Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery

by Andrew Pepper

  ‘Christ Almighty. What kind of monster are you?’ Jones threw himself on top of Pyke and managed to pull him off Wylde. He was panting, shocked.

  But Pyke wasn’t concerned by Jones’ moral righteousness. All he could think of was his dead son and the guilt that was growing inside him like a tumour.

  It took him an hour to walk from Market Square to Morlais House, a mostly uphill trudge along the Pennydarren Road. When he presented himself at the front door, the butler led him through to the drawing room. Pyke had told the man his name and even though he’d not met Sir Josiah Webb, the ironmaster seemed to know who he was and shook his hand, as if Pyke had come there at Webb’s invitation.

  Webb was a robust, rosy-cheeked man in his fifties, with snow-white hair and a full, almost portly figure. In other circumstances, he might have struck Pyke as an almost grandfatherly character but he had heard that Webb was every bit as ruthless as Zephaniah Hancock.

  There was an oil painting of two young boys on one of the walls, perhaps Webb’s sons. It made Pyke think about his own situation; that he would never see Felix marry, never know what it was like to have grandchildren. Briefly Pyke’s thoughts returned to the burial ceremony, not one reference to God or Jesus, a decision borne of his own guilt and rage and one that didn’t reflect the decisions Felix had made during his brief life. Pyke had put a notice in The Times and had made a point of writing to the people who’d known his son. He hadn’t wanted to be secretive about the ceremony because Felix had done nothing wrong. If Pyke was ashamed of anything, it was the world that he had chosen to inhabit, a base world where a young man’s life could be sacrificed for no reason. But now Pyke saw Jakes had been right; the service should have been a Christian one. It was what Felix would have wanted. Maybe he would rectify his mistake when all of this was finished.

  ‘I’ve been hoping we might have this conversation, Detective-inspector,’ Webb said.

  Pyke tried to clear his mind, focus on the task at hand. Somehow it was jarring, to be addressed by his title. He no longer thought of himself as a policeman. The title, the sanction, the law itself: all of it was irrelevant. He knew he would never go back to his old position. He had said as much to Jack Whicher, one of his detective-sergeants, who’d seen the notice in the newspaper and attended the ceremony.

  ‘You may feel differently later,’ Whicher had said.

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t feel anything.’ He had been about to say something else when he remembered that Whicher too had lost a son.

  ‘Pierce also saw the notice. I’m surprised he’s not here. He’s demanded that you return to Scotland Yard at once.’

  ‘Pierce knows he wouldn’t be welcome here.’ Pyke had paused, looked up at the winter sky. ‘He’s read about the rioting?’

  ‘And the death of the industrialist’s son.’

  Pyke had known his superiors would find out about the carnage sooner or later but now no longer cared. ‘I’m going back to Wales.’

  ‘Look, Pyke, Pierce knows that I’m close to you and he told me to tell you there will be no immunity from prosecution.’

  Pyke hadn’t expected to be treated any differently but the barely concealed threat hardly registered.

  Webb’s throaty cough brought him back to the present. ‘I heard this wild rumour, that you had absconded with the ransom money.’

  ‘Not true. If I had taken the money, why would I bother coming back to this godforsaken town?’

  Webb considered this, his lips pursed together.

  ‘I was shot by John Wylde. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He calls himself the emperor of China.’

  ‘Wylde? The name’s familiar. If I’m not mistaken, I believe my friends up at the Castle formed an acquaintance with him a few years ago, used him to break a strike.’

  Pyke nodded. He wasn’t surprised that a man like Webb knew such things. ‘I think someone paid him to assassinate me.’

  ‘What a terrible business,’ Webb said, shaking his head. ‘Then again there has been so much brute ugliness over these past few weeks I hardly recognise this town.’

  Pyke strode across to the window and looked out at the small courtyard and garden. ‘I understand you’ve been forced to halt production at the Morlais works.’

  ‘Temporarily, I hope. Now that the soldiers have restored order, I expect to be back in business in a day or two. To be perfectly frank, my future depends on it.’ Webb tried to laugh but there was tension in his eyes.

  ‘I’m told you’re close to Captain Kent, the man who’s billeting at the barracks and is in charge of the soldiers.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  Pyke opted to ignore the question. ‘Does that mean you’re coordinating the clean-up effort?’

  ‘Kent’s his own man but it’s true that I’ve made my wishes known to him.’ Webb was clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning.

  They stared at one another for a moment. ‘Why did you have to close the works?’ Pyke said, finally. Earlier he’d passed Caedraw and had seen plumes of smoke spurting from the top of the blast furnaces.

  ‘The atmosphere was too poisonous, given what happened: the violence, the riots, the beatings.’

  ‘I understand there are no such problems at Caedraw, though?’

  Webb took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘I would gladly choose my current predicament, as desperate as it is, over the ordeal that my friends from the Castle have had to endure.’

  Pyke thought again about what had happened to the Hancock boy, the sheer needless tragedy of it.

  ‘I do know that the Hancocks, père and fils, have drastically reduced the number of Irish workers at Caedraw. As a result, they haven’t been faced with the same difficulties as we have.’ Webb shrugged. ‘With the benefit of hindsight, it seems like a clever decision.’

  Pyke left the window and joined Webb in front of the fireplace. ‘The reason I came to see you was because I thought you might know where I could find Sir Clancy Smyth.’

  ‘Me? Why would I know that?’

  ‘He hasn’t been seen for a number of weeks. I’m told he’s gone back to his family pile in Ireland.’

  ‘That may be so, but I’m afraid Smyth and I haven’t been on speaking terms for some months.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Webb sighed. ‘I’ve had troubles with renegotiating the lease at Morlais. It runs out at the end of this year; in a couple of weeks, actually. To begin with, the landowners, the Thomas family, wanted thirty thousand a year. That’s sixteen more than I’m currently paying but the order books are full and I would have agreed to their demands. Then out of the blue Thomas came back and said he wanted fifty thousand a year. Fifty thousand pounds. At fifty, I’d be broke within months. It’s outrageous … pure greed.’

  ‘What’s any of this got to do with Smyth?’

  ‘His hands are all over it. He’s good friends with the Thomas family, sees himself as a defender of traditional values against parvenus such as myself and, I suppose, the Hancocks.’

  Pyke thought about the rancour that existed between Smyth and the Hancocks. ‘I see, but where’s the profit for him – and for the Thomas family – in driving you out of business?’

  ‘That’s a good question but I’m afraid it’s one I can’t answer. It’s very simple, really. I need to meet a sizeable order currently on the books from Russia if I’m to pay the rent they want to charge. But because of what’s happened, the trouble, I’m behind on production and I’ve heard that the Russians are looking around for alternative sources.’

  ‘And if you don’t meet the deadline?’

  ‘If I don’t meet the deadline and the Russians don’t pay for the iron that we’ve already produced, well …’ Webb shook his head, more sad than angry. ‘I’d have to shut down the works for good.’

  ‘So when did Thomas have this change of heart and demand fifty instead of thirty thousand?’

  ‘About a month ago.’

  ‘At Smyth’s bidding – or so y
ou think?’

  Webb looked around the simply furnished room, seemingly lost for a few moments. ‘If you want my opinion, Detective-inspector, I don’t believe he’s gone back to Ireland.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s too involved with every aspect of what goes on in this town. He wouldn’t leave all of it behind, not willingly anyway.’

  But what if something had gone terribly wrong and he’d found himself with the body of a sixteen-year-old boy on his hands?

  ‘If he decided to stay here, but he wanted to hide, who would put him up? You say he’s close to the Thomas family?’

  Webb’s eyes brightened. ‘I was planning to visit them later this morning, plead my case one final time. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?’

  In Webb’s company, William Thomas assured Pyke he knew nothing about the whereabouts of Sir Clancy Smyth, and when Pyke questioned the servants and stableboys, he was told that no one matching Smyth’s description had been seen in or near the house.

  Later Webb told him that he’d struck a deal with Thomas to pay thirty thousand a year, on the assurance that the full amount would be paid on the first of January.

  ‘Now I just need to meet the deadline for the Russian order, make sure they pay on time.’

  Webb dropped Pyke off in the middle of the town. As he had the previous night, Pyke intended to sleep in John Johns’ cabin and wanted to get there before the light disappeared. The track took him past the Caedraw works and the Castle.

  Had it really been only a few weeks since he had first set foot inside that Gothic monstrosity?

  It was hard to recall what he had expected on that occasion, what he had wanted to do, his hopes and fears. Pyke felt a gust of rage swell in his stomach but he did his best to quell it. He was thinking about Jonah and Zephaniah when he noticed there were still men posted at the gate. Without really thinking about what he was doing or why, Pyke slipped into the grounds and made his way up the slope to the walled garden where he had embraced Cathy. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Still not sure what he hoped to find, Pyke followed the route she’d shown him to the back of the building and the hidden passageway into the Castle. His boots may have been made from the best leather but Pyke had long since lost any feeling in his toes, and the left side of his stomach – where he’d been shot – ached, in spite of all the laudanum and gin he’d consumed.

  Earlier it had snowed and Pyke could see that farther up the mountain it had started to settle.

  Entering the passageway, he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had a box of matches in his pocket and it took him a few moments to retrieve it and light one. Briefly the match flared, illuminating the dank passageway. Pyke looked ahead and sniffed; he’d expected the air to smell of damp but a thicker, riper scent invaded his nostrils. Instinctively he knew what it was. Lighting another match, he took a few nervous steps forward and saw what looked like an old sack directly ahead. But he knew it wasn’t a sack; he knew what it was and the closer he edged towards it the more certain he became.

  Kneeling down, Pyke could see it was a human body and it was clear to him that the flesh had begun to rot. The air was so obscene that it took every ounce of his self-control not to vomit. Chivvying away a rat, he reached forward and felt his fingers touch flesh; cold, decomposing flesh.

  It was hard to tell who the corpse belonged to at first; maggots had eaten some of the flesh and the face and hair were covered in mud. Holding the match with one hand, he scraped away some of the mud from the face and felt a sudden jolt of panic. Her lips had turned blue and her eyes were as small and hard as stones. Both her wrists had been slit and next to her corpse lay a knife, the blade covered with dried blood.

  As he stood there, Pyke wondered what had passed through Cathy Hancock’s mind just before she had cut her own wrists.

  *

  By the time he had stumbled the mile or so from the Castle to John Johns’ cabin, Pyke ached from tiredness. It was now completely dark and all he could think about was Cathy’s crumpled form. He tried to remember her as she’d been, the time they had lain together, beautiful, coquettish. It was such a waste of a life. But she had lost her daughter and then her son and she was trapped in a loveless, moribund marriage. What did she have to live for? Pyke blamed himself – for not doing more to ensure her son’s safe return and for abandoning her in her moment of need. Perhaps if he hadn’t been shot, he could’ve found her, reasoned with her, reassured her. But what would he have said? What did you say to someone who’d just lost their son? Words were useless in the face of grief. Pyke knew this better than anyone.

  Looking around, it struck him he would need to forage for wood, light a fire. He didn’t need food, he wasn’t hungry, but the cold was intense.

  An envelope had been shoved under the door of the cabin. He saw it as soon as he stepped into the room. His name was scribbled on the front. Straight away, he recognised the writing, the same hand which had penned the first and last ransom demands. Quickly he tore it open and studied the contents.

  Vaynor cemetery. Tonight at nine.

  At the bottom of the page, there was a name, a signature. It took Pyke a few moments to place it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  TUESDAY, 2 FEBRUARY 1847

  Clonoulty, Co. Tipperary

  Knox stood over James’ cot, watching his son sleep. It was five in the afternoon and nearly dark, the first time James had slept in almost twelve hours. Martha was also asleep, on the floor, exhausted. She hadn’t put her head down in nearly three days. The doctor had visited again that afternoon and his prognosis wasn’t good. He had been especially concerned by the fact that some of James’ skin, especially on his back, had turned blue-black and he was still running a fever. James hadn’t eaten in two days, wouldn’t take any food, and for most of the day he was curled up in a ball. The doctor had mentioned cholera. When he’d left, they had gone back to the cot and stared down at their son, hoping for a miraculous transformation. Father Mackey had gone to the church to pray for James. A while later, the boy finally drifted off to sleep. Knox had ordered Martha to do likewise. A long night lay ahead of them.

  Martha had tried to reassure James, tried to talk to him, comfort him. It had worked to some extent but the lad was still very weak. Knox listened to his breathing, reassured, looking at his little hands.

  ‘Should we wake him?’ Martha said, about an hour later, after she’d splashed water on her face.

  ‘The doctor said sleeping was good.’

  She nodded, bit her lip. ‘He is going to be all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘The next two days will tell.’ This was what the doctor had said.

  Smiling, Martha reached out and touched his face. ‘Thank you for staying with me today.’

  The previous night, Knox had returned – euphoric – following his trip to Cashel and had told her about the exchange between Hastings, the County Inspector and Pierce, the policeman from England. Told her what he had said and done, played up his triumph, and that Pierce had forced his superiors to reinstate him in the constabulary. They would be able to eat, he’d said. They would find a new place to live. James would get better. Everything would go back to how it used to be. In the night, however, James’ fever had worsened and the cramping in his stomach had become more severe. By the morning, Knox hadn’t wanted to leave James’ side and no mention was made of his appointment in Cashel.

  Now it was evening and James’ condition had improved a little, Knox found himself thinking about Benedict Pierce, whether he’d travelled to Dundrum House alone and, if so, what kind of a welcome he’d received.

  ‘You’re worried about something. I can tell.’ Martha stroked his hand.

  ‘I’m worried about our son.’

  ‘But you’re thinking about what you missed today, whether it’ll count against you.’

  ‘We need to eat, pay the rent. I just wonder what will happen when this Englishman leaves.’

  ‘If James has a bette
r night, you should go and find this man Pierce tomorrow.’ Martha gave his hand a squeeze.

  Knox looked at her and nodded. She was a good wife. ‘Some day we’ll look back at this and smile.’

  ‘God, I hope so.’ She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  Knox set off for Cashel before dawn. James had slept all night and his temperature was lower. The lad had even managed a smile, the first in three days. That was when Martha had told Knox to go. He had prevaricated but her certitude and James’ improved condition were enough to convince him. He would travel to Cashel and find the Assistant Commissioner; between them they would determine what had happened to Pyke.

  Knox had to wait for an hour before the first cart heading in the direction of Cashel appeared. The driver, a shoemaker from Tip Town, didn’t hesitate to pick him up and they talked about the weather, their families, the countryside, anything but the famine.

  The sun had risen above the Rock by the time they entered the town, the shoemaker dropping Knox off by the fountain at the bottom of Main Street. Farther up the street, a brewer’s dray had pulled up outside the King’s Head and two men were unloading barrels of ale.

  As Knox entered the station-house, Sub-inspector Hastings was coming down the stairs. He saw Knox and stiffened slightly. ‘A word, if you please, Constable.’

  Knox followed the man back up the stairs to his office. At least the sub-inspector had referred to him by his rank.

  As soon as Knox shut the door, Hastings said, ‘Assistant Commissioner Pierce has had to return to London. He left last night on the stagecoach for Dublin.’

  Knox felt a tightening across his chest, not sure what this would mean for him. ‘Did he … ?’