Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘And you don’t have any idea who might have wanted me to visit number twenty-eight Broad Street?’

Shaking his head, Malloy stood up and went over to his desk. There, he retrieved a clutch of papers and thrust them into Pyke’s hand. ‘That’s my handwriting, sir. Just so you can be sure it wasn’t me who sent you the letter.’

Outside, Pyke buttoned up his greatcoat and took shelter from the freezing rain under the awning of a butcher’s shop. Gaslit flares illuminated wooden trays of unappetising meat in the window. ‘It was good work, finding that book.’

Shaw’s freckled face reddened; he wasn’t used to being praised. ‘He didn’t seem to know about the letter, though — or Guppy’s murder.’

Pyke nodded ruefully. ‘Guppy dies at the hands of someone wielding a hammer. And Malloy owns a book called “The Hammer of Witches”.’

Shaw looked at the dark clouds gathered overhead. ‘Do you think he had something to do with the rector’s death?’

Considering the question for a moment or two, Pyke shook his head. ‘Why? Do you?’

Later that afternoon, Pyke found Martin Jakes in front of his church serving meat and vegetable broth to a line of poorly dressed men, women and children; there was no pushing and everyone seemed grateful for the chance to fill their stomachs. As Pyke watched Jakes and his ward, Kitty Jones, fill the bowls with wooden ladles, he tried to imagine the archdeacon performing such a service and wondered whether Wynter had ever come into close proximity with the city’s working poor.

Jakes must have seen Pyke at the gate but he waited until the crowd had been fed before he came over to join him. ‘Welcome to my church, Detective Inspector,’ he said, taking Pyke’s hand and shaking it firmly. ‘Would you care for some broth?’

Pyke thanked him but declined. Those who’d been fed had fanned out across the yard and were chatting in small groups. ‘I was wondering if you’d heard from Francis Hiley.’

Jakes nodded his head, as though he’d been expecting Pyke to ask this. ‘Unfortunately not. It would seem he’s vanished into thin air.’

Pyke wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, wondering how to proceed. ‘There’s a growing feeling among my colleagues that Hiley killed Guppy. I can see their point of view, but I’m trying to keep an open mind. Do you understand?’

Jakes nodded. ‘That only by coming to you first of all will Francis get a fair hearing.’

‘And you’ll advise him to do this, if he tries to contact you?’

Jakes’s genial expression vanished. ‘I don’t concur with your colleagues’ poor opinion of Francis, but I do understand and respect my obligation to the law.’

‘There is an eyewitness, a police constable no less, who’s willing to swear that he saw a man matching Hiley’s description standing over Guppy’s body in the churchyard.’

Jakes assimilated this new piece of information with a stony face. ‘Maybe Francis came upon the body by chance and fled for fear of being accused of the murder himself?’

Pyke had considered this scenario but decided to keep his views on the matter private. ‘When I visited you at the vicarage, you told me that Guppy had come to you to request Hiley’s presence at St Botolph’s.’

‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Jakes said.

‘But he never told you why he wanted to have Hiley around.’

‘Not in so many words.’ Jakes paused. ‘It was clear that someone had upset Guppy. He wasn’t his usual belligerent self.’

‘When would this have been?’ Pyke asked.

‘March, April.’

‘Could you be more precise?’

‘Late March or early April.’ Jakes paused and suggested that they take a walk around the yard to keep warm. When they’d taken a few steps, he turned to Pyke and added, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m speaking too harshly of the man. Guppy had his faults, as we all do, but he was my immediate superior and I respected the work he did as rector.’

‘Last time, I think you said there were other vicars under Guppy’s wing.’

‘That’s right,’ Jakes replied. ‘Seven of us at present, all stipendiary curates. You can see for yourself that St Matthew’s was built in the last century, but the others were all appointed in the last year or two to new churches: St John’s, St Peter’s, St James’s the Less, St James’s the Great, St Bartholomew’s and St Jude’s. There are three or four other churches being built.’

‘And St Botolph’s is the mother parish for all these churches?’

Jakes nodded. ‘That’s why I said that the rector of St Botolph’s is an important figure.’

The idea of traipsing around all these churches and talking to the curates depressed Pyke, but it was clear this needed to be done.

‘A parish,’ Jakes went on, ‘especially one as wealthy at St Botolph’s, is like a small kingdom. The rate is collected and the income has to be dispersed. The rector is ultimately responsible for everything that happens.’

Pyke turned to face Jakes. ‘Do you know if Guppy had a disagreement with any of the other curates?’

‘Not a public one. But I think it’s fair to say we all felt like poor relations of the mother parish.’

‘And such resentments can fester.’

‘Perhaps,’ Jakes said, ‘but I certainly can’t imagine any of the curates going after the rector with a hammer.’

Jakes walked ahead and Pyke increased his stride to catch up. ‘Tell me, was Guppy involved in the planning and building of these new churches?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m only a perpetual curate, so I’m afraid I know very little about the administration of our church family. But the situation we face here in London is quite anomalous, as the bishop realises. There are thirty clergymen attached to St Paul’s, some with incomes in excess of fifteen thousand. But just a mile or two to the east, here in Bethnal Green, there’s one clergyman for every ten thousand souls.’

‘The bishop is keen on reform, then?’

‘He’s keen but the Church as a whole is a tradition-bound beast, inured against change.’ Jakes hesitated, perhaps wondering whether he had said too much. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I respect the bishop and wholeheartedly agree with the reforms he’s attempting to push through.’

‘And the archdeacon?’

Jakes chose not to answer Pyke’s question but his silence was damning.

‘Tell me something. When you were the vicar at St Luke’s in Soho, did you ever come across a Catholic priest by the name of Brendan Malloy?’

Jakes’s face had scrunched into a frown. ‘The name’s familiar.. ’

‘He left the Catholic Church under a cloud a few years ago and fell into the bottom of a gin bottle.’

‘Ah, yes, I do believe I remember hearing about such a chap.’ Jakes looked searchingly into Pyke’s face. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. His name was mentioned. I just wondered whether you knew him or not.’

‘Not personally, I’m afraid.’ Jakes dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I have to admit that I miss those days, Detective Inspector. Soho isn’t a wealthy district but compared to here, well, there is no comparison. And there was such intellectual vigour. In a tavern, I might find myself in conversation with a philosopher or a poet. Here,’ he added, ‘the poverty is overwhelming and, rightly or wrongly, the locals resent anyone who claims to speak for the establishment.’

‘It wasn’t your choice to come here, then? You would have happily stayed in Berwick Street?’

Jakes didn’t appear to have heard the question. Instead he waved at his ward, Kitty Jones, who was collecting the discarded soup bowls. ‘Do you have children, Detective Inspector?’

‘A son. He’s fourteen.’