Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

Blood rushed to Felix’s face, and he looked at Copper, at his book, anywhere but at Pyke.

‘I thought I’d better ask. In case there was something you wanted to know.’

‘Like what?’ There was a haunted look in his son’s eyes.

Pyke licked his lips. ‘Well…’

A long silence passed between them. Pyke turned his attention to Copper and stroked the dog’s ears.

‘But if I did want to know something, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’ Felix’s expression was almost accusatory.

‘I’d try to.’

‘Because I was wondering…’

When Felix told Pyke what was on his mind, Pyke stared at his son, and not for the first time questioned the wisdom of the sheltered upbringing he’d been given.

That night, Pyke stayed up late reading Mandeville’s Remarks on the Fable of the Bees, and by the morning he felt neither rested nor ready to confront Ebenezer Druitt. He would have liked to think it was Mandeville’s complex treatment of moral sentiment which had kept him awake, but in truth he was thinking about his uncle, trying to remember what he’d said to Pyke the first time he’d brought him back to the apartment in Camden Town.

The following morning, after breakfasting in near-silence with Felix, Pyke walked to the Model Prison at Pentonville, the low winter sun barely rising up above the spires and roofs.

Ebenezer Druitt was just as Pyke remembered him. Lying in his hammock, it was almost as if he had expected Pyke to show up. When Pyke entered his cell, he looked up, opened his eyes and then closed them again.

‘I want to know how you knew that the third of December was significant.’

Druitt opened his eyes and yawned. ‘Good to see you again, Detective Inspector Pyke. I trust you’re well.’

‘I told you Isaac Guppy was murdered on the third. You suggested that the date might be significant.’

‘Did I? Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve said. Incarceration does strange things to the mind.’

‘Why did you tell me that, Druitt?’ Pyke wanted to conceal his frustration but he could see from the smile on Druitt’s lips that he hadn’t been successful. ‘Guppy was murdered on the third. So was a boy called Johnny Gregg. He was killed in an almost identical manner five years ago.’

Druitt’s expression remained unchanged. He put his arms above his head and stretched. ‘A coincidence, you think?’

‘Ten days later, another boy, Stephen Clough, was crucified. Someone nailed him to a stable door in Soho. The same stable used by your former friend, Brendan Malloy.’

Again Druitt received this news with no visible reaction. Pyke wanted to take Druitt into a private room and pummel the truth out of him, but what stopped him was the curious notion that this was exactly what Druitt was willing him to do, goading him so he would lose his temper.

‘Clough was killed on the thirteenth of December. So was a City alderman called Charles Harcourt Hogarth. This would have been about three weeks ago.’ Pyke noticed a copy of The Times on the table next to Druitt’s hammock. ‘If you’d read his obituary, you would have heard he died from a cardiac seizure.’

Druitt saw that Pyke had noticed the newspaper. ‘As a reward for good behaviour, I’m permitted to take The Times.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a terrible rag, really, but it’s reassuring to know there’s a world beyond these four walls.’

‘In actuality Hogarth was crucified, just like Clough. But I think you know that. Just like I think you know who killed Hogarth and Guppy — and why.’

‘And how would I know that?’ Druitt’s eyes had lost all of their dullness and now glittered with an intensity Pyke found disturbing.

‘You tell me. That’s why I’m here. I want to know how Guppy and Hogarth are linked.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Detective Inspector. A shame, because it sounds intriguing.’

‘Five years ago, a man called Morris Keate was executed for murdering those two boys. I think Brendan Malloy knew him.’

‘Then ask Brendan about it.’ Druitt climbed out of his hammock and stretched. He was taller than Pyke remembered from the last visit.

‘A poor man is hungry. He poaches some pheasants and is shot by the landowner. His friend sees this and hides one of the stolen birds in the bag of another poor man who is subsequently found out and shot.’ Druitt took two paces towards the end of the cell then turned around. ‘Should this man be condemned for ensuring his own survival and this other man’s death?’

Pyke remained silent, trying to work out why Druitt had told him this story.

‘Perhaps the question we should ask is what is the initial crime?’ Druitt continued. ‘The theft of the bird or the fact they were forced into such an act because they were poor and hungry?’

‘I think you should leave the philosophising to those who understand its complexities.’

For the first time, Pyke saw that he’d managed to get to Druitt. Deciding to press home his advantage, he said, ‘I had another chat with Sarah Scott. She told me not to believe a word you said.’

That elicited a smirk. ‘But you’re having trouble with that, aren’t you?’

‘Trouble?’

‘She didn’t tell you that the child was mine, then?’ Druitt raised his eyebrows and tutted under his breath. ‘But why would she? That is, if she was trying to present herself to you as an object worthy of your desire.’

Druitt must have seen Pyke’s expression because almost at once he added, ‘You’d like to hurt me, wouldn’t you, Detective Inspector? I can see it in your eyes.’

Pyke tried to remain calm.

‘Admittedly she’s a nice bit of quim but if you see her as anything more you’ll be disappointed. Brendan was. I was. She’ll fuck you and leave you, just as she’s done with all the others.’

Pyke tried to put what Druitt had said out of his mind. ‘If the child was yours, then why did you kill it?’

‘I didn’t.’ Druitt laughed and shook his head. ‘Oh, you are so naive, so easily taken in, Detective Inspector. I didn’t kill the child. She did.’

Perhaps it was the casualness of Druitt’s lie which pushed Pyke over the edge; perhaps it was the way he ran the tip of his tongue around the perimeter of his lips, as though there was something lewd about the child’s death. Or perhaps it was simply that Pyke felt compelled to defend a woman he had grown to like. In any case, he leapt forward, pushed Druitt against the wall and grabbed him by the throat. It felt momentarily good to squeeze it, until he saw the expression in the prisoner’s eyes, the fact that he almost seemed to be willing Pyke to hurt him. As soon as Pyke let go, Druitt reached out and pulled a hand-spring.

Moments later, a warder unbolted the door and pulled it open. ‘Everything all right in ’ere?’

Pyke looked over at Druitt, who was gingerly touching his throat.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Pyke said.

Druitt looked at the warder but made no comment. He waited until Pyke was almost out of the cell before saying, ‘Perhaps Mandeville was right after all; what we claim to value comes not from being good but from greed, cruelty and anger.’

Pyke felt the muscles in his stomach clench. Somehow Druitt knew he was reading that book.

‘Wasn’t it Francis Carlyle who talked about pig philosophy?’ he added a few moments later.

Pyke tried to push past the warder but the man held his ground and Druitt shrank to the back of the cell. Perhaps the warder could see the hotness in Pyke’s face.

‘I think it would be better if you left, sir, before you did something you might later regret.’

As he went, Druitt said, ‘In the end, Pyke, violence demeans its perpetrators much more than its victims.’