Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

When Pyke asked for Culpepper in the crowded taproom of the Coach and Horses on Duke Street, the conversation around him fell away. The landlord stepped out from behind the counter and inspected Pyke’s expensive coat and leather boots. A coal fire was burning in the grate and the air smelled of soot. ‘No one ’ere by that name,’ the landlord said, almost without opening his mouth.

‘That would be Little Georgie Culpepper,’ Pyke added.

The landlord was wearing a green apron smeared with his own fingermarks. He shook his head. ‘I think you’d best be on your way, cock.’

‘Tell him Pyke’s here to see him. Tell him I used to live on Monmouth Street with him, when we were boys.’

The landlord called one of the pot-boys and whispered in his ear. The boy disappeared through a door and returned about a minute later, relaying a message to the landlord.

‘It seems he’ll see you, after all,’ the landlord said, uncrossing his arms. ‘But only on the condition that you leave any knives or pistols ’ere at the counter. You’ll ’ave to let me search you, too.’

Pyke did as he was told and the landlord ran his hands up and down his greatcoat to check for concealed weapons. Then he stood up, a curious expression on his face.

‘Just a word of warning, cock, no one calls him Little Georgie any more. At least not to ’is face. Not if they wants to keep their looks.’

Pyke followed him along a passageway and up a flight of steps to a room at the back of the building where Georgie Culpepper was playing a game of cards with some others. But it wasn’t Culpepper who Pyke noticed first. It was a brothel madam he knew: Clare Lewis. Pyke smiled wryly when he saw her: the last time he’d seen her she had been naked. Jo had been Pyke’s last serious affair; since then he’d slept with perhaps half a dozen women, some if not most of them prostitutes. Clare had once been a prostitute and years ago Pyke had paid handsomely for her services. But since she’d started to run her own brothel he’d seen her less and less, and on the few occasions he’d visited her no mention was made of money.

Pyke’s gaze passed from Clare Lewis to George Culpepper, who was rearranging a pile of coins on the table in front of him. It wasn’t the first time Pyke had laid eyes on Culpepper since their boyhood days. From time to time, he had passed the man in the street or spotted him across the floor of a crowded, smoky taproom, but on such occasions neither of them had given any indication that they recognised the other person. In his role as head of the Detective Branch, Pyke had come across Culpepper’s name, of course, and had already consulted the information they’d built up on the man in their files. Still, he hadn’t been this close to him for more than thirty years, and he struggled to recognise anything of the boy he’d once known. In the end, it was his scrunched, squirrelly features which gave him away: eyes that were too close together and a hooked nose that was too large for his mouth. Maybe it was the same for Culpepper, looking at him, Pyke thought. But the big man seemed bored rather than curious, more concerned with the game and the other players sitting around the table. Pyke moved into the room and Culpepper’s expression changed almost imperceptibly, the briefest of smiles passing across his lips.

‘Pyke?’ He said it as if the name conjured unpleasant memories. ‘I do remember you now. If you’re the one I’m thinking of, you were a vicious little bastard.’

‘Coming from you, Georgie, I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Culpepper gestured towards a vacant chair. ‘If you’ve got what it takes, we’re playing primero, no limit to what you can wager.’

Pyke remained where he was. ‘I’m a poor man on a fixed wage. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to afford what I’d doubtless end up owing you.’

‘So what is it you came here for?’

‘Well, I’m now a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. The Detective Branch.’

That changed the atmosphere in the room. Pyke could almost feel the walls closing in on him. In addition to Clare Lewis, Culpepper and the card players, there were five other men. For a moment, all Pyke could hear was the fire spitting in the grate.

Culpepper’s eyes were as small and hard as pebbles. ‘How in the Lord’s name did someone like you turn out to be a Peeler?’

They stared at one another for a moment. ‘I want information,’ Pyke said, deciding to ignore Culpepper’s question.

‘About?’

‘Two boys who were murdered about five years ago, named Gregg and Clough. Your lads, I’m told. They once belonged to Horace Flint.’

Pyke saw Culpepper flinch slightly. It told him that the mobsman wasn’t as good a liar and card player as he thought he was. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Culpepper said, scratching his chin.

‘Johnny Gregg and Stephen Clough. Both pickpockets. Gregg was beaten to death with a hammer just around the corner from here. Clough was nailed to a stable door in Soho.’

Culpepper ran the tip of his finger across his puckered brow. ‘I remember hearin’ about those boys at the time. Terrible business. But at least they got the man what did it. A Devil worshipper, I think.’

The fact that Culpepper remembered this as quickly as he did made Pyke suspicious. ‘They didn’t work for Flint?’

‘ Flint?’ Culpepper looked at him, as if the name wasn’t familiar.

‘Horace Flint. He turned up a few years ago in the gutter not far from here. Someone had stuck a knife into his belly.’

‘I remember that one, too, now you comes to mention it. But I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.’

Pyke had hoped that their history together might have inclined Culpepper to give him even a little information, but the man had clearly decided to say nothing. A different approach was needed.

‘Well, you never were the most intelligent boy on the street, Georgie.’

Pyke saw Culpepper’s forehead tighten. ‘I’d be very careful what I say, if I was you.’

Pyke wondered about the men guarding the tavern and the fact he’d seen exactly the same operation in the Blue Dog. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t come here to reminisce.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the business you mentioned. So you can crawl back under whatever stone you came from.’

Culpepper had effectively dismissed him but Pyke chose to remain where he was.

‘It must have been dark in that coal-shed, Little Georgie. But at least you had a pack of wild dogs for company.’

Partly it was frustration on Pyke’s part, partly it was sheer recklessness. But he was also curious; he wanted to see what happened when Culpepper cracked.

No one in the room even twitched. Pyke noticed that Clare Lewis was staring down at her shoes. Culpepper regarded him for what seemed like minutes. For his part, Pyke could feel the skin under his collar burning.

‘If you wasn’t a Peeler, you’d be dead right now. Doesn’t matter you knew me a long time ago.’

‘I just want to know about Gregg and Clough. Why them? Why did this man, Morris Keate, go after them?’

‘I’m gonna count to ten. If you’re not gone by the time I gets to ten, I’m gonna kill you with my own bare hands and, so help me God, I’m gonna enjoy doin’ it.’

Pyke folded his arms and remained where he was: he could see the beads of sweat popping up across Culpepper’s forehead.

‘I’ve just been to the Blue Dog, where I had a more agreeable conversation with Conor Rafferty. He even offered me whisky.’

This time it was impossible for Culpepper to keep the surprise from his face. ‘You here to do that Paddy’s bidding, then?’ he asked.

‘No, but he seems to think he’s involved in a battle over territory.’