Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘When you see the way the police are used to keep the poor in their place, it’s not hard to understand why people might be reticent about coming forward.’

Sarah looked at him and nodded. ‘When I was about twelve, a carriage arrived outside our cottage. It had come from the big house, the landowner. His only son was desperately sick and someone in his household had told him about my mother’s… abilities. In the end, and I’m guessing despite her better judgement, she agreed to help. I don’t know what she did or didn’t do but two days later the son died. That same night, some men on horses came and took my mother; the next day my father found her charred remains about a mile from our village. Later, we found out that she had been burned alive. No one was ever arrested for her murder.’

It was a bleak story, and for a moment or two neither of them spoke, the only noise a log spitting in the grate.

‘I’m sorry, Sarah. Really I am.’ Pyke wanted to reach out and touch her.

‘A wealthy man tells a poor man what to do in order to serve his own interests. That’s all the law is.’

Ten years ago Pyke would have agreed with her but his views had mellowed or hardened, depending on the way you viewed it. ‘Maybe you’re right, but what’s the alternative? Without some kind of law, we’d end up devouring each other.’

‘A community like this shows that it’s possible to live a different life.’

‘And in the East End of London?’

She took another sip of the cider. ‘You know why I suggested that you stay?’ She was staring at him through her long, curly lashes.

Pyke felt his stomach tighten. ‘I wouldn’t like to put words into your mouth.’

‘Nice answer.’ She smiled. ‘Sometimes it gets lonely out here. The people are good but their experience is limited.’

‘So I’m just a bit of company?’ Pyke said.

This made her smile and the lines wrinkled at the sides of her eyes. ‘Good company. Does that sound better?’

‘A little.’ Pyke paused, an idea forming in his head. ‘If you’re starved of good company, why not come back to London?’ Realising he’d perhaps given the wrong impression, he added, ‘You could help me to unravel this mess with Malloy.’

Her smile vanished and she shook her head. ‘I can’t. I couldn’t..’

‘But with your experience and the fact you might know some of Druitt’s friends, his associates, you could be of real use.’

‘To you?’ she said, softening a little.

‘If this murder is Druitt’s work, do you want to see him go unpunished?’

He saw at once he’d hit the target but Sarah Scott hesitated. ‘I just can’t face going back. Not there. Not yet.’ Immediately Pyke felt bad about having pushed the point.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, quickly. ‘I understand… Believe me, I know how much time it takes to grieve.’

When she looked up at him, the tips of her eyelashes were slightly wet. ‘You’re talking about your wife?’

Pyke nodded.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die?’

‘She was shot.’

Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘By who?’

‘A rifleman.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of her political views.’

She reached forward and touched him on the hand. ‘It’s not always easy, is it? Being subjected to someone else’s personal questions.’ Her tone was gentle and disarming.

Pyke stared into the fire, but he was aware of how close her hand was to his and his heart beat a little more quickly.

‘The cottage next door should be warm now,’ she said, without looking up at him. ‘I’ve left some blankets on the table.’

Pyke was lying in the dark, under the blankets, thinking about how quiet it was, the cider warming his stomach, when he heard the door open and saw a silhouette against the frame. Closing the door behind her, Sarah Scott moved towards him with the smoothness and grace of a cat and, without saying a word, she knelt down next to him, and gently put her finger to his lips. Her eyes had a faraway look that stayed with her even after they kissed. It was a soft, gentle kiss and immediately he wanted more. Her lips, plump and moist, still tasted of cider. He ran his fingers through her coarse black hair and pulled her into an embrace; as he did so, he lifted up the blanket and without further invitation she lay down next to him. She was wearing just a petticoat, and as he ran the tip of his finger across her chest, each rib, he realised, was prominent to his touch. Their mouths came together and Pyke felt a hunger in her that he recognised in himself, and as she fumbled at his undergarments he lifted the silk petticoat up over her head. It was her sadness which touched him most, a private cocoon deep within her, and even as she guided him into her, and they were, for a few moments at least, as close as a man and woman could be, it was as if she wasn’t actually present. He could taste her desire, feel her need, but there was another part of her he would never know, never get close to. The thought struck him that it might also feel the same way for her.

Later, once it was over, and they were lying under the blanket staring up at the wooden rafters, he was about to say something when he saw a tear rolling down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away, to tell her that everything would be all right, but even in his head the words sounded hollow.

‘I didn’t think you liked me,’ Pyke whispered, trying to break the trance she’d seemingly fallen into.

Turning to him, she kissed him on the cheek and whispered, ‘You’ve got rough hands and a weathered face but you speak well. I like that. It tells me you’ve made something of yourself.’

Pyke thought about the story she had told about her own upbringing and the fact that a gallery in London was now selling the canvases she painted.

When he woke up, it was already light outside and he was alone in the room. Dressing quickly, he laced up his boots and stepped out into the crisp morning air. It had rained during the night but the clouds had moved on and the sky was perfectly clear. The door to Sarah’s cottage was unlocked but she was nowhere to be found. Later, after he had rinsed his face in water from the stream, he asked some of the other colonists whether they had seen Sarah and was told that she had left camp at first light and that she wasn’t expected back until the afternoon.

At eight, and with nothing in his stomach, Pyke started the long walk back to Ipswich.

In Pyke’s absence, the whole of London, it seemed, had been made aware of Francis Hiley’s status as the chief suspect in Guppy’s murder. But it wasn’t simply the newspapers which reported, and indeed exaggerated, Hiley’s supposed infamy and apparent predisposition towards violence. The previous day’s route-paper, circulated within the police, had also effectively identified Hiley as the only viable suspect. The hunt had been stepped up, with as many as ten constables from the executive department now specifically involved in the search, all under Wells’s command. In fact, although Pyke had been away for little more than a day, it felt as if control of the investigation had imperceptibly slipped from his grasp.

Whicher tapped gently on Pyke’s half-open door and peered into the office. ‘I heard you were back.’ He hesitated, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Pyke hadn’t seen a lot of him that week, since he’d sent the younger man to investigate the burglary in Belgravia and had also asked him to look into a garrotting incident in Smithfield.

‘Jack, come in.’ Pyke gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Please, have a seat. Any developments in the burglary? Or the garrotting?’

Shaking his head, Whicher sat down and gave Pyke a very brief outline of the two investigations. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about something else. Well, a couple of things, actually.’