For a long while afterwards, Pyke would remember the tortured look in the former priest’s eyes.
Pyke turned up the collar of his coat and walked into the wind; it was gusting so hard it felt as if he might even be lifted off his feet. On the other side of Scotland Yard, past the fishmongers and the lodging house where the unattached policemen billeted, was the river. At the wharf stairs, he stopped and looked into the dark choppy water. It was the immenseness of it he liked: up close, the river was merely a heave of scum and sludge, but when you looked at the horizon it was a vast, slow-moving mass of water eddying its way through the largest city on earth. He stood there and thought about Brendan Malloy. It seemed unlikely, to say the least, that the former priest could have carried out such a vicious physical attack on Guppy. But at the same time Malloy somehow seemed to be implicated in the events leading up to the murder. What was clear was that someone had wanted Pyke to find the surplice and make a connection between Guppy’s murder and the former occupants of those rooms. But why? He stood for a while under the hissing gas-lamp before turning around and heading back towards Scotland Yard.
The temperature dropped below freezing as the wind continued to gust from the north and by the time Pyke arrived home he was shivering.
‘He seemed all right earlier, but he fell asleep at about four and I didn’t like to wake him, even though his dinner has gone cold,’ Felix said, gesturing at the bowl of soup on the bedside table.
Pyke looked at his uncle’s pale, cadaverous face and at the hot coals burning in the grate. At least the room was warm, he thought, as the furious wind rattled the windows. ‘Has he eaten anything today?’
‘He had some bread and cheese for lunch,’ Felix replied.
‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’ Pyke looked at his son’s drawn expression. ‘Perhaps you should get some rest, let me stay with Godfrey for a while.’
They were sitting on either side of Godfrey’s bed. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. ‘This is it, isn’t it? He’s dying,’ Felix said in a whisper.
‘We don’t know that. Godfrey’s as strong as an ox, always has been. He’s probably just tired.’ Pyke tried to keep his tone upbeat. He hadn’t told Felix that the doctor had said it was now only a matter of time. When he’d been told this, Pyke hadn’t wanted to believe it. His uncle had lived his three score years and ten and was lucky to have done so; and his life had been much fuller than most. But this didn’t help to lessen the sharp, stabbing pain Pyke felt in his stomach whenever he realised that some time soon Godfrey would no longer be there, even though in his job he had to confront death almost daily.
‘And when he’s no longer able to fight?’
‘When the time comes, he’ll be ready. We’ll all be ready.’ Pyke felt guilty about pretending he’d already adjusted to the idea of Godfrey passing.
Just then, Godfrey opened his eyes and yawned. ‘Listen to you, a pair of old fishwives. I’m not dead yet.’ Felix helped him to sit up. Godfrey looked around the room and smiled. ‘Who said I’m not able to fight?’ That made Felix blush and giggle and suddenly he seemed younger than his fourteen years.
Pyke went to collect the soup bowl and said he’d go downstairs to warm it through, but on the landing, hearing Felix and Godfrey happily chatting, he took a diversion to Felix’s bedroom. The Bible was hidden under a pile of books on the table next to the bed. There was no inscription in it. Carefully he put it back where he’d found it and headed downstairs to the kitchen. When Pyke returned to Godfrey’s room five minutes later, he handed his uncle the bowl of soup and a spoon, then said to Felix, ‘I visited a church today, St Matthew’s in Bethnal Green. I’d like you to meet the vicar there. I think you’d like him.’
‘Why?’ Felix asked, only half interested.
‘He’s clearly a man of God but he wears it lightly. And while others do nothing but talk, he actually helps people.’
‘Careful, dear boy. You’re starting to sound like a convert,’ Godfrey said, a dribble of soup running down his chin. ‘We already have one God-botherer in the house as it is.’
If Pyke had said this, Felix would have been offended, but since it was Godfrey, Felix hit him playfully on the arm and smiled. Suddenly uncomfortable, Pyke excused himself, saying he should look in on the pigs.
At the bottom of the garden, Pyke found - to his relief - that his three pigs were huddled together in the sty. There was a small, screened area where they could take refuge from the rain and wind but it wasn’t really large enough for all three of them. Either he would have to build a larger sty or one of them would have to be sacrificed. But which one? A farmer would make such a decision on a pragmatic basis: which one would yield the most meat? As such, Alice would be first in the queue, but Pyke liked her best: she was the greediest and most stubborn of the three animals. Pyke fetched another sack of corn from the shed and emptied it into the trough, but none of the pigs stirred from their shelter. He looked up at the row of houses and thought about his uncle. When Pyke had been Felix’s age, Godfrey had always known what to do; what to stand firm on, what to let go. Pyke had tried to do likewise with Felix but, in recent years, he hadn’t got it right. The boy loved Godfrey, it was so clear, but could the same be said of him? Did Felix
love
him in quite the same way? A sharp gust of wind tore a branch off a nearby tree and in the distance Pyke heard Copper bark. He hurried back to the house, hoping to get to the mastiff before it set off the neighbour’s dog.
The following morning, Pyke walked into the offices of the Detective Branch to find Billy Gerrett devouring a meat pie for his breakfast. The whole spectacle turned Pyke’s stomach, and he was about to leave and shut himself away in his office when Gerrett said, to no one in particular, ‘Looks to me like Superintendent Wells has this one wrapped up.’ He glanced towards Pyke and forced the final chunk of pastry into his mouth. ‘Confirmed, beyond any doubt, that Hiley did it.’
That stopped Pyke in his tracks. ‘Is that so?’
Wells feigned modesty, although he was basking in Gerrett’s praise. ‘I was fortunate, that’s all.’
‘What exactly have you managed to do, Walter?’ Pyke asked, feeling a tightness in his chest. He looked around for Jack Whicher, but remembered at the last moment that he’d been dispatched to look into another matter: a burglary in Belgravia.
‘I took a group of men to Whitechapel High Street. We talked to shopkeepers, market vendors, crossing-sweepers, anyone we could find. Eventually we found a man, a costermonger in fact, who knows Hiley. He told me they often frequented the same establishment. Anyway, this fellow is prepared to testify under oath that he saw Hiley running like a madman along Whitechapel High Street at about eight o’clock on the night that Guppy was killed.’
While Pyke digested this new piece of information, Gerrett offered Wells another slap on the back.
‘I’d say that just about settles it, wouldn’t you?’ Wells added, looking at Eddie Lockhart for affirmation.
Lockhart shrugged but said nothing. For some reason, he didn’t seem persuaded by this new piece of evidence.
Pyke looked at him, surprised he hadn’t fallen in behind Gerrett. ‘That was good work, Walter, but when you think about it, it only tells us what we already know: that Hiley was in the vicinity of the church yard at the time of the murder and fled as a result of what he saw. What it doesn’t tell us is whether Hiley actually killed Guppy.’ As he was talking, Pyke noticed Eddie Lockhart nodding in agreement.
‘But why would an innocent man run?’ Billy Gerrett said, looking at Lockhart rather than Pyke.
Pyke waited. ‘Let’s assume for a moment that Hiley heard the attack, heard Guppy’s shouts. He would have rushed to find out what had happened. That could have been when the constable saw him and called out. In that moment, Hiley would have made a decision. Run or find the finger of guilt pointed at him. If I were a felon, I know what I would do.’
‘If?’ Gerrett arched his eyebrows.
Pyke couldn’t tell for certain whether Gerrett’s remark had been a barbed reference to the time Pyke had spent in prison. If so, it was an unforgivable breach of discipline and, even worse, it indicated that the man was too stupid to fear him.
‘You’re quite right, of course,’ Wells said, choosing to ignore Gerrett’s comment. ‘Until we find Hiley and force a confession out of him, we can’t say for certain that he is the killer.’
Pyke looked first at Lockhart and then at Wells. ‘So for the time being, it would seem prudent to explore other avenues of enquiry.’
‘Is that why you’re holding a papist priest in one of the cells?’ Wells asked.
‘I know you think we should focus all of our attention on finding Hiley, Walter. But the surplice Guppy wore on the night he was killed was found at number twenty-eight Broad Street in Soho. Malloy, the priest, used to live at this address. And Malloy paid Guppy a visit in late March, apparently to warn him that a fellow tenant had prophesied his death.’
This last piece of information was new to all of them. ‘You’ve been to see this tenant, I assume - the one who made the threat?’ Lockhart said.
‘I plan to. His name’s Ebenezer Druitt and he’s currently serving a five-year sentence for manslaughter in Pentonville.’
‘But how can we be sure it’s the same surplice?’ Wells asked.
It was a good question; all Pyke could do was explain what a distinctive garment it was.
Lockhart looked at him and nodded. ‘I’d say we need to take Pyke’s finding very seriously indeed.’
Pyke didn’t bother to hide his surprise: Eddie Lockhart coming to his defence? If he’d trusted the man, he would have been gratified by the intervention.
‘A word, if I may?’ Pyke said later, calling Eddie Lockhart into his office and inviting him to sit in the chair opposite him.
Closing the door, Pyke sat down behind his desk and took a moment to contemplate the man’s unease. ‘I have an important job I’d like you to do for me. There are seven curates attached to the parish of St Botolph’s. I’ve talked to one of them, the Reverend Martin Jakes of St Matthew’s, Bethnal Green. I’d like you to go and see the others, to build up a fuller picture of the victim and his dealings with the curates. Maybe some of them saw Guppy in Hiley’s company. They might have important details they aren’t even aware of.’ Pyke lowered his voice. ‘You’ll have to be sensitive, mind you. Any information will have to be coaxed from these curates.’
Eddie Lockhart regarded him with a cool expression. ‘You don’t believe Hiley killed the rector, do you?’
‘To be honest, I don’t.’
‘Neither do I.’
Pyke nodded, surprised by the forcefulness of his statement. ‘Why don’t you believe it was Hiley?’
‘Intuition. And the evidence.’ Lockhart sighed.
‘We need to look more closely into Guppy’s affairs. Someone killed him for a reason,’ Pyke continued.
Lockhart gave him a sceptical look. ‘I’ve read your report. As far as I can tell, everyone who knew Guppy loathed him.’
‘Then this is your chance to talk to the curates and find out what, in particular, they loathed about him.’
Lockhart shrugged. He didn’t seem especially keen. ‘We need to look at the parish accounts too, you said so yourself. The man lived more like a prince than a priest.’
Pyke nodded. ‘You think this might have something to do with money? The misappropriation of parish funds?’
Lockhart sat there awkwardly, not knowing how to respond.
‘This task I’ve given you will be quite an undertaking,’ Pyke said, finally. ‘Given that all of the churches are in Bethnal Green, I wouldn’t expect you to travel to and from your boarding house each day.’ He licked his lips. ‘I’d envisage the job taking perhaps three days, if you start immediately. As such, I’ve taken the liberty of booking you into a lodging house in the City. You’ll find it comfortable: perhaps a good deal more comfortable than your current accommodation.’
Lockhart acknowledged this with a curt nod.
‘You’ll do it, then?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
Pyke picked up a pen from his desk and fiddled with it. ‘Whether you believe it or not, Eddie, and whatever differences of opinion we might’ve had in the past, I do think you’re a good detective.’