Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘You’ll see on the note that Blake’s old address, 28 Broad Street, is scribbled under the lines.’ Briefly Pyke explained what had happened there in the summer, half aware that, as he was telling the story, something about it was bothering him.

Godfrey digested this information, seemingly glad to be distracted from his condition. ‘And this note was addressed to you, in person?’

Pyke nodded. ‘Hand delivered. Of course, none of the clerks remember who delivered it.’ It made no sense. ‘Why would someone want me to visit a couple of empty rooms?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ Godfrey said, sinking back into his pillows. ‘But give me Milton over Blake any day of the week.’

‘Well, I’m sorry for lowering the tone,’ Pyke said, smiling. ‘You seem a little better tonight,’ he added, a few moments later.

‘Do I? Nice of you to say so. I feel tired and very weak. Everything seems such an effort, even turning over in bed.’

A little later, once Godfrey had drifted back to sleep, Pyke retreated to the landing and knocked on Felix’s door. Not waiting for an answer, he went in. Felix, who was lying on the bed, hurriedly stuffed whatever he’d been reading under the blanket.

‘Godfrey seems a little better tonight, doesn’t he?’ Pyke said. Without being invited, he sat down on the end of the bed.

‘Perhaps.’

‘He told me he ate a little soup and even managed a few sips of wine.’

‘The nurse said he should eat.’

Pyke nodded and a short silence passed between them. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m indifferent to what’s happening to him.’

Felix stared at him blankly. ‘Then perhaps you should spend some more time with him, while you still can.’

‘I know. You’re right.’ Pyke hesitated, not sure what else to say. He didn’t want to make promises he wouldn’t be able to keep. ‘I’m not sure I’d even be here, if it wasn’t for that man next door.’

‘What do you mean?’ Felix asked, interested now.

A vague memory he’d suppressed for a long time began to form at the edge of his mind. Perhaps it had been there all along. He didn’t have much time to mull it over but he felt an urge to tell Felix what was on his mind. Maybe it would help the lad understand the debt he owed Godfrey, explain that he wasn’t indifferent to the old man’s suffering.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about this,’ he said carefully. ‘Not even your mother.’

Felix sat up on the bed. ‘Told anyone what?’

Now he’d mentioned it, Pyke didn’t want to go ahead with the story; there were too many parts associated with it that he’d rather not think about. But Felix’s face told him he had no choice.

‘After my own father died, I spent a year in an orphanage. I can still remember the smell of camphor and waxed floors and the taste of the gruel they used to serve at breakfast.’ Pyke hesitated. He’d meant the story to focus on Godfrey but other memories were now assailing him.

‘Each night, after the candles had been blown out, a man — well, a reverend, because it was a church-run orphanage — would make his rounds. If he stopped at the end of your bed, it was a sign that you were meant to go with him.’ Pyke could feel his heart beating faster. ‘I’d lie there, under the blanket, with another lad, there’d be two or three of us in each bed, willing him not to stop. And in almost a year, he never did. None of the other boys ever talked about where they went or what they did. But I’d hear them return, later in the night…’ He looked up at Felix and smiled. ‘We used to call him the Owl on account of his eyes; they would follow you wherever you went.’

It felt strange to think about these things after so many years. Pyke looked down and saw his hands were trembling. Felix reached out and touched him.

‘Godfrey took me out of there. Do you know something? I don’t think he really was a blood relation of my father, though our families were connected. He didn’t have to do what he did. But he found me and insisted on giving me a home. I can’t even imagine how my life would have turned out, if he hadn’t rescued me.’

They sat for a while in silence, Felix’s hand still pressed against Pyke’s. Eventually Felix said, ‘What was it like, the orphanage?’

‘Cold… lonely.’ Pyke looked at him and shrugged. ‘You got used to it after a while, like anything else.’

‘Is that why you don’t care about God?’ Felix asked in a quiet, small voice.

Pyke tried to laugh. ‘I haven’t thought about the man we called the Owl in many years. But to answer your question, I don’t think they treated us well. In fact, I think we were treated very badly.’

Felix bit his lip, evidently thinking about what Pyke had just said. ‘Did you recognise Godfrey when you first saw him?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’ Pyke closed his eyes and opened them again. ‘I might have. He was a good friend of my father’s. He used to come to our room from time to time.’

‘You and your father lived in the same room?’

Pyke smiled and squeezed his son’s hand. ‘Us and another family. But it was a different time.’

‘Do you still think about him?’

‘Who, my father?’

Felix nodded.

‘Not often. When I do, I find it hard to remember the good things. He used to drink a lot.’

‘I’m lucky by comparison, aren’t I?’ Felix’s tone was gentle. ‘What I’ve got. What we’ve got.’

‘We’re both lucky.’ Pyke squeezed his son’s hand one more time. ‘But when someone you love falls ill, it’s not always easy to remember that.’

Pyke had often wondered exactly how old Frederick Shaw was. At first glance, he didn’t look any older than twenty; his face was freckled, his skin free of blemishes and his frame wiry and slight. But Pyke also knew that Shaw had first joined the New Police eight years earlier, which had to put him in his mid to late twenties or even his early thirties. Indeed, when you looked at him closely, the lines around his eyes were just about visible and his skin wasn’t quite as flawless as it seemed. Sometimes Pyke wondered whether Shaw used his apparent innocence and naivety as a mask to keep the rest of the world at arm’s length, for when he had observed Shaw’s work at first hand there were signs of a sharp and even cunning intellect. It was a clever strategy, in a way: people always underestimated someone who smiled at them and doffed his cap.

That morning, Pyke had asked Shaw to accompany him to Soho to find the former Catholic priest. He had suggested that they walk from Whitehall Place.

‘It was a good job Eddie did at Coldbath Fields, wasn’t it?’ Pyke said, as they crossed Trafalgar Square.

Lockhart had informed them at the morning meeting that he’d spoken to the governor of the prison and consulted the records and that Hiley, according to the governor, had been a model prisoner. He had not received visitors and had seemingly made no friends while he was incarcerated.

Shaw seemed momentarily thrown by this compliment.

‘He’s a good detective,’ Pyke added. This much was true; Lockhart was a methodical, competent investigator.

Shaw nodded. ‘But sometimes he likes to assume authority over me and Gerrett, even though we’re the same rank.’

‘He tells you what to do?’ Pyke turned this notion over in his mind.

‘In the summer, when I found out the name of the other victim, he told me not to say anything until we had proper corroboration.’

‘The victim in the Shorts Gardens robbery?’

‘A man by the name of Gibb,’ Shaw declared.

Pyke wondered whether there was anything in this, but perhaps Lockhart had been acting out of caution, as Pyke had told them to do. They were walking at a brisk pace and when Shaw didn’t offer anything else, Pyke said, ‘I can’t say he has much of a sense of humour… and I know he was close to my predecessor.’