Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

Briefly he explained what the Fund was and who sat on its executive board. Wells’s face darkened as he did so. ‘Has it occurred to you that they won’t allow your investigation to taint the Fund’s good name?’

‘And by “they” you mean?’

‘The prime minister sits on the board. So does the Bishop of London. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

‘And I’m meant to turn a blind eye to any malpractice that has occurred?’

‘I sympathise with your predicament, Pyke, but I’ve heard of this man, Palmer. He’s well connected.’

‘His company is overseeing the renovations of the station-house. I met him briefly a few days ago. He was talking to Sir Richard.’

Wells digested this new piece of information. ‘That doesn’t make your task any easier, does it?’

Pyke waited for someone to pass by and said, ‘You remember that sergeant I was asking you about, Russell? He used to be a constable under you in A Division.’

‘Russell, you say?’ Wells looked thoughtful. ‘No, I can’t remember the man. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason.’

Wells seemed exhausted. ‘Look, have you got any evidence to back up these suspicions regarding Palmer and the Churches Fund?’

When Pyke didn’t answer, Wells shook his head. ‘In that case, they’ll flay you alive and throw the morsels to the birds.’

It made Pyke think of Sarah’s dream; a flock of birds pecking out his eyes.

The brothel that Clare Lewis ran was situated above a gin and beer shop at the corner of Great White Lion Street and Queen Street, just along from the Seven Dials. There were ten other brothels that Pyke knew of in the vicinity, and probably more that he didn’t know of. None of them was especially salubrious, at least in comparison with the gentlemen’s clubs of St James’s and Haymarket, where you could smoke a cigar and drink a brandy before availing yourself of the services. Still, most of the men who visited these places didn’t expect or even demand refinement. They wanted a private room, a solid mattress and a woman who would do as she was told and pretend to enjoy it. Clare’s place was as good as any other, was better even, because she treated her women well and paid them a decent wage. But Pyke hadn’t known it belonged to George Culpepper. If he had known, perhaps he wouldn’t have gone there. It was Clare who kept drawing him back. Her slim, wiry figure, her straw-blonde hair cut unfashionably short in the style of a pageboy and her dirty laugh, which never failed to make him smile. And it was the information she sometimes fed him. As Pyke always told his men, a detective was only as good as his sources.

He found Clare in her room. She had been writing a letter and the quill was still in her hand when he knocked on the door and pushed it open. Clare glanced at his reflection in her looking glass. ‘I didn’t think I’d seen the last of you,’ she said, once he had closed the door behind him.

Pyke took a few steps into the room and stopped. The bed was unmade, and for a brief moment he wondered who else had been there that morning. ‘I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory the last time we met.’

This time Clare turned around. ‘Is that as good an apology as I’m likely to get?’

‘I shouldn’t have said what I said.’ He hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t have said it in the way I did.’

Clare spun around on her stool, so that she was facing him, and ran her fingers through her short, fluffy hair. ‘That’ll have to do, I suppose.’

‘But I stand by the general sentiment. And I was still hoping you might ask a few well-placed but discreet questions.’

‘I’ve done so already. What master wants, master gets.’ She folded her arms and waited.

‘Are you going to make me beg?’

‘A nice idea but I haven’t got anything to tell you.’

Pyke waited for her to continue.

‘I mentioned it to someone. They’ll remain anonymous. I was told if I valued my life, I wouldn’t bring it up again. The last person who did, the mother of one of the boys, ended up dead. Strangled and dumped in the river. I’m told the body was never recovered.’ The strain on her face was visible.

‘I was under the impression both boys were orphans.’

‘They are now.’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think Georgie had done something to those boys himself. Or at least he knows what happened to them.’

Clare fiddled with the brooch attached to her blouse. She may not have remembered but Pyke was the one who’d bought it for her. ‘You should have seen him after you left the other day. He beat the lad who was guarding the door, the one you walked past, within an inch of his life. All that was left was a quivering mass. He made us all watch, too.’

‘At least now you know who you’re dealing with.’

Clare looked at him and shook her head slightly. ‘You think I don’t know Georgie is an animal?’

‘Then why are you still working for him?’

‘I don’t have a choice. Morals are a luxury of the wealthy. Maybe you’ve forgotten that.’

‘I don’t want you to do anything that puts you or anyone you know in danger,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

‘But if you were to hear something about those boys… or why Georgie is interested in the family of a dead man called Morris Keate

… I’d like to think you’d come and find me.’

‘Keate?’

‘He was the one who was executed for killing the boys.’ Pyke looked searchingly into her face. ‘Have you heard the name?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Clare turned around and glanced at her reflection in the looking glass.

‘But you’re not sure?’ He had seen the look on her face and heard the hesitation in her voice.

Clare picked up her quill and dipped it in the pot of ink. ‘Goodbye, Pyke. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure.’

Pyke had to wait for over half an hour in the marble-floored entrance hall of Sir St John Palmer’s enormous neoclassical house before the butler returned and said that Palmer would see him in the drawing room. During this time he’d noted the three men guarding the gates at the front of the property, all armed with pistols, and, after a brief excursion to the back of the house, a similar presence in the rear garden.

As he followed the butler to the drawing room, their footsteps echoed through the building. Palmer was standing in the bay window overlooking the front lawn. Even after he’d been introduced, Palmer’s attention remained fixed on something outside, and it was only after the butler had retreated, closing the door behind him, that Palmer finally turned around.

He looked older and frailer than Pyke remembered, his silver hair not quite as neat as it had been, his face thinner and his shoulders slightly hunched. But he moved across the room with a surprising grace and took Pyke’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Detective Inspector?’ He smiled easily, as though he and Pyke were old friends.

‘I was hoping you could tell me about your relationship with Charles Harcourt Hogarth.’ Pyke looked into Palmer’s face. ‘He died a few weeks ago.’

Palmer’s expression didn’t change. ‘Do you mind telling me why you’d like to know this, Detective Inspector?’

‘We’re currently investigating a possible link between his death and the murder of Isaac Guppy.’

‘And what does this have to do with me?’ Palmer asked.

‘Well, for a start, I am right in thinking you knew Hogarth, aren’t I, sir?’

‘Hogarth was an alderman in the City Corporation. Inevitably our paths crossed from time to time.’

Pyke looked around the sparsely furnished, high-ceilinged room. ‘Was he involved with the London Churches Fund?’