Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just asked who had relayed this information to you.’

  The priest looked away and shook his head. ‘I can’t exactly say. It’s just a rumour I heard. The point is, I was told you were lookin’ into the matter and I felt it was my duty to reassure you that no right-thinkin’ Irishman would attempt such a stupid thing.’

  ‘Perhaps I could ask who told you I was looking into the matter?’ Pyke searched the priest’s face.

  ‘That would be Sir Josiah Webb, sir,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘In fact, he was the one who suggested I come and talk to you.’

  Pyke digested this information. Webb owned the Morlais ironworks.

  ‘I see. Then can I assume Sir Josiah shares your thinking and your concerns on this subject?’

  ‘I’d say so, but for different reasons.’

  ‘Go on,’ Pyke said. He had a quick look at his pocket watch. It was already a quarter past two.

  ‘You’d be amazed how quick a disturbance like that can spread. Last night the windows of the Catholic chapel were smashed.’

  Pyke stared at him, trying to work out how the two events were related.

  Father Carroll must have seen his confusion. ‘Maybe you don’t know how uneasy things are at the moment between the Irish and the Welsh, sir. You not being from around here.’

  ‘And you suspect that what happened to your chapel was retaliation for … ?’

  ‘Welsh folk don’t much care for the Irish. Mostly I’d say they’re afraid we’ll take their jobs.’ He looked up at the rain clouds. ‘Relations haven’t been good these last few years, and, well, if the locals thought some Irishmen had kidnapped a little boy, they’d do something about it.’

  Pyke looked at the priest, interested now. ‘And that’s why you think your windows were smashed?’

  The priest sighed. ‘No one gains when something like this happens; when Irish and Welsh folk fight among themselves. That’s what Sir Josiah said, too. And that’s why he’s worried. If the fighting spills over into the works, well, it wouldn’t be good for business.’

  Now Pyke understood why Father Carroll had been summoned to see Webb, and why Webb had sent him here. Both men wanted to make it clear that no Irish gang would do something as stupid or desperate as seize the Hancock boy.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to go, Father. I have an appointment in town.’ Pyke had another look at his watch. ‘But I’m pleased you came and I promise to treat what you told me with the utmost seriousness.’

  But as he went to leave, the priest reached out and grabbed one of his wrists. ‘Mark my words, this whole town is ready to go up in flames, and it will, if people like you let it happen.’

  Pyke found the clerk in the storeroom of the station-house and reminded him about Felix’s arrival. On the front steps of the building he ran into Sir Clancy Smyth, who was swaddled in a greatcoat, muffler, top hat and gloves.

  The chief magistrate greeted Pyke warmly, in spite of their fractious encounter the day before. ‘I was informed your son is expected here at some point today. We’ll make him quite welcome, of course,’ he added.

  Pyke had hoped to keep news of Felix’s visit secret but the clerk had clearly informed Sir Clancy.

  ‘But I do have some worrying news – about our mutual friend John Johns.’ He rubbed his hands together and watched Pyke’s reaction. ‘According to witnesses, he was set upon by a gang of ruffians at the top end of High Street. They dragged him into one of the alleyways. I’ve had my men out looking for him ever since but they’ve found nothing.’

  ‘Are they sure it was Johns?’

  ‘He’s a tall man and well known around here. One of the witnesses was quite sure of it.’ Smyth looked up and down the street. ‘I was wondering whether he said anything to you – whether he knew of anyone who would want to attack him?’

  Pyke’s thoughts turned immediately to what they had done to John Wylde, but they had both been disguised. Still, Johns was a tall man and perhaps someone in the beer shop had recognised him.

  Pyke raised his eyes to meet the magistrate’s. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Johns kept his thoughts to himself.’

  Smyth nodded. ‘It’s just I regard John not simply as an acquaintance but also a friend. I’d like to think he’s safe.’

  Pyke tried to remember what, if anything, Johns had said about Smyth, and wondered whether their mutual dislike of the Hancocks explained their friendship.

  ‘There are hundreds, if not thousands, of my countrymen here in Merthyr but I’ve only ever talked about the old country with him. You know he came from the same county as I did?’

  ‘He told me. Left at seventeen.’

  ‘To join the army.’ Smyth blew on his hands to warm them. ‘Both of us Tipperary men. Protestants in a Catholic country.’

  ‘I’ll have a look for him.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’ Smyth’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. ‘One of the witnesses thought the men who’d attacked him were part of a China mob.’

  If Pyke’s expression revealed anything, it would have been only for a few seconds, but Smyth was watching him carefully.

  ‘What business did Johns have in China?’

  ‘I don’t know, Detective-inspector.’ Smyth moved off down the stone steps and added, almost as an afterthought, ‘That’s why I asked whether he’d said anything to you.’

  When Pyke went looking for John Wylde in China, he found that the Boot beer shop had been set upon with sledgehammers and crowbars. There was nothing left of it and no one wanted to talk about what had happened. Pyke had watched, for a moment, while a hawker tried to push his barrow through knee-deep mud and caught sight of a man, trousers around his ankles, fucking a woman against a brick wall. Across the alleyway, another man had collapsed and was muttering to himself, too drunk to stop a boy from emptying his pockets. A stray pig stopped briefly next to the inebriated man, sniffed him, and moved on.

  By the time he made it back to the railway station in lower Merthyr, it was almost four and the platform had started to fill up with people waiting to greet the service from Cardiff. Compared to the giant concourse at Paddington, the station was a drab, squalid affair, with a low ceiling, built from wood rather than iron. Pyke took a moment to think about what might happen when he brought the suitcase the following morning. He looked for the entrances, the nooks and crannies where people might be able to hide, the food stalls, the ticket office, and where the porters liked to stand.

  At about five minutes past four, the train appeared around the bend, steam billowing from its engine. It chugged slowly into the station, coming to a halt with a violent hiss. The doors opened and the first passengers stepped down on to the platform. Pyke scrutinised the faces as they appeared through the mist. There was a man wearing a fustian jacket carrying his own suitcase; a woman dressed in a crinoline leading a porter who was struggling with a large chest. More passengers emerged: Pyke watched as an older man wearing a shooting jacket and billycock hat embraced a younger woman, perhaps his daughter. A young man stepped down from the first-class carriage and Pyke thought for a moment it might be Felix. He went to greet him but soon realised that the man looked nothing like his son.

  After another five minutes, the crowd thinned out and then it was just him and the vendors on the platform, with a lone couple loitering at the far end. Pyke went to check the carriages but there was no sign of his son. He had another look at the letter, to make certain he hadn’t misread it, but there it was. Felix had said he’d arrive on the twenty-second. If that was the case, then where was he?

  As he looked up and down the empty platform it struck him that perhaps Felix hadn’t travelled to Wales after all.

  SIXTEEN

  SUNDAY, 31 JANUARY 1847

  Dundrum, Co. Tipperary

  Knox had slept rough in a deserted crofter’s hut, with nothing but a blanket for protection against the cold. He hadn’t eaten a meal for two days, which meant he felt weak and light-headed. The w
alk from Cashel had sapped his strength: an arduous, cross-country trek as he tried to remain hidden from the road. He hadn’t wanted anyone to warn Cornwallis of his likely presence in Dundrum. The rain had petered out some time in the night and the clouds had moved on, but that meant the temperature had plummeted. Knox tried not to think about Martha and James, what they would be doing. It upset him too much. Father Mackey would insist they accompany him to mass and he pictured his wife and son sitting on one of the rock-hard pews, staring up at a statue of Christ. Would she take the sacraments?

  The sun had been up for an hour by the time he reached the outer edges of the village. He’d already skirted around Oughterleague and the perimeter of Castle Killenue and had passed the police barracks and the school. It was early on Sunday and both places were locked. He heard horses’ hoofs in the distance and hid in the hawthorn bushes. It was about eight o’clock, perhaps half-past eight. Knox knew his parents and brothers attended the ten o’clock service and the walk to the church from their new home would take about half an hour. But he was close by now, less than ten minutes away, and already he could feel the blood pumping in his veins.

  Knox had walked this road a thousand times but today it felt unfamiliar, threatening in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees and cast shadows across the track. Ahead the road swept around to the left and he could see the Gatlee mountains in the distance. He was nearing the house now and could see a thin plume of smoke drifting up from the chimney. They would all be there; Peter, Matthew, their mother and father, a family shielded from the ravages of the famine because of the man they worked for.

  Knox took off the blanket, wrapped the daguerreotypes inside it, and left it in front of the cottage. Opening the door, the first thing that hit him was the warmth.

  Knox’s father, Martin, was sitting by the fire. His mother was hanging up clothes. There was no sign of his brothers. He hadn’t knocked and his parents’ surprise was palpable. Knox saw his father’s expression change. His mother said something but he didn’t hear. Instead, he walked straight past her towards his father, who was struggling to his feet. Knox threw a punch, caught him on the jaw, then threw another punch with his other fist, this time grazing the man’s cheek. The first punch had done the damage, though. Wiping saliva from his mouth, he saw the light disappear from Martin Knox’s eyes, heard the breath rush from his lungs. Knox hit him again, this time on the nose, and felt the bone crunch, his father staggering blindly, hands cupping his nose. Knox punched him again, even though the man was about to fall over, then he felt someone pinning his arms from behind. Struggling free, he turned and saw Matthew. Somewhere in the room Peter was wailing. Over the sound of his sobs, his mother was screaming at Knox to stop. Knox looked around the room, aware for the first time of what he had done, what he’d become, no better than the man he’d just beaten and whose face was now a bloody mess. He felt a sudden stab of shame.

  Knox staggered to the door, pulled it open and stumbled outside. He hadn’t gone far when he felt someone tug on his sleeve.

  ‘Dear God, Michael, what have you done?’ His mother’s voice was shaking.

  Knox tried to gather himself. ‘He signed a statement to the police against me.’

  She stared at him, not blinking. Something in her expression had changed. She let out a long sigh.

  ‘I’ve been dismissed from the constabulary and we’ve been forced out of our home. I had to watch while my landlord and his men reduced the cottage to rubble.’

  ‘Oh, Michael.’ Instinctively she reached out and touched him.

  Knox bit back the urge to weep. ‘That man I brought here. Davy McMullan. He’d been caught stealing blood from one of Moore’s cattle. You saw him. You heard what he’d suffered. So I let him go.’ He pointed at the cottage. ‘And that man signed a statement saying I’d put our family at risk, bringing a criminal into his home.’

  There were tears in his mother’s eyes. ‘Michael, it’s me you should be angry with. I’m the one you should have struck.’

  Knox tried to comprehend what she’d just said. ‘You?’

  ‘His Lordship summoned me. He gave me an ultimatum. Either I agreed to his demand or he would evict us from our home.’ Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘You made my dad sign that statement against me? Your own flesh and blood?’

  His mother tried to grab his wrist but Knox pushed her away. ‘God, Michael, please don’t make this any harder for me. You know our family’s circumstances. You know Peter wouldn’t last a night if we had to sleep rough, not in this weather.’

  Knox could see Matthew out of the corner of his eye. His younger brother was standing by the door, Peter next to him, mute and shivering.

  ‘All along I’ve just tried to do the right thing, be good as you taught me. We’ve always stuck together, you and me, Mam. But now even you’ve turned against me.’

  ‘I had no choice, son. Don’t you see? Don’t you see the position I was in? Please. I did the only thing I could. Cornwallis would have dismissed all of us, me, your father, your brother, then driven us from our home. I couldn’t let that happen.’

  ‘And so we’ve been forced out of our home instead. Me, Martha and James. We’ve lost everything. Is that what you wanted?’

  ‘No. Dear God.’ His mother wailed.

  ‘Moore’s used us – you and me – from the start. Don’t you see that? He asked for me, a novice, someone who’d never investigated a murder before. Why? Because he thought he could tell me what to do. And why did he think that? Because of the power he wields over you, over my family here.’

  His mother stared him, dry-eyed now. Perhaps she understood the logic of what he had just said.

  ‘You’ve always defended him, Mam, but he’s a monster. A cold-hearted monster, with no qualms about forcing a baby out of his home.’

  This time his mother offered no defence of her master.

  ‘What is it that he’s so afraid of, Mam? Who was that dead man? Why was Moore so keen to bury the whole matter?’

  Through her sobs, his mother said, ‘I don’t know, son. All I know is that people like us should never try to interfere in the business of men like Cornwallis.’

  ‘I showed you the daguerreotype and something registered in your expression. You know something, don’t you, Mam?’ Knox was clutching her wrists and staring into her terrified face.

  ‘Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said, Michael? I love you, always have done and always will. I’ve never said so but I’ve always felt closer to you than anyone. But I have to put Peter’s needs first. What I did was terrible, unforgivable even. I know that, but I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t put Peter’s life at risk.’

  Knox felt as if his innards had been scooped out. ‘Moore’s turned the whole of Cashel against us, Mam. No one will rent us a room, we’re finished. My only hope is to find out what Moore is afraid of and use it to get back what’s rightfully mine, what’s been taken from me. To do that, I need your help.’

  ‘I don’t know anything, Michael. I’m just a servant. I know my place, do as I’m told.’

  ‘And what about doing what’s right?’

  His mother wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. ‘This is no time for principle, son. Not now, while death is so close.’

  The crowd at the counter of the New Forge in Dundrum village was two deep, men in their best clothes, fresh from the Sunday service. Some would know him, know who he was, but Knox no longer cared. These were the lucky ones, still in work, who could afford a mug or two of stout. In his civilian clothes, no one paid him much attention. Knox waited at one end of the counter for the landlord to notice him: the news of his dismissal wouldn’t have travelled this far.

  His mind turned back to what had just taken place, the fight with his father and the argument with his mother. Knox had always felt different from his family. The ten-year age gap between him and Matthew didn’t help but it was more than that. His mo
ther had always loved him with a fierceness he couldn’t quite comprehend – which was why her rejection of him was so bewildering. His father had always treated him with caution and, if he’d been drinking, with undisguised hostility. Knox could still recall a night when his father had returned from the pub. This would have been before Matthew was born, and Knox had been asleep in his mother’s arms. His father had woken him up and had taken a leather strap to him, hitting him over and over, stopping only when his mother jumped on his back and toppled him to the floor.

  ‘What can I do for you, Constable?’ The landlord stood there, arms folded across his apron.

  Knox took out one of his precious shillings and placed it on the counter. ‘I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the Doran family. The mother, Maria, used to work up at the big house.’

  Maria Doran had once been his mother’s closest confidante and, until her dismissal, had been the longest-serving member of the household after his mother. Knox didn’t know the reason for her dismissal – his mother had never talked about it – but as soon as it happened, no one ever mentioned Maria’s name again.

  ‘Done something wrong, has she?’

  ‘I just need to talk to her, that’s all.’

  The landlord glanced down at the silver coin and licked his lips. ‘Only Dorans I know have a smallholding just north of Ponds Cross Roads, left-hand side.’

  Nodding, Knox shunted the coin towards the landlord. ‘And I want to buy some food. A bird, if you have one.’ He saw the man’s expression. ‘I’m not interested in where it’s come from, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  They both knew that any bird the landlord might be able to procure had been poached from the Cornwallis estate.

  ‘I’ve got a partridge, plucked and ready, but it won’t be cheap.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten shillings.’

  Knox took a deep breath. Before the famine, you could have picked up a bird for a tenth of that amount. ‘Eight.’

  ‘Only one I’ve got. I won’t let it go for less than ten.’