‘Being treated like that…’ Pyke said, ‘it could make a person bitter.’
‘Not Maggie. You’d know what I mean if you met her. And she loved William, too. She would never do anything to put his life at risk.’
‘Maybe I should talk to her, just to rule her out as a suspect.’
‘You could do, but you’d have to travel to Scotland. She’s working for a family in Edinburgh.’
Pyke considered what she’d said. ‘Any other suspects?’
‘My husband has made many enemies in his years as an iron-master. The same goes for Zephaniah, more so. He’s always been more ruthless than my husband. In fact he treats Jonah with contempt, always describes him as weak and mollycoddled. It agitates my husband greatly, the fact that Zephaniah so clearly prefers his younger brother, Richard, and that spurs him to act in ways that belie his natural disposition.’
‘I asked Zephaniah about your family. He didn’t pretend he had much interest in your son beyond the fact that he’s heir to the estate.’
Cathy’s eyes darkened but she kept her thoughts to herself.
Pyke allowed his gaze to drift from her neck to her cleavage and immediately he saw that she’d noticed this. She smiled and touched his arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
Pyke thought about her husband downstairs and the fact that both of them were old enough to be her father.
‘It’s late, I’m tired.’ He looked into her cool, bloodshot eyes and felt the muscles in his stomach tighten.
It took Pyke a good hour to walk from the Castle to the ramshackle cottage near the old quarry but he left at five in the morning and made it there before sunrise, enabling him to slip into the cottage unnoticed. He didn’t know whether the kidnappers — if indeed that was who had sent the second letter — were watching the cottage, but if they were, he didn’t want his arrival to be spotted. By the time John Johns arrived at ten o’clock, to drop off the purse of sovereigns as Pyke had arranged, he supposed that someone would be watching them from the higher ground: they would watch Johns arrive with the purse and watch him leave without it and some time after that, they would venture down to the cottage to collect their booty. Pyke wanted to be there when this happened. He knew he was taking a risk — and potentially putting the Hancock boy’s life in danger by not following the demands of the second letter — but he wasn’t convinced that it had been sent by the real kidnappers.
It was easy to see why the cottage had been chosen as the site for the rendezvous. As a milky lightness appeared at the edges of the sky, Pyke saw that the place was surrounded on three sides by steep-angled hills, green and wet from the previous night’s rainfall. Anyone perched on one of these hills would have a bird’s-eye view of the cottage, and there was no way of sneaking up on it, in daylight at least, without being seen. Pyke peered out of the window. The previous night’s mist had cleared and visibility was good. Farther down the valley, he could just about see the blast furnaces attached to the Morlais works; beyond them the town spread out like a canker on an otherwise pristine landscape. It was seven o’clock. If he could just bring the Hancock boy home, that would be enough.
Through the window of the abandoned cottage, Pyke watched John Johns wander up the mud track. Clouds had rolled in off the hills and Pyke could see the first drops of rain. Johns kept his eyes fixed on the cottage, as Pyke had told him to, his shooting jacket buttoned right the way up to his collar. He didn’t bother to knock, just pushed open the door and entered the dark room. He dropped the purse on to the mud floor and brushed the rain from the shoulders of his coat.
‘I think there are two of them up there.’ He pointed to their approximate positions. ‘One on each hill.’
Pyke nodded. He had suspected this. ‘Do you think you could double back on yourself when you reach Anderson’s farm road, and try coming at them from the other side of the hill?’
‘Depends on how much time I’ve got.’ Johns hesitated then added, ‘And what you want me to do.’
‘Just try to see who they are. But don’t let them see you. That’s the important thing.’
‘Bet whoever comes here to pick up the purse will get the fright of their life when they see you.’
Pyke wondered whether Johns had meant this as a criticism.
‘I should get going.’ Johns peered out at the rain. ‘That is, if you want me on that hill by the time someone arrives to pick up the money.’
They parted without exchanging another word. Pyke watched Johns make his way back along the mud track until he was a faint smudge in the distance.
When someone arrived about an hour later, he seemed nervous and distracted, not at all sure what he was meant to do. Peering into the abandoned cottage, the man waited on the doorstep for what seemed like minutes, perhaps trying to summon up the courage to step inside. Pyke had seen him from a distance and didn’t recognise him. He was dressed as a labourer and walked with a determined stride. Pyke waited until the man was inside the cottage before he revealed himself, stepping out of the shadows behind the door. Startled, the man jumped back and before Pyke could grab him, he’d turned around and bolted for the door. He ran about ten or fifteen yards back down the track then stopped. He turned around and was about to say something when a loud crack echoed around the valley. Pyke watched as a flower of blood exploded on the front of the man’s shirt. His expression froze and he stumbled forward with nothing to break his fall. Pyke raced over to the spot where the man had fallen. Looking up at the hill, he saw that Johns was gesticulating towards the spot where the shot had come from but the marksman was nowhere to be seen. The only sound was the wind blowing in the long grass.
A few minutes later, Johns appeared, red-faced, by the side of the cottage, a rifle in his hand. ‘There were two of them all right. One of ’em must have seen me and decided to leave this behind.’ He glanced down at the body, which was surrounded by a thick pool of blood. ‘I saw they were armed but I never thought they’d turn their rifles on one of their own.’
‘Whoever he is,’ Pyke said, gesturing towards the corpse, ‘he isn’t, and wasn’t, ever one of them.’
‘As soon as the one on the farthest hill had got his shot off, they both ran away.’ Johns held out the rifle that he had retrieved from the mountainside.
Pyke took it from him and looked it over. ‘You recognise either of them?’ It was a new Baker’s rifle, one of the most expensive and accurate money could buy.
‘No, but if I saw the one who fired the shot again, I might be able to identify him.’ Johns looked up at the hill where the marksman had been positioned. ‘To hit a man square in the chest from that kind of distance… you’d have to be a professional soldier.’
Pyke nodded. He’d had the same thought. A Baker’s rifle was the weapon of choice for Her Majesty’s infantry. ‘There’s a barracks near here, isn’t there?’
‘That’s right. The Pennywenn barracks in Dowlais.’
‘Maybe you could go there, see if any of the faces are familiar?’
Johns seemed uncomfortable with this suggestion but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pointed towards the dead man. ‘Did he say anything to you before they shot him?’
‘He took one look at me and fled. That’s when he was shot.’
The blood had now seeped into the mud. Pyke knelt down next to the body and rummaged through the man’s pockets. Apart from a few coins, the only item was a notebook. Standing up, he flicked through it. It was a rent book. The address had been handwritten on the first page.
‘Where’s Irish Row?’
Johns frowned. ‘Dowlais, just around the corner from the Morlais works.’
Pyke held up the rent book. ‘According to this, that’s where he lived. Are you feeling strong?’
Johns wiped his hands on his coat. ‘How far do we have to carry him?’
They took it in turns to carry the dead body and made it as far as a public house on the Pennydarren Road. There, Pyke paid a man a couple of shillings for the use of
his horse and cart and they rode the additional mile to the Castle in silence. Pyke had decided to take the body to the Castle in the first instance because he wanted to know whether there had been news about the Hancock boy.
Johns just nodded.
As they neared the entrance, Pyke turned to Johns. ‘So how well do you know Cathy?’
‘Mrs Hancock? I met her after I left the regiment and decided to come here to Merthyr to live.’
Waiting a moment, Pyke said, ‘Most people in your circumstances would’ve fled back to England.’
‘A couple of the men left the regiment at the same time as me. Got out of Wales as fast as they could.’
‘But you wanted to stay?’
‘I think I saw it as my penance.’
‘And what kind of welcome did you receive?’
‘Most people didn’t know; not at first. Not until old man Hancock let it be known who I was and what I’d done.’
‘What you’d done on his orders.’
‘That didn’t seem to matter. I’d pulled the trigger. The blood was on my hands.’
‘Why would he do a thing like that?’
Johns shrugged. ‘I don’t think he liked the notion of me settling in his town. It made him nervous. He tried to force me to go elsewhere. Catherine came to my rescue. I think she heard the two Hancocks discussing my situation and took pity. Managed to convince Jonah that I wasn’t a threat.’
‘And are you?’
‘What… me? A threat?’ Johns turned to face him, his hands gripping the reins. They were nearly at the top of the hill, the Castle right in front of them.
They looked up and saw Jonah Hancock standing on the front steps. As soon as he saw the horse and cart, he rushed down the steps, his face creased with worry. ‘Superintendent Jones has just paid us a visit.’
Pyke saw Cathy emerge from the entrance. Her hair was loose and blowing in the gusty wind.
‘They’ve found a body under Jackson’s Bridge, a young boy.’ Jonah gasped for air. ‘Jones thinks it might be William.’
PART II
Hinterland — n. a region remote from urban areas n. a remote and undeveloped area n. unexplored territories full of mystery and danger
EIGHT
SUNDAY, 10 JANUARY 1847
Dundrum, Co. Tipperary
At the previous day’s constabulary meeting Sub-inspector Hastings had read out new crimes that had been perpetrated. The post-car from Cashel to Thurles had been held up and robbed; a home in Mullinahoue had been burgled by a gang of masked gunmen; a man had been set upon about a mile from town and relieved of his purse and his double-barrelled fowling piece; and worst of all, a policeman had been shot and seriously wounded when he had tried to prevent a pay clerk being robbed in Caher. Hastings had told them that the situation was unacceptable and it was their job to find and punish those responsible. He’d slammed his fist on his desk and told them that if they were doing their jobs properly, people would be too scared to commit any crimes. Knox hadn’t dared point out this was utter nonsense and crime was rising for the simple reason that people were desperate.
After the meeting, the sub-inspector had asked Knox how his murder inquiry was progressing. Knox had already decided not to tell Hastings that he’d identified the dead man and so he gave only a vague answer. The sub-inspector had grunted and reiterated his demand that Knox was to return to normal duty first thing on Tuesday morning. Cornwallis wanted the whole matter to go away and what Cornwallis wanted, men like Hastings endeavoured to make happen.
Therefore, when a note arrived at the barracks from the landlord of the New Forge in Dundrum requesting that Knox go there at his earliest convenience, he didn’t mention it to the sub-inspector.
After breakfast on Sunday, Martha and James set off to visit her sister in town and Knox picked up a ride from a shopkeeper who was on his way to Dundrum Hall to deliver some provisions. They exchanged a couple of pleasantries and then lapsed into silence. The air had a wintry feel and halfway between Cashel and Dundrum rain started to fall as sleet, the sky grey and threatening like gunmetal.
Knox found the landlord sweeping damp sawdust into piles in the taproom of the New Forge Inn. This time the man’s greeting was a little warmer. He offered Knox a nip of poteen, which Knox declined.
‘The maid was cleaning the room we were in the other day and found these stuffed under the mattress.’ He walked across to the counter and retrieved what turned out to be a thin bundle of letters.
Knox thanked the landlord and asked whether he could sit in a quiet corner and read them. ‘And I’ll take that poteen now, if you don’t mind.’
He settled down at a table at the far end of the narrow room and laid out the envelopes in front of him. In fact, there were just three. Carefully Knox removed the letters and scrutinised their contents. Penned by the same hand, they were addressed to Pyke and signed by someone called Felix. The first and second letters had been sent to an address in London; the final one, to the station-house in Merthyr Tydfil in Wales. In each letter, the return address had been given as St John’s church in Keynsham, Somerset. Knox took the earliest one, dated the fourth of August, and read it carefully once more. The author announced that he’d arrived safely and that he had been met at the train station by ‘Martin’ and was settling into his new accommodation very well. Everyone had been welcoming, he wrote, and he was looking forward to beginning his studies. He hoped that everything was fine at home and asked Pyke to pass on his best wishes to Mrs Booth and to give Copper — presumably a dog — a pat on the head. The letter was signed ‘With love, Felix’.
Knox put it back in the envelope. The tone was warm but not overly familiar. Felix was clearly the younger party and the reference to ‘home’ made Knox think that Felix might be the dead man’s son.
The second letter, dated the fourteenth of October, was longer and, Knox felt, more intimate. He focused on a passage from the middle.
I know you don’t want me to but I pray for you every morning. You sounded sad in your last letter. I know you claim no affiliation or belief but this must mean you feel terribly alone and even lonely at times. When I am lonely or afraid I pray to God and He helps comfort me. I know, of course, that you are never afraid but I worry that your sadness is something you won’t be able to alleviate on your own. You always told me that turning to someone outside of our family in times of need is a sign of weakness. I know Godfrey was a great support to you — and I hope I was too, though I was probably a burden as well — but now he has gone and I have moved here, who is there to help you? Who can you turn to in your hour of need?
Knox put down the letter and realised there were tears in his eyes. It wasn’t so much what had been written that had affected him; it was the fact that Felix cared greatly for the dead man and would now have to be told that his father had been murdered. Briefly Knox thought about his own father and how he would not mourn the man’s passing.
Further answers were provided by the final letter. This one was much briefer and to the point. Felix mentioned Pyke’s visit to Keynsham, referred to a kidnapped child and said that he hoped the child had been found. He finished the letter by announcing he’d been given a few days’ holiday from his studies and wanted to visit Pyke in Merthyr for a day or two. He said he would arrive some time on Sunday the twenty-second and stay with Pyke until the Tuesday morning.
Knox folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. He had another look at the address. The station-house, Merthyr Tydfil. When Knox had first noticed Felix’s reference to an investigation, he’d assumed that Pyke was some kind of private agent but now it struck him that Pyke might be a policeman. The letter had also mentioned a kidnapped child. What if Pyke had been sent to Merthyr to try to find this child? Still, there was nothing in the letter that explained what had brought Pyke to Ireland — or who might have wanted him dead.
Knox looked down and saw that his hands were trembling. What if the corpse were a senior policeman from London? The situati
on made him feel ill.
Carefully Knox placed the letters in his coat pocket and thanked the landlord for the poteen he hadn’t touched.
Outside the sleet had turned to snow. It was midday and he looked up and down the street for any sign of a carriage or cart. Folk would be coming out of church and he might be lucky enough to find a ride back to Cashel.
‘Knox.’
He looked up and saw Maxwell hurrying across the street in his direction. Cornwallis’s agent was red-faced.
‘Someone saw you earlier and word got back to his Lordship. He has a problem and asked me to come and find you.’
Knox felt his stomach knot. ‘What kind of a problem?’
Maxwell seemed to notice Knox’s unease and appeared to enjoy it. He offered Knox a thin smile. ‘His Lordship will explain.’
They found Cornwallis in the stables. The aristocrat was wearing tan breeches, black leather riding boots, a bright red waistcoat and a grey cutaway coat. He was pacing up and down outside a stable door.
‘Your presence in Dundrum is most fortuitous, Constable. I presume you were visiting your family?’
Knox just nodded. He had no intention of telling Cornwallis the real reason for his visit.
‘I would like to think they’re happy in their new accommodation.’ He glanced over at Maxwell. ‘I imagine they will find things a good deal more pleasant where they are.’
Knox didn’t want to agree because that would put him in Cornwallis’s debt, but he didn’t want to disagree and risk eliciting the old man’s ire.
Cornwallis nodded impatiently. ‘Anyhow, boy, now you’re here, you can take care of a little problem for me.’
‘Has something happened, your Lordship?’
Cornwallis removed a key chain from his one of his pockets and went to unlock the stable door. ‘Maxwell here caught him red-handed. The brigand was trying to draw blood from one of my cattle.’
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