Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

Pyke composed himself then said, ‘Children have been killed. Do you understand? Children. And no one cared because they were poor. All you seem to be concerned about is not upsetting men like Palmer and Wynter…’

Neither Mayne nor Rowan seemed to know how to respond. Perhaps, Pyke speculated afterwards, no one had ever spoken to them in such a manner. He stood and walked over to the door. He’d reached the bottom of the stairs when Tilling called out his name.

‘It isn’t a good idea to antagonise a man like Sir Richard,’ he said, once he’d caught his breath.

‘Nice to see you too, Fitzroy.’ That elicited a wry smile. Pyke added, ‘Even if your role here is to make certain nothing untoward about the Churches Fund ever comes to light.’

A flash of irritation passed across Tilling’s face. ‘You always did have a flair for making others feel morally soiled. And you never did have much time for the Church.’

‘I’ve never found piety and crookedness to be an attractive combination, if that’s what you mean.’

Tilling took out his fob-watch and checked the time. ‘You’re quite right that Peel won’t tolerate the Fund’s good name being dragged through the mud.’

‘Is Peel telling me how to do my job?’

‘No one could possibly do that.’ Tilling laughed bitterly. ‘Peel knows that, as well as I do.’

Pyke acknowledged the barbed compliment with a nod. ‘Tell me, Fitzroy. How did you know about the prisoner being moved from Pentonville?’

‘Who said I did?’

‘I want to know who put in the request to have him moved.’

Tilling stared at him, as though assessing how much he knew. ‘I was concerned to hear about the horrendous assault on Superintendent Pierce.’ When Pyke didn’t respond, he added, ‘You were never on friendly terms with the man, were you?’

Pyke had been wearing gloves to hide the cuts and bruises on his knuckles. Instinctively he put his hands behind his back. Tilling gestured at Pyke’s gloves. ‘I wonder what I might find if I asked you to take them off.’

‘My hands, Fitzroy. You’d find eight good fingers and two thumbs.’

Tilling said as he walked away, ‘There’s always a line, Pyke. I hope for your sake you haven’t already crossed it.’

Two days later, after Pyke’s painstaking scrutiny of the Churches Fund’s accounts had revealed no evidence of malpractice, he presented himself at Traitor’s Gate at the Tower of London. Minutes later, he was escorted over the dry moat and past the Wakefield Tower to the Queen’s House, where Druitt was being held. Pyke hadn’t realised that the Tower was still being used to house prisoners, and being within its ancient walls made him think about the way in which the authorities had once dealt with threats to their authority: the rack, the press, hanging, drawing, quartering. Such monolithic power had long since dissipated in this enlightened, democratic time, or so they were told, but as Pyke looked up at the Bloody Tower and thought about all of those who had been killed there, he wondered how much had really changed.

After a flight of stone stairs, Pyke was led along a narrow passageway, through a reinforced door guarded by a turnkey, and then to a row of cells, all of which were empty, apart from the final one. The warder produced a key and inserted it into the lock. Then he slid back the iron bolts at the top and bottom of the door and, with both hands, pulled it open.

Ebenezer Druitt was sitting on a pile of straw, head bowed. His ankles and wrists were in chains. When he looked up and saw Pyke, his expression didn’t change. He had been badly beaten; his nose was broken, there was bruising around both of his eyes, his cheek was swollen and one of his teeth was missing.

‘When I realised they were bringing me here, I expected to be subjected to torture. Unfortunately the methods my interrogators have used have been drearily predictable.’ When he smiled, Druitt revealed his bloodied gums.

Pyke stood with his back to the door. ‘What have they been asking you?’

‘What do you imagine, Detective Inspector?’

‘I’m guessing they want to know who killed Guppy and Hogarth. They want the killer’s name.’

Druitt moved a little and winced from the pain. ‘Unfortunately for them, I was unable to provide this information. I rather fear my relocation has been a waste of time.’

‘And do you know who they are?’ Pyke looked down at him. ‘These men who’ve been interrogating you?’

‘Funny you should mention it, Detective Inspector, but to be quite honest, they haven’t bothered to introduce themselves.’

‘You could always tell me what you’re keeping from them.’

Druitt rolled his eyes. ‘Very clever, Detective Inspector. Forge a bond with the prisoner by implicitly establishing a common enemy.’

‘Who said they’re my enemies?’

‘Oh, they will be, if you push hard enough.’ Druitt tried to smile.

‘Push hard enough at what?’

‘Do you imagine we’re so very different, Detective Inspector? That we want such very different things?’

‘I couldn’t say. I have no idea what you want.’

‘But I can see in your eyes you’re less hostile than you were. You’ve found out some things, haven’t you? It’s put you in a difficult position vis-a-vis your superiors.’

Pyke tried to conceal what he was thinking. Druitt’s grin widened. ‘They don’t want you to continue with your investigation… they want you to crawl back under your stone and pretend everything in the garden is sweet-smelling.’

‘Guppy stole more than forty thousand pounds,’ Pyke said, eventually. ‘Did it come from the London Churches Fund?’

‘The fact that you’re good at your job is threatening to many people. I can’t emphasise enough how careful you need to be.’

‘Perhaps if you were to give me a nudge in the right direction, I could do my job a little better.’

Druitt leaned back against the bare wall and shut his eyes.

‘I’ve seen the Churches Fund’s official accounts. Perhaps you know something I don’t.’ Pyke waited. ‘Is there another set of accounts?’

Druitt opened his eyes suddenly. ‘Just do your job, Detective, and let me worry about the rest.’

‘The rest?’ When Druitt refused to answer, Pyke added, ‘Is whoever killed Guppy and Hogarth planning to strike again?’

That elicited a subtle shake of the head. ‘A predictable question, Detective Inspector. Very predictable.’

‘When I visited you in your Pentonville cell, how did you know I was reading The Fable of the Bees?’

This time Druitt just stared at the wall in front of him. ‘I didn’t. But I suspect we’re both attracted by Mandeville’s bleak vision, his desire to rip off the veil of hypocrisy that surrounds us and see virtue for what it really is.’

The sky was still blue by the time Pyke returned home. Felix hadn’t come back from school and Mrs Booth had gone to the shops. With only Copper for company, Pyke let himself out into the garden to check on the two remaining pigs. The ground was still hard from the previous night’s frost. As Pyke peered over at the lowest point of the wall into his neighbour’s garden, he saw Mabel’s carcass still lying where he’d killed her, all the blood having long since drained into the soil.

Back in the house, he had just heated up a pot of coffee when someone knocked on the door. Copper sniffed the air and hobbled on his three legs into the hallway. Shoving the mastiff into the living room, Pyke turned the handle on the front door and pulled it open, expecting to see a delivery boy or a door-to-door hawker.

There were five or six of them; police constables, all wearing their uniforms. Pyke didn’t recognise any of them.