Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘Are you quite sure it wasn’t just an animal? A fox, perhaps?’ Cathy was shivering from the cold.

  ‘No, it was a man.’

  ‘And do you think he saw us?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Pyke turned to look at her.

  Cathy seemed to have come to her senses and stood up, placing her cloak back over her head. ‘I should go.’

  Pyke nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Come with me,’ Cathy said. ‘If we go back inside through the main entrance, even at different times, my husband will know.’ She led Pyke around to the very back of the building, the slope rising up behind them to their right, and came to a halt next to a door, concealed by a hedge, which seemed to lead not into the Castle but the side of the mountain.

  Cathy opened the door and said, ‘Jonah doesn’t know I know about this. It’s how the prostitutes he fucks are smuggled into the Castle. When the place was constructed, his father had it included in the plans.’

  Pyke followed her into the darkness, but once they were inside, she turned to him and said, ‘There was something I meant to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was a coat you found at the house on Irish Row, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. A winter coat.’

  She nodded, as though she’d been expecting this answer. ‘I remember it was a mild day, unseasonably so.’

  ‘The day William was kidnapped?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cathy bit her lip. ‘I tried to make him wear a coat but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re saying he wasn’t wearing that winter coat when the kidnappers seized him?’

  ‘I’m almost certain of it.’

  ‘But it was his coat? The one that turned up on Irish Row?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘So how did it get there?’

  They stared at one another for a moment or two. Cathy didn’t have an answer for him.

  TWELVE

  WEDNESDAY, 27 JANUARY 1847

  Cashel, Co. Tipperary

  After a week, Knox managed to put the letter out of his mind. He hadn’t forgotten about it entirely but there were too many things to do; too many things to worry about. So when, more than two weeks after he’d sent it, he still hadn’t received a response from the son, he started to relax. Perhaps the letter had never arrived; perhaps Felix had moved address; or perhaps Knox had misunderstood the exact nature of his relationship to the deceased. Initially, when he’d heard nothing, Knox had considered writing another letter, this time to Scotland Yard, but he decided on reflection that this would have been pushing the matter too far. He had done his duty and his conscience was clear. In actuality he was glad that he’d received no letter from the son. It meant he didn’t have to worry about what Hastings would say – if and when he found out what Knox had done. Knox had been lucky not once but twice. In addition to the son’s silence, he had not been reprimanded for letting McMullan go free. Cornwallis must have forgotten to look at the list of defendants at the quarter sessions.

  As January wore on, the weather remained cold and the ground frozen solid. This made digging new graves and burial pits next to impossible and meant a temporary cessation of most of the public works which, in turn, put new strain on the workhouses and the shambolic relief effort. Fifteen people died in the parish in the third week of the month – from disease, starvation or just from the cold – and by the end of the month the situation had deteriorated further. Each day, the newspapers would report on the arrival of a new shipment of corn from America, but what little of this made it to the depot in Cashel was too expensive for most people to buy. It was the same story right across the island. Knox had read in the Tip Free Press that folk were dying in their tens of thousands and that no one in Dublin or London was doing a damn thing about it. Anger had given way to despair – and while the government ignored their suffering, the landowners squabbled among themselves about who would pay for the non-existent relief effort. The only ones who prospered were traders and undertakers.

  Knox had received a letter from his mother informing him that all was well at home and that Peter was thriving in the new cottage. Though she hadn’t said so, the message seemed clear enough: carry on doing nothing. He’d wanted to visit them but his shifts at work hadn’t permitted this, and in any case he had his own family to worry about. Despite the food shortages, the constabulary were well provided for and James continued to grow. He seemed healthy and Knox felt as content as the circumstances permitted.

  During the days, Knox and the other constables found themselves deployed away from the town, patrolling the lanes and fields of nearby estates in order to crack down on poaching and sheep-stealing. Aristocratic families like the Pennefathers and the Moores had complained to the authorities about the theft of game and livestock from their land, unable to acknowledge the link between their greed and short-sightedness and the worsening public order. If the great and the good refused to provide, the land would have to: snails and frogs were fried, hedgehogs baked, crows feathered and roasted, and foxes stripped to the bone and boiled for soup.

  One evening, after a particularly long and gruelling day, Knox had come across a poem in the new edition of the Nation, sandwiched in between stories about the famine and a dispute between Daniel O’Connell, long seen as leader of Ireland’s quest for independence, and Young Ireland, a group who believed – unlike O’Connell – that blood would have to be spilled before Britain relinquished its grasp over the island. The poem mocked the ‘proud soldiers’ who guarded their ‘masters’ granaries’, and as Knox sat with Martha and the dog in front of the kitchen fire, it struck him that he was one of the poet’s targets.

  Knox had spent much of his adolescence and the early part of his manhood trying to be good. It had been one of his mother’s earliest admonishments and certainly the one he had tried hardest to respect. And it was true: Knox did try to be good. But what did that really mean? How good was he and did goodness matter when so many folk were dying? Was it good to uphold public order? Was it good to humble yourself before men like Asenath Moore? Surely to be good, in such a situation, was to resist such men. And yet each morning, in front of the sub-inspector, he nodded compliantly as he and the other constables were berated for failing to arrest more poachers and thieves.

  The following morning, Knox prepared breakfast as usual and sat with Martha while she breastfed James. It was a clear, bitterly cold day and another flurry of snow had fallen during the night. Standing by the upstairs window, he looked out at the hedgerows shagged with ice. There would be more bodies today. He turned and watched Martha and James. ‘Sometimes I dread going to the barracks. I dread what might have happened in the night.’

  Martha looked up from her breastfeeding. ‘I forgot to tell you. I came across a body yesterday at the end of the lane. Birds had pecked out the eyes. When I came back later, it was gone.’

  ‘Yellow Bill probably heard about it and carted it off to the burial pit.’

  ‘It wasn’t anyone I knew.’

  Knox nodded. He knew it was only a matter of time before one of them came upon the corpse of a friend or neighbour. He put on his coat and took his time buttoning it up. ‘I was being foolish, wasn’t I? Getting myself worked up over that man they found on Moore’s estate.’

  ‘You were just doing what you thought to be right.’

  Knox picked up his hat. For some reason, he hadn’t told Martha that he’d sent a letter to the dead man’s son. It wasn’t an outright lie but he was uncomfortable about having withheld this information. Perhaps, Knox decided, it wouldn’t matter now.

  Martha carried James to where he was standing and kissed him softly on the cheek. ‘I do love you, Michael. And it won’t always be this bad.’

  Knox carried these words with him as he walked into the town. The sky was clear and bright and it was easy to believe they were true.

  ‘Constable Knox,’ one of the clerks said to him, as soon as he’d set foot inside the barracks. ‘The sub-inspec
tor wants to see you in his office immediately.’

  Knox felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. He murmured his consent and shuffled up the stairs.

  Hastings’ office was at the top of the stairs and enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the Rock. Knox knocked on the door, waiting for the sub-inspector to answer. Hastings opened the door himself and greeted Knox with a nod of his head. ‘Come in and sit down, Constable.’ He stood to one side and let Knox enter the room. There was someone Knox didn’t recognise sitting behind Hastings’ desk. A chair had been set out for him but Hastings opted to stand. He gestured to the other man. ‘This is the County Inspector.’ No name. Knox inhaled sharply. The County Inspector was based in Clonmel.

  The man in question had a thin, cadaverous face, a beaked nose and a widow’s peak that swooped dramatically down his forehead. His eyes were fixed on Knox. ‘Constable Knox.’ He gestured for Knox to sit down.

  ‘I have just received this letter from one of the commissioners of the Metropolitan Police.’ He held it up for Knox to see. ‘In it, he describes how one of my constables, namely you, has identified the body of a man who was murdered in the grounds of Dundrum Hall three weeks ago as one Detective-inspector Pyke – from the aforementioned Metropolitan Police.’ The County Inspector let the letter fall to the desk.

  ‘I wrote to the deceased’s son in Somerset, to inform him that his father had likely died in the circumstances you just mentioned.’

  The County Inspector stared at him impassively. ‘And yet I also have in front of me the report you penned and submitted to the sub-inspector here, in which you made it clear that you could not determine the deceased’s identity.’ His mouth hardened.

  Knox saw his mistake. If he’d come clean about his discovery, they would not have been able to touch him. After all, he could claim to have done what he had been told to do. But he had lied – and now he had been caught in that lie.

  ‘I couldn’t be certain that this man was who I thought he was. The letter I sent to the son was written in a personal capacity. I felt I couldn’t let him live his life not knowing what had happened to his father.’

  ‘But you just said you couldn’t be wholly certain that the deceased was, in fact, the lad’s father.’

  ‘I had no idea the man was a policeman from London.’ Knox had lied again but they wouldn’t catch him in that lie if they didn’t get to see the letters Felix had written. He would tell them he’d thrown them away.

  ‘Surely you must have considered making some mention of this discovery in your official report.’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘And yet there is no mention of it in the report. Can you explain why this might be?’

  Knox lowered his head. He was sweating profusely; his only hope was to throw himself at their mercy. ‘I took from Lord Cornwallis that it would probably be best if nothing came of my investigation.’

  The County Inspector exchanged a fierce look with Hastings. ‘This is a most serious allegation, sir. Are you suggesting that his Lordship tried to exercise undue influence over a police matter?’

  Knox sat bolt upright, suddenly aware of what he’d said. ‘No, not for a minute, sir. His Lordship’s actions were absolutely proper throughout …’

  ‘He didn’t tell you how to conduct your investigation?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The County Inspector nodded. ‘But you assumed he would not have wanted anything arising from your inquiries to damage his estate’s reputation.’

  ‘I tried to approach the matter with the utmost caution. I understand that murder is a very sensitive subject.’

  ‘And yet – in spite of whatever assurances you may have given his Lordship – you went ahead and wrote to the son of the deceased.’

  Knox tried in vain to swallow. ‘It seemed like the right thing to do.’

  ‘And did lying to the sub-inspector in your report seem like the right thing to do?’

  ‘As I tried to explain, sir, I wrote to the son as a father.’ He hesitated, trying to clear his mind. ‘On the subject of the investigation, I have to admit I was a little surprised that a man of my lowly rank would be given such responsibility.’

  The County Inspector’s eyes narrowed. Knox knew he’d made a good point. It would be hard for them to discipline him for his failings as a detective because to do so would be to admit their own culpability – dispatching a constable with no experience to investigate a murder.

  As if to underline this point, Knox added, ‘I wasn’t told whether the report should be what I absolutely knew to be true or what I thought might be true. In the end, I used the former standard.’

  Below in the yard, a horse and cart rattled to a halt. The County Inspector waited for silence. ‘I can see that mistakes were made on all sides.’

  Knox ignored the sweat spilling down his face.

  ‘I am concerned, however, about the lingering taint on the good character of Lord Cornwallis.’

  ‘As I tried to explain, sir, his Lordship conducted himself with absolute propriety at every juncture …’

  ‘I am pleased to hear this. I would like to be able to say that his Lordship feels the same way but I’m afraid to report that he has made a rather serious accusation about your conduct as a policeman.’

  Knox felt his blood run cold. ‘I’m sorry …’

  The County Inspector consulted another document. ‘Were you summoned to Dundrum Hall on Sunday the tenth of January this year?’

  ‘It’s possible. I would need to think about it …’

  ‘Perhaps I can jog your memory, Constable. Were you, or were you not, asked by his Lordship to transport a man by the name of McMullan, who’d been caught stealing blood from the estate’s livestock, to one of the cells at the barracks to stand trial for theft?’

  The room started to spin. Knox tried to sit up straighter but it didn’t seem to make a difference.

  ‘Please answer the question, Constable.’

  ‘Yes, sir … I was.’

  The County Inspector nodded. ‘And yet this man never appeared at the barracks.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Knox muttered, trying to plan a new defence for himself.

  ‘Would you care to tell us why not?’

  ‘The man in question broke free of his restraints and escaped. I searched but wasn’t able to find him.’

  ‘I see.’ The County Inspector glanced across at Hastings. ‘Were you made aware of this fact?’

  Hastings shook his head.

  The County Inspector turned back to Knox. ‘So you didn’t feel the matter was important enough to report it to the sub-inspector?’

  ‘On the contrary, I realised what a big mistake I’d made. I was too ashamed to admit I’d failed.’ Knox bowed his head and exhaled. He could feel the thump of his heartbeat.

  ‘A pattern of deception is beginning to emerge.’ The County Inspector looked at the document in his hand. ‘Is there anything else you wish to add?’

  ‘Nothing, sir – aside from my humblest apologies.’ Knox waited, not daring to breathe. Perhaps all they wanted him to do was grovel.

  ‘You don’t, for example, wish to make it known that you were acquainted with the thief?’

  ‘I knew who he was but that’s not surprising, given the size of the community we both grew up in.’

  Hastings coughed. ‘Constable Knox was given special dispensation to serve in his county of birth, sir.’

  ‘Ah, I see. But I’m assuming you didn’t treat this man, this suspected thief, any differently to others you have taken into custody.’

  ‘No differently, sir.’

  The County Inspector smiled for the first time. He picked up the piece of paper he had been consulting. ‘I have here a letter, signed by your own father, stating that you took the thief, Davy McMullan, back to your family’s dwelling that same day, and presented him to them as a friend in need.’

  It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Knox had to stop himself from retching. The worst of it was
that his own flesh and blood had betrayed him; he didn’t know where to look.

  ‘Is it true, Constable? Did you introduce McMullan to your father as a friend rather than your captive?’

  Knox didn’t have the capacity to lie any more. He nodded listlessly.

  ‘Speak up, Constable.’

  ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  ‘And is it also true that you allowed McMullan to go free because you felt sorry for him?’

  Knox could feel the tears in his eyes. ‘Yes.’

  The County Inspector shoved another piece of paper across the desk. ‘That’s good, Constable. You will sign this document, if you don’t mind.’ He held out a pen and indicated that Knox should approach the desk.

  Knox tried to stand up but his legs buckled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a legal document. By signing it, you will be recognising that the decision I have taken regarding your situation has been informed solely by your behaviour towards Davy McMullan – and is in no way related to your regrettable errors in the matter of the murder investigation.’

  Dazed, Knox went over to the desk, picked up the pen and signed his name. ‘What decision have you taken, sir?’

  The County Inspector took the document and inspected it. Eventually, when he was satisfied that everything was in order, he said, ‘Your employment at the constabulary has been terminated with immediate effect.’

  Knox just managed to make it back to his chair before his legs gave way.

  ‘Once you leave this room, you will change out of your uniform and you’ll present it to the sub-inspector along with any other items belonging to the constabulary.’

  ‘How will I pay my rent? How will I live?’ His thoughts turned to the weekly ration of corn.

  ‘That is no longer our concern.’ The County Inspector gestured to the door. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us …’

  ‘I have a wife and a young child. This is all I have, sir. All that’s standing between us and …’ Knox couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.