While he ate his breakfast, an undistinguished meat pie, he watched as an older man wrapped a leather grip around one end of a four-foot brickbat. Alongside him, soldiers, shopkeepers and ruffians mixed uneasily on the narrow pavements. The cobbled street was awash with manure. From hand-held barrows, vendors sold fruit and fresh fish.
At the end of Barrack Street, Pyke turned on to Durham Place and the neighbourhood deteriorated further. Pigs, sheep and goats roamed freely in and out of brick terraces, whose makeshift windows were constructed from hessian sacks. Underfoot, the track itself was flooded with human effluvia and water that had broken the banks of the nearby river. The whole area seemed to be ripe for a cholera epidemic. From gloomy doorways, men and women dressed in ragged clothes stared at him without smiling and talked to one another in hushed voices.
The previous night, Megan had told him Sandy Row was so called because, at one time, the tidal waters of the Lagan had met the fresh waters of the Blackstaff to form a small sandy cove where mill workers had once washed their clothes. In the cold light of day, however, it was hard to detect any such cove. The area surrounding the river was boggy: an unclaimed scrub of land between two warring communities. A few slovenly thatched cottages hovered in the shadows of the giant linen mill. Farther back along the road, a group of mill workers attacked an unarmed coal carrier. A soldier looked on without interest, making no effort to intervene, even when the coal carrier fell to the ground clutching his knife-wounded belly.
Ahead of him, on the other side of the bridge, he could see more terraced houses. A crowd had gathered outside one of the terraces and someone was addressing them from a first-floor window. Pyke could not hear what was being said, but many in the crowd were supporting orange banners, fringed with gold lace. He decided to hold back, to allow the mob to disperse or go about its business. Eventually, after much whooping and pistol-firing, the crowd began to shuffle off in the opposite direction. At his feet, even the small dog seemed chastened by the whiff of violence.
On the other side of the river, he stopped a woman and asked whether this was Sandy Row. ‘Depends on who’s askin’,’ she said, with ill-concealed suspicion. Pyke enquired whether she knew which one the Magennis house was, but she ignored the question and disappeared into her front room. Others were similarly obstructive. It was only when the dog befriended a young girl that his luck turned. While the girl patted the dog’s head, and the dog wagged its little tail, she said, ‘Second house on the right, before the road takes youse up to Grimshaw’s mill.’ Pyke thanked her and handed her a shilling coin.
The house the young girl had identified was typically bleak. It was a small edifice with soiled walls. Its windows were sealed up with paper. The door was open and Pyke stepped into the hallway. ‘Hello?’ He dug into his pocket and felt the reassuring touch of the pistol. It took him a few moments to readjust to the darkness. In front of him, the staircase rose precariously to the upper floor; all the balustrades had been used for firewood. He entered the front room. There, a barefooted old woman tended to a young baby. In the back room, Pyke heard the clink of pots, and a voice shout, ‘Who is it?’ A younger woman, wearing a dirty cotton dress, joined them at the front door. She formed a protective barrier in front of the baby.
‘I was looking for Davy.’
‘An’ who are ye?’ the old woman said, staring at him through grizzled eyes. Her white hair was tied up in a bonnet. In her arms, the baby was crying.
‘A friend,’ he said, without conviction.
‘Oh aye, sure ye are.’
Finding her voice, the young woman said, ‘Aye, the big man’s gone, mister.’ She was a small woman with pale, freckled skin and curly red hair.
‘Ann,’ the older woman snapped.
‘Wha’? We don’t know where he’s away to, Mam.’
‘But he was here?’
‘Aye,’ the older woman said, still suspicious. ‘Left about a week ago, so he did.’
‘Why did he leave?’
The old woman studied him carefully. ‘Ask a lot of questions, don’t ye?’
‘I think he might be in danger.’
The young woman shrugged. ‘Big man just said something about the grim reaper comin’ for him.’ She looked across at her mother. ‘Mind, he’d been in an odd way, the whole time he was stayin’ here. Wouldn’t sleep inside. Said he was happy with the yard out back. He didn’t show much interest in food and no interest in going to work, even though da fixed him up with a job in the mill. See, my da and his are brothers. Didn’t know what Davy did with his days until one of the lasses followed him to the church on Fisherwick Place.’
‘A church? What was he doing in a church?’ Pyke asked, certain now the women were telling the truth.
‘Prayin’,’ the older woman said, staring at him. ‘What else do ye do in a church?’ When Pyke didn’t answer, she continued, ‘Davy done something wrong, then?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You’re not here to shake him by the hand, are ye?’
‘Davy say anything about his time in London?’
This time it was the older woman’s turn to frown. ‘The big man was in London?’
‘He went there to find his brother, Stephen.’
Briefly the two women exchanged looks but neither of them said a word.
As he watched their reactions, he thought about the two brothers, Stephen and Davy, and the nature of their relationship. Was it possible that Davy could have killed his own brother? And how, if at all, did that profit Tilling, and therefore Peel?
Pyke felt he had overlooked something that might bring the whole affair into focus.
‘We’re just poor workin’ folk, mister, but we’re honest and God-fearing, so we are. The men are out there marchin’ ’cos we’re proud to be Protestant but none of us care much for violence, and that’s the truth. It ain’t our fault the papists want to drive us from our homes and run us off the island.’
Focusing his attention on the younger woman, Pyke asked, ‘Was Stephen your cousin?’
Before her mother could intervene, the woman had nodded. She was shaking a little.
‘You do know that Stephen was murdered? And that he had just had a baby himself? Look at your own baby. Could you imagine doing that? Throttling its tiny throat with your bare hands . . .’
The older woman stepped in between them, to shield her daughter from Pyke. ‘I think you should be leavin’.’
‘You know whereabouts Davy might have gone?’
The old woman crossed her arms and stared at him. ‘Who shall I tell the menfolk was askin’ after the big man?’
It was a clear night with a full moon and from his vantage point on the far side of the Ormeau bridge the town might have looked almost peaceful, silhouetted against the dark shadows of the hills, had it not been for the numerous fires, whose reflections shimmered brightly on the glassy surface of the river. He was too far removed from the town to hear the sound of clashing rioters but occasional gunpowder blasts and musket shots skimmed across the water and illuminated the night sky. Pyke was glad of the disturbances because they distracted soldiers and police from their search for him. That said, earlier in the day he had taken no satisfaction from what he had seen: a mob of young Catholic men carrying muskets and pitchforks, rampaging down a narrow residential street and sacking the houses, regardless of who was inside them, dragging mattresses out and setting light to them.
Behind him, in the opposite direction, he turned his attention back to the imposing, Tudor-style house in the far distance, with its faux-crenellated walls and grand spires, and then to the stables, which were much closer, a few hundred yards across well-maintained grounds.
Having locked the dog inside a disused building on the other side of the river, Pyke was now alone. He had been informed that the house, and especially the stables, which belonged to the marquess of Donegal, would furnish him with what he required.
Skirting around the lodge, which occupied a prominent
place at the front of the stables, using the moonlight to guide him, Pyke negotiated his passage across a small courtyard and slipped into a much larger courtyard around which individual stables were arranged. He could, of course, have taken any of the horses at gunpoint but, more than anything else, he did not want to raise the alarm and be forced into a position where soldiers on horseback chased after him in direct pursuit. It was important the theft went unnoticed until at least the following morning.
The animal he finally selected did not appear to be too bothered by Pyke’s presence in his stable. He was a large black horse with a long mane. Pyke approached the beast carefully, maintaining eye contact throughout, and went to pat its nose. He had done so countless times while he had served on the Bow Street horse patrol. The animal whinnied slightly but did not seem to mind his touch. Taking care not to make any sudden movements, Pyke set to work, fixing a saddle and reins, which he had discovered in a cupboard at the back of the room, on the seemingly pliant horse. He had almost completed this task when he heard what sounded like two men on the other side of the courtyard but apparently heading in his direction. There was no chance of making a break for it, which meant he would have to hide in the stables and wait for them to pass.
As he went to close the door, he felt something brush against his leg.
Instantly the horse was aroused. Pyke pulled on its reins, attempting to bring it under control, but the powerful beast broke free from his grip and reared upwards, baring its gums as it whinnied. Then he heard a timid yap and saw the dog, its deformed tail wagging with obvious delight. Letting go of the reins, Pyke fell on top of the dog and seized its small head with his arms and hands. Now sitting on the straw-covered ground, he clamped the dog’s jaws closed with his hands and listened out for the two voices. The horse seemed placated and shook its head a few times, neighing without much animosity. In spite of its size, however, the small dog was a determined, muscular creature and squirmed almost uncontrollably in his vice-like grip. At one point, Pyke lost control of the dog’s mouth and it issued forth a terrorised yap, though the sound was perhaps not loud enough to alert the two stable hands, who had come to a stop in the middle of the courtyard. Still, Pyke could no longer risk being exposed and made his decision. Holding the dog’s snarling jaws tightly shut with one hand, he took the animal’s neck with the other, clamping its body with his shoulders, and squeezed it as hard as he could. The little dog fought him in unadulterated terror for what seemed like minutes, squirming in his arms, but Pyke’s hold on its neck did not relent and finally, with a sickening gurgle that seemed to emanate from the pit of the poor dog’s stomach, its taut frame went limp and the struggle was over.
It was only then that the voices from outside began to recede into the distance. A little shocked, Pyke laid the dead animal on the ground and covered it in straw. It had defecated on him: a hopeless final act before dying.
Later, once Pyke had led the now amenable black horse from the stables and mounted it, using moonlight to guide his boots into the stirrups, he took a few moments to arrange himself in the saddle, and then kicked the heels of his boots into the horse’s midriff and steadied himself as the beast surged forward, carrying him into the darkness of the marquess’s estate.
He’d liked that little dog, Pyke thought without joy, as he took up the reins and steered the horse away from the main house.
SEVENTEEN
Though the sun had been up for almost three hours, the air was still cool - it smelt of burning wood and freshly cut hay - and the dew-covered ground shimmered like a dazzling carpet of precious cut stones. It was attractive country, Pyke thought, as he looked down on the tiny hamlet from his vantage point on ground that rose gently up from the Blackwater river. In one direction, four miles away through estate land and orchards and beyond sporadic dwellings linked by hedge-lined tracks, was the village of Loughgall. In the other direction, the hills fell away gradually towards an expansive lough. The small valley below him was dotted with beech, ash and sycamore trees.
He had ridden for three hours the previous night, stopping to rest only when the terrain had become too marshy to negotiate in the fading moonlight. Sleeping fitfully on the floor of an abandoned cottage, Pyke had resumed his journey at first light and it had taken him a further two hours of hard riding to reach Loughgall, and from there, following directions given to him by a passing farmer, another hour to find the hamlet where the Magennis family lived.
The hamlet itself, straddling a junction between two tracks, consisted of seven mud-walled cottages roofed with straw thatches. From what he had been told by the farmer, the Magennis family occupied the farthest dwelling from the crossroads. In the centre of the hamlet was old Dan Winters’ pub. The farmer had said this as though he would know exactly who ‘old Dan Winters’ was.
Tying the horse to a tree on the slopes above the hamlet, Pyke made his way down the hill, using cover from the oak and beech trees to keep himself hidden, until he was less than fifty yards from the Magennis cottage. From there, concealed behind a hawthorn bush, he spent the next hour watching the various comings and goings. Shortly after settling, he witnessed an adolescent dressed in labourers’ clothes emerge from the cottage and disappear along the track heading east out of the hamlet. Later, he was followed by a slightly older girl. Pyke had watched with interest when a much older man, wearing a cotton shirt tucked into coarse trousers, appeared in the doorway, stretched, looked around him and then disappeared back inside the cottage.
In that time, Pyke did not see any indication of Davy Magennis’s presence, but he knew this was no guarantee that ‘the big man’ was not there.
From what he had been told about the father, Pyke did not imagine that the man would easily give up information about his family, nor did Pyke think he could be tricked or fooled into doing so.
Pyke pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold. In the middle of the orderly room was a fire with stumps of cut wood and turf glowing in the metal grate and, above, a hole in the roof for a chimney. Next to the fire, an older woman attended to a saucepan filled with milk and wilted green leaves. Nearby was a solid wood table surrounded by tree stumps for seats. On the table, next to a pool of dried candle wax, there was an open prayer book. Bedclothes were tossed carelessly around the earthen floor.
‘Can I help you?’ a male voice said, from behind him. The woman looked up at him, startled. Pyke turned around to face who he presumed was Andrew Magennis and saw at once that the old man had noticed his pistol. ‘Aye,’ he said, slowly, his eyes not leaving Pyke’s. ‘Will you leave us alone for a moment, Martha?’
He was a wiry man of about sixty, but his apparently slight build and taut frame belied his age. Aside from his paintbrush moustache, which was flecked with grey, the rest of his hair was still dark. His piercing, almost translucent eyes gave no intimation of what he was thinking.
Once Martha had left them, he said, ‘I don’t take kindly to strangers bringin’ weapons into my family’s home.’
Pyke allowed the man’s hostility to subside before he said, ‘Is Davy here?’
Magennis did not seem surprised by Pyke’s mention of his son’s name. ‘No.’
‘Mind if I look around?’
‘I mind, sure I do, but I don’t reckon I can stop you.’
Pyke conducted a very brief search of the small cottage but found no one.
‘Has he been here recently?’ They were standing on opposite sides of the wooden table.
‘No.’
‘How well do you know John Arnold?’ Pyke asked, trying to throw the older man off balance with his questions.
‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
Pyke realised that Magennis had probably not heard the news.
‘Would you say that the two of you are friends?’
‘Not friends,’ Magennis said, frowning. ‘Him, the Grand Masters, they like givin’ orders but none of ’em know what it’s like, actually havin’ to live alongside the papists.’<
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‘When was the last time you saw Davy?’
‘Davy? A year back, maybe more.’ Magennis shrugged.
‘Where was that?’
That drew a determined sigh. ‘Mind telling me why you’re interested in Davy?’
‘A year back, you say?’ Pyke said, ignoring the question.
‘This was just after he’d been thrown out of the police? For beating a Catholic man to within an inch of his life during a riot in Monaghan?’
Magennis did not seem to be impressed by his knowledge. ‘What do you need from me? You have all the answers.’
‘So let me tell you what else I know,’ Pyke said. ‘I know Davy wasn’t prosecuted for that particular crime. I know he got that job in the first place because Arnold arranged it. I know that a man called Fitzroy Tilling came to this house in person, as a favour to Arnold, to sign Davy up. Do you want me to continue? I know your other son Stephen fell in love with a Catholic girl, ran away to London and had a child. I also know that Stephen, Clare and the baby were murdered in their lodging room in London. The baby was strangled and discarded in a piss-filled metal pail. I know Davy was seen in London around the same time. I don’t know but I can only guess that Davy hated Stephen for running off with a Catholic and siring a half-Catholic child. All of you did, no doubt. Except Davy took your pronouncements of hate literally, didn’t he? I can imagine Davy sitting here in this room listening to you telling stories of Catholic rapists and whores. I can make other deductions, too, but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what those might be.’
This time Pyke kept his anger in check, guessing it would have no effect on the older man’s attitude. Pyke wanted answers but he also needed proof of Davy Magennis’s involvement. If Pyke could nail Magennis, he could implicate Tilling - and therefore Peel.
Magennis took a while to prepare his response. ‘You know a lot, but then again, you know nothing.’ He pulled out a stump to sit down on, and motioned for Pyke to do the same. ‘For example, do you know where you are right now?’
Pyke 01 - The Last Days of Newgate Page 21