Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

‘And that’s why the London Churches Fund was established?’

‘Indeed,’ Blomfield said, nodding. ‘The plan was to build fifty churches. At present, we have built or are building just ten, all in Bethnal Green. But ten is a decent start, is it not? And we’re not resting on our laurels.’

‘Quite an undertaking,’ Pyke said, pretending to be impressed.

Blomfield beamed appreciatively. ‘It is the work of prudence and charity, sir, to impart Christianity to the people of this city.’

‘And how is this fund administered? I imagine that with such an undertaking there would be a central committee, and perhaps various subcommittees?’

‘Exactly so, Detective Inspector. Many hands make light work. And the Lord guides us always.’

Pyke nodded kindly. He knew he had to tread carefully around Blomfield. As Bishop of London, the man enjoyed serious political connections and he could easily use these to close down the investigation. ‘You chair the main committee, I presume?’

‘No, that responsibility falls to the archdeacon.’

‘Archdeacon Wynter?’

There must have been something in Pyke’s tone because Blomfield exchanged another brief glance with Taylor and said, ‘Perhaps you might tell me of your interest in our project, Detective Inspector?’

Avoiding the question, Pyke tried to regain a lightness of tone. ‘Tell me, Bishop, did the Reverend Guppy serve on one of the committees?’

It took Blomfield a few moments to work out who Pyke had just referred to. He grimaced slightly and removed his spectacles. ‘Yes, he did; in a very minor, administrative capacity. In fund-raising, I believe.’

‘And Charles Hogarth?’

‘No, I don’t know that name.’ Blomfield looked at his assistant, who also shook his head.

‘What about Sir St John Palmer?’

‘St John? Of course. He’s been one of the leading lights; a very fine man and a personal friend of mine; a man of great vision and humility.’

Pyke could tell the bishop was starting to get agitated. He smiled and said, ‘I’m sure he is. But I was wondering if you could tell me how the funds were raised?’

In itself, the fact that Sergeant Russell had gone directly from Hogarth’s residence to Palmer’s proved very little. But the notion that Palmer was, in the bishop’s words, one of the Fund’s leading lights had to be significant.

‘The Church Building Commissioners provided some of the money; private donations made up the rest. With a board including such luminaries as the Reverend Dr Spry, Mr Joshua Wilson, Mr William Baines, Sir St John Palmer, the Right Honourable William Gladstone, and not forgetting the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel, we did not experience a problem achieving the necessary subscriptions.’

Pyke had not expected to hear Peel’s name on the list but he knew straight away that it would make his task much harder. If there was even the faintest whiff of scandal attached to the Churches Fund, any attempt to expose it would be stamped on from a great height.

‘I really must ask you, sir, to explain the purpose of your visit.’ This time it was Taylor, the assistant, who’d spoken. ‘The bishop has kindly given you of his time and answered your questions with patience and good grace. Now it is your duty to reciprocate.’

‘It’s nothing for either you or the bishop to worry about.’ Pyke tried to smile. ‘As you probably know, we’re still looking for the man who murdered Isaac Guppy. It was mentioned that Guppy had been heavily involved in the activities of the Churches Fund.’

‘Not heavily,’ Blomfield said, quickly. ‘A very minor capacity, as I said.’

‘And I’m grateful to be corrected on that account.’ Pyke stood up and nodded to the bishop. ‘Thank you for your time, Bishop. I’ll show myself to the door. And rest assured, your answers have been most helpful.’

The riverbank at Billingsgate was a rickety forest of piers, steps, wharves and causeways, water sloshing around under the wooden poles, a dirty heave of sludge and scum carried back and forth by the tide. Above, the sky was almost white with seagulls circling for scraps of fish discarded by market traders, the shrill din of their cries making conversation difficult. The air smelled of fresh fish and stagnant water, and out on the river an icy wind whipped against the bowsprits and rigging of moored vessels, the smaller ones, the skiffs and dinghies, clanking against one another.

They paused for a short while and looked out at the vast expanse of river. Sarah Scott had come to him at Scotland Yard and told him there was something he should see. Her grim silence told him all he needed to know. It was cold enough for snow but the skies were clear, apart from the gulls. At the foot of the tide-washed stairs, a plank of wood bobbed up and down in water that looked as black as tar.

Pyke followed Sarah up the narrow, muddy lane leading away from the river, to Lower Thames Street, and into a ramshackle tenement building. Maybe it had once been a warehouse: its size and proximity to the river certainly suggested that. Now it had been carved up into rooms sleeping ten or fifteen, taken over by the district’s street sellers and scavengers, toshers and mudlarks, pickpockets and prostitutes. Pyke had no idea who, if anyone, collected the rent, but it was the kind of place you ended up in when there was nowhere left to go. Sarah Scott didn’t seem cowed by the lewd remarks directed at her or by the foulness of the air. She paid a shilling for a candle and led him down a flight of crumbling stairs to the basement. At the end of a damp passageway stood a door. She gestured for him to open it. He pushed the door and held up the lantern. He had already guessed that behind it he would find Brendan Malloy and that the former priest would be dead, but nothing could have prepared him for the smell.

Pyke brought the lantern closer and saw that maggots had already started to consume the dead flesh. Still, there were traces of frothing around the mouth, and when Sarah handed him an empty bottle which she said she’d found next to him, Pyke brought it up to his nostrils and sniffed. He knew how Malloy had died. Prussian acid would do that to you, if you imbibed enough of it.

Later, after Pyke had made arrangements for the corpse to be transported to a nearby public house for the coroner’s attention, the two of them walked back to the river, now in darkness, and stood in silence at the top of the stairs.

‘You still haven’t told me how you found him,’ Pyke said, staring into the watery blackness.

‘We lived together in this city for nearly two years. I know where he liked to go, where he liked to drink. One thing led to another.’ She looked at him, her eyes unfathomable. ‘You, of all people, should know how that works.’

‘Do you still love him?’

She turned to face him. She had an effortless, natural beauty, he decided in that moment, the kind that didn’t need to be preened or fussed over. ‘Brendan never saw the world as others have conditioned us to. At one point in my life, I was deeply attracted to that view.’

Pyke rested his arm on the metal rail in front of him. ‘I just saw him as mentally disturbed.’

‘I’m not going to argue there’s a certain truth in madness…’

‘But?’

‘The Church, whether Catholic or Protestant, would have us believe that religious faith is somehow compatible with the advancement of society. Brendan refused to succumb to such a view. He believed that the problem of evil has never been resolved, in spite of what we might tell ourselves.’

Pyke pondered this for a moment or two. ‘And you?’

‘I’m not an arch-rationalist like you, Pyke. I think there are things we can’t see, things we don’t know.’