Bloody Winter pm-5

by Andrew Pepper

  Rummaging around in his pocket, he produced another five-shilling coin and let the clerk see it before closing his fist around it.

  The clerk looked around the small, dusty room. ‘Why don’t you come back in about an hour, sir? I’ll see what I can do.’

  As he left, Knox saw that the clerk was inspecting the coin he’d left on the desk.

  An hour later, the clerk was sitting at his desk, a giant ledger book open in front of him. He beamed at Knox and even stood up and shook his hand.

  ‘The Twenty-ninth Regiment was stationed here in the spring of 1825.’ He patted the ledger. ‘Fortunately for you, military men are assiduous record-keepers.’

  ‘Do you have a list of new recruits?’

  The clerk smiled and patted the book again. ‘Your brother’s name?’

  ‘Johns.’

  Carefully the clerk ran his finger down the list of names scribbled in black ink. He came to a halt about halfway down. ‘John Johns. Date of birth, March tenth 1806. Forty years old now, nearly forty-one.’

  ‘Is there any other information?’

  The clerk looked puzzled. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Whether he’s still part of the regiment? Or a date of discharge, perhaps?’

  ‘The Twenty-ninth have long since moved on. We wouldn’t have that information here. But I do happen to recall that this particular regiment was stationed in South Wales for a while. Got themselves tangled up in some nasty business in Newport about seven or eight years ago, had to turn their rifles on civilians.’

  Knox thought about the letter sent by the son to the deceased while he was in Merthyr. That was in South Wales, wasn’t it?

  Frustrated, he paid the man another five shillings and retraced his steps to the town centre. There, he counted the coins left in his purse: one pound and eight shillings. The previous night’s banquet was now a distant memory but he resisted the urge to spend any more of his money on food.

  It took him the rest of the day, most of it spent waiting by the side of the road, to travel to Clonoulty.

  Knox knew something was wrong the moment he saw Martha. A grim-faced maid had met him at the front door and led him through the house to a room at the back.

  Martha’s sleeves were rolled up, and her hair was pinned back. She didn’t hug him. Instead, she said, ‘It’s James.’ She looked pale and exhausted.

  Knox felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘He started to cry just after we left you, he wouldn’t stop, and before we got here, the driver had to pull over and wait while I cleaned him up. There was shit everywhere. The night before last he was sick four times and now he’s running a fever, poor little mite, wailing and sobbing. There’s nothing I can do.’ There were tears streaming down her face.

  Knox went to comfort her but she pushed him away. ‘Father Mackey’s gone to fetch a doctor.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘He’s sleeping now, first time in two days. I don’t want you to wake him.’

  ‘I just want to see him.’

  ‘Later, Michael.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I know it’s not fair of me to blame you but you weren’t here.’

  ‘This is my fault?’

  ‘It was a terrible journey. James was in a state by the time we arrived here.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is our son got sick because we were evicted from our home?’

  ‘No. Lord, I don’t know. Listen to me. I haven’t slept in two days, Michael. I blame myself. Of course I’m going to blame you as well.’

  ‘If I could just see him…’

  Martha’s face reddened. ‘I said I didn’t want him woken. It’s taken two, three days for you to get here and all of a sudden you’re making demands.’

  ‘You made it quite clear I wasn’t welcome here, Martha. I wasn’t needed. That Mackey’s invitation didn’t extend to me.’

  ‘ I needed you, Michael, but you weren’t here. I needed you to hold me and tell me our son is going to get better.’

  Knox stared at her, chastised and angry. She’d never spoken to him like this before.

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

  Martha bit her lip and nodded, her eyes welling up. ‘When the doctor arrives, he’ll expect to be paid.’

  ‘I have money.’ Knox pulled out his purse and jangled the coins. He felt pathetic.

  ‘And when that’s all gone?’

  ‘Whatever it takes, Martha. I’ll walk on water, if I have to.’

  That made her smile. ‘What if it’s too late? What if he’s caught something and there’s nothing we can do?’

  Knox opened his arms and this time she allowed him to hug her.

  Knox had always believed he was a good father, and since James had been born he’d tried never to raise his voice in his son’s presence. He remembered what it had been like to hear his parents rowing, see his father raise his fists, trying to intervene and getting his eye cut or lip split in the process. Perhaps as a result, he’d always been careful to treat his wife and son with kindness and understanding. But as he watched his son from the doorway, the boy’s tiny frame wrapped up in a blanket, Knox felt that he’d failed.

  The doctor had been and gone, told them what they already knew — that James was gravely ill. He’d promised to return in the morning but hadn’t said anything about his fee.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier.’ Martha squeezed Knox’s hand. ‘Some of the things I said.’

  Knox touched her forehead. ‘You must be exhausted. Why don’t you try to sleep? I’ll wake you if there’s any change.’

  ‘I might do that.’ She smiled bravely. ‘You didn’t tell me what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Another time.’

  Martha nodded. Perhaps she understood why he didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want another argument.

  They heard a bang at the door and wondered whether the doctor had forgotten something. Then they heard voices, unfamiliar voices, and footsteps, determined ones. Mackey knocked first and then opened the door, his face pale.

  ‘The police want to talk to Michael.’

  Knox exchanged a wordless glance with Martha.

  In the hallway, Sub-inspector Hastings was flanked by two constables, Morgan and O’Hanlon. Knox hadn’t expected to see someone of Hastings’ rank. The constables averted their eyes.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  Hastings looked at Martha. ‘Your wife was seen in the village by one of our constables and word came back to us at Cashel. A man was posted outside the house.’

  Knox nodded, tight-lipped. It was a small, often oppressive world: everyone knowing everyone else’s business. But that didn’t explain why they had been looking for him; or why a man of Hastings’ rank had come all this way to see him.

  The sub-inspector coughed. ‘We’d like you to accompany us back to the barracks.’

  Knox wasn’t afraid, not any more. ‘My son is very ill. I’m not leaving this house.’

  Hastings faltered. ‘I’m afraid I have my orders.’

  Knox tried to think how his actions could have warranted such a reaction. ‘I don’t care if you’ve got orders from the Queen. I’m not leaving this house. I have to tend to my son.’

  Hastings licked his lips, not sure how to proceed. Looking at the constables, he gathered his resolve. ‘My orders are to bring you to the barracks. I’m authorised to use force, if that’s what it takes.’

  ‘Haven’t you caused me enough agony? Didn’t you hear what I said? My son’s gravely ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your son.’ Hastings turned to O’Hanlon and Morgan. Reluctantly they stepped forward and clasped their hands around his shoulders, one on either side. Knox tried to shake them off but they wouldn’t let go. He hadn’t spoken to any of his former colleagues since being dismissed but now it was clear that he was to be treated as an enemy. Knox felt his resistance wither; he would go with them because he had no choice.

  ‘At
least let me say goodbye to my wife and child.’

  Hastings pursed his lips together and nodded. The constables let him go. Martha threw her arms around him.

  ‘James will pull through, Michael. You’ll see. We’ll be here waiting for you.’

  Knox felt the daguerreotypes, heavy in his coat pocket, and tried to remember what he’d done with the deceased’s pistol and knife, where he’d put them. Then he remembered they were wrapped up in the blanket which he had left in the coal shed at the back of the house.

  ‘Can I have a moment with my wife?’

  Hastings and the two constables withdrew to the door but kept it open. Turning his back on them, Knox clasped his wife’s hands and held them. ‘Keep him safe. I’ll be back as soon as I’m allowed.’

  Martha let him hold her but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘I’m afraid, Michael. I’m afraid that our son won’t make it.’ She was shivering in his arms.

  ‘We just have to be strong,’ he muttered, trying to sound convincing.

  NINETEEN

  TUESDAY, 24 NOVEMBER 1846

  Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales

  Pyke woke up and had no idea what time it was, whether it was day or night. He touched his wound, as gently as possible, gasping out loud from the pain now that the effect of the gin and laudanum had worn off. Looking down, he noticed that the blood was still fresh. Upstairs he could hear the family moving around. He would have died without their kindness, the fact they’d hidden him from Wylde and had fetched him what he’d needed: gin and laudanum for the pain, bandages and something to pick out the lumps of ball-shot. Pyke had imbibed the gin before going to work on the wound, and when he’d removed the last of the shot, he’d used a hot poker to close it. That had been the worst bit, the part that had caused him to scream with agony. Later, he’d slept and now he was awake. Awake and still alive. Peeling back the bloody bandages, he inspected the wound. It looked grim. At least there was no sign of infection, no gangrenous smell. He changed the bandages and then tried to sit up.

  Pyke had offered five hundred pounds to the person who could bring Felix to him. He had made the offer to the family and told them to pass the word on to their friends, the people they trusted, but as yet no one had found him. Pyke hoped this meant Felix hadn’t travelled to Merthyr after all, and he had already sent a message to Martin Jakes in Keynsham. What bothered him was the clerk’s conviction, when he’d asked for his son at the station-house. Yes, Felix had arrived. Yes, he’d taken a room at the Southgate Hotel. Pyke had been set up, that much was clear. But who had given the orders? Wylde had been waiting to ambush him at the hotel, but how had he found out about Felix?

  Pyke hadn’t been a good father. He hadn’t been there for Felix as often as he should have. His uncle, now deceased, had helped to bring up the boy. Pyke had spent too much time away from home. The lad had forgiven him but the scars were there for all to see. Pyke had driven him into the arms of the Church. He hauled himself into a sitting position, bolts of pain coursing up and down his left side, almost causing him to bite off his tongue. He had finished the laudanum hours earlier and there was no gin left either. Sinking back to a horizontal position, Pyke stared up at the ceiling, trying to work out how Wylde had found out about his role in the burglary or indeed whether this had been the reason for the ambush. His thoughts turned to the Hancock boy.

  Pyke had heard nothing about him either. He had sent a message to the Castle, that he had delivered the suitcase, as requested. All being well, William Hancock had arrived back — in one piece — at eleven o’clock the previous morning. But what if the boy hadn’t materialised? The Hancocks would be frantic and they would be blaming him.

  Briefly his mind turned to Cathy, her soft, smooth skin, the way she’d yielded, dug her fingernails into his back.

  When he woke up again, the family were downstairs, trying to go about their business. They were talking in Welsh. Noticing he was awake, Megan, the wife, knelt down next to him and touched his forehead. She had kind eyes. Smiling, she said something to John, her husband.

  ‘Felix? My son?’

  They understood that much. John shook his head, frowning.

  Pyke wanted to ask them about the Hancocks, whether they’d heard anything about the boy, but he didn’t think they’d understand him.

  There was a bang on the door and Megan went over to the window to see who it was. She went to the door and opened it. Must be someone she knew, someone she trusted. Pyke listened. They spoke in Welsh. The woman at the door was agitated, excited even. The husband joined in the conversation, and then indicated to Pyke that he would go next door and fetch their neighbour, who spoke some English. Pyke could tell from the tone of their conversation that something was wrong.

  The neighbour came and knelt down next to him. ‘They’ve found a body in Post Office Field.’

  ‘ Who? ’ Pyke felt as if he had been winded and panic spilled through him, the news he hadn’t wanted to hear.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How far is Post Office Field?’

  ‘From here? A few minutes.’

  Pyke didn’t have to think about it. He staggered to his feet, the pain now a welcome distraction.

  A large crowd had built up near the entrance to Post Office Field, an acre of scrubland surrounded by houses. A constable Pyke didn’t recognise was blocking the only route into the place.

  Men and women were whispering to one another in a mix of Welsh and English, curious shopkeepers mingling with labourers from the ironworks.

  The neighbour turned to him. ‘A woman over there knows the man who found the body. He reckons it’s a young boy.’

  Pyke experienced a giddy surge of relief, and then guilt. His thoughts turned to Cathy; he wondered whether she’d heard the news. He heard someone say, ‘Hancock.’

  ‘It could be the master’s son.’ The neighbour was a Caedraw worker, a furnace-man. He was terrified by the notion.

  Pyke imagined the scene, a handful of constables huddled over a corpse, frozen almost solid. He thought about the Hancocks, the worst news a family could receive, the rage and the grief, the devastation they would be feeling. It was the most heartbreaking thing that could happen to a parent, having to bury your child. Nothing would be the same again.

  They heard the horses, the rattling of a harness, before they saw the brougham. It turned into the dead end from Victoria Street, the crowd clearing a path before it. It came to a halt, and the driver climbed down and opened the door. There was Jonah Hancock, but no sign of Cathy. Hancock took no notice of the crowd, his expression blank, the muscles of his face clenched tight. The constable let him through; they watched as he crossed the first part of the field.

  Pyke reached inside his coat and touched his wound. There was fresh blood on his fingers. He could hardly feel the pain, though. Why had the kidnappers taken the boy’s life?

  The crowd had grown and a hushed reverence had come over them. Death was a regular occurrence for the poor but not for a family like the Hancocks.

  Pyke’s thoughts turned to Cathy. She would be distraught, inconsolable. He wanted to see her, comfort her, but he knew this was out of the question. Would the family blame him?

  The crowd looked up and everyone was quiet: Jonah Hancock in the distance, carrying the body of his son. Someone next to Pyke began to sob, another joined in. Hancock was closer now, striding carefully, his son’s legs and arms dangling down. Pyke watched his hard expression and wondered whether he could have managed such composure, such dignity, if the corpse had been Felix’s.

  Approaching the brougham, Hancock handed the body to the driver, then climbed into the carriage and reclaimed it. The door closed and moments later the brougham rattled off in the direction of Victoria Street.

  As soon as the brougham had gone, the mood turned ugly, grief turning to anger. Later the neighbour explained that the people had been talking about the police search of Bathesda Gardens and Quarry Row. Hadn’t they been looking for a child? A few p
eople had put two and two together and had come up with an answer. An Irish mob had killed the Hancock boy. Most of the people there worked, or knew someone who worked, at Caedraw, and it was as if an outsider had come into their community and killed one of their own. No one seemed to like Jonah Hancock but he was the ironmaster and deserved their loyalty.

  By the time Pyke left, some of the crowd were shouting for vengeance.

  That night, still with no word from Felix, Pyke lay in the downstairs room, imagining the worst. Perhaps it had been seeing William Hancock’s corpse, seeing a father carry his dead son.

  John and the neighbour had paid one of the police constables a considerable sum of money. The man had told them, reassured them, promised them, that Felix wasn’t being held in the station-house, and had never been there. Pyke had given them a physical description of the clerk who’d directed him to the Southgate Hotel. They were told that the man hadn’t shown up for work. Asked for his home address, the constable had given it to them, but when they had gone there to look for him, they found that the room had been vacated.

  Later in the night, Pyke heard the rioting and thought about Felix, possibly out there, alone in a strange country. Pyke could almost feel the hatred, the resentment, the ugliness vibrating in the air. Dosed up on laudanum, he drifted in and out of consciousness, asleep when awake and awake when asleep; shapes, faces, memories moving in and out of focus, their meaning just beyond his reach.

  In the morning, the family was told that a mob of more than two hundred, mostly from the Caedraw ironworks, had marched on Quarry Row and Bathesda Gardens. Taken by surprise, the police had been unable to stop them from setting light to the houses. No one seemed to know how widespread the rioting had been but people had died.

  Soldiers from the barracks were now patrolling the streets and reinforcements had been summoned from Brecon.

  The disturbances had spread to the works themselves, Caedraw and Morlais. Someone reported that all of the blast furnaces had gone quiet, the first time this had happened since the strike.