Bloody Winter pm-5

by Andrew Pepper

  Cornwallis put his hands on his hips and stared out across the silent hall. He started to smile. ‘Now to my warning. Should the Board attempt to raise an additional levy against my estate, I shall have little choice but to redesignate my land as belonging to the neighbouring parish, which will mean, of course, that I’ll pay my rate there.’

  As he sat down, the full implications of what he’d said started to ripple around the room. If Cornwallis withdrew his rate the workhouse could not be sustained and would have to close, forcing all five hundred men, women and children on to the streets. The result would be calamitous.

  Afterwards, Knox was so deep in thought he didn’t notice Cornwallis approaching him until it was too late. The man’s face was glistening with perspiration and Knox could smell the wine on his breath.

  ‘I understand that your investigation is proceeding as per our discussion.’ He reached out and patted Knox on the face. ‘You’re a good boy, Michael. Loyal as they come. I mentioned this to your mother earlier today. She is very proud of you.’

  Knox looked at the older man’s self-satisfied expression and had to rein in the urge to say what he really thought of him.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder if it will be Head-constable Knox before very long. Who knows? Perhaps even sub-inspector one of these days.’

  Knox stared down at his boots and again said nothing.

  FIVE

  TUESDAY, 17 NOVEMBER 1846

  Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales

  Pyke’s first impressions of the town were not very promising and a brief walk around it didn’t alter this perception. Merthyr was a squalid town trapped in a valley between three dirty mountains. If he’d arrived at night, someone said, the sight of jets of fire spurting up from the giant blast furnaces at the two great ironworks would have been impressive, but in daylight the place simply looked depressing, a grotesque man-made sore on an already bleak landscape.

  In fact, to call the row upon monotonous row of squat back-to-back houses a town seemed to be a misnomer. Aside from a multitude of poorly constructed chapels, there were no public buildings or amenities of any note: no town hall, no fever hospital, no workhouse, no pavements, no gaslights, nothing to indicate that the civic spirit ran to anything more than letting the two ironworks do exactly as they wished. The High Street was pleasant enough, Pyke supposed, in a rather drab way, but he could see immediately that there were parts of the town where the squalor and degradation were as bad, if not worse, than anything he’d encountered in London.

  On the train up from Cardiff, Pyke had sat next to a Chartist called Bill Flint. The radical had told Pyke that the town was booming on the back of a seemingly unquenchable thirst for iron, but that all the wealth was going straight into the pockets of the families that owned the largest ironworks: the Webbs of Morlais and the Hancocks of Caedraw. Merthyr, Flint had explained, was the biggest iron-producing town in the world. Wages were high, he acknowledged, compared with other parts of the country, but so were costs; private landlords were making a killing on rents and the truck system meant that workers had to spend their earnings buying overpriced goods at the company shop. What little remained went into the pockets of the publicans and brothel-keepers. At the last count, Flint said, there were five hundred beer shops and at least fifty brothels, the latter crammed into an area known as China. In turn, this had attracted swell mobs, pickpockets, thieves and gamblers from as far afield as Bristol and Liverpool.

  Along the way, the police had lost control of parts of the town. But the ironmasters — to whom the police answered — didn’t seem to be particularly concerned about gambling and prostitution and cared only about excessive drinking after payday when the workers didn’t turn up for their shifts. It was the threat of industrial unrest that really frightened them, and there had been plenty of skirmishes over the years. The Merthyr Rising and the insurrection at Newport had been the most serious instances, and on each occasion soldiers had been called in to quell the unrest, with innocent men being shot and killed. On those occasions, Flint explained, the area had been suffering some of its leanest years and the men had been afraid for their jobs. Now, it was boom time and since there were more jobs than people to fill them, some of the radicals wanted to argue for higher wages. The town was awash with unsavoury types but the worst criminals of all were the ironmasters, Flint concluded. Perhaps not Sir Josiah Webb, who was well intentioned, but Zephaniah and Jonah Hancock were nothing short of pirates.

  Pyke hadn’t mentioned the kidnapping and Flint hadn’t asked about it, or about Pyke’s reason for visiting the town.

  Before presenting himself at the Hancocks’ home, he decided to call in to the station-house, a two-storey building on Graham Street. There, he found Superintendent Henry Jones, a well-spoken, energetic man in his twenties. Clearly Jones knew about the kidnapping but he hadn’t been forewarned of Pyke’s visit. He greeted Pyke and lamented the shortcomings of the force he oversaw in Merthyr, perhaps worried how the operation might look to a detective-inspector from London. When Pyke explained that he wanted to speak to Sir Clancy Smyth, the young superintendent suggested they wander over to the old courthouse.

  ‘So what are your first impressions of our fair town?’ Jones asked, as they crossed the street outside the station-house.

  Pyke couldn’t tell whether he was being ironic. ‘Do you want an honest answer?’

  Jones laughed nervously. ‘It has its moments, you know. The Taff Valley is really rather beautiful.’

  They walked for a while in silence. The streets in the town centre were quiet, with just a few drays and carts making deliveries.

  ‘How many days has it been since the Hancock child was seized?’

  ‘Five or six, I think.’ Jones kept on walking. ‘I think a ransom note was delivered to the castle the day before yesterday.’

  When Pyke had first seen the Hancocks’ address, he’d wondered whether the first line — Caedraw Castle — was an exaggeration. Since arriving in Merthyr, he had actually seen it from a distance, a grotesque mock-medieval pile perched on one of the hills overlooking the town.

  ‘You don’t seem sure.’

  ‘As you’ll doubtless find out, the Hancocks have their own way of conducting their affairs. For whatever reason, our expertise, such as it is, has not been required.’

  ‘You don’t know who sent the note, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what was demanded but I’m told the ransom note was penned by Scottish Cattle.’

  ‘Scottish Cattle?’

  ‘Most folk just call ’em the Bull.’ Jones turned to face him. ‘To some, they’re defenders of workers’ rights. To us, they’re terrorists, plain and simple. These days, you’re more likely to find folk from the Bull in mining villages farther up the valley. They killed a man once, back in the thirties, but I haven’t heard much about them in recent years. Far as I know, they’ve never gone so far as to kidnap a master’s child before.’

  ‘You have your doubts about their involvement?’

  ‘I don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t seen the ransom letter; I don’t know what’s being demanded.’

  Ignoring the chill wind blowing off the mountain, Pyke looked up and down the street. Built from flint and stone, with two gable-ends and a porch covered in ivy, the courthouse was one of the oldest buildings in the town. Jones explained that it had once also been the family residence but some time after his wife died, Smyth had moved to an estate — Blenheim — about two miles farther down the valley.

  Sir Clancy Smyth had a round, lively face and a brisk, no-nonsense demeanour. His friendliness seemed genuine enough, especially after Pyke mentioned that Sir Richard Mayne had passed on his best wishes, but there was something about his performance that wasn’t quite convincing, a deadness in his eyes that seemed to contradict the curdling smile on his lips. He stood by the fireplace but kept shuffling from one foot to the other, as though being still was somehow beyond him.

  ‘Look, Detective-inspector,’ Smy
th said, when the conversation turned to the matter of the kidnapping, ‘whether I care for the family or not, it’s true that the Caedraw ironworks is one of the largest of its kind. It employs three thousand men, women and children and the welfare of the whole town depends on its success.’

  Pyke could tell at once that Smyth did not care for the family, and the fact that he didn’t mind sharing this fact with a complete stranger suggested that the magistrate and the Hancocks were in open dispute.

  As if to explain this, Smyth added, ‘Zephaniah Hancock is, wholly without justification, contemptuous of our constabulary.’ He glanced across at Jones. ‘He might be more impressed by a detective-inspector from Scotland Yard. You could be our eyes and ears in the Castle. Of course, we want the same thing they want, the boy returned to his family. Everything else is unimportant.’

  Pyke’s thoughts turned to Cathy, as they had done on numerous occasions during the journey. Would she be happy to see him? Turning his attention back to the magistrate, Pyke considered what he’d been told. He wasn’t convinced by Smyth’s assurances but appreciated the man’s candour.

  ‘So what can you tell me about Hancock’s wife?’

  ‘She’s much younger much than he is and a very beautiful creature. I wouldn’t say it’s an especially happy marriage but then again, I’m not sure I’m the best person to comment on such matters.’

  Pyke looked around the room and wondered whether, as a widower, the man had any children. Would this be him in a few years’ time? Pyke’s thoughts returned — briefly — to Felix waving at him from the station platform.

  ‘If you have no objections,’ Smyth said, looking at Jones, ‘I should like to be alone with the detective-inspector.’

  Jones knew his place and nodded before departing, saying he would wait for Pyke in the entrance hall.

  ‘Jones is a nice chap, honest and hard working, but I’m afraid he’s quite ineffectual. The whole force is. As much as it pains me to say it, Zephaniah Hancock is right.’ Smyth wandered over to the window and peered through the glass before turning around.

  ‘In my experience,’ Pyke said, ‘policemen are only as effective or ineffective as they’re allowed to be by their superiors.’

  Smyth took the admonishment well. ‘Of course, you’re quite right, sir. Our mandate here has never been a strong one.’

  ‘If you’ll permit me to say it, Sir Clancy, you don’t seem to care for the Hancock family very much.’

  The magistrate turned around again and looked out at the street. ‘That’s a difficult statement for me to comment on, sir. Perhaps all I can say is that their general contribution to the civilisaton of this town has been less than I would like it to have been.’ He paused. ‘Did you know that Thomas Carlyle called Merthyr the most squalid place on earth? He was especially worried by the absence of a middling class of men, the kind who could bring some respectability to the town.’

  ‘The Hancocks would doubtless claim they have provided work for the masses.’

  ‘Indeed, and this is no small achievement. But if we can’t take pride in our town, how can we expect others to do so? You’ve probably heard people talk about China. That’s what they call Pontystorehouse or the Cellars. It’s a squalid little area and at present we’ve all but ceded it to the gangs.’

  Pyke recalled what Bill Flint had told him during their train journey from Cardiff.

  ‘The rot starts in China,’ Smyth continued. ‘If we cut it out at the root, the town’ll be able to breathe a little easier.’ The magistrate realised what he’d said and tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t come all this way to hear me rant about our local difficulties.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s some link between the kidnapping and the trouble in China?’

  Smyth smoothed back his silver hair with the palm of his hand. ‘Perhaps — but then again I don’t imagine any of the gangs would dare to launch such an open challenge to one of the ironmasters.’

  Pyke watched a cart rattle past the window.

  ‘Actually, Sir Clancy, I was hoping you could recommend someone I could use as a translator; preferably a man who isn’t going to be intimidated by venturing into the more unsavoury parts of town.’

  ‘Like China?’

  Pyke shrugged but said nothing. ‘There is someone actually. A good fellow called John Johns. He’s a former soldier but don’t hold that against him.’ Smyth relaxed into his shabby armchair. ‘To be honest, he’s rather a queer chap, likes to keep himself to himself, but I’m told he’s good with his fists and I know for a fact that he speaks Welsh like a native.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He rents a shack about a quarter of a mile out of town, on the road to Vaynor.’

  As Pyke turned to rejoin Jones in the hallway, Smyth stood up and followed him to the door. Putting his hand on Pyke’s shoulder he said, ‘I don’t mean to alarm you, Detective-inspector, but a friendly word of advice. Please watch yourself in your dealings with the Hancock family.’

  Pyke was about to ask what he meant when Jones appeared and without another word Smyth turned and closed the door to his office behind him.

  Caedraw Castle was a hideous construction with faux-crenellated walls and numerous turrets of different shapes and heights. Pyke didn’t know which was worse: the ugliness of the building or the vanity it spoke of. Its proximity to the ironworks, meanwhile, was a stark reminder to those who toiled there of their lowly place in the world, for it meant that the Hancocks could keep an eye on their fiefdom from their drawing-room window, like a jealous master unwilling to let his mistress out of his sight.

  It was dark by the time Pyke approached the Castle from the road and a damp fog was rolling in off the mountains. At the top of the hill he turned to face the works. It was an impressive sight, he supposed: jets of fire streaking up into the darkness from the top of the blast furnaces and the eerie glow of the tips that sprawled down the balding mountain on the far side of the valley. Even from this vantage point, the noise was prodigious too: the clanking of iron chains, the bashing of hammers, the grinding of water wheels. Turning back to the Castle, Pyke took a deep breath and tried to work out what was causing the butterflies in his stomach.

  When the butler opened the door hatch and peered out, he told Pyke that the family was not receiving any visitors. Pyke introduced himself and told the man he’d come at the family’s request from London to investigate the kidnapping. Eventually the door swung open and he was ushered into the gloomy entrance hall.

  Jonah Hancock’s girth had spread since Pyke had last seen him but otherwise the man was just as he remembered: a tall, commanding figure with sandy-coloured hair, and a strong lantern jaw. But it was his air of superiority that Pyke remembered most, as though everyone he talked to was a lesser species. He pumped Pyke’s hand and then strode into the adjoining room, expecting Pyke to follow. A log fire was roaring in the grate and slumped in an armchair next to it was an old man. Jonah introduced Pyke to Zephaniah Hancock.

  As he answered Jonah’s predictable questions about his journey from London, Pyke’s stare kept returning to the old man. He’d heard stories about Zephaniah Hancock’s viciousness and opportunism and it was difficult to reconcile these with the emaciated figure hunched before him, a thick blanket over his legs. Wrinkled skin sagged from his face and gathered in leathery folds around his neck, and the few strands of ash-white hair that remained on his liver-spotted head were as fine as spun cotton. But the moment Pyke looked into his tiny, red-rimmed eyes, he saw that the old man’s mind was undiminished.

  Significantly it was Zephaniah who spoke first about the case. ‘We haven’t made the mistake of relying on the good men of the Glamorgan constabulary but, on the recommendation of Jonah’s wife, we chose instead to solicit the assistance of Detective-inspector Pyke of Scotland Yard.’ While the old man caught his breath, Pyke tried to work out whether there was a note of mockery in his voice. ‘I hope you won’t disappoint us. You don’t need me to tell you wha
t’s at stake for this family.’

  ‘I can’t make any promises but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your grandson is returned to you safe and well.’ He glanced over at the door. ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me what happened

  …’

  It was Jonah who spoke. ‘Every week, always on a Monday, my wife Catherine takes the boy to place fresh flowers on our other child’s grave.’ He must have seen Pyke’s expression because he added, ‘We had a lovely little girl, Mary. I’m sorry to say she died two summers ago from consumption.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  Jonah nodded blankly. ‘One of the drivers took them. It’s a fifteen-minute ride to the cemetery at Vaynor. On the way back, just past the ruined castle, four bandits appeared out of nowhere, brandishing pistols, their faces masked by handkerchiefs. One of them seized my son, William. They dragged him into the bushes and warned my wife and driver not to follow. This took place a week ago yesterday.’

  Pyke made a mental note of the reference to the cemetery at Vaynor. Wasn’t that where Smyth had said John Johns, the prospective translator, lived? ‘I’ll need to talk to the driver, tonight, if possible. Your wife, too.’