Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

They hadn’t seen one another since Godfrey’s funeral, and Saggers asked how Felix and he were faring. Pyke shrugged, not sure what to say. The fact was that he had spent the past week trying not to think about the death and the hole it had left in both his and Felix’s life. He was aware that this was not necessarily the best way of dealing with the situation. He was also aware that he and Felix hadn’t talked about Godfrey’s death for a number of days and the closeness they’d shared around the time of the funeral had already started to fade. Instead of answering Saggers’s question directly, Pyke said, ‘Actually I wanted to pick your brains about something.’

A few months earlier Saggers had written a piece for the London Illustrated News about the detective department in which he’d described the figure of the detective as a secular priest for the modern era. It had been a gauche piece, little more than an advertisement for the department. Pyke had sanctioned it not because he needed the publicity but because Saggers wanted to write the story and he valued his association with the journalist. Then, as now, there was little that happened in the city that escaped Saggers’s ears and eyes.

Briefly Pyke told him everything he already knew about Morris Keate and the murders five year earlier. Saggers said he remembered them, though not particularly well.

‘So what do you want to know?’ he asked, when Pyke had finished.

‘Does that sound like a fair summary of what happened?’

Saggers took a swig of wine. ‘From what I remember, the two boys did work as part of the same mob.’

‘Do you know which one?’

‘Not as such, but I can say with some certainty that any dipper who worked the theatre crowds around that time would have handed a part of their take to a mobsman called Horace Flint.’

‘Flint?’ For some reason the name seemed familiar. ‘Didn’t someone stick a knife into his belly?’

Saggers nodded briskly. ‘That would have been about three or four years ago. I’m assured that anyone who answered to Flint now answers to a fence called Culpepper.’

‘Georgie Culpepper?’

‘You know him?’

Pyke laughed. ‘I used to; if he’s the same man I’m thinking of. We grew up on the same street.’ This would have been before his father died, before he’d spent a year in the orphanage, before Godfrey had rescued him.

‘Well, if he is the same one, I’d tread very carefully. I’m told he’s ambitious and he has a nasty bite.’

Even after Pyke had moved away from the rookery, he’d heard stories of Georgie Culpepper’s exploits, and he knew the man was active in the city’s underworld.

‘Do you know where I can find him?’

‘You could try the Coach and Horses on Duke Street, or the Rat’s Castle. Someone there will know where to find him.’

Standing up, Pyke surveyed the detritus of Saggers’s eating marathon and smiled. ‘You could try looking into the affairs of a City alderman called Charles Hogarth, if you felt so inclined.’

‘And why would I want to do that?’

‘He died about ten days ago. The coroner described the cause of death as heart seizure. I think he was murdered. The body was stolen from the family mausoleum and both the porter who found the body and the coroner are now missing, too.’

Saggers’s interest was clearly kindled, as Pyke had known it would be.

Pyke found Conor Rafferty in the same place as before, the Blue Dog in St Giles, but this time the back room was closed to the public and Pyke was told to leave his knife and pistol at the counter. A tall, muscular man with a gaol-cropped head took him along a damp, narrow passageway and through two sets of doors that had to be unbolted from the other side. Conor Rafferty was sitting alone at one of the tables, a half-empty bottle of whisky for company. Pyke could see that his eyes were tired and bloodshot, the lids heavy and bloated.

‘Come to tell me who killed our brother, Detective Inspector? Or to promise me you’ll have the gunman behind bars before the end of the week?’

‘I didn’t think you had such faith in the police.’

Even though he had agreed to let Wells run the investigation into Sean Rafferty’s murder, Pyke wanted to talk to Conor, to reassure himself there was no link to the ongoing search for the Saviour’s Cross. He also didn’t sufficiently trust Wells to look into the matter with fairness and impartiality.

Rafferty smiled thinly. ‘I’m pleased to see that a man of the law can spot irony when he hears it.’

‘Can I sit down?’

Rafferty shrugged and pushed the whisky bottle towards him. ‘You can have a drink, too.’

‘Do you have any idea who might have killed your brother?’ Rafferty’s eyes were as cold as ice. ‘We can bury our own and we can take care of our own problems too.’ The Irishman groped for the whisky and, realising it wasn’t in front of him, he laughed and shook his head. ‘At home, anyone who blabs to a Peeler ends up at the bottom of a well.’

‘And anyone else who crosses you, too.’

‘It’s a nasty world, Detective Inspector. But I expect you know that already.’

‘It’s not the world that’s nasty. It’s the people in it. When I came to see you in the summer, you were enjoying a drink with the rest of the customers in the taproom. Now you’re hiding out in one of the back rooms, guarded by a small army of your men. Am I to deduce that someone wants to kill you as well?’

‘Tell me, Detective Inspector.’ Rafferty gave him a long, cold stare. ‘Why did you really come and see me today?’

‘I heard what happened to your brother. It reminded me of a conversation we’d had in the summer.’

‘I remember now. You reckoned we might have had some hand in that shootin’ at the pawnbroker’s.’

‘Some did; I wasn’t one of them.’

‘It’s certainly true we can’t be claimin’ too many friends among your colleagues.’ Rafferty looked into Pyke’s face. ‘Every day, it seems, one of our flash houses, our card games, our brothels, our taverns is raided by your lot. Meanwhile, other folk go about their business like their shit smells of roses.’

‘If the police are harassing you, it’s just because they’re doing their job.’

Later Pyke would think about the implications of Rafferty’s remarks. Could it be true that someone was specifically targeting them?

‘Doin’ other folks’ jobs for ’em, more like.’

It was the way Rafferty said this which interested Pyke. ‘What do you mean?’

But Rafferty waved him off with his hand and said, ‘I’ll drink a wee drop for the big lad in your name.’

Pyke stood up. ‘I’m guessing you’ll want to take the law into your own hands and punish your brother’s killer.’ He paused and added, ‘This is just a friendly warning. If the streets start running crimson, I’ll come back and drag you off to the cells.’

Rafferty took another swig from the bottle and watched Pyke carefully until he had reached the door.

That night, the rain returned, a faint drizzle turning into a violent downpour, drops of water hammering against the windows and doors. Pyke had tried, and failed, to have a proper talk with Felix and lay in his bed worrying about the way they were drifting apart. Felix had gone back to school, and the return to a normal routine had proved to be comforting. Still, this had perhaps given his son the impression that he had already adjusted to Godfrey’s death and moved on, which was far from the case. It also meant that the two of them would be spending less time together. This was one of the reasons Pyke had suggested they both go and see Martin Jakes at his church in Bethnal Green. If nothing else, it would give them something to do.