Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery Page 19

  ‘Throw in a bottle of porter?’ Knox got out his purse and rummaged around for the coins.

  Maria Doran had aged in the two years since he’d last seen her, so much so that he might not have recognised her if they’d passed in the street. She was a few years younger than his mother but now looked ten or fifteen years older. Her daughter had been reluctant to let him into their one-room cabin but Maria had brushed away her objections. Now her children had been banished outside and been told not to disturb them. Maria Doran was sitting on the room’s only chair, as close to the fire as she could get.

  ‘You’re Sarah Knox’s boy, aren’t ye?’ Maria Doran had spoken to her daughter and son-in-law in Irish but addressed him in English. All of Cornwallis’s servants had to speak English. It was a condition of service.

  Knox nodded. ‘Michael.’

  ‘Come closer, let me have a proper look at you.’

  Knox did as he was asked, knelt down next to her, and let her run her bony fingers over his cheeks.

  ‘I remember ye. Always your mammy’s favourite.’

  He decided to let the comment pass, tried not to think what his mother had said to him, what he’d said to her.

  ‘I don’t know whether you heard about the recent murder on the estate,’ he began. ‘A man in his forties, perhaps, stabbed in the stomach.’

  ‘She never spoke to me again, after Moore made his accusations.’ Maria Doran stared at him, reproachful.

  Knox nodded. He had never before thought of his mother as flawed but now it was hard not to. Of course, he didn’t know the circumstances behind Maria’s dismissal but he was inclined to believe anything that showed Moore in a vindictive light.

  ‘I’m guessing they weren’t true.’

  ‘Oh, they were true, all right, I pilfered a little food, but no one stopped to ask why.’

  They were silent for a while, both watching the fire glowing in the grate. ‘Just now, I asked about a murder on the estate …’

  ‘Now I’ve seen ye, satisfied my curiosity, you can get out of my sight.’

  ‘You want me to go?’

  The old woman looked away. ‘Tell your mam I haven’t forgotten, haven’t forgiven either.’

  ‘Then you won’t be needing this.’ Knox held up the bird he’d been hiding in his coat. ‘Or this.’ He showed her the bottle of porter.

  Maria Doran gasped and stared, open-mouthed, at the bird. He could sympathise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten meat.

  While the daughter prepared the bird, placing it on a spit over the open fire, with a pan underneath to catch the fat and juices, Maria Doran told Knox she hadn’t heard a thing about a murder and said she didn’t know why Asenath Moore would be so keen to cover up his association with a policeman from London. She was at a loss to help him, and she seemed to feel bad about it, now that Knox had provided such a feast for her and her family. They talked briefly about the people they knew, the ones who’d died. ‘The lucky ones,’ Maria called them.

  ‘Moore always treated your mammy different,’ she said, reminiscing. ‘Been with the family longer ’n anyone.’

  Knox waited: he wanted to steer her away from the subject of his mother.

  ‘Can you think of anything at all that Moore would want to keep secret?’

  The smell of the cooking bird had filled the room, making it hard to concentrate. He swallowed the juices in his mouth.

  ‘Man like that, done plenty of bad things, but nothing we got to hear about.’

  It was dark outside now and the daughter and son-in-law had joined them at the fire. Knox uncorked the bottle of porter, took a gulp and passed it to the daughter. The sweet taste lingered in his mouth, the alcohol warming his stomach. An invitation to stay for supper, and overnight if needed, had already been offered and accepted.

  ‘Does anything stick out in your memory?’ Knox asked. ‘Something that made Moore angry, perhaps?’

  The old woman laughed. ‘Moore was always angry.’ She took the bottle and drank a swig of the porter.

  ‘Mam tell you why he dismissed her?’ This time it was the daughter who’d spoken. She was plain and dumpy, her skin pitted with pockmarks.

  As Knox turned to her, Maria Doran sat up. ‘Actually there was something, a long time ago.’

  They both turned their attention back to Maria. ‘I was just a wee slip of a girl. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ She took another gulp of the porter, then handed it to the son-in-law. ‘This would’ve been a month or so after I started.’

  Knox felt the policeman in him return. ‘Do you remember the date?’

  ‘Spring, twenty-five. I’d just had this one,’ she said, gesturing at her daughter. ‘My mam was lookin’ after her.’

  Knox glanced over at the daughter. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘This young man in military uniform turned up at the hall one day. He went to see his Lordship, had this blazing row. Afterwards, Moore was angrier than I’d ever seen him. He threw a wineglass at the wall while I was in the room, claret, then made me scrub it up, and pick up the glass with my fingers.’

  ‘Did anyone find out what the row was about?’

  ‘Not this one.’

  ‘And did anyone know who the soldier was?’

  ‘I didn’t, of course, but I’d only just started there. Afterwards, I was told he was the gatekeeper’s lad. Apparently Moore had big plans for him but the lad had gone off and joined the army.’

  ‘And what happened to the gatekeeper?’

  ‘Died, long time ago. The wife lived a little longer but she’s been dead for ten years now.’

  ‘Any other children?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ The old woman sniffed.

  ‘What was the gatekeeper’s name?’

  Maria Doran’s attention switched to the nearly cooked bird as her daughter turned it on the spit. The room was warm and the smell was incredible. Knox thought of the small fortune he’d spent, and then about Martha and James, what, if anything, they’d had to eat. He missed them with an intensity that shocked him, a physical craving that hadn’t let up since he’d watched them disappear around a bend in the track on their way to Clonoulty.

  ‘The name?’

  The old woman turned towards him and frowned. ‘Johns.’

  ‘John what?’

  ‘Johns,’ she said, still scowling. ‘That was the family name.’

  Knox made a mental note of it and wondered whether he wasn’t wasting his time.

  Later, as he lay on the mud floor under his blanket listening to the others sleep, he knew he was fortunate, to have a full belly and to be protected from the cold, and that by the morning, countless others across the island would be dead.

  SEVENTEEN

  MONDAY, 23 NOVEMBER 1846

  Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales

  Pyke glanced out of the carriage window as they crossed Jackson’s Bridge and then looked over at Jonah Hancock and Cathy, sitting at either end of the bench opposite him. The suitcase containing the money had been set on the floor between them. They hadn’t spoken since leaving the Castle and Pyke hadn’t seen Cathy since she’d come to his room. Huddled in the carriage, she refused to look at him.

  ‘So you’re to take the suitcase and put it in the luggage rack in first class and then return to the carriage where we’ll be waiting for you.’

  Pyke nodded. Jonah had been through this four or five times already. ‘If all goes to plan, William won’t arrive at the railway station until eleven. Perhaps you should go back to the Castle or to a hotel, wait there,’ he suggested.

  ‘We’re not moving from the front of the railway station,’ Cathy said, looking at Pyke for the first time.

  They had turned from Market Square on to High Street and passed the chapel on the left-hand side. Pyke checked his pocket watch. It was already half-past eight.

  ‘After I’ve left the suitcase on the train, I have some business to attend to in the town.’ He paused, looked at Jonah. ‘I’ll find you in front
of the station concourse at around ten.’

  ‘What kind of business?’ Jonah Hancock was frowning.

  Pyke ignored his question. ‘Just so I know. You haven’t made any secret arrangements to position some of your men inside the railway station or on the train?’

  ‘I hope not,’ Cathy said quickly. She shot her husband a vicious look.

  Jonah shook his head. ‘This is my son’s life we’re talking about, sir. I’ve done exactly as the letter demanded.’

  Pyke didn’t pursue the matter but somehow he didn’t quite believe that the Hancocks were about to give up twenty thousand pounds without a struggle.

  The train was due to arrive at 8.45 and leave again at nine. It was a stopping service from Cardiff and there was no way the Hancocks, even with their resources, could put a man at every station between Cardiff and Merthyr. The only other option was to hide a man on the train itself, but Jonah Hancock had assured Pyke he wasn’t about to imperil William’s life.

  They had reached the bottom of High Street. Ahead of them, across a stagnant stretch of water, was the railway station. Pyke studied the faces milling around in front of the building as the carriage juddered to a halt. It was twenty minutes to nine.

  Jonah Hancock picked up the suitcase and thrust it into Pyke’s hand. ‘Back here at ten, then?’

  ‘I don’t need to check it’s all there?’

  ‘I counted it myself this morning.’

  ‘Well, then.’ The door swung open. Pyke looked first at Jonah and then at Cathy. ‘Wish me luck.’

  As he was alighting, Cathy touched him gently on the arm and whispered, ‘Please bring my son back.’

  Pyke entered the station through the main door, the suitcase in his left hand. Straight ahead was a book-stand and the ticket office. He followed one of the porters to the platform where the service from Cardiff was due to arrive, then stopped and had a look around. A man with a pale face and red-rimmed eyes shuffled past him, closely followed by a boy with a bow-legged gait and malnourished cheeks. Pyke’s gaze shifted to a well-dressed woman who was carrying a small dog in her arms. He couldn’t see Felix anywhere, but he didn’t see any of Hancock’s men lurking in the shadows either.

  A crowd had gathered at one end of the platform and in the distance Pyke saw plumes of white steam rising up and heard the sharp iterations of the engine’s pistons. The locomotive came into view and pulled into the station, crunching against the buffers, the carriages and trucks clanking together. Porters swarmed towards the first-class carriage. Pyke waited while the passengers disembarked, the trickle becoming a steady stream. Momentarily forgetting why he was there, Pyke studied their faces for any sign of Felix but once again his son wasn’t among them. A newsboy walked by him, inadvertently knocking the suitcase, and his attention was wrenched back to the present.

  He was keeping an eye out for his son but he was also being a policeman, looking for people who were acting suspiciously. Policemen always looked at the world in a different way, never trusting what they saw, never mistaking the apparent for the real. He thought about Frederick Shaw for some reason, the debacle in the warehouse. He had seen something on that occasion and fired his pistol, shouted a warning and then squeezed the trigger. He had trusted his eyes, his judgement, but both had been shown to be faulty. Nothing in the station was making him nervous. But could he trust his intuition?

  Taking his time, he had another look around the building to make sure he wasn’t being followed then started along the platform towards the front of the train where the first-class carriage was located. A porter appeared from one of the doors but Pyke strode past him, confident, as if he knew where he was going. He reached the first-class carriage and stopped. There was no one inside.

  It was ten to nine and the first passengers for the service back to Cardiff were starting to appear. At the far end of the platform, Pyke heard someone announce the forthcoming departure. Yanking open the door, he climbed into the carriage. The luggage rack was directly in front of him. As expected, it was empty. Pyke put the suitcase down and decided to have a quick look inside. He tried one of the catches then realised it was locked. Jonah Hancock hadn’t mentioned anything about a lock. Pyke jiggled it again, to no avail. With a little more time, he could have picked the lock, but looking up he saw the first of the first-class passengers pass by the window, heard the door swing open. Peering over the seat, Pyke studied the new arrival, but he didn’t recognise him. Another passenger joined them, much older. He sat down and picked up his newspaper. Pyke shoved the suitcase into the luggage rack and waited. More doors opened and slammed shut.

  You couldn’t get from the standard-class to the first-class carriage while the train was moving. Pyke had already checked. Perhaps the man charged with collecting the money planned to join the train at the next station.

  Reminding himself that this was not his concern, Pyke stepped out on to the platform. The porters’ shouts were louder, the departure imminent; a handful of late arrivals hurried along the platform, clutching their possessions, then boarded the standard-class carriage. There were only two men in first class and neither of them had displayed any interest in the suitcase.

  The shrill blast of the whistle cut through the air and without warning the engine and carriages clattered forward. Running alongside the first-class carriage, Pyke peered through the rough glass-plate and saw that no one else had joined the train. He stopped, hands on hips, and took a moment to catch his breath.

  As the train disappeared around the bend in the track, he checked the time. Five past nine. That gave him almost an hour to walk to the police station and still get back for ten.

  It took Pyke fifteen minutes to get to the police station on Graham Street. This time, a different clerk was on duty, but as soon as Pyke asked whether his son had arrived, the man’s face brightened.

  ‘You’re Detective-inspector Pyke?’

  Pyke looked at the man, surprised. ‘My son’s arrived?’ He had come to the conclusion that Felix hadn’t travelled there after all.

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘He said he didn’t want to stay here. Said he would take a room at the Southgate Hotel on High Street.’

  High Street ran perpendicular to Graham Street. Pyke turned left, as he’d been told to, and saw the Southgate Hotel on the other side of the street. Not a salubrious place at all. It didn’t seem like the kind of hotel his son would choose.

  The entrance hall was a depressing spectacle, with peeling wallpaper and tallow rings on the ceiling. Pyke waited at the desk but no one came to meet him; the entire downstairs was deserted. He couldn’t picture his son arriving at a place like this and wanting to stay. Why hadn’t he just waited at the station-house? Perhaps this was all the lad felt he could afford and he’d wanted to assert his independence.

  A narrow staircase corkscrewed up to the first floor. Pyke took the steps two at a time. A single lantern hung on the landing wall.

  ‘Felix?’ Pyke’s voice echoed down the corridor. None of the rooms appeared to be occupied. Perhaps Felix had already left, tried somewhere else. Somewhere above, on the upper floor, he heard footsteps, floorboards creaking. Pyke called out again. ‘Hello?’

  Someone coughed. The sound came from a room at the other end of the passageway. Pyke moved towards it. Everything was quiet, eerily so. He heard the cough again and now he could see a weak shaft of light emerging from the room. ‘Hello?’ Pyke walked towards it, suddenly not feeling at all comfortable. ‘Felix?’

  He approached the partly open door, knocked twice and waited for a response. He heard footsteps behind him, on the landing. Turning, he saw a figure silhouetted against the half-light of the lantern.

  ‘Do you run this place?’

  Pyke took another step back along the landing, then saw the man raise what looked to be a blunderbuss.

  He bolted back towards the half-open door but now the man who’d been coughing stepped on to the landing. John Wyld
e was grinning, a pistol in his hand. Pyke was trapped, with nowhere to go.

  Wylde fired first, the blast lighting up the corridor, and deafening in the confined space. Pyke threw himself against one of the doors, felt the frame splinter. He fell into the room, but not quite in time. He knew he’d been hit but he didn’t know how badly, although his whole left side was suddenly wet. He staggered to his feet, nothing else on his mind but survival. Wylde’s accomplice stood in the doorway, his blunderbuss raised, about to fire. Running, Pyke hurled himself against the window and crashed through the glass just as the ball-shot from the heavy gun peppered the wall beside him. Moments later, he landed on his back, fell through the flat roof of the building below and found himself on the floor of what looked like the back of a shop. His mind went blank. He might even have passed out. What saved him was that Wylde and the other man had no clear shot from the window above.

  When Pyke came around he tried to stand up. His legs wouldn’t hold him, not at first. Touching the left side of his stomach, he felt the wetness and saw that his fingers had turned crimson. Finally on his feet, he looked around the storeroom and staggered towards the door. It hurt to move but at least the blood wasn’t gushing from the wound. He reassured himself that it hadn’t been a direct hit. Forcing open the door, Pyke stepped into the alley, and started to hobble away, trying not to think about the pain. Behind him, he could hear noises, screaming. Ahead was a dead end, so he kicked down one of the side doors and stepped into someone’s backyard, then passed through the house. Out on the street, Pyke looked right and left, but he didn’t see Wylde or the other man. He turned left and limped on for twenty yards. Behind him, the shouts were getting louder, closer. Someone’s front door opened and Pyke lurched towards it, falling into the room and clutching his stomach. He heard a woman gasp and looked at her terrified face. ‘Close the door,’ he spluttered. She did as she was told, even though he found out later that she didn’t speak English. Pyke rummaged in his pocket and produced one of the banknotes Jonah Hancock had given him.