Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery Page 10

  Knox looked down and saw that his hands were trembling. What if the corpse were a senior policeman from London? The situation made him feel ill.

  Carefully Knox placed the letters in his coat pocket and thanked the landlord for the poteen he hadn’t touched.

  Outside the sleet had turned to snow. It was midday and he looked up and down the street for any sign of a carriage or cart. Folk would be coming out of church and he might be lucky enough to find a ride back to Cashel.

  ‘Knox.’

  He looked up and saw Maxwell hurrying across the street in his direction. Cornwallis’s agent was red-faced.

  ‘Someone saw you earlier and word got back to his Lordship. He has a problem and asked me to come and find you.’

  Knox felt his stomach knot. ‘What kind of a problem?’

  Maxwell seemed to notice Knox’s unease and appeared to enjoy it. He offered Knox a thin smile. ‘His Lordship will explain.’

  They found Cornwallis in the stables. The aristocrat was wearing tan breeches, black leather riding boots, a bright red waistcoat and a grey cutaway coat. He was pacing up and down outside a stable door.

  ‘Your presence in Dundrum is most fortuitous, Constable. I presume you were visiting your family?’

  Knox just nodded. He had no intention of telling Cornwallis the real reason for his visit.

  ‘I would like to think they’re happy in their new accommodation.’ He glanced over at Maxwell. ‘I imagine they will find things a good deal more pleasant where they are.’

  Knox didn’t want to agree because that would put him in Cornwallis’s debt, but he didn’t want to disagree and risk eliciting the old man’s ire.

  Cornwallis nodded impatiently. ‘Anyhow, boy, now you’re here, you can take care of a little problem for me.’

  ‘Has something happened, your Lordship?’

  Cornwallis removed a key chain from his one of his pockets and went to unlock the stable door. ‘Maxwell here caught him red-handed. The brigand was trying to draw blood from one of my cattle.’

  It took Knox a few moments to realise that he knew the man slumped on the wet hay. He was about the same age as Davy McMullan and they had known each other when they were children. Knox had last seen him about three years ago, when they had crossed paths on the main street in Dundrum and exchanged a brief, cautious nod. This time, Davy McMullan looked up at him indifferently. If he recognised Knox, he didn’t show it. His skin looked jaundiced, his whiskers were unkempt and his face was positively skeletal. His only item of clothing was a soiled smock-frock.

  ‘We’ve long suspected people have been stealing from us,’ Cornwallis said, triumphant, ‘but this is the first time we’ve caught one of them red-handed.’ He nodded for Maxwell to take up the story.

  ‘Clever buggers, they are. They cut a vein in the cow’s neck, draw off a pint or two into a jar, then stop the bleeding by putting a pin across the incision, holding it in place with a few hairs from the tail.’

  Knox glanced at McMullan. He didn’t look strong enough to stand up without assistance, let alone commit theft. Bending down, Knox whispered, ‘When did you last eat a meal, sir?’

  McMullan wouldn’t look at him but murmured, ‘Three days ago, I think.’

  Knox stood up a little too quickly and felt dizzy. He turned to Cornwallis. ‘This man needs a good meal, not further punishment.’

  The aristocrat stared at him, hands on hips. ‘I beg your pardon, man?’

  ‘Can’t you see this man is on the verge of starvation?’ Knox was desperately trying to censor himself but he was also angry.

  ‘And you think that’s my concern? Or your concern, for that matter? Do you think it’s unimportant that this man broke the law?’

  Knox knew he’d waded into an argument he couldn’t win. ‘These matters are never unimportant …’

  ‘But you think I should pat this man on the back and perhaps set a place for him at my table?’

  ‘If he did, in fact, do as you said, he should be punished under the letter of the law. But anyone can see he’s starving. I think we should treat someone like this with a little compassion.’

  The old man’s facial features seemed to shrivel into each other.

  ‘Since when does a man of your lowly rank tell me – a viscount – what is and what is not appropriate behaviour?’

  Knox knew he’d said too much and felt his anger turning to contrition. ‘I’m sorry, your Lordship.’ He bowed his head, not sure what else to say.

  ‘If the law means nothing, perhaps we should permit people to rape and pillage as they see fit? Maim and murder, even. Is that what you would like to see, boy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you still think I should show this wretch some compassion, even though he stole from me?’

  ‘If he committed a crime, then he should be brought before the magistrate.’

  ‘If?’ Cornwallis’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you doubting my word now?’

  ‘What I meant to say, your Lordship, is that of course he will be brought before the magistrate.’

  ‘See to it he is, boy. You’ll take him with you back to Cashel and deliver him to the barracks there.’

  Knox nodded. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any transportation of my own …’

  Cornwallis waved away his objection. ‘Maxwell will provide you with a horse and cart. I’ll send one of the stable hands to collect it from you in the morning.’

  Knox stared down at the forlorn figure of Davy McMullan and felt as bad as he had felt in a long while.

  Knox had long since become accustomed to other people’s suspicions, their sullenness in his company. Not their open hostility; just the notion that he had picked the wrong side and thrown in his lot with the enemy. For a few years, he had entertained the fantasy that he and his fellow constables, Catholics to a man, were united in a desire not to punish and coerce the local people but to help them, Catholics and Protestants together, keeping alive the spirit of the United Irishmen movement. Such a notion had, of course, been hopelessly naive, and as soon as the second potato crop failed and desperate men and women started to attack grain barges bound for Waterford, his complicity in a system established to safeguard the rich was impossible to ignore. Before this, Knox knew that some of the constables overlooked minor transgressions, a pheasant poached here, a rabbit taken there, as he had done, but since the autumn, their orders had been clear: no mercy, no tolerance. Two weeks ago, McCafferty had been dismissed for refusing to arrest a man who had dug up his neighbour’s turnips, and last week a second constable, Mearns, had been forced out for speaking his mind at a meeting.

  As he led Davy McMullan to the cart, Knox wondered what would happen to him if Cornwallis ever decided to complain about his behaviour. The snow had stopped falling but an inch had settled on the ground and was already melting into a brown sludge.

  While Jonathan Maxwell went to speak with one of his men, the stable boy sidled up to Knox.

  ‘You the man who’s lookin’ into that dead body, one found not far from here?’ he whispered.

  Knox patted the horse on its nose, trying to appear bored, in case Maxwell saw them in conversation. ‘That’s right. Why? Did you see something?’

  ‘I didn’t see who done it, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But you have some information about the murder?’

  ‘None of us likes the master but we’re afraid of him. They say he’s grown a tail. Promise me you won’t tell ’im what I’m about to say.’

  ‘I promise,’ Knox whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  The stable boy went round to check the horse’s reins. ‘All I know is that his Lordship knows the fellow that died.’ He looked around, making sure Maxwell was otherwise occupied. ‘I was there when his Lordship first saw the body. His eyes near popped out of his head.’

  Knox turned slightly but the stable boy had raced off as Maxwell strode towards the cart, his face red and blotchy. ‘His Lordship will expect to see this man
’s name when the list of defendants at the next sessions is published in the newspaper.’

  ‘Mam, this is Davy McMullan. He used to be a friend of mine. I’ve invited him to join us for lunch.’

  Knox had cut off the rope binding the man’s wrists before they’d reached the cottage and he now ushered McMullan into the warmth of the front room.

  The news that there would be two additional mouths to feed sent his mother scurrying over to the pot of boiling corn but Knox knew she would find a way of making do. Knox was greeted with a hug from each of his brothers. Matthew was now taller than he was and his arms and shoulders had filled out from his work on the land. His greeting was warm but short-lived. Peter’s arms remained around him and Knox stroked him gently on the head, the way he liked. Slowly Knox prised himself away from Peter and to his surprise the lad scurried over to where their father was standing and nuzzled against the older man. Martin Knox put his arm around his youngest son and for a few moments no one spoke. This was the first time the whole family had been together in months and Knox suddenly felt like an intruder, as though he had interrupted their domestic harmony and introduced tension into the air. Martin watched him carefully.

  The previous winter Peter had fallen sick again, this time with a fever, and they had all taken turns to stay at home and nurse him, even Martin. In fact, their father had done as much if not more than anyone and Knox had struggled to reconcile this notion with the drunken ogre he had known as he grew up.

  Davy McMullan shuffled across to the fire and held up his hands to warm them.

  ‘Davy McMullan? We knew your ma and da, didn’t we? You used to live not far from us.’

  McMullan didn’t seem to have heard Martin’s question. He stared wordlessly at the fire.

  ‘Laddie, I asked ye a question.’

  ‘Let him eat first,’ Knox’s mother said, stirring the pot of corn with a wooden spoon. ‘Look at him. He’s nothing but skin and bones.’

  ‘Man comes into my home uninvited. Is it too much to ask him to be civil as well?’

  ‘I invited him. I’d ask you to treat my guest with respect, but clearly that’s something you’re incapable of.’

  Knox stepped into the space between McMullan and his father. This was the first time he had openly confronted the man and he could barely control his shaking hands. His father hadn’t actually struck him in a long while but memories of those encounters were seared into his brain. Knox had seen at first hand what violence did to its victims and perpetrators and had vowed never to strike another man in anger.

  The injury registered on his father’s face and he reddened. ‘You watch it now, Michael. You’re under my roof now.’

  Knox didn’t like to cause a scene in front of his mother – or Peter – but his father’s show of affection towards his younger brother had rankled. ‘You may live here and throw in a few pennies towards the rent that you haven’t pissed up against the wall, but this will always be Mam’s house.’

  His father took a few steps towards him, his fists curled up into tight balls. His face was scarlet and Knox could see the veins pulsing in his neck. ‘I warned ye, lad.’

  Trying to control his nerves, Knox stood his ground and to his amazement he saw that his father didn’t know what to do.

  Peter started to whimper and then scuttled over to their mother, who gathered him up into the folds of her apron. ‘Please, both of ye.’ Her tone was scalding and it brought them to their senses. She started to ladle spoonfuls of the steaming hot corn and buttermilk into bowls. ‘There.’ She feigned a smile and placed one of the bowls in front of their guest, who had taken up a place at the small table. Uninvited, he picked up a spoon and started to eat.

  Knox stared at McMullan, who continued to spoon the corn into his open mouth. He finished in what seemed like seconds and wiped the bowl clean with his little finger, then silently eyed the food that had been laid out for Knox. Knox told him to go ahead. He said that he’d already eaten that morning, which was a lie. McMullan looked at him, hollow-eyed. He didn’t need another invitation. Tucking in with his spoon, he emptied the second bowl in a few mouthfuls. By now, even Martin Knox had taken an interest and was watching McMullan with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.

  After he’d finished the second bowl of corn, McMullan sat there in a daze. Then he turned to look at Martin Knox. ‘You were asking after my family, sir.’

  Knox’s father tried to stammer a response but the words got stuck in his throat.

  ‘We were evicted from our cabin just before Christmas. By then the workhouse in Cashel had closed its doors. I thought I’d be able to get some relief work on one of the estates but the agents were hiring their own tenants. We stayed with a neighbour for a day or two but then one of the children was struck down with the fever and we all had to move out. After that, no one would take us in. Why would they? I did what I could, built a shelter outdoors, but I had no money for food, nothing at all. All I could do was forage for grubs. My elder child died a week later. We buried her as best we could but by then our younger child had fallen ill and she perished a few days later. My wife took it all very badly as you can imagine. When I woke up the following morning, I found her lying next to me. She’d taken her own life. I buried her next to my beautiful girls.’

  For what seemed like minutes no one in the room spoke. Knox looked up at his mother and saw that her eyes were damp with tears.

  He went across to where Davy McMullan was sitting and placed his hand gently on the man’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know what to say. But I’m sorry for all you’ve had to suffer.’

  Knox’s father looped his thumbs through the top of his trousers and sniffed. ‘His Lordship’s tryin’ to run things the best way he knows how. You can’t blame him. Sometimes these things happen. Bad luck.’ He looked around the room for support.

  His mother, who had made the same argument to Knox a few days earlier, walked over to where her husband was sitting and slapped him once around the cheek.

  No one dared move. Knox prepared himself for his father’s response but this time he wouldn’t let the man lay a finger on his mother. Matthew stared down at the floor and Peter was weeping. Knox had once seen his father split open his mother’s skull with the force of his blows but now the man just looked broken and lost.

  ‘We should get going before the weather sets in.’ Knox looked at Davy McMullan. He hadn’t told them that he was transporting the man to prison.

  His mother nodded dumbly, still in a state of shock. Knox went to hug her. ‘Tell him if he lays a finger on you,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll come back here with a warrant for his arrest.’

  She flinched and withdrew from him.

  Outside, Knox patted the horse and climbed up on to the cart. Listlessly McMullan joined him, shivering from the cold. They sat there next to one another, staring into the darkness.

  ‘I’m not going to take you to Cashel, Davy. You don’t deserve to be punished for what you did.’

  McMullan nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘You’re free to go.’

  ‘Free?’ McMullan stared at him blankly then shook his head.

  Knox watched him trudge off down the track, leaving faint footprints in the snow. Later it struck him that he should have offered the man his coat or some money but by then he was halfway back to Cashel and his thoughts had turned to what would happen when Cornwallis found out that McMullan’s name wasn’t listed among those to be tried at the quarter assizes.

  NINE

  THURSDAY, 19 NOVEMBER 1846

  Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales

  The three of them were ushered into the living room of the station-house. The child’s body lay on a walnut table covered by a white sheet. Jones closed the door behind him and remained where he was. Jonah Hancock and Cathy stared at each other and then at Pyke. Before they had left the Castle, Cathy had rinsed her face in cold water and of the two of them, she looked the more capable; Jonah Hancock couldn’t even bring himself to lo
ok at the table. The two of them had barely spoken in the carriage but as they disembarked, she had offered Jonah her hand and he had taken it. Pyke didn’t know whether this was just habit or some kind of coming together in the face of adversity.

  Pyke strode towards the table. There was no reason to prolong the agony. ‘Would one of you care to step up here?’ His hand rested on the sheet.

  Now Pyke could feel his own heart thumping against his ribcage. If the dead child was indeed their son, they would blame him – for not precisely following the orders of the second letter. And perhaps they would be right to do so. He’d taken a risk and it had blown up in his face. A man was dead and they still had no idea who’d taken the boy. Maybe, Pyke thought grimly, the kidnappers had decided to cut their losses, flee the town and kill the lad in the process. Of course, none of the money had changed hands.

  Jonah Hancock waved his request away, indicating that the task was beyond him. That left Cathy. She stared at Pyke dry-eyed and tried to smile. ‘Looks like it will have to be me, then.’

  Pyke guided her to the spot next to him. Impressed by her fortitude, he touched her softly on the small of her back, not caring whether Jonah saw it. If her husband couldn’t give her the moral support she needed, then he would.

  ‘Ready?’ Pyke’s hand hovered above the sheet. Briefly he thought about the dead bodies he had seen. Most recent had been Frederick Shaw’s. Pyke had held him as he’d died. He never believed that the dead looked at peace. It was usually a terrible sight, someone you’d known and perhaps even loved turned into a slab of mottled flesh.

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’ Beside him, Cathy took a deep breath.

  As Pyke slid the sheet off the boy’s face, he tried to imagine how he would feel if this were Felix. Cathy looked down at the face, her expression hard.

  ‘It’s not him.’ She let out a tiny gasp and turned to Pyke. ‘It’s not my William.’