Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘He was nervous, though,’ Whicher said. ‘Especially when he realised it was Hogarth, and not the others, we wanted to talk about.’

‘By the end, he was sweating like a pig,’ Lockhart added.

‘Do you think he was trying to hide something?’

‘It was hard to tell.’ Lockhart looked over at Whicher. ‘You know anything about this man, Hogarth?’

‘A man in his fifties, an alderman who’s probably eaten and drunk too well, keels over at his desk.’ Whicher said. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘True, but aren’t you sufficiently curious to want to pay the family a visit?’ Pyke rose from his seat. ‘Anyone want to join me?’

Charles Harcourt Hogarth may have inherited his wealth and business from his father but everything about his mansion and indeed his widow suggested new rather than old money. With its pillars, porticos and pediments all designed in the classical style, the property, situated just off the King’s Road, screamed ‘parvenu’ even to someone like Pyke, who wasn’t especially knowledgeable about architectural styles. It was as if someone had built the house with the sole intention of impressing others; the white stone walls, the smooth, marble floors, the statues in the entrance hall, all testament to the owner’s relentlessly upward mobility. Eventually, when the butler finally granted Pyke and Whicher five minutes with the lady of the house, they saw that Helen Hogarth conformed to the same maxim: she was wearing black, of course, but the style of her dress and the cut of the fabric were remorselessly fashionable. As befitted someone who hadn’t been born into wealth, Helen Hogarth treated the two of them with palpable disdain. She shook their hands as though the act itself were a violation of her bodily purity, and as soon as Pyke asked about her late husband, she informed them, with a haughty, almost fey flick of her hand, that she couldn’t possibly answer any questions about her darling Charles, especially since the funeral was still so fresh in her mind.

‘Do you mean that the funeral has already taken place?’ Pyke looked over at Whicher, unable to contain his surprise.

She looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘That’s exactly what I mean, sir.’

‘But it was my understanding, madam, that your husband only passed away two nights ago.’

‘And?’

‘It was always my understanding that the arrangements for such affairs always took at least a week.’

They were sitting in the parlour and the butler and another servant were hovering near by.

She smiled blandly. ‘I could ask what business is it of yours how I or my family choose to conduct our private affairs.’ The rictus smile started to fade. ‘But since you’ve come here as a representative of the law, I’ll say only this. Charles had always talked about wanting a small, private family funeral. As such, I saw no reason for dillydallying. The parish church was able to accommodate the funeral and dear Charles was laid to rest in the family’s mausoleum at the London and Westminster cemetery.’

‘But the coroner’s inquest often takes a couple of days to arrange

…’

Helen Hogarth nodded, her expression almost pained. ‘Yes, I suppose we were fortunate that he was able to expedite things a little.’

Still thrown by her revelation, Pyke said, ‘It’s Wednesday. Your husband died on Monday and he’s already been buried. Do you see why I’m a little puzzled?’

Her face hardened. ‘No, not really. I made a decision that I felt was in the best interests of my family and my dear, departed husband. Now you come to my house and imply that I’ve done something wrong.’

‘Not wrong, madam. Just a little unusual. The coroner indicated that your husband died of a cardiac seizure. Is that correct?’

‘If that is what the coroner said, sir, why ask me?’

‘I’m not disputing the coroner’s findings. I’m just wondering how he was able to arrive at this conclusion. Perhaps your husband had a long history of chest pains?’

That drew an exasperated sigh. ‘Can you please tell me the purpose of these questions, sir? Are you suggesting that my husband might have done something wrong?’

‘Not at all…’

Helen Hogarth cut him off. ‘Because he was a gentle, law-abiding man and I would be greatly concerned if I felt his reputation was being unfairly impugned.’

‘I’m not suggesting anything of the sort.’ Pyke waited for a moment or two then smiled. ‘It’s just there are some procedural irregularities that still require an explanation.’

‘Such as?’

‘For a start, as I understand it, there was no official inquest. In circumstances where the cause of death isn’t absolutely self-evident, a jury is required to deliberate on the evidence.’

‘Who said the cause of death wasn’t self-evident?’

‘Your husband collapsed in his office. I’m sorry for being so blunt, but what’s to say he wasn’t poisoned?’

That drew an irritated frown. ‘But why would anyone want to poison my dear Charles? Anyway, I was told the coroner declared it to be a cardiac seizure.’

‘Exactly my point, madam. The coroner made this decision, not a doctor.’

Helen Hogarth pulled her shawl around her shoulders and shook her head. ‘Really, sir, I’m quite at a loss to understand your interest in my husband’s death.’

‘I mean no disrespect, madam.’ Pyke glanced over at Whicher and got up, as if to leave. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Please excuse our intrusion and accept our sincere condolences.’

That seemed to placate her a little, although, on reflection, Pyke felt that her indignation had been too demonstrable, too forced.

Outside, their driver was waiting for them but another carriage had pulled up and two policemen in uniform stepped out. They introduced themselves as Sergeant Russell and Constable Watkinson from the Kensington Division and asked Pyke and Whicher what had brought them to the Hogarth residence. Pyke showed the men his warrant card.

‘One of the servants turned up at the station house,’ Russell explained sheepishly. ‘He said there were two detectives at the house wantin’ to speak to the lady. I think he was afraid you wasn’t who you claimed to be.’

‘We showed the butler our warrant cards.’

Russell removed his stovepipe hat and cradled it in his hands. ‘Well, no harm done, eh, sir? Better to be safe than sorry.’

Pyke looked at the man and frowned. ‘Is it usual for you to rush to the aid of one of your rate-payers?’

‘We do what we can, sir.’

‘But to arrive here as quickly as you did, you would’ve had to have dropped everything.’

The two policemen looked at one another but said nothing.

‘Can I ask you a question, Sergeant Russell? Was there a general command to attend any business at the Hogarth residence as a matter of urgency?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’ Russell banged his hands together to warm them up. He was in his forties, Pyke estimated, with thick black, curly hair, small eyes, a beaked nose and a thin mouth. ‘We came as soon as we could because the servant was worried. No harm done, eh?’

As Russell walked away to the waiting carriage, Pyke noticed the man’s limp. He didn’t pay it much attention at first but as soon as he’d joined Whicher in their carriage, his expression must have given him away.

‘You remember the old crossing-sweeper who claimed he saw a uniformed policeman loitering outside the pawnbroker’s shop on Shorts Gardens at the time of the robbery? He said the policeman had a limp.’

Whicher regarded him with scepticism. ‘You’re saying that Russell could have been that man?’

‘The description fits.’

‘It’s hardly conclusive, though. I mean, how many policemen do you reckon walk with a slight limp?’