Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

Shaw shook his head. ‘Not exactly, but soon afterwards we made an arrest. A night-soil man called Morris Keate. We searched his tool-chest at his lodging house and found a hammer. It still had traces of dried blood on it.’

Pyke put down his pen. ‘And what became of this man, Keate?’

‘He was tried, found guilty and hanged.’

‘And you think this might have a connection to our current investigation?’ Pyke asked, still a little sceptical.

‘Not just me. I talked to Eddie about it. He suggested I come and talk to you. Said it might be relevant.’

‘All right,’ Pyke said, still trying to work out how the various members of his team felt about one another. Certainly there was more to Frederick Shaw than initially caught the eye. ‘What can you tell me about this man, Keate?’

‘He was a Devil worshipper. That letter someone sent you made me think about the case.’ Shaw waited and added, ‘Keate used a hammer to kill the first boy, so…’

‘Perhaps you should dig up the old records, see whether there are any files held in the Criminal Returns Office.’ Pyke looked at Shaw and smiled. ‘But you were right to bring this to me, Frederick. It’s what good detective work is all about.’

‘I can’t take all the credit, I’m afraid.’ Shaw reddened. ‘It was Eddie’s idea as much as it was mine.’

‘And when I next see him, I’ll thank him.’

The next morning, Sunday, a frost had turned the denuded tree branches silver. The sky was blue and clear and a weak sun sat just above the rooftops. But it was bitterly cold, and when he looked out of his bedroom window and saw that one of the pigs had escaped from the sty again, Pyke knew that the time had come to take decisive action. The sty and shelter were too small for three fully grown animals and Pyke had also been told that December was the best time to slaughter a pig because they’d fattened up during the autumn. He also wanted Godfrey to have a taste of the meat before he passed away. The idea of a last supper seemed too morbid and an unnecessary temptation of fate, but if he could kill his first pig, then it would be a good excuse for the three of them to sit together around the table.

He changed into an old pair of trousers and a shooting jacket, ate breakfast alone, and let himself out into the garden, Copper hopping along at his side.

Pyke had never slaughtered a pig before but he’d been told how to do it. He fetched a length of rope from the shed and sharpened his hatchet on a grinding wheel, the wan sunlight glinting off the metal blade while he worked.

The three pigs ignored him when he set down the rope and hatchet. Pyke ruled out Alice, his favourite, and the ten-month-old he still hadn’t named. That left Mabel, a long-bodied creature with coarse, bristly skin.

Having enticed Mabel out of the sty, Pyke closed the gate, to ensure the other two pigs remained inside, took a length of rope and tied it around her leg. That done, he led Copper back up to the house and, while he was there, had a quick nip of gin from the bottle. The house was quiet. Godfrey was upstairs resting and Felix had already gone out.

Ignoring Copper’s howls, Pyke trudged back down through the mud to the sty. He’d hoped the gin might have settled his nerves but his stomach was still tied up in knots. Mabel had wandered across to one of the flower beds, the length of rope dragging behind her. Pyke picked up the hatchet and the other length of rope and went to catch her. Mabel didn’t like Pyke manhandling her and started to wriggle and squeal. Perhaps she sensed what was about to take place. Pyke took the hatchet and pulled back on the head to reveal the terrified pig’s throat. The squealing was louder, the wriggling more aggressive. That was when he should have drawn the blade of the hatchet across the animal’s pinkish throat, but at the last moment he couldn’t do it.

A moment later, the pig squirmed free and bolted across the lawn, the rope dragging behind it. Caught off balance, Pyke tumbled to the ground. He sat on his backside staring up at the sky and thinking how close Mabel had come to meeting her end.

Later that afternoon, Pyke went to sit with Godfrey, Copper settling down next to him on the floor.

Godfrey opened his eyes and yawned.

‘Earlier this afternoon, I went out into the garden with the intention of slaughtering one of the pigs,’ Pyke began.

‘So what happened?’

‘I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

That seemed to amuse the old man and he started to chuckle. ‘I always suspected you were soft at heart.’

Pyke let the thought linger in the air. ‘Do you think I’m wrong to worry so much about the interest Felix has taken in God?’

‘I can see why you’re concerned. I would be, too. But perhaps you should try to see it from the boy’s point of view. Or at least ask him. You never know, he might surprise you.’

Pyke reached down and patted Copper on the head. The dog grunted approvingly. ‘Does he talk about it with you?’

‘Not directly.’ Godfrey tried to sit up a little. ‘He’s at that stage where he wants answers. That’s what the Bible, what Christianity, does. It gives answers. Heathens like you and me might not like those answers but they’re a help to some.’

Pyke knew he was right but didn’t say anything.

‘I’ll grant you, dear boy, he’s been deeply affected. Yesterday, while you were away, he literally pleaded with me to consider a Christian burial. He said without it, I stand no chance of getting into heaven.’

Pyke didn’t know whether to be amused or upset by this revelation. ‘And what did you tell him?’

‘I told him that when I go, I’m gone for good. I didn’t like to be so harsh but I didn’t want to lie to the lad, say I’d be looking down on him from some place called heaven.’

‘Or that your spirit would inhabit these rooms and keep us company in the dark days to come?’

Godfrey grinned. ‘I think you and I are agreed on that particular matter.’ The old man adjusted his position. ‘I did tell the lad I’d think about it, a Christian burial. I didn’t want to disappoint him. But I need you to promise me that you’ll put me into the ground at Bunhill.’

‘Of course,’ Pyke said, taking his uncle’s hand. ‘But shall I talk to Felix?’

Godfrey shook his head and smiled weakly. ‘I think this is one of those situations where the more you do, dear boy, the bigger the hole you’ll dig for yourself.’

It took Pyke a little more than half an hour to walk from his house to the Model Prison at Pentonville. Once there, he presented himself at the warden’s lodge, crossed a neat gravel yard, climbed some steps and entered the governor’s waiting room through a freshly painted door. A warder met him and waited while he signed the visitor’s book. Then he was escorted through another door into a light, airy corridor, which, in turn, led into one wing of the prison. As someone who’d spent time behind bars, Pyke’s abiding impression of the new prison was its stillness and silence. In his experience, prisons were raucous, fetid places where you could get a drink as easily as in a pub, if you had money. But here, even as you approached the cells, there was hardly a sound. It was quite eerie; the warder noticed his reaction and grinned. ‘The guv’nor calls it the separate, silence system, says it gives the felons a chance to reflect on the errors of their ways.’ In Marshalsea, Pyke had slept in a ward with ten others; here, each man was confined to his own cell and was forbidden to converse with other prisoners. Even during their exercise hour, the warder said, the men had to walk in single file around concentric rings, thereby limiting the opportunities to talk to one another. Pyke asked whether many of them took their own lives. The warder didn’t know whether this was a serious question or a criticism and so decided not to reply.