Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery Page 12

  But if this was true, why did the rent book indicate to the contrary? Pyke had inspected the rent book carefully; it hadn’t given any details about the landlord. He had another look at the corpse, just a grey slab of flesh. A man just off the boat, presumably escaping the ravages of the famine in Ireland. So how had he become involved in the kidnapping? Perhaps he had simply been used as an errand boy, paid a few coins to go up to the old quarry and pick up the purse, then been shot and killed for his troubles.

  Outside, as they carried the body back to the waiting phaeton, a small crowd had gathered. The mood wasn’t pleasant.

  Johns leapt up on to the carriage, took the reins and geed up the two horses. Pyke joined him, pistol in hand. The phaeton lurched forward through the mud and a path cleared for them. Turning around, Pyke kept the barrel of his pistol aimed at the crowd. It wasn’t until they had turned back on to the main track that they felt able to relax.

  ‘Dead men have souls too,’ Johns said, after a few moments’ silence.

  Pyke nodded. ‘It was lucky for us that man spoke Welsh.’

  Johns turned briefly to look at him and then returned his stare to the muddy track. ‘We weren’t talking in Welsh.’

  Pyke hadn’t expected this. ‘So you speak Irish as well?’

  ‘I am Irish, or at least I was. I was born there, left when I was seventeen. I haven’t been back since.’

  Later that afternoon, Pyke presented himself at the ironworks’ offices and told one of the agents – Dai Jenkins – that he wanted to talk to John Evans, the man that Bill Flint had suggested. Jenkins was a squat, ugly man with jug-handle ears and a cropped haircut. He wanted to know whether Evans had done anything wrong. Pyke shook his head but refused to let the agent know what his business was. In the end Jenkins shrugged and instructed Pyke to follow him.

  They crossed the river using a pedestrian bridge and came to a row of blast furnaces, vast brick-built edifices towering seventy feet into the air. Men at the top were feeding barrows of coke and iron ore into the furnace mouths, the materials having been levered up there by an enormous water wheel. Behind them, one side of the mountain had a scorched look, hot cinders cascading down into the valley. Pyke and Jenkins entered the forge, an enclosed building where the molten ore, having been released from the furnaces, was directed into channels cut into the earth.

  Jenkins went to find Evans and when he finally returned, it was clear that the puddler wasn’t going to say anything of significance in his presence. Pyke told the agent he wanted to speak to Evans alone and waited until Jenkins had retreated to other side of the forge.

  ‘I was told by Bill Flint that you were involved in the strike here at the ironworks a few years ago and that you were part of the group that was set upon by John Wylde and his men.’

  Evans looked at him cautiously. Still a young man, he had strong forearms, weathered skin and wore a handkerchief wrapped tightly around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes while he worked.

  ‘And who are you, sir?’

  ‘Detective-inspector Pyke from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘A long way from home. You come all this way to rake over ancient history?’

  ‘Ancient history? It was only three years ago. As far as I understand it, Wylde and some bullies from China, bought and paid for by the Hancocks, charged into the crowd and smashed a few skulls. After that, I heard, the strike collapsed.’

  Evans readjusted his handkerchief. ‘What is it you want to know, Detective-inspector?’

  ‘Last week Jonah Hancock’s son, William, was seized by kidnappers. Two ransom notes, apparently penned by Scottish Cattle, were sent to the Castle.’

  Evans’ eyes opened wide. His fear, and surprise, seemed genuine. ‘And you think that had something to do with me?’ He looked around the forge. ‘With us?’

  ‘The Hancocks couldn’t have endeared themselves to you that day. Perhaps this is your chance to get revenge.’

  The puddler shook his head violently. ‘You’re not going to put this one on me, sir. By no means.’ He grew more agitated. ‘Do you think any of us would dare pull something like this? Have you lost your mind?’ He realised he was almost shouting and tried to calm down.

  ‘Perhaps not you personally, but what about Scottish Cattle?’

  ‘The Bull would never go after a five-year-old boy to settle their score with Jonah and Zephaniah Hancock.’

  ‘So there are scores to be settled, then?’

  Evans shook his head. ‘Not here, sir. Not any more.’ His stare was defiant.

  ‘All’s rosy in the garden?’

  ‘Compared to three years ago it is.’ He sniffed. ‘You might not believe it but in the last six months, Hancock has given us everything we’ve asked for. Better contracts, higher wages, the chance for men like me to learn a new trade. They’ve even cut back on the work offered to the Irish.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing?’

  ‘Too right it is, sir. No one wants their wages driven down by hordes of unskilled workers.’

  Pyke made a mental note of this volte-face. Three years ago, the Hancocks had made a point of shipping over workers from Ireland in order to break the strike and keep wages low.

  ‘Doesn’t this sudden display of generosity make you a little suspicious? The Hancocks are hardly known for their charity.’

  ‘It’s a boom year, so it is. Orders are flowing in. There’s no way they could cut wages.’

  Pyke decided to ignore the remark. ‘I also heard Hancock pays the China bullies to stamp on the slightest sign of dissent before it has the chance to spread.’

  Evans regarded Pyke for a moment. Then he leant a little closer and whispered, ‘As long as the Hancocks’ve got the bullies at their beck and call, no one’s gonna say a word against them. Folk are too frightened to open their mouths.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re too frightened to say what’s really on your mind?’

  Evans didn’t reply.

  Pyke watched as white molten ore hissed and spat its way along the channels carved into the earth. ‘A personal notice has just been placed in the Merthyr Guardian.’ Pyke turned his attention back to the puddler. ‘I want you to look at it and tell all of your fellow workers to look at it, too.’

  If Scottish Cattle had snatched the Hancock boy, he wanted them to see the notice.

  Pyke left without another word and went to rejoin Dai Jenkins on the other side of the building. Jenkins had been talking excitedly to another man and when he turned to look at Pyke, his face was gleaming with anticipation. ‘I don’t expect you’ve heard the news, then.’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘The Peelers have closed off Jackson’s Bridge.’

  Pyke waited for him to continue.

  ‘They’re going door to door along Quarry Row and Bathesda Gardens, turning folk out of their homes.’

  Pyke swore under his breath. Jenkins saw this and grinned. ‘Paddies aren’t goin’ to like it. Trust me. There’ll be trouble, sure as night follows day.’

  TEN

  MONDAY, 11 JANUARY 1847

  Dundrum, Co. Tipperary

  Michael Knox was not a superstitious man. In fact, it was the superstitions and myths associated with Celtic lore that he most despised. If people chose to put their trust in fairies or leprechauns, it meant they weren’t paying attention to important questions such as political representation and public accountability. He didn’t believe that the Rock of Cashel had fallen out of heaven nor that Asenath Moore had grown a tail. But after he had left the horse and cart back at the stables and paused to look up at the ancient house, its windowpanes gleaming in the morning sun, his mind turned to the local men who, thirty years earlier, had torn down a military barracks a few miles away in Ballack, and their ancestors who, two hundred years back, had fought Cromwell’s Ironsides while resistance in nearby Fethard and Cashel had crumbled without a shot being fired.

  Knox knew it was probably just wishful thinking but as the north wind blew an
d he stared out across the estate in the direction of Ballack, where one of the rebels had been hanged, he thought – just for a moment – he could hear the murmurs of the men who’d fought and been killed or who’d been transported to Van Dieman’s Land for their part in the uprising.

  This time, Knox entered the old house through the poor door and found his mother chopping carrots in the kitchen. He hadn’t warned her of his visit and he could see by her expression that she was worried. Maybe, he decided later, it was merely that she didn’t want to be reminded of what had happened the previous day at the cottage. Knox kissed her on the cheek and told her that Martha and James were both well. Secretly he was relieved to see her there at work, unscathed. Knox had been worried that his father might have drunk himself into a violent rage and taken it out on her. He asked whether there was somewhere they could talk in private and followed her as she led him into one of the pantries.

  ‘Well, what is it, love?’ She tried to smile but it came across as forced.

  Knox removed the daguerreotype from his pocket and handed it to her. She hesitated and then looked at the image. When she handed it back to him, her hand was trembling slightly.

  ‘He was the one they found on the estate.’ Knox waited for a response. ‘The murder I was told to investigate.’

  His mother nodded, as though she’d suspected this. ‘Why did you bring this here, love? I mean, what would his Lordship say if he knew …’

  Ignoring her concerns, Knox lowered his voice. ‘You’ve been here longer than anyone. I was just wondering whether this face was familiar to you.’

  ‘Me?’

  Knox looked into her eyes. He hated putting her on the spot. ‘Someone told me that when Moore came upon the body, he nearly collapsed from the shock.’

  She dug her hands into the folds of her apron. ‘I don’t want you to drag me into this business, Michael. Please. I don’t want to rock the boat, not now, not when his Lordship has been so good to us.’

  ‘The impression I got was that Cornwallis knew the man who was murdered.’ Knox looked around the pantry, the shelves buckling under the weight of all the food.

  ‘I wish I could help you, Michael, but I don’t know anything. And even if I did, I need to think about Peter. It would kill him, if we were forced out of our home.’

  ‘This is important to me, Mam. I don’t expect you to understand but I think Cornwallis asked for me because he thought he could bully me into doing nothing.’

  His mother’s gaze fell to the floor. Knox could tell she was torn.

  ‘His name is Pyke. He has or had a son called Felix. I suspect he might be a policeman from London. That is, before someone stabbed him.’

  This drew a tiny gasp from his mother. ‘I don’t know anything about a policeman, really I don’t. I’ve never left the county, let alone the island. I don’t know anyone from London.’

  Knox took her trembling hand in his and squeezed it gently. ‘The man has a son, Mam. A young son. Don’t you think that lad has a right to know his father is dead?’

  His mother squeezed his hand back and looked up into his face. ‘You’re a good boy, Michael. Always were. It’s why I love you. But I’m begging you to leave this matter be. For all of our sakes. Especially yours. I don’t know anything about this business and I don’t want to. If his Lordship has told you to let the matter lie, what do you imagine he’ll do if he finds out you’ve been sniffing around?’

  Knox didn’t have an answer for her. Deep down he knew she had a point.

  She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘All folk like us can think about right now is surviving. Right and wrong don’t come into it.’

  Knox had just stepped through the poor door when a voice called out his name. Startled, he turned around and saw the figure of Lord Cornwallis hobbling down the steps towards him.

  ‘One of the stable boys told me you were here,’ he said. He took a moment to catch his breath. ‘Just seen your mother?’

  ‘I thought I should return the horse and cart.’ Knox made a point of not looking at the aristocrat.

  ‘Good boy,’ Cornwallis said, trying to smile.

  ‘Least I could do, your Lordship,’ Knox muttered.

  ‘And the brigand I placed in your custody?’

  Knox felt his stomach cramp. ‘All taken care of, your Lordship.’ He stared down at the ground. More than anything in the world, he wanted to be as far away from the man – and Dundrum House – as possible.

  Cornwallis nodded and sniffed the air. He stared at the grounds, a perfect frost making everything appear pristine. ‘You’re turning out to be quite a man. More of your mother in you, I’d reckon, than your father.’

  It was a casual remark – meant both as compliment and warning – but Knox took it to be the latter. It underlined that the affairs of his family were well known to Cornwallis.

  The old man patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this little chat.’ He turned around and retreated halfway up the steps. ‘If you ever run into difficulties, see that you contact me first. I always like to reward loyalty.’

  The authorities had ceased being able to keep up with the dead. Bodies were slung without grace or ceremony into hastily dug pits. Record-keeping lagged well behind. But every day the police were briefed not about the famine and the dead but about ambushed food convoys and burglaries. Knox could see the senselessness, even the absurdity, of the situation but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  After returning to the barracks, he found an empty room and took a pen, an inkwell and a piece of foolscap. His report was due. He cleared his mind and thought about what Hastings would want him to say: no progress had been made; the victim was a vagrant; and his identity would remain unknown. Knox began to write, the nib of the pen scratching against the foolscap. My inquiry has failed to determine the identity of the victim. The victim is most likely a vagrant who had gone to the estate looking for work. He blinked and glanced down at the paper. He was most likely robbed at knifepoint by another vagrant who has now absconded to parts unknown. A struggle ensued and the victim died of a stab wound to his abdomen.

  Knox looked over what he’d written. It was short and to the point and might even earn him a promotion. He blotted the paper and put it to one side of the desk. Tearing off another piece of paper, he dipped the nib in the inkwell. Dear Felix … How did you tell someone that their father was dead? I am afraid I am the bearer of terrible news. I believe your father – Pyke – was murdered by a person or persons unknown on the fourth night of January in the grounds of Dundrum House, County Tipperary. He stared at the few words on the page. What else was there to say? That the body had been buried along with fifteen or twenty others in a famine pit outside the town? He reached into his pocket, retrieved the letters Felix had written to Pyke, and copied out the return address given on one of the envelopes. Then he added a few more words of condolence to the letter and signed it.

  Knox left his report with one of the sub-inspector’s clerks, then made his way up Main Street to the post office from where the mail coach would shortly be leaving for Dublin. At the counter, he paid the postage and dropped the letter into the mail sack.

  Fatigue hit him only on the walk home. He skirted around the Rock and by the time he had reached the top of the lane where he lived, across from the ruined abbey, he was exhausted. From there, it would take him another twenty minutes to reach the cottage. This time, he didn’t bother to call in on his neighbour, as was his custom. He couldn’t face reading the old man his newspaper.

  Martha was upstairs in their bedroom singing to the child. He kissed them both and sat on the chair at the end of the bed.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ Martha touched his forehead, concern etched on her face. ‘Do you want to lie down?’

  ‘No, I’m just a little tired.’

  ‘Are you sure? You look terrible.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled weakly.

  ‘Did anything happen today?’

  ‘No, M
artha, I’m just tired.’

  James started to squawk in the crib.

  They ate dinner in silence. Afterwards, Knox scrubbed out the pot in the yard. He patted the dog on the head and stared up at the dark cloudless sky. It was bitterly cold but he hardly noticed. When he let himself back into the house, he saw that Martha had already gone to bed. The dog scratched on the door to be allowed inside but Knox ignored it. Upstairs, he undressed in the dark and climbed into bed.

  Martha had turned her back to him but he knew she wasn’t asleep. They lay in silence. What was there to say?

  ‘Oh, Michael.’ Martha turned to face him. Her body felt soft and warm. He wanted to cry. ‘You seem so sad and lost.’

  He could just about see the outline of her face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘I’m just sorry.’ He wanted to fall asleep and never wake up.

  ‘What is it, Michael? What happened today?’

  ‘I need to sleep.’

  Next to him, he heard Martha sigh. ‘It’s hard sometimes, I know, to keep going.’ She reached out in the dark and gently touched him on the cheek. ‘But we have to. We all have to.’

  ELEVEN

  FRIDAY, 20 NOVEMBER 1846

  Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales

  Quarry Row was a short walk from the centre of the town but going there was like stepping into a different world. The street ran adjacent to the River Taff and was like a bog, wheel-tracks cut deep into the mud, making it all but impassable to vehicles. Cinder heaps and mounds of human excrement sat in piles outside most houses and wolfish dogs scavenged for scraps. The terraces had been thrown up by unscrupulous speculators using the cheapest materials and many were already sinking into the mud. It was the kind of street that ought to have been razed to the ground, yet each week the numbers grew, the poor and destitute arriving from famine-hit Ireland in search of a job and a new life. These same people were now being thrown on to the street by constables, while soldiers waited in the shadows.