name is Sharp.’

‘Sharp.’ Pyke weighed the name in his mind. ‘I take it there’s been no confirmation of his name from Sharp himself?’

Whicher shook his head. ‘Still hasn’t said a word.’

Pyke thought briefly about their next move. There was no physical evidence against the man but the circumstantial evidence was strong, certainly enough to take the case to a magistrate. ‘What about Mayne and Wells?’ he asked.

‘Mayne’s cock-a-hoop. He told me to pass on his best, offer you his congratulations. I haven’t seen Wells.’

Pyke’s thoughts turned back to the evidence. ‘We still need more. All we’ve got is an old man who says he saw Sharp in the vicinity of the pawnbroker’s at the time of the robbery. The gunsmith’s evidence is good but it’s not enough. If we’re to send this man to the gallows, we need to find the pistol. And a motive…’

‘I’m afraid there was nothing on Sharp’s person to indicate where he lives. Unless he speaks, or someone else comes forward, we’re stuck.’

‘You need to put pressure on Egan. He knows something about this man. He must do. We need to find out how and why Sharp contacted him in the first place.’

‘Egan isn’t saying anything. He knows we don’t have anything on him.’

Pyke nodded. He couldn’t ask Whicher to do what he would do: take a cudgel and beat the truth out of Egan. He tried to get comfortable in the bed. ‘Jack?’

Whicher stared at him, surprised to be called by his first name.

‘Thank you.’

Even with the laudanum he’d consumed, Pyke was finding it difficult to sleep, and as he lay still, listening to the bleating of sheep being herded into nearby Smithfield for the market the following morning, he found himself thinking once more about Emily. In order to sleep, she had often resorted to doing what she’d done as a child: listing the names of the tenant farmers on her father’s estate. Anderson, Blake, Cant, Curtis, Dawson, Edwards. It was funny that he could still remember the names so clearly; and that he could hear them in his dead wife’s voice, her low, polished tone. Later, he slipped in and out of dreams that unsettled him but which he couldn’t quite recall when he woke up. The air in the room was fetid and the bed sheets were soaked with his perspiration. Outside, he could still hear the animals, but he had grown used to the noise and he even found the bleating reassuring in its monotony. For some reason, he now found himself thinking about Jo, her red hair and her soft white skin. They had been happy for a time, the three of them, four if he counted Godfrey, until he had cajoled Jo into his bed. He hadn’t heard from her in more than two years and briefly he wondered what had become of her. Sleep finally came to him just as the sun was rising, pale and orange, in the east.