Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery Read online

  Significantly it was Zephaniah who spoke first about the case. ‘We haven’t made the mistake of relying on the good men of the Glamorgan constabulary but, on the recommendation of Jonah’s wife, we chose instead to solicit the assistance of Detective-inspector Pyke of Scotland Yard.’ While the old man caught his breath, Pyke tried to work out whether there was a note of mockery in his voice. ‘I hope you won’t disappoint us. You don’t need me to tell you what’s at stake for this family.’

  ‘I can’t make any promises but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your grandson is returned to you safe and well.’ He glanced over at the door. ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me what happened …’

  It was Jonah who spoke. ‘Every week, always on a Monday, my wife Catherine takes the boy to place fresh flowers on our other child’s grave.’ He must have seen Pyke’s expression because he added, ‘We had a lovely little girl, Mary. I’m sorry to say she died two summers ago from consumption.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  Jonah nodded blankly. ‘One of the drivers took them. It’s a fifteen-minute ride to the cemetery at Vaynor. On the way back, just past the ruined castle, four bandits appeared out of nowhere, brandishing pistols, their faces masked by handkerchiefs. One of them seized my son, William. They dragged him into the bushes and warned my wife and driver not to follow. This took place a week ago yesterday.’

  Pyke made a mental note of the reference to the cemetery at Vaynor. Wasn’t that where Smyth had said John Johns, the prospective translator, lived? ‘I’ll need to talk to the driver, tonight, if possible. Your wife, too.’

  Jonah exchanged a look with his father. ‘I’ll have someone summon the driver.’

  ‘And have you received a ransom demand?’

  ‘Aye.’ Jonah rummaged in his trouser pocket. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t heard of an organisation called Scottish Cattle.’

  Pyke shook his head. At this point, he didn’t want them to know he’d already talked to Jones and Smyth. ‘No. Who are they?’

  Jonah found the envelope he’d been looking for but didn’t hand it straight over to Pyke.

  ‘Terrorists,’ croaked the old man. ‘They claim to be the voice of the working man but they’re nothing but terrorists.’

  ‘A few years ago,’ Jonah said, ‘there was a strike at the works. It was particularly nasty and coincided with a deep depression. Orders for our iron were non-existent and we had no choice but to cut wages and lay off workers. This was about a year after the General Strike, so tensions were still running high. You couldn’t move in the town without running into Chartists from England spoiling for a fight. To cut a long story short, we shipped over from Ireland all the workers we could lay our hands on and rolled up our sleeves for a fight. The strike lasted three weeks. The strikers tried to blockade the works but our lads stood up for themselves and the furnaces remained lit. People on both sides got hurt but the strikers, egged on by the likes of Scottish Cattle, came off worse. Finally the strike collapsed and they came back to us, begging for their old jobs. Scottish Cattle were extremely bitter and accused us, unfairly, of all kinds of devious practices. The rancour remains to this day.’

  ‘And you think this is why they kidnapped your son?’

  ‘Actually, Detective-inspector, we aren’t convinced that the Bull have our boy, in spite of the first ransom letter we received a few days ago.’ Zephaniah kicked the blanket off his legs. ‘Show it to him, boy.’

  Jonah bristled at the old man’s reference to him as a ‘boy’ but said nothing. Instead he handed the letter to Pyke. Briefly Pyke surveyed its contents.

  Notice. Remember that the Bool is on rode every night, he will catch you at last. We hereby tell you we have your son. Be on the look out, pig. Raid your coffers of twenty thousand. Do as the Bool says or your son shall be kilt. You will believe it. O madmen, how long will ye continue in your madness.

  Pyke handed the letter back to Jonah but kept his thoughts to himself. Even to a family like the Hancocks, twenty thousand was a sizeable amount of money. ‘You said this was the first letter?’

  ‘It turned up last Thursday morning. William was kidnapped on the Monday.’ Jonah removed another envelope from his pocket and gave it to Pyke. ‘This one came yesterday.’

  Pyke inspected the envelope – Jonah Hancock’s name was scribbled in black ink. The first thing he noticed was that the handwriting was different. ‘So who delivered the letters?’

  ‘Someone shoved the first one under the door in the middle of the night. One of the servants found it in the morning.’

  ‘And this one?’ Pyke held up the second envelope.

  ‘After the first letter, we had men patrolling the grounds morning, noon and night,’ Zephaniah said. ‘A furnace-man was approached in a tavern in the town and offered a shilling to deliver a letter to the Castle. One of our agents questioned him thoroughly. We don’t believe he was involved.’

  Pyke slid the second letter from its envelope. He realised straight away that it wasn’t simply the penmanship that was different.

  Notice. The Bull is riding every night and he will catch up with you if you do not pay. Take one hundred in coin to the old Quarry near Anderson’s farm. Leave it in the stone cottage on the Anderson’s farm road. Do it on Thursday at ten in the morning. Just one man. Do not have the cottage watched. This is to make sure you know how to follow orders. The Bull wants twenty thousand in due course. Do as we say and await our instructions or the boy dies.

  ‘It’s not written by the same person.’ Pyke handed the letter back to Jonah Hancock.

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I mean, it’s not even written by the same class of man. The grammar is different for a start. This one was penned by an educated man trying to pass himself off as uneducated. Look at the differences. ‘‘The Bool is on rode’’ and ‘‘the Bull is riding’’. It’s obvious.’ As Pyke spoke, he could feel Zephaniah’s eyes on him.

  ‘What are you suggesting, sir?’ the older man croaked.

  ‘Who else knows that your grandson has been kidnapped?’

  ‘We’ve tried to keep the news of what’s happened to our immediate circle but inevitably people gossip. The servants are loyal and have been sworn to secrecy, but Catherine went and informed the constabulary so now every damned bobby in the town knows about it.’

  Again Pyke wondered about the veiled animosity between the Hancock family and the chief magistrate.

  Jonah was pacing around the floor. ‘If this second letter was written by a different hand – perhaps even someone not connected with the kidnapping – why demand a paltry sum like a hundred pounds? Especially when the ransom has been set at twenty thousand?’

  ‘I don’t know. If the letters are from different people in the same gang, perhaps this is some kind of dress rehearsal, to see if you can be trusted.’

  ‘And if they’re from different gangs?’

  ‘Then perhaps someone else has heard about the kidnapping and is attempting to turn this information to their advantage.’

  Zephaniah eyed Pyke carefully from the armchair. ‘So what do you recommend we do, Detective-inspector?’

  ‘That depends on whether you’ve decided to pay the ransom or not.’

  ‘Of course we’ve decided to pay,’ Jonah said impatiently.

  Zephaniah’s tone was more conciliatory. ‘The important thing is to get the boy back here where he belongs. Maybe, sir, you could be persuaded to take the hundred pounds out to the old quarry?’

  Momentarily distracted by the sound of footsteps in the room directly above them, Pyke nodded without realising what he had agreed to.

  ‘I’m still going to need to talk to your driver … and your wife.’

  ‘I’ll have someone fetch the driver. You might also want to find and question the boy’s former nursemaid. Maggie Atkins. She left this household under a cloud.’

  ‘What kind of a cloud?’

  ‘We caught her stealing. In the end
, we chose not to involve the police; we didn’t want to make a scene. She always denied it, and was bitter about her dismissal.’

  ‘Bitter enough to take matters into her own hands?’

  ‘I just thought I’d mention it, Detective-inspector. I’ll have one of the servants look out her address.’

  Pyke glanced at Zephaniah and then let his gaze return to Jonah Hancock. ‘It would be more helpful if you could summon your wife.’

  Their eyes locked. Jonah licked his lips. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t come down from her room to greet you.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to bring her down?’

  The younger Hancock pondered this request then left the room. Pyke and Zephaniah Hancock stared uneasily at one another.

  ‘Tell me, sir,’ the older man said. ‘Did you come up here directly from the railway station or did you perhaps call in on the station-house on your way?’

  ‘The latter. I had a very brief chat with Superintendent Jones and Sir Clancy Smyth.’

  The old man assimilated this news without reacting. ‘In which case, I don’t imagine you’ve formed a favourable impression of my family.’ When Pyke didn’t respond immediately, he smiled. ‘Be that as it may, Jonah loves his son and there is nothing he – nothing we – won’t do to ensure his safe return.’

  None of the stories Pyke had heard about Zephaniah had portrayed him as a devoted family man. ‘Do you have any other children or grandchildren?’

  ‘I do have another son, but alas I see him very infrequently. He takes care of my family’s ancestral home in Hampshire.’

  ‘And is William your only grandchild?’

  Zephaniah gave him a puzzled stare. ‘My other son, Richard, has two children.’ Then he seemed to relax and added, ‘Look, I won’t pretend I’m sentimentally attached to William, or children in general, but it doesn’t mean I’m not concerned for his well-being. And William is the firstborn of the firstborn. Is it so wrong to want to see one’s family name survive long after one’s death?’

  Before Pyke could answer, there were footsteps in the hallway. Jonah entered the room, closely followed by Cathy.

  Seeing her for the first time in five years was both exciting and a disappointment. It was undoubtedly true that she had blossomed into a beautiful woman; her slender figure, pronounced cheekbones, ash-blonde hair and slim, pretty face were all reminders of the adolescent Pyke had once known. Nonetheless he saw straight away that the naivety and innocence he’d once associated with her had been replaced by an unfamiliar reserve. Before him was a woman whose expression was like the hard surface of a mirror: she smiled politely and held out her hand for him to shake. Drawn into her ambit, he smelled the sourness of claret on her breath as he tried in vain to find even the smallest flicker of warmth in her eyes. As he took her outstretched hand, she swayed towards him, whispering, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

  While Pyke tried to work out what she had meant, Cathy went over to join her husband. She was wearing a carefully brocaded white lace dress with puffed sleeves and a crinoline skirt. He noticed that Zephaniah had been watching their encounter.

  ‘My wife will answer any questions you have tomorrow, Detective-inspector.’ Jonah reached out and gently squeezed her hand. ‘She is feeling a little tired, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to escort her up to her bed.’

  They didn’t want, and didn’t wait for, Pyke’s sanction. He expected Cathy to look up at him on her way out but she swept by without acknowledgement.

  ‘Don’t take it personally, Detective-inspector,’ Zephaniah said, grinning, after they had left the room. ‘I do hope you’ll stay here with us, sir,’ he added, full of bonhomie. ‘I’m afraid the accommodation in town is universally dreadful. It would be nice to have a man’s company for a change.’

  Pyke didn’t miss this barbed reference to Jonah Hancock but decided to let it pass.

  ‘It might surprise you to know that Catherine has always talked about you in very admiring terms.’

  ‘I can’t think why,’ Pyke said. ‘I hardly knew her when she was living in London. She was just the daughter of a friend of my uncle.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. But who knows what passes for thought inside a woman’s head. Perhaps she saw you as her knight in shining armour.’

  The old man smiled. Pyke took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘I believe a sum of a thousand pounds was mentioned if I ensure your grandson’s safe return?’

  ‘We men are always far happier to discuss money than women, aren’t we?’ Zephaniah tried to sit up straighter. ‘Still, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to you, I suspect, if I were to proffer the opinion that my daughter-in-law has always carried a torch for you, sir.’ He held up his hand to stop Pyke from interrupting. ‘Be that as it may, when your name was mentioned in the context of our difficulties, I took the liberty of asking about you. I found out that you’ve received two prison sentences, one for the non-payment of debts and one for murder.’

  ‘I received a full pardon for the latter.’

  ‘You miss my meaning, sir. I am always impressed when a man has risen above adversity. The fact that you are an inspector at Scotland Yard’s Detective Branch suggests an impressive guile and determination, a survivor’s instinct. I hope you won’t think me excessively melodramatic if I were to suggest that the future of the house of Hancock lies in your capable hands.’

  Pyke was tired from the journey but he knew he couldn’t let down his guard. Zephaniah had gone out of his way to seem welcoming but Sir Clancy Smyth’s warning was still ringing in his ears. Eventually he managed a thin smile. ‘We’ll get your grandson back, don’t worry.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, Detective-inspector,’ Zephaniah said. ‘I have every faith in your abilities.’

  SIX

  FRIDAY, 8 JANUARY 1847

  Tipperary Town, Co. Tipperary

  Knox had set off for Tipperary Town at first light, forgoing his breakfast because he hadn’t wanted to wake the baby. He had walked the first couple of miles but just before the town of Golden, a dray had pulled over and the driver had offered him a place next to him. A mile or so beyond Golden they had passed a dead body lying at the side of the track. They hadn’t stopped. The driver, a shoemaker from Cashel, had looked at Knox but neither of them had spoken. What was there to say? Eventually the body would be claimed by nature or the authorities. Knox had known it was wrong to leave the body lying there but it was someone else’s responsibility. The driver had dropped him in the centre of the town and Knox had spent the next hour or two trudging around the various lodging houses, hoping that someone might recognise the man in his copperplate. He had described the man as an outsider, possibly from England, but by lunchtime, when he had had no success and was famished, he wondered whether his initial assumption – that the dead man had been a well-to-do traveller – was correct. No one in Cashel had remembered him and there was just one place left in Dundrum to check. After that, he would have to extend his search farther afield. Clonmel, perhaps even Thurles.

  The wind was blowing from the north, and in spite of his great-coat, Knox could feel the chill in his bones. The ground was frozen and the cold air stung his cheeks. Dispirited and exhausted, and with no food in his stomach, Knox thought about the inn in Dundrum and decided to call in on his family, perhaps even scrounge a little food from his mother. He set off at a brisk pace, enlivened by the prospect of a meal, but started to flag after a mile or two. The wind picked up and fat drops of rain slapped against his face. Eventually a horse and cart drew up next to him and Knox hopped up next to the driver. The man was making a delivery to the old hall. After a few initial pleasantries, they didn’t exchange another word.

  After about an hour the delivery man dropped him by the gates to Dundrum House but when he asked for his mother in the kitchens he was told that she was at home. No other explanation was offered and Knox started to worry that one of his family might be ill. Peter perhaps. Or maybe even his mother. Unlike most of the se
rvants, his mother had been permitted to live away from the main house, perhaps because of the length of time she had served Cornwallis. The family cabin lay a few hundred yards from the gates on the edge of a parcel of land known as Fishpond Field. None of his memories there was a happy one, Knox realised as he made his way up the familiar track. Even the trees seemed gloomy and oppressive. After rounding the last bend, he saw an unfamiliar figure stooped over a wooden tub.

  ‘I’m looking for Sarah and John Knox.’

  The woman rose and stretched her back. She regarded him indifferently, taking in his uniform, then wiped her hands on her apron. ‘They moved.’

  Knox dug his hands into his pockets and glanced at the cabin. He was really worried now. His mother hadn’t mentioned moving on his last visit. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Quarry Field. The new houses.’

  Knox knew the cottages she had mentioned: they were airy, spacious and even had an outdoor privy.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk, and when he entered the open door, Knox found his mother standing over the range. A pot of water was boiling and a line of clothes was hanging diagonally across the room. Peter, his youngest brother, was snoozing on a chair. As soon as she saw him, Sarah Knox rushed to greet her son, throwing her arms around him and kissing his cheek. Breathlessly, she explained that Cornwallis’s agent had offered them this cottage for the same rent they’d been paying on their old place.

  ‘I told you he wasn’t such a bad man.’ Her expression was both kind and defiant. ‘He even gave me a day’s holiday to move in.’

  Peter had stirred from his slumber and as soon as he saw Knox he leapt up to greet him. This only augmented Knox’s guilt, the fact that he hadn’t visited his brother for such a long time. Peter was a frail boy with a thin face and droopy eyes that never quite focused on the person he was looking at. Knox ruffled his hair and let the boy hug him. He didn’t look his fifteen years and he certainly didn’t act them. Not for the first time, Knox wondered what would happen to his brother if and when their mother passed away, for he was quite sure it was her love – unconditional as it was – that had kept the lad going.