Bloody Winter pm-5

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘Either that, or they’ll tear the place up and we’ll lose everything.’

  Martha began to cry. Knox took her in his arms. ‘Go to Mackey’s now, Martha. Take James, and whatever corn you can carry.’

  She looked up at him, her face smudged with tears. ‘What about all our things?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. We can stack our possessions outside, in the lane.’

  ‘But everything will be ruined.’

  ‘We have no choice, Martha. If we have to leave some things behind, then so be it. It’s more important that you get James to Father Mackey’s.’

  Martha bit her lip and nodded. ‘So where should I start?’

  ‘You go upstairs and find whatever we can carry to Clonoulty, whatever you think you might need. I’ll start down here.’

  Martha went over to the window and peered out at the rain. ‘What kind of animals are those men? Did you tell them we have a child?’

  ‘I would’ve taken off their boots and licked their feet if I thought it would’ve made a difference.’ Knox was throwing the cutlery into the pots. He looked up and saw Martha still staring out of the window.

  ‘We have to get going. We’ve only got ten minutes.’

  As Martha went upstairs, Knox looked at the dresser, the neatly stacked piles of books and newspapers. Martha was right. Everything they took outside — the bedlinen, candles, coal, firewood, clothes — would be ruined. He had brought this upon them. He had done this to them. Taking up a teapot, Knox hurled it against the wall, watched it smash into a thousand pieces.

  An hour later, their worldly possessions were piled up in the lane outside the cottage, a pathetic assortment of kitchen utensils, china, pots, pans, books, clothes, blankets and sheets. Knox had left the belongings there and walked Martha and James to the end of the lane, where the driver of a passing horse and cart had agreed to take them to Clonoulty. Too shocked to talk, they’d embraced quickly and Knox had watched as Martha and James had climbed up next to the driver, wondering when he would see them again. About fifty yards from the cottage he was joined by Tom, who wagged his tail, oblivious to what was happening. The two labourers were discussing what to do and Warburton was overseeing the operation. Lengths of chain and a collection of levers and hooks were laid out in front of them.

  The two men fixed one end of a large iron chain to the horses’ harness and attached a hook and a lever to the other end. Then one of them carried this end to the front window and looped it around and through the frame. Knox sank to his knees. Shivering, the dog curled up next to him and started to whine. This was clearly a well-drilled operation. When everything was in place, Warburton appeared with a whip in his hand and cracked it over the horses’ heads. As they bolted forward, some of the front of the cottage came with them. The two men went to inspect the damage and attached the hooks and levers to another part of the wall. This time, when the horses bolted forward, part of the roof came crashing down, brick dust fanning out across the yard. Knox stared at the damage, disbelieving. The only home he’d truly loved, and where he’d spent the happiest years of his life, lay in ruins.

  He pictured himself standing at the front door, Martha carrying James, just born, in her arms. More memories: Martha sitting on the back step quietly singing while he hoed the patch of land at the rear; James giggling while the dog poked its wet nose into his face. Knox remembered the bad times, too, but suddenly they didn’t seem so bad. The stink of the first potato blight; a time before when Martha had miscarried their first child. Then, he had been sad, disconsolate even. But this was sheer devastation.

  The men had picked up their crowbars and sledgehammers and now set to work on what remained of the cottage. The rain had eased. Knox watched as the last wall was felled. A few minutes later there was nothing left, just a pile of bricks and stones, the thatched roof lying forlornly on top of the rubble.

  It took them another five minutes to dismantle the chains and hooks. When everything was cleared away, the two men trudged back to the carriage. Warburton appeared at the gate to assess the damage. He gave Knox a contrite look.

  ‘For what it’s worth, sir, I’m sorry for what we did.’

  Knox waited for the carriage to depart and then there was silence, just the sound of the wind in the branches.

  Knox had thought he might be able to rescue some of their possessions but now this idea struck him as hopelessly naive. Where would he take them? If, and when, Martha was settled in Clonoulty, perhaps he could store some of their possessions there but even this, he knew, was unlikely. Soon enough people would learn what had happened and scavengers would turn up; a pan could be exchanged for a bowl of corn, their blankets could be dried and used. The books would be ruined but who wanted to read?

  Better to think they had lost everything than cling to false hope. Knox looked at the wet dog, shivering against his legs. What would he do with Tom?

  Knox moved a few of the pots and pans, and the blankets and clothes, to the coal shed, which hadn’t been destroyed. Then he took the shovel and dug up the cloth purse in which he’d hidden his last remaining coins. He had also buried the daguerreotypes, and the dead man’s pistol and knife. Holding one of the copperplates in his hand, Knox stared at the silvery image. It struck him, then, that he had not heard from the son, Felix, and that the letter he’d sent to Somerset had ended up at Scotland Yard. Knox supposed it didn’t matter. Nothing would bring back the man, he mused bitterly. And now his own life lay in tatters.

  Knox inspected the pistol and realised it was loaded. He held it in hand and curled his finger around the trigger. You have to answer for what you’ve done, Moore. He imagined firing it, the noise and the smell of powder. He felt Tom brush past his ankles and his mind was yanked back to the present. The dog couldn’t come with him. It would make him too conspicuous and he had nothing to feed it. The kindest, most humane thing would be to aim the pistol and fire. Knox knelt down and let the cowering mutt lick his hand. Knox had named the animal after Thomas Davis, who had died a year earlier. At the time, one newspaper had called his death ‘the end of Ireland’s hope’, unaware how prophetic these words would become. What hope would the dog have, left to fend for itself?

  Knox stood a step backwards, then raised the pistol and aimed at the mutt’s brown face. Tom started to whine. Sweating, Knox lowered the barrel and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t pull the trigger. Unaware of how close he’d come to being shot, the dog stayed contentedly at Knox’s side while he gathered up the daguerreotypes.

  When Knox reached the end of the lane, the dog was still following him, but at the junction with the mail coach road to Dundrum, the dog stopped and sat down in the middle of the track. Perhaps it thought Knox was simply going to work, and would be back as usual later that day. Knox thought about calling out to it one more time, giving it a farewell pat on the head, but he decided a clean break would be better. He turned and walked twenty paces along the road to Dundrum before looking behind him. Tom hadn’t moved but his head was cocked slightly to one side. Knox knew that it was no time for sentiment but it struck him that he’d done the dog a disservice by not putting it out of its misery.

  FIFTEEN

  SUNDAY, 22 NOVEMBER 1846

  Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales

  The next morning Pyke woke early and decided to walk into town. The overnight rain had cleared and the air smelled clean. At the station-house, he asked for Jones, but the superintendent hadn’t yet arrived. One of the constables recognised Pyke and explained there had been more trouble in China: he didn’t know the details or whether there had been any more fatalities. Outside the station-house, a red-faced clerk caught up with Pyke and thrust a letter into his hand.

  The writing was Felix’s. Pyke tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. All seemed to be well in Somerset. This calmed him a little. Felix made reference to his visit there and to the kidnapped child. Pyke then diverted his attenti
on to the last few lines. I’ve been given a few days’ holiday from my studies. I plan to visit you in Merthyr for a day or two. He stared down at the page. I’ll arrive some time on Sunday the twenty-second. He went to check the date at the head of the letter. The seventeenth.

  Pyke took a moment to compose himself. Today was the twenty-second so Felix would be arriving in Merthyr some time that day. He would almost certainly travel up on the train from Cardiff, but how many services were there on a Sunday? Pyke followed the clerk back into the building.

  ‘Will you be on duty for the rest of the day?’

  Startled by the change in Pyke’s tone, the clerk took a moment to answer. ‘Yes… yes, I will.’

  ‘All day?’

  ‘All day.’

  ‘My son Felix may turn up here looking for me. If he does, I wonder if you could keep him here and send word for me up at the Castle.’

  The clerk gave him a bemused nod. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, sir.’

  Pyke thrust a silver coin into the man’s reluctant hand. ‘Write me a note, to be opened only by me. Please don’t just pass on a verbal message.’

  Just to be on the safe side, he didn’t want anyone at the castle to know Felix was visiting him. He didn’t yet know who were his friends, and who were his enemies.

  At the railway station Pyke was told there was just one service from Cardiff and it would arrive at four in the afternoon. He was now looking forward to Felix’s visit. He hadn’t been aware of how much he missed home until he’d received the letter. He missed the comfortable feel of their house, its smell, the presence of his three-legged mastiff, now almost fifteen and blind in one eye. He missed drinking wine in his armchair, pulled up close to the fire. He missed his son, too, but Felix had been gone for a while.

  What kind of home, he wondered as he entered the Castle, had this been for Cathy and her son? He didn’t imagine it had been a happy one. As he crossed the hall, he remembered his dream from the previous night. Frederick Shaw had been in it. Felix as well. Something terrible had happened, but he couldn’t remember what. He’d woken before dawn, his back bathed in sweat. The room still smelled of Cathy, of what they had done.

  But Cathy wasn’t waiting for him now. Instead Jonah Hancock appeared from the library and beckoned him over. The ironmaster’s face was full of fury and Pyke feared the worst.

  There was a newspaper laid out on the table. The Merthyr Chronicle — the town’s other newspaper. Without speaking, Jonah pointed at the report in the far left-hand column. Riot in Merthyr.

  It described the events of Friday afternoon — the door-to-door search by the town’s constabulary. It reported that there had been minor disturbances and, right at the end of the piece, it speculated that the police had been searching for a missing child. It didn’t mention the Hancocks by name, nor did it say that the child belonged to one of the town’s eminent families.

  ‘I can see why you’re angry but there’s no mention of your family or William here. No one will think to connect this to you.’

  ‘No?’ Jonah Hancock scrunched the newspaper into a ball and hurled it across the room. ‘The fewer people who know what’s happened to William, the safer he will be. That’s what you said.’

  Pyke watched the blood rise in the ironmaster’s face.

  ‘Think about it. There’s no way the newspaper could have found out about the exact reason for the search,’ Pyke said, hoping to placate Hancock. ‘But this is a small community and I’m afraid that word of what’s happened to your son is bound to spread sooner or later. Can you be absolutely certain that none of the servants has mentioned that William is missing to a friend or family member?’

  Hancock told him that the household staff had all been sworn to secrecy, although he seemed to know as well as Pyke that people were bound to gossip.

  Pyke looked at the shelves stacked high with books and wondered how many of them the ironmaster had actually read. It struck him, too, that no one had told him very much about William. No one had talked about what kind of a lad he was, what he liked to do, what made him laugh, what made him cry. Pyke tried to remember Felix at the same age. What had they talked about? Felix had always been a warm-hearted boy but Pyke hadn’t been an especially attentive father.

  ‘By the way, I was wondering whether you’d managed to locate my son’s former nursemaid,’ Jonah Hancock said.

  ‘You mean, as a possible suspect?’

  The ironmaster shrugged.

  ‘I put this point to your wife. She assured me it would be impossible as Maggie Atkins has found work far away from here.’

  Hancock gave him a look he couldn’t quite interpret. ‘Since you’re here, we should go to my study to discuss arrangements for tomorrow.’

  Pyke followed him back through the entrance hall and along a wide passageway to a large oak-panelled room at the back of the Castle. There, Jonah Hancock unlocked the door of a safe, built into the wall. Reaching inside, he scooped up a large cloth sack, then turned around and emptied its contents on to the desk. There was, he said, a thousand pounds in coins and nineteen thousand in Bank of England notes. He urged Pyke to count it.

  Pyke stared at the pile of gold coins and the neat stacks of notes held together with string. ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’

  Hancock stood beside the desk, his hands resting on the edge. ‘In my original letter I promised you a certain fee.’

  ‘We can talk about that when your son is returned to you safe and well.’

  Hancock returned to the safe and took out a much thinner stack of banknotes, then slid them across the desk. ‘A thousand, just as I promised.’

  Pyke stared at Hancock. ‘I wouldn’t usually expect to be paid until my work was finished.’

  ‘Take it.’ The ironmaster ran his hand through his hair and made an effort to smile. ‘I’m happy with what you’ve done.’

  Pyke let his fingers rest on top of the stack of notes. ‘But what if, heaven forbid, something were to go wrong tomorrow?’

  Hancock was gathering up the twenty thousand and putting it back into the cloth sack. ‘I think it’s best I settle my debt now, don’t you? If something bad were to take place, and I hope and pray for all our sakes that it doesn’t, I’m not sure that doing so would be foremost in my mind.’

  Pyke loitered in the entrance hall as long as possible, waiting for Cathy to return, but eventually he set off down the driveway, hoping to stop off at the station-house before meeting the four o’clock train from Cardiff.

  He saw the man — a priest, in fact — waiting outside the gates, but as he hurried by, a voice called out, ‘Detective-inspector Pyke?’

  The man had grey hair, a round face and a ruddy complexion. He was wearing a long black cassock and a miniature wooden cross dangled from a gold chain around his neck. He introduced himself as Father Carroll and explained he was parish priest at the Catholic chapel in Dowlais.

  ‘How can I help you, Father?’ Pyke glanced up at the clouds gathering above them and felt a spit of rain on his face.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the disturbances the other day in Bathesda Gardens and Quarry Row.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Pyke decided not to say anything more. He wanted to find out what the priest knew.

  ‘I read in the newspaper that the police were searching for a missing child.’ Father Carroll turned and looked up at the Castle. ‘I also heard a rumour that it was the Hancock boy who was missing.’ He spoke in a soft brogue.

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘So it’s true, then? The Hancock boy has been taken?’

  ‘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 in
to 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.’