Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘Yes, he would.’ Jakes looked wary, perhaps even sheepish. ‘You’re a perceptive man, Detective Inspector, but you shouldn’t underestimate the damage that a guilty conscience can wreak.’

‘And now you’ve unburdened yourself, do you feel lifted?’ Pyke didn’t bother to hide his scepticism.

‘I should have told you the truth when we last spoke. I was wrong. I apologise.’

It was a grudging apology and Pyke was minded not to acknowledge it. ‘I have one more question to ask you and I’d appreciate it if you could answer me honestly. Did you know Guppy at the time?’

‘Do you mean when Keate was attending St Luke’s?’

‘Yes. I want to know whether Guppy knew Morris Keate.’

‘That’s how I first met Guppy,’ the curate said, eventually. ‘He came to see me, professing an interest in Keate’s circumstances.’

‘Was this before or after his arrest?’

‘Before, I think.’ Jakes’s voice was hoarse, his throat dry.

‘You’re quite sure about that?’

‘Quite sure.’

Later, after an apologetic and troubled Jakes had left, Pyke turned over what he’d learned. So Guppy had known about Keate. In itself, this proved nothing, but perhaps it helped explain why the rector had responded so demonstrably when Malloy had visited him the previous spring. According to Malloy, Guppy had only taken his claims seriously when he’d realised who the Catholic priest was. If the two men had never met before, why would Malloy’s name give Guppy such a fright? The only answer Pyke could think of was that in Guppy’s mind the name was somehow linked to Morris Keate. Still, why would this have unsettled the rector?

Outside the public entrance to the Kensington station house, on the other side of the busy High Street, stood Pyke and Felix. Dressed as costermongers, they were selling fruit from a barrow; Pyke in a full-skirted velveteen coat, a corduroy waistcoat, matching cord trousers pulled tight at the knees, and a pair of heavy ankle boots; Felix in a tatty cloth coat, wool breeches and boots, with a silk handkerchief tied around his neck and a beaver-knapped top hat on his head. Pyke had made sure their hands were muddy and their faces were smudged with soot. Since lunchtime they had sold seven shillings’ worth of oranges and apples; the owner of the cart, who’d agreed — under duress — to rent it to them, was watching from the window of a nearby coffee shop.

It had almost been a joke, initially. Pyke had gone home the previous night and without really thinking about it had asked Felix whether he might consider helping him on a job. To his surprise, the lad had leapt at the chance, and ever since then Pyke had been wondering whether he’d made a big mistake. It was true he needed help; you always did whenever you tried to follow someone. But was it wise to use his son on such an assignment? What if something went wrong? He’d never knowingly put Felix in danger, but then again, could he be absolutely certain that Sergeant Russell would fail to spot he was being followed?

Across the road, a man stumbled out of the Farriers tavern. They watched him wait on the pavement, swaying while a wagon with its cargo covered by a canvas tarpaulin rattled past. Their eyes went from him to a man wearing a sandwich board advertising ‘SMITH’S JET BLACKING’, but before Felix could ask what jet blacking was, an argument flared up between a basket seller and a crossing-sweeper over who should clear up the mess made by the former’s donkey. It was bitterly cold and no one paid much attention to their ranting. There was so much to take in, so much to look at, that Felix hardly seemed to know where to direct his attention. Pyke kept his eyes fixed on the entrance to the station house. He had seen Lockhart enter about half an hour earlier and suddenly there he was on the steps, looking one way and then the other, before hailing a cab. Now Russell knew, Pyke presumed, and it was just a question of waiting.

The cold, biting wind made it difficult to stand still, and they moved slowly around the barrow, a few steps at a time. There were men coming and going from the station house all the time; police constables mostly, but also clerks, office boys, messengers and tradesmen. The constant stream of bodies made it hard for Pyke and Felix to stay focused, but the notion that Russell might appear at any second kept them alert. As the light began to fade, Pyke felt the first drops of rain on his face, and by the time the lamp-lighters started their rounds, the rain had become heavier and more persistent.

Fifty minutes after Lockhart had climbed into a hackney carriage, Russell emerged from the station house dressed in his dark blue uniform. He glanced furtively up and down the High Street then turned right out of the building, walking briskly to the first corner and crossing the road. Having pointed out who Russell was, Pyke watched as his son set off after the policeman and waited for a few moments before following. Pyke could just about see Russell’s stovepipe hat bobbing up and down among the other pedestrians, their umbrellas raised to shield themselves from the rain. It took twenty minutes to walk from the station house to the Hogarth residence at the top of the King’s Road, and once Russell was safely inside, Pyke joined Felix in his hiding place across the road. Despite the rain and cold, Felix’s face glistened with excitement. Their wait on the other side of the quiet street was not a long one. About five minutes later, Russell reappeared and, after looking up at the darkening sky, he continued on his way, this time heading back in the direction in which he’d come. Again, Pyke let Felix take the lead and this time allowed a little more distance between himself and Russell because the streets this far away from the High Street were not busy.

About halfway between the King’s Road and Kensington High Street, Pyke noticed that Felix was walking more quickly, and moments later he broke into a jog. Pyke was fifty yards farther back, and by the time he reached the place where Russell and Felix had turned on to a quieter street, he had lost them. Pyke raced to the next corner and looked both ways along the residential street, a row of stout terraces facing one another. There was no sign of either Russell or Felix. Suppressing an urge to call out, Pyke turned suddenly, hearing something move behind him. He found himself staring into the ruddy face of a policeman he didn’t recognise. Russell stepped out of the shadows, a grin spreading across his face. He had a truncheon in his hand and it was raised. Pyke searched his peripheral vision for any sign of his son; at the same time, Russell whipped his arm through the air and Pyke felt the thick end of the truncheon connect with the side of his head. His legs buckled and a flash of light exploded behind his eyes; after that, he put his hands out to break his fall and slipped into unconsciousness.

Pyke had no idea how long he had been unconscious. It was still dark and the air was damp, although it was no longer raining. His shoes and coat had been taken, as had his purse, knife and pistol. He stood up gingerly, his bare feet sinking into the mud. It took him a moment to remember what had happened and another to remember that Felix had been with him. Panic turned his stomach to ice. He looked around and shouted Felix’s name. His voice echoed off the walls of the alley he’d been left in. Pyke’s head was throbbing and the pain was acute, but he didn’t think the blow had damaged his skull. Limping to the end of the alley, he half-expected to find Felix’s body lying in the mud. He shouted his son’s name again but there was no response. His feet were entirely numb, and without his frock-coat he was shivering, but the panic meant he hardly noticed the cold. He retraced his steps back to the residential street, and from there it took him another ten minutes to get to the cab-stand on Kensington High Street. There, he was told that it was eight in the evening, which meant he’d been unconscious for two hours. As he waited for a cab, he tried to think what might have happened to Felix and what the best course of action would be. He could go to the station house and confront Russell, if indeed he’d gone back there, but what would the sergeant say? If they were split up, the plan had been for him and Felix to meet up back at the house, so when a cab finally pulled up, Pyke instructed the driver to take him to Islington. It had now been two and a half hours since the assault. If he was safe, Felix would be there at the house to greet him, and for the rest of the journey Pyke clung to this thought.