Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘Do you mind me asking how you found me here?’ she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

‘I’ve been talking to Brendan Malloy.’

That drew a non-committal nod. ‘I suspected as much.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because he’s one of the few people in London who knows where I am.’ She waited for a moment. ‘Is Brendan in some kind of trouble?’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘Well enough.’ She fiddled with her paintbrush.

‘Would it be fair to say that you and Malloy were… attached?’

‘Have you come all the way from London just to badger me about my private affairs?’ she said, not quite smiling.

‘Please answer the question, madam.’ Pyke tried to keep his tone civil and disinterested, but he couldn’t help noticing the fullness of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes.

‘Did he tell you that?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘That he and I were once attached.’

‘No.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘But I got the feeling that he still cares very much for you.’

That silenced her for a while. Pyke thought he saw her jaw tighten slightly. ‘Did he leave the Catholic Church to be with you?’

Her expression remained inscrutable. ‘How much did Brendan tell you about his work as a priest?’

‘A little. He told me about having to perform mass and hearing confessions in a stable on Cambridge Street.’

Sarah Scott nodded. ‘Did he tell you about the exorcisms he used to perform?’

‘No.’ That took Pyke by surprise.

‘That’s what first took me there, to see him. I suppose, in our little part of the world, he was famous, or should I say notorious.’

‘You mean, you went to him to be exorcised?’

She passed off his question with a shrug. ‘Anglican vicars stopped performing exorcisms some time during the last century.’

Pyke tried to reconcile this notion with the sense he’d derived of her so far — a woman who didn’t suffer fools. ‘And was this exorcism successful?’

Instead of answering the question, she stood up and gestured for him to follow her over to the easel. There was just enough light for him to be able to see the painting.

It almost made Pyke gasp out loud, though later he wasn’t sure whether his reaction was one of astonishment or horror. The painting depicted a young woman devouring her infant child, the proportions deliberately askew. The naked woman was clutching her child around its tiny waist, and there was nothing but a bloody stump where the head had once been. But it was the woman’s expression which really caught your eye: a maniacal glee mixed with an undertow of sadness or regret, as though she knew what she was doing yet couldn’t quite stop herself. The details were exquisitely rendered, as one might find in a painting by Vermeer: the blue-black veins on the woman’s forehead, the creases in her flesh, the creamy-white softness of the child’s skin and the viscous blood congealed around her mouth. If part of the intention had been to render the scene in as realistic a manner as possible, this was undercut by the lush, sensuous colours of the background, giving the painting an eerie, dreamlike quality. Yet the painting seemed to demand that you understood it literally, that you felt its pain and sorrow as intensely as you might your own. In the end, he had to look away. As he did so, Sarah Scott smiled, as though pleased by his reaction.

‘I read somewhere that Goya once painted an image of Satan devouring a child,’ Pyke said. ‘I haven’t seen it, of course…’

‘You know Goya?’ She stared at him, hands on hips, seemingly amazed by this notion.

Pyke stared back at her, wondering how she knew who Goya was. ‘I once saw a book of his engravings in my uncle’s shop. The Caprichos, I think. I’m told it was extremely rare.’

She gave him a sceptical look but her eyes were still glistening. ‘Too rare for a poor country girl like me to know about?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But it’s what you meant.’

Pyke tried to gauge whether she felt she’d been insulted. ‘I simply pointed out that your work reminded me a little of Goya. That was all.’

This seemed to appease her. She relaxed a little and had another look at the canvas. ‘A gallery owner came to see my work a few years ago — actually at Brendan’s bidding. He liked what he saw and offered to represent me. I sell the occasional painting. It was he who introduced me to Goya’s work. It haunted me for months.’

‘I can see the influence,’ Pyke said, staring at the violent brushstrokes. The pain and fury seemed to leap off the canvas.

Sarah Scott suddenly seemed distracted. ‘For as long as I can remember, I’ve seen things, grotesque things, things that won’t let me sleep at night; at the time I thought Brendan might be able to cure me.’

‘It’s funny how our worst fears always seem to come true…’

She gave him a quizzical stare. ‘You’re referring to what happened in the summer?’

‘I’m sorry about your baby. I have a son. He’s fourteen. I can’t imagine how painful it must be to…’

She held up her hand, as if to stop him. ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated and looked up at him, dry eyed. ‘Perhaps now you could tell me the reason for your visit?’

Pyke hesitated, trying to decide whether to push for more information about what had happened at No. 28. ‘When you lived in London, did you ever come across a man called Isaac Guppy? He was the rector at St Botolph’s, Aldgate.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Why? What’s he done?’

‘Someone beat him to death with a hammer in the yard outside his church.’

Pyke looked into her dark, liquid eyes and felt something stir deep inside him. He saw her shock, or what he believed to be her shock. But she masked her reaction very quickly.

‘Let me guess, Detective Inspector. You’re labouring under the mistaken assumption that Brendan had something to do with the murder.’

‘Why would it be mistaken?’

‘Brendan wouldn’t harm a fly. I doubt he’s capable of even lifting a hammer, let alone using it in anger.’

‘Two days ago I arrested him for the murder of the rector.’

This time the shock on her face lasted. ‘But Brendan just wouldn’t do something like that.’

‘You know him that well?’

Sarah Scott lowered her gaze. ‘At one point I did. Or I thought I did. But I don’t believe he’d knowingly inflict physical harm on another human being.’

‘The dead man’s surplice turned up in one of the upstairs rooms at number twenty-eight Broad Street. And Malloy lied to me; he assured me he’d never met the deceased.’

‘And he had?’

‘He visited this man, Guppy, in late March of this year. Perhaps he might’ve mentioned it to you?’

‘No, I don’t think he did.’

‘He claims he was warning Guppy that another man, Ebenezer Druitt, had somehow foreseen his death.’

Sarah Scott visibly flinched at the mention of Druitt’s name. ‘You don’t think he’s telling the truth?’

Pyke removed the anonymous note, with the Blake verses and the address in Soho, and handed it to her. ‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’

She looked at it, squinting, then shook her head. ‘You know Blake was born at number twenty-eight; probably in one of those upstairs rooms.’

‘Yes.’ Pyke hesitated. ‘Was that the reason you chose to live there?’

‘Me?’ She laughed. ‘I’ve no particular interest in William Blake, I’m afraid.’

‘Then it was Brendan’s decision?’

She shook her head. ‘ He was the one who loved Blake. We moved into a room that he rented to us.’

‘Druitt?’

Sarah Scott eyed him carefully. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say that name again in my presence.’