Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

Shaw shrugged. ‘He’s a private man. Never talks very much about himself.’

This was not unusual. Pyke knew very little about the personal lives of his men and was happy to keep it that way. ‘You and Billy did well yesterday, too,’ he said, referring to their trip to the Sessions House at Old Bailey to consult the official account of Hiley’s trial.

‘I don’t like working with him,’ Shaw said.

Pyke had always assumed Shaw and Billy Gerrett were friends. He tried to say as much but Shaw interrupted, clearly agitated now the subject had been raised. ‘He borrowed money from me to pay a gambling debt. But instead of paying me back, he’s gone and run up another debt.’

‘How much did you lend him?’

‘Twenty pounds.’

Pyke whistled. It was a sizeable sum; it would take a detective sergeant a couple of months to earn that amount of money.

‘And now this other person, the one he’s run up a new debt with, is ahead of you in the queue to be paid back?’

Shaw nodded grimly. ‘The other one who lent Billy money is the landlord of a public house…’

They were walking up St Martin’s Lane and the pavements were full of people. ‘Which pub?’ Pyke asked, as innocuously as possible.

‘The Engineer,’ Shaw said. ‘Holywell Street in Millbank.’

Pyke nodded, as if he knew the place well. ‘It must be difficult, having to do without things yourself when Gerrett is making light of what he owes you.’

Shaw started to walk a little more quickly, as though to try to exorcise the pent-up anger he doubtless felt, but he made no further comment.

Brendan Malloy lived alone in a dingy room above a printer’s shop on Silver Street, and by the time they had dragged the former priest out of the Black Lion tavern and fed him sufficient mugs of steaming black coffee to sober him up, it was early afternoon. They had managed to find out that he’d grown up and taken his orders in the west of Ireland. Once ordained, Malloy, by his own account, had volunteered for missionary work in London and had been given letters of introduction to prominent Catholic figures in the south of England who had, in turn, funded, though not generously, a mission he had established in some stables on Cambridge Street. Three times a week, Malloy had led prayers and taught the Irish poor of Soho the catechisms, and on Sundays he had heard people’s confessions and taken mass. When Pyke asked why he had left the church, and whether it was of his own accord, Malloy pretended not to have heard the question.

His dishevelled appearance wasn’t helped by a slight stoop, nor by the squint that meant you were never quite sure whether he was looking at you or not. His ink-black hair was unkempt and, because of his crooked back, he walked with a faint limp.

‘Until recently you rented a room on the top floor of number twenty-eight Broad Street, didn’t you?’ Pyke said.

Malloy didn’t seem particularly taken aback by the question. ‘You here to rake over that old ground again?’

‘Which old ground?’

‘I said all that needed to be said in that there courtroom.’

Pyke looked over at Shaw, who was inspecting the titles of books on Malloy’s mantelpiece. ‘Were you the child’s father?’

A look of irritation flashed across Malloy’s face. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘You see, I’m curious,’ Pyke said. ‘The mother, Sarah Scott, didn’t give evidence against Druitt at his trial. Can you tell me why not?’

‘I still don’t understand why you’re here, or what you want from me. I thought the judge had ruled on all this…’

Pyke noticed that Shaw had picked up one of Malloy’s books and was inspecting the cover. ‘When was the last time you visited number twenty-eight Broad Street?’

‘I haven’t been back to that godforsaken place since the night it happened.’ This time Malloy looked directly at Pyke. ‘The night the child died.’

Pyke removed the note he’d been sent and handed it to Malloy. ‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’

Malloy took the letter and held it up to his eyes. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Someone sent it to me anonymously. Clearly they wanted me to visit your old address.’ He waited and then added, ‘Do you know why?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ The former priest took another look at the letter. ‘But I recognise the poem from somewhere…’

‘Blake.’

‘Of course.’ He looked at Pyke. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what did you find there?’

‘Nothing. The rooms on the top floor are empty. It seems no one’s lived there since the summer.’

Pyke took a moment to assess Malloy’s reaction; his blank, glassy stare. Then he noticed that Shaw was troubled by a book he’d taken from the former priest’s shelf. ‘What is it, Frederick?’ Pyke asked.

‘ Malleus Maleficarum,’ Shaw said, to Malloy rather than Pyke. He’d been reading from the spine of the book. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Literally? The hammer of witches.’ Malloy must have realised he’d said something of interest because almost at once he added, ‘Why are both of you lookin’ at one another like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I’m guilty o’ something.’

Shaw turned the pages until he found the engraving he was looking for. He showed it to Pyke: a Dominican monk was standing over the disembowelled body of a young man with a hammer in one hand and an axe in the other. Pyke nodded: they both knew he’d dug up something important. Shaw showed the engraving to Malloy. ‘What did he do, to deserve such an end?’

‘That there is a Devil worshipper.’

‘And the monk is punishing him for his sin?’

‘These days we tend not to think of Satan as flesh and blood.’ He tapped his right temple. ‘But those monks knew better; they knew Satan was someone you had to fight out there, not just in here.’

Pyke noticed the change in the former priest’s demeanour. He was sitting up straighter, and his eyes suddenly seemed clear and lucid.

‘You think that’s a fair punishment?’ Shaw asked.

Pyke was watching Malloy’s reaction carefully and he was impressed with the subtlety of Shaw’s questioning.

‘Those were different times, sir. Different times.’ Malloy struggled to find the right words. ‘If the Devil doesn’t exist, at least as flesh and blood, then how come he’s still able to sow his discord?’

Pyke picked up the leather-bound edition and had a look at it himself. The words were Latin but the few engravings were truly horrific. ‘I don’t understand…’

Suddenly Malloy sat forward and gripped the arms of his chair. ‘How can we believe in Heaven if there’s no such place as Hell? How can we believe in God, if the Devil is just a figment of our imagination?’

Pyke and Shaw exchanged a quick glance. It was the first indication that Malloy had a temper, if sufficiently riled. ‘So you believe that the Devil is walking among us?’

‘I do,’ Malloy replied solemnly.

‘Have you seen him?’

Malloy looked around the tiny room and bowed his head without answering the question.

‘Have you ever come across an Anglican vicar by the name of Isaac Guppy?’ Pyke asked, suddenly.

The former priest’s face remained entirely blank.

‘He was the rector at St Botolph’s, Aldgate.’

‘So?’

‘Guppy was murdered the day before yesterday in the grounds of the church. Someone beat him to death with a hammer.’

‘I never heard o’ him.’ Malloy’s gaze drifted over Pyke’s shoulder. ‘May God bless the poor bugger’s soul.’

‘Are you quite certain?’

‘I don’t make a habit of befriendin’ Protestant clergy.’ He waited and then added, ‘You can search this place, too. Regardless of what I might read, I don’t own a hammer.’