Andrew Pepper - The Detective Branch

When Pyke next woke up, it was almost dark. Someone had lit a candle and a fire was spitting in the grate. Pyke raised his head slightly and grunted from the pain. He felt a hand on his brow, a soft, feminine touch; Sarah Scott was sitting next to him. When she saw that he was awake and had recognised her, she smiled and kissed him softly on the lips. Her skin glowed in the candlelight. She was so lovely to him in that moment that Pyke forgot about the pain. He tried to speak but she put a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Save your strength for now.’ She fed him some more laudanum and held his hand, her fingers coiled around his.

He woke later in the night as someone shook him roughly by the collar. Startled, he sat up, the pain from his ribs causing him to wince. He hadn’t even heard the door open. Looking up, he saw Sergeant Russell. The man was grinning. There was someone else in the cell, too. Sir St John Palmer stepped out from behind Russell, his expression a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘I did try and warn you, Detective Inspector, but you refused to listen.’

‘Warn me about what?’

‘I have nothing against you personally but I’m afraid there’s no way back for you.’

‘No way back from what?’

‘I’ve heard about you, Detective Inspector; a curious specimen, by all accounts. I’m told you’re not averse to lining your own pockets. It made me wonder whether you were a man I could have done business with. You want to know why you’re there and I’m here?’

‘Does it look like I’m in need of a sermon?’

‘Two men each acquire a hundred pounds. For the sake of argument, let’s say that the spirit, if not the letter, of the law has been broken in both instances. The stupid man tries to spend the money and is caught. The clever man takes the hundred pounds and shares it out among his friends. Not as gifts, you understand, but as donations to worthy causes: charities, political campaigns. Very soon most men of a certain rank have received a little of this money. The man keeps some of it for himself, of course, but when questions are asked about the origins of this money, well, the man who’s asking the questions is quietly advised to stop. And when he doesn’t stop, the consequences are grave. Do you see what I’m trying to tell you?’ He was kneeling down in front of Pyke, as though addressing a child.

‘And who has benefited from your generosity in this instance? Mayne? Rowan? Pierce? The prime minister?’

‘Names are irrelevant. What matters is that the institutions of church and state are protected.’ He stood up and stretched his legs. ‘After all, no one wants to see socialism or anarchy.’

‘But there are plenty who’d pay good money to see you swing from the noose.’

Palmer glanced across at Russell, seemingly bored. ‘Now who’s giving the sermon?’

‘Tell me, then. Just how much did you steal from the Churches Fund?’

But Palmer wasn’t listening. Instead he was looking at Russell. ‘What do you think? Shall we leave the good detective inspector with a parting gift?’

Russell grinned, leaned over Pyke and drove his fist into Pyke’s already cracked ribs.

It was another two days before Pyke could sit up properly and two more before he could think with any degree of clarity about his predicament. The laudanum had kept the pain at bay, but it had slowed him down and made his thinking foggy and vague. During that time, he had received further visits from Felix, who had been unable to find Villums; from Wells, who’d kept him abreast of developments in the case; from Sarah, who sat with him and kept him amused, and from his lawyer, Geoffrey Quince, QC, who Pyke had used before. He went through the Crown’s case and tried to work out a plan for their defence.

Since the Crown’s case rested on Egan’s testimony, they had to destroy Egan’s credibility as a witness. Pyke knew that Egan would try to present himself as a businessman who imported silk and wine from the Continent. In part this was true, but it disguised the fact that the man earned most of his money from fencing stolen goods. Egan had been convicted of this crime twenty years earlier, and had served four years in Fleet prison. He had also been arrested within the past month on charges of receiving stolen goods. What had Whicher said? A few crates of wine. Perhaps Egan had offered to lie on the stand in the hope that the charges in this other matter would be dropped. In any case, Quince would tear him apart, if and when he stepped up to give evidence. The key to everything, Pyke decided, was finding Ned Villums, because he would know who had got to Egan. But Ned was nowhere to be found. No one knew where he was, Felix explained, a hint of panic in his voice.

About a week after he had first been arrested, Pyke was visited by Wells and then by Quince. It was a Thursday afternoon. They both told him the same thing: the date of his trial had been set. He was due to go before the magistrate across the road at the Bow Street courthouse at nine o’clock on Monday morning.

That meant he had less than three days to prepare his defence.

‘How is everything at St Matthew’s? Are they treating you well?’ Pyke tried to keep his tone upbeat.

Felix nodded. The trial was just two days away and the boy looked scared.

‘As I understand it, you have your own bedroom?’

Martin Jakes had written him a letter, explaining that he was happy to give Felix a roof over his head, but that Pyke would have to find an alternative arrangement if he was found guilty.

‘I miss our home. I miss Copper. I lie awake at night and I think about what’ll happen if they send you to prison.’

Pyke shook his head, as though this wasn’t a possibility. In actuality, it wasn’t a possibility. If he was found guilty, it would be the noose.

‘And you have enough money for cab fares and to contribute to the expenses at the vicarage?’

Felix chewed his lip and stared down at the stone floor. ‘Pyke.. if you’re found guilty, they’ll hang you, won’t they?’

Pyke looked at his son and tried to think of a way of answering that didn’t involve telling the truth.

On Saturday afternoon, Pyke was resting on his mattress: he had just finished the last of his laudanum and felt relaxed, even confident that Pierce wouldn’t prevail. A thin shaft of light had penetrated the barred window, casting its shadow on to the opposing wall. He heard footsteps and a rattle of keys. Moments later, the door swung open. Jack Whicher had removed his hat to enter the room and stood for a few moments, waiting for Pyke to say something.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me… but then again, in the light of what I’ve just found out, I couldn’t not come.’

In truth, Pyke was glad to see his former confidant, even if the news he’d brought didn’t appear to be good.

‘You have to understand, Pyke, I had no knowledge that any of this was going to take place.’

‘Just tell me what you’ve heard, Jack.’

‘I’m assuming you know that Alfred Egan is going to testify against you? And they’ve managed to twist the old gaoler’s arm, too.’

‘Wells told me,’ Pyke said.

Whicher nodded; Pyke could see the strain on his face. ‘But did he also tell you they’ve got another testimony?’

Pyke sat up straight and felt his stomach knot. ‘Who?’

‘Someone called Villums. Ned Villums. I take it you know who I’m talking about.’

Instinctively Pyke dry-retched: he tried to stand up but his legs wouldn’t carry him. For a moment, he sat on the mattress, dazed. ‘ How?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know any of the details. I have a contact who works as a clerk in the courthouse across the road. He gave me a list of prosecution witnesses.’