Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘A grand age,’ Jakes said, smiling. ‘Kitty was a little older when she first came to me. That would have been almost five years ago now. I’ve tried to convince her to think about marriage, a life of her own, but she tells me she’s wedded to the Church.’

Pyke hadn’t intended to say anything else about Felix but this last reference, as casual as it was, changed his mind. ‘Recently I’m afraid to say my son’s been showing an unhealthy interest in the Bible.’

‘And such a thought upsets you?’ Jakes asked, amused rather than wounded by Pyke’s insinuation.

‘I visit a man like the archdeacon and I’m truly horrified.’ Pyke looked around him and shrugged. ‘Then I come here and I’m not so sure.’

Matilda Guppy didn’t seem angry or resentful when Pyke was ushered into the drawing room at the rectory, but there was no warmth in her greeting. She was wrapping wineglasses in sheets of paper and packing them into a wooden crate.

‘I suppose the servants could do all of this,’ she said, in a dull tone, ‘but it helps to keep my mind occupied.’

Pyke looked at the pile of china plates stacked on the sideboard. ‘On my last visit, I was led to believe, by others more than by yourself, that your husband had grudgingly agreed to give Francis Hiley food and shelter. Now I’m told it was the other way around; that he actively courted Hiley’s presence because he wanted someone to keep an eye on things.’

Guppy’s widow looked straight through him. ‘I’m afraid my husband didn’t consult me about the decisions he made.’

‘This would have been in late March or early April. Can you think of something that happened just prior to this, something that might have upset or unsettled him?’

‘As I’ve just explained to you, Detective Inspector, I wasn’t privy to my husband’s affairs. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.’

‘Perhaps your husband mentioned something. Perhaps he’d been threatened by one of his parishioners, or he had money worries. Perhaps you noticed a change in him. Or someone came here to the rectory…’

‘I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, Detective Inspector, because that would be lying.’ She picked up a china plate from the sideboard.

Pyke stood his ground. ‘Please try to think, madam. It could be important.’

Matilda Guppy put down the plate and rested her hands on her hips. ‘This would have been in late March?’

Pyke nodded.

She wandered across to the bay window, and when she turned around to face him, it was as if she had finally reconciled herself to answering his question. ‘A strange fellow came here to the rectory about that time. After he left, I could tell that my husband was upset. I tried to find out what this man wanted, and what they’d discussed, but my husband wouldn’t tell me. He was still upset for at least a couple of days after that.’

‘Can you describe this man, the one who visited? I mean, did you actually see him?’

‘See him? I was introduced to him, sir. It would have been before he’d spoken to my husband.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘Not his name but I remember he was a funny-looking man. Rather shabby, if truth be told. I do remember his brogue, though. Rather nice, even if it was Irish.’

‘If you saw him again, would you recognise him?’ Pyke waited. ‘Would you be able to pick him out of a group of men?’

Pyke arrested Brendan Malloy on suspicion of murder, transported him back to the station house at Great Scotland Yard and locked him in one of the cells in the basement. Later he would think it a little strange that Malloy had remained in his room; that he hadn’t tried to make a run for it as soon as he’d realised Pyke had gone to see him regarding Guppy’s murder. In that sense, staying put didn’t seem like the action of a guilty man, but then again, when Pyke had found him for the second time, the man had imbibed a bottle of gin and needed to be carried to the carriage.

By late afternoon, when Malloy had sobered up enough to be able to stand, Matilda Guppy had presented herself at the Detective Branch. Malloy was led up the stairs and told to line up in a parade of similarly dishevelled men. Guppy’s wife filed up and down all of them, like a sergeant major, and picked out Malloy at the first attempt.

An hour later, after he’d penned a route-paper and sent one of the clerks upstairs with it, Pyke was summoned to Mayne’s office. The commissioner had someone else with him, and when Pyke pushed open the door, Mayne and his companion looked up, a little startled.

‘Could you give us a moment, Detective Inspector?’ Mayne said, glancing at the well-dressed man with him.

‘Is that necessary, Sir Richard? I think our business here is complete.’ The man was in his fifties; his silver hair was smooth and smelled of lavender oil. He carried himself with the air of someone who had done well for himself.

Mayne grunted and looked over at Pyke. ‘Detective Inspector Pyke, this is Sir St John Palmer.’ He waited as they acknowledged one another. ‘Sir St John has kindly agreed to oversee the renovations of the old station house.’

Pyke had another look at Palmer. He was in good shape for his age; his hair was thick, and his complexion clear. ‘I never trust a businessman who’s being kind to me.’

Palmer regarded him with interest. ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Detective. Sir Richard was just being diplomatic. I plan to take the department for all I can get.’ He grinned at his own joke.

Palmer acknowledged Mayne with a nod of the head and then let himself out of the room.

‘This is good work, Detective,’ Mayne said, when they were alone. He was holding the route-paper Pyke had written. ‘Thorough and imaginative.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘This Catholic priest, the one you arrested, lied about not knowing Isaac Guppy?’

‘It would seem so; I plan to question him further.’

‘So, you have two lines of investigation. This priest constitutes one; Francis Hiley the other.’

‘That’s correct.’

Mayne looked down at the route-paper in front of him. ‘Question the priest but don’t forget about Hiley.’

Pyke wondered why everyone seemed to be so keen to implicate the ex-convict.

‘That will be all, Detective Inspector. Good afternoon.’

There was a woman waiting for Pyke in his office when he returned from his exchange with Mayne. She was respectably dressed in a dark-coloured blouse, a grey flounced crinoline skirt and a woollen shawl covering her shoulders. It took Pyke a few moments to remember where he’d seen her before.

‘Mrs Morris.’ He gestured for her to take the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

‘I have a son, he’s twelve. Not a bad lad but he never listens to his mother. I found this among his possessions,’ she said, rummaging around in the cloth bag she’d brought with her. ‘I asked him where he’d got it and he told me he’d found it in one of the upstairs rooms at number twenty-eight.’ She removed what looked to be a garment of some kind and shook out the creases. ‘Apparently it was just hanging there on an old nail.’

Pyke took it from her and inspected it more closely.

Made from black cloth, it was a surplice with thin strips of rabbit fur attached to both shoulders.

Brendan Malloy sat on the hard floor of the cell, back against the wall and arms wrapped around his knees, shaking. Neither his ankles nor his wrists had been shackled but he still looked pathetic. The gin fumes from his breath filled the small space and mingled with the scent of his body odour. In the light of a solitary candle it was hard to see his face beneath the dark, tangled morass of whiskers.