The Detective Branch (39 page)

Read The Detective Branch Online

Authors: Andrew Pepper

Tags: #London (England) - History - 1800-1950, #Mystery & Detective, #Pyke (Fictitious Character: Pepper), #Pyke (Fictitious Character : Pepper), #Fiction, #General, #Mystery Fiction, #Historical, #Traditional British, #Suspense, #Crime

BOOK: The Detective Branch
6.43Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
 
The words were coming out fast and Felix could hardly contain his excitement.
 
‘I didn’t know where we were going but when the carriage ahead of us finally stopped outside a big white house. I asked the driver, and he said we were on Kensington High Street. It was dark, of course, but I could see parkland on the other side of the road.’
 
Pyke listened, not quite able to comprehend that Felix had done all this, and been able to find his way home.
 
‘I paid the driver, and watched as our man presented himself at the gates. There were two or three men guarding the house but they let Russell in. It was a white house, three or four storeys high and twelve windows long. I knew I had to find out who lived there but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I had to wait a long time for someone to pass by. They didn’t know who lived there but a while later someone else came along and told me it belonged to Sir St John Palmer.’
 
Pyke clasped his arms around Felix’s shoulders and lifted him clean off the ground.
Sir St John Palmer
. Pyke had met the man briefly in the office of Sir Richard Mayne.
 
 
‘Palmer, you say?’ Saggers was looking among the glasses in front of him for dregs of wine or porter.
 
It was a Friday night and the taproom was bursting with journalists and actors, a blur of tweed, wool and kerseymere.
 
‘Sir St John Palmer. He lives on Kensington High Street in a large, neoclassical mansion.’
 
‘
Hmm
.’ Saggers scratched his chin. ‘I think he’s a building contractor. Yes, I’m sure of it now. Quite a significant one, too. Owns his own company, though I can’t think what it’s called.’
 
Pyke had gone to Saggers because there was almost no one of repute in the entire city he didn’t know or hadn’t heard of.
 
‘He’s well connected. I believe he’s heavily involved in church matters, too.’
 
Pyke caught Saggers’s arm. ‘What kind of church matters?’
 
Saggers pulled his arm free and frowned. ‘Dammit, Pyke, will you just let me think for a moment?’
 
Pyke could feel his heart beating more quickly. This was what he’d been waiting for. He could almost taste it.
 
‘There was a fund set up to help establish a dozen or so new churches in the East End. I think I remember reading he was involved in that.’
 
‘The London Churches Fund?’
 
‘That’s the one.’ Saggers looked at him, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’
 
Pyke tossed a couple of coins on to the table and stood up. ‘A while ago, I asked you to look into the affairs of Charles Hogarth. Have you made any progress?’
 
‘I have other things to do, you know.’
 
‘What have you found out?’
 
‘You’re very impatient tonight, old man . . .’
 
‘
Please
, Edmund. This is important.’
 
‘So I see.’ Saggers picked up his handkerchief and wiped the corners of his mouth. ‘He was an alderman for the Court of Common Council but I’m sure you already know that. What you might not know is that he was the driving force behind a huge expansion in the number of properties available for rent in the City.’
 
‘Where have all these properties come from?’
 
‘They’re domestic residences, mostly. I’d say he’s been trying to encourage people who live in the City to sell up and move out. You see, if a public company or even a small business rents the same building, the City Corporation can increase the rate. He was quite successful, I’ve been told.’
 
Pyke leaned towards Saggers. ‘Keep digging, Edmund; and while you’re at it, see if he has an association with Palmer.’
 
 
The Bishop of London’s official residence was situated in Fulham, but because of its proximity to St Paul’s Cathedral he spent most of his time in his chambers at London House, a handsome brick building on Aldersgate Street. Having presented himself at the front door first thing on Saturday morning, Pyke was made to wait for a full hour before the same elderly servant who’d answered the door reappeared and announced that the bishop would see him in the drawing room.
 
The bishop was a tall, elegant man in his late forties, with grey hair and a gaunt, angular face that seemed to radiate the kind of seriousness his office apparently required. He greeted Pyke with a firm handshake and introduced him to his assistant, a sour-faced man called Taylor.
 
‘Now, Detective Inspector, how can I be of assistance?’ He was dressed in a plain black frock-coat along with his episcopal apron and gaiters.
 
‘What can you tell me about the London Churches Fund?’
 
Bishop Blomfield exchanged a brief glance with his assistant. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’
 
‘Just tell me a little about it. What is it? Why was it established?’ Pyke tried to keep his tone light and breezy.
 
‘It was created about eight years ago, in order to raise funds for building additional churches in the metropolis.’
 
‘And you felt that it was a project that merited your support?’
 
‘Not just I, Detective Inspector.’ He stood up and went to retrieve a document from the bookshelf behind him. ‘A report by the Church Commissioners declared that, and I quote, “the most prominent defect that cripples the energy of the Established Church is the want of Churches and Ministers in our cities”.’ The bishop removed spectacles from his pocket and put them on. ‘In the parishes of the East End, there are now in excess of three or four hundred thousand men, women and children but, as of a few years ago, we could provide church-room for barely a thousand souls and just a handful of clergymen. The Commissioners stated that, and I quote again, “the evil that flows from the state of things” would continue unless a remedy was speedily sought.’
 
‘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.

Other books

Little Men by Louisa May Alcott
Sands of the Soul by Whitney-Robinson, Voronica
Edith Layton by The Cad
At Last by Edward St. Aubyn
Finding Absolution by Carol Lynne
Grave Phantoms by Jenn Bennett
04 Naked Games by Anne Rainey