‘A hamlet near Loughgall.’
Magennis nodded. ‘You talk of our hate as though it’s something other-worldly, monstrous even. But what about the hate that’s been turned against us, for no other reason than we’re proud, God-fearin’ Orangemen? If you know so much, why don’t you tell me about the time when, two hundred years back, Irish papists led by Phelim O’Neill marched into Market Hill, a few miles from here, and started gleefully killin’ all the good Protestant men, women and children they could lay their hands on, ended up murderin’ thirty thousand, three-quarters of all the Protestants in Ireland.’
His voice was trembling a little. Pyke decided to let him finish.
‘Let me tell you the story of this wee place. We call it the Diamond. Twenty-four years back, I was a strapping lad, like you, just startin’ off in the world, a new wife and child to protect. Thing was, we’d suffered terrible losses to the papist Defenders over the previous few months. One fellow on the Jackson estate, he’d had his tongue ripped out, his fingers cut off one by one. They’d sliced his wife’s breasts clean off her chest. Mutilated his wee boy. Things were gettin’ mighty tense, to be sure. Both sides started to gather themselves, the Defenders, looking to run us off our land, and our boys, Orange boys and the Peep o’ Days, skirmishin’ a little, just tryin’ to hold the line. The Defenders massed yonder at Tartarghan an’ we gathered up on that whinny hill on the other side of the river. One of their lot was killed and when the magistrates heard of it, they joined together with three Catholic priests, to try an’ make the peace. Some agreement was reached but the papists were itchin’ for a scrap and they started to move into the fort up on yonder hill. Later, they ran down the hill and attacked Dan Winters’ pub, tried to set it alight. But we were ready for ’em, we were stronger than ’em, too. We fought ’em hand to hand, and killed maybe thirty of ’em before they finally saw sense, and retreated to lick their wounds.’
At some point during the telling of the tale, it was transformed from a story of hate and recriminations to one of unfettered masculine glory.
Pyke allowed his stare to drift over the man’s shoulder. ‘And thirty-year-old tales of bravado and killing are somehow more important than your own flesh and blood?’
‘ “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people He claims for His own to proclaim the glorious works of One who has called you from darkness into light.” First book of Peter, chapter two, verse nine.’
‘Do those sentiments help you to deal with the death of your son?’
Magennis stared at him through narrowing eyes. ‘Stephen was lost to us long before he died.’
Pyke slammed his fist down on the table so hard the prayer book jumped. ‘He didn’t die, he was murdered. Killed. Stabbed. Don’t you understand? Your grandchild, too.’
Just for a moment, the words seem to dry up in the old man’s throat.
‘Did Davy kill his own brother?’
‘No,’ Magennis said, with little conviction.
‘Did he kill the baby?’
‘He’s impressionable but he’s not a monster, the big lad,’ Magennis said, less sure, trembling more acutely.
Pyke had to resist reaching out and grabbing hold of him. ‘Can you imagine what it must have been like? How delicate a newborn is?’ He waited until Magennis looked up at him before adding, ‘Your flesh and blood.’
‘What is it you want from me?’
‘I want to speak to Davy.’
‘And who, exactly, are you?’
Pyke ignored the question. ‘Whereabouts did Davy go, after he’d been dismissed from the constabulary?’
The old man stared at him with steely eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he stay in Ireland?’
Magennis just shrugged.
Pyke thought about Davy Magennis, hiding out in the yard of a Sandy Row terraced house. Alone and afraid.
‘I think he might need your help.’
The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Need my help? How would you know that?’
‘Is there a particular church that he liked to frequent?’
‘A church, you say? Davy never was one for prayin’.’
‘Your family in Belfast tell a different story. Reckon Davy spent most of his time in a church praying.’
‘You been to Sandy Row?’ The old man sounded alarmed.
‘Davy was stopping there until very recently. He left in a hurry, I was told. I think he might be in trouble.’ Pyke felt himself sigh. ‘All I want to do is ask Davy a few questions.’
‘That right?’ The old man stared at him with suspicion. ‘I suppose that’s why you’ve got the pistol.’
‘Look, I’m not the one who got Davy into the mess he’s in.’
Pyke could feel the old man’s animosity but there was something else in his stare, too. Fear, perhaps. Sadness?
‘You were askin’ about a church,’ the old man said, after about half a minute’s silence.
Pyke nodded.
‘I don’t know about any church in particular but you could have a look for him in the vicinity of Market Hill.’
‘Does he have family or friends there?’
Andrew Magennis crossed his arms and said nothing. ‘Is that where he went after he was thrown out of the constabulary?’
Magennis stared at him without emotion.
‘Why might Davy have gone there?’
The old man’s expression remained resolute, intent on concealing whatever feelings Pyke’s questions had provoked.
But Pyke did not find Davy Magennis in any of the churches or meeting rooms in Market Hill. Nor did anyone in the town admit to knowing him. When he asked about churches in the outlying area, he was told of one about two miles north of the town, on the road to Hamilton’s Bawn.
It had turned into a warm, sunny day. A cooling breeze blew gently off the lough and a few clouds drifted harmlessly across an otherwise unbroken vista of blue. The air felt light, even balmy, as Pyke led his black horse up to the perimeter of the old church. It was the kind of day that should have made him feel lucky to be alive, but Pyke was bothered by something he could not quite fathom.
As soon as he stepped into the draughty old church, which was pleasantly cool out of the sun, he saw a young man kneeling down at the altar at the front of the building. It was a dour place, with clear rather than stained-glass windows and an unusually low ceiling.
Pyke did not make any attempt to conceal his presence. He walked down the aisle and came to a halt only a few yards away from the place where the priest was kneeling. The man looked up at him, startled.
He stood up, rearranged his cloak and dog collar, and smiled. ‘Simon Hunter.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He spoke in a crisp English accent.
‘Pyke.’ He shook the priest’s hand, not seeing any reason to conceal his identity.
The priest continued to smile. ‘Well, Mr Pyke, what brings you to Mullabrack?’
‘I’m looking for a big man called Davy Magennis.’
The priest’s good humour vanished. Lines of concern appeared on his brow. ‘Davy, you say?’
‘Big man. At least six and a half feet tall.’
The priest continued to look at him, unsure what to say.
‘You know him?’
Very slowly, the priest nodded his head.
‘Do you know where I can find him?’
Again, the young priest nodded.
‘Well, can I speak to him?’
‘I’m afraid that would be impossible.’
Pyke looked deep into the man’s concerned face and imagined the sheltered, comfortable upbringing that had produced it. ‘You might not believe it, but I think he might need my help.’
‘A few days ago, I would have agreed with you.’
The priest ran his fingers through his wavy hair. He seemed upset, as though Pyke’s request had put him in a difficult position. Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally the priest told Pyke t
o follow him. Outside, the yard was dotted with graves. It was cool in the shade provided by giant oak trees. They came to a halt next to what appeared to be a recently filled grave. Pyke understood what the priest had been trying to tell him. He felt angry and cheated but managed to ask what had happened.
‘Davy showed up here about a week ago. He wouldn’t tell me his surname.’ The priest wiped sweat from his brow. ‘He didn’t make a great deal of sense. I could see he was deeply troubled by something. I let him stay in the church. I wouldn’t usually make such an allowance but he was insistent. He assured me he didn’t feel safe anywhere else.’ The priest looked away, faltering. He tried to gather himself. ‘The following morning, I came to see if he was still here, and ask if he wanted any food or drink, and, well, I found him . . .’ Pyke could see tears building up behind the young man’s eyes. ‘I found him lying on the floor at the front of the church surrounded by his own blood. There was a knife on the floor next to his hand. He had cut his own throat, or so they reckoned. Two officers from the constabulary and the magistrate were here by midday. They asked me who he was. I told them what I told you, that I only knew him by the name Davy. None of them recognised him. In the end, they decided it was most likely a suicide and since there wasn’t any way of identifying him, the magistrate said it was probably best that we give him a Christian burial, even if what he had done was a mortal sin in the eyes of God.’
Later, in the front room of a village tavern, the priest took a sip of ale and said, ‘Back in the church, you told me you were a friend of Davy’s?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Pyke had the feeling the man wanted to tell him something important.
‘I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest with the magistrate and the constables. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I’m not certain I’m thinking straight even now.’
‘Finding a dead body can be a terrible shock,’ Pyke said.
‘Yes, it was.’ For a moment, the priest shuddered and looked down into his half-empty glass.
‘Davy told you something, didn’t he?’
Still unable to meet Pyke’s stare, the young priest simply nodded his head.
‘He told you what he had done. Confessed his sins?’
When the priest looked up, his eyes were clear. ‘Yes.’
‘But you can’t tell me what he told you.’ Pyke waited for a moment, before he added, ‘Or can you?’
‘I’m not a Catholic minister, if that’s what you mean. I’m an Anglican. We’re not bound by the confessional oath.’ That drew a frown. ‘But that’s not to say I don’t have a moral obligation to safeguard what has been told to me in the strictest confidence.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ Pyke tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. ‘But what if I already knew what Davy had done? What he confessed to you?’
‘How would you know?’
‘When I told you I was a friend of Davy’s I was lying. I’m a Bow Street Runner. Does that mean anything to you?’
The young priest stared down at his trembling hands. ‘That’s like a London policeman, isn’t it?’
Pyke nodded. ‘I was the one who found the bodies.’
‘Oh God.’ The priest’s face whitened. For a moment, it looked as if he might pass out.
‘I understand that, first and foremost, you serve God,’ Pyke said, as gently as he could, ‘but you also have an obligation to see justice served in this world.’
‘I suppose.’
‘How about I tell you what I already know or think I know and, if I make a mistake, then you can perhaps point me in the right direction?’ Pyke smiled easily. ‘Does that sound acceptable to you or not?’
The priest nodded and took a long draught of ale.
‘I want to talk about the man who Davy went to work for, after he’d been dismissed from the police.’ As he pointed his pistol at Andrew Magennis’s eye, Pyke cocked the trigger, as though about to fire. He had found the old man sitting alone at the table, staring into space.
‘What do you want to know?’ This time the old man’s expression seemed placid.
‘His name, for a start.’
‘I can’t remember. I’m not sure I even found that out.’
Pyke brought the pistol closer to the old man’s eye. ‘The priest either didn’t know or wouldn’t give me his name.’
‘What priest?’
‘The one Davy confessed to,’ Pyke said. ‘He told me Davy’s former employer owns a few acres of land on the Armagh road just outside Market Hill.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘I went looking for the house today. I think I found it.
It’s been boarded up. No one’s living there.’
‘Wha’s that got to do wi’ me?’
‘I asked in the town. No one wanted to talk to me about him.’
‘Folk in this part of the world don’t much care for loose talk with strangers.’
‘I’m not a stranger to you.’
Andrew Magennis shrugged.
Pyke nodded. He had expected to be stonewalled. ‘Davy’s dead. He cut his own throat. They buried him in an unmarked grave outside a church in Mullabrack.’
This was sufficient to break the old man’s resolve. ‘The big lad’s dead?’ His lip quivered. ‘My Davy?’ Tears welled up behind his glassy stare.
‘The man who Davy went to work for . . .’
A solitary tear rolled down the old man’s face.
‘Let me assure you of one thing,’ Pyke continued. ‘He was no friend to Davy.’
Beaten now, the old man just nodded. His eyes were dark with exhaustion, his hair matted with sweat.
‘You met him, didn’t you?’
‘Once, about two years back,’ Magennis said, slowly. ‘I paid Davy a visit, when he was still workin’ there.’
Pyke took his time. ‘I just need you to answer one question for me.’
‘Then you’ll leave us to grieve?’ The old man stared at him through bloodshot eyes.
‘Did this man have a brown mole on his chin?’
Magennis seemed momentarily nonplussed.
‘Did he have a large brown mole on his chin?’
‘Jimmy Swift,’ Magennis said, nodding his head. ‘How did ye know?’
Pyke closed his eyes. It was as though an anvil had fallen on his skull from a great height. He felt sickened. How did he know? God, the real question was: how could he have been so blind?
PART III
London, England SEPTEMBER 1829
EIGHTEEN
It started when a curmudgeonly black bear, with fur shaved from its head to make it appear more human, broke free from its shackles outside the Old Cock tavern in Holborn. Perhaps wanting retribution for years of humiliation and ill-treatment, the bear lumbered up the creaking staircase at the back of the building and forced its way into the crowded upper room where red-faced market vendors were screaming their support for a seven-foot man wearing full military uniform to resemble the duke of Wellington. The outfit would have been too small on a man half his size. The giant had placed a dwarf, dressed as Napoleon, in a headlock, and was squeezing his neck with such intensity that the little man’s eyeballs seemed as though they might pop out of their sockets.
Pyke could not hear the dwarf’s chokes over the delighted cheers of the crowd, at least eight deep around every side of the gas-lit ring. That was until the bewildered bear paused briefly in the doorway to the upper room and surveyed the surroundings. It would have been a familiar sight: the tavern owner, Ned Villums, put the beast to work twice a week in that same ring, performing a version of Little Red Riding Hood, taking the part of the wolf. The crowd did not pay half a shilling each to watch the bear growl his few lines, though. They came for the ratting, bare-knuckle fights or a bout of wrestling. The bear sniffed the fetid air, saturated with the combined stench of cheap gin and unwashed clothes. The crowd gathered on the bear’s side of the room visibly parted and shrank into the room’s darker recesses, affordi
ng the bear a clear view of the ring.
Without giving it a second thought, the bear shuffled on all fours, ignoring the silent and evidently petrified crowd, and hauled itself over the ring’s waist-high wooden wall, with more aplomb than might have been expected from a beast that weighed fifty stone. By that time, the giant’s grip around the dwarf’s neck had slackened enough for some of the dwarf’s colour to return to his cheeks. For a few seconds, the bear and the giant wrestler stood rooted to their positions, no more than ten feet apart, each silently contemplating the other. Later, Pyke was not sure how it had started: whether the bear had attacked without provocation, or someone from the audience had thrown an object at the animal, but the result was the same. Ignoring the dwarf, who was slumped on the ground gulping for air, the bear launched itself at the stricken giant, who, in an instant, was transformed into a taller version of the dwarf he had just been strangling.
Almost at once, someone from the crowd cheered, either mistaking what was happening for part of the fight or simply enjoying the sight of the helpless giant being mauled by the powerful bear. These cheers produced a counter-response, this time in support of the giant, either out of patriotic duty, because the giant was dressed as the duke of Wellington, or because they had money staked on the outcome of the fight. Soon, there was bedlam. Villums himself was trapped by the baying mob on the far side of the room and was screaming at Pyke to take action - more to protect his tavern’s already dubious reputation than to save the giant. The bear was tearing flesh from the giant’s flayed torso when Pyke returned from Villums’s garret carrying a flintock blunderbuss with a long brass cannon barrel loaded with powder and ball shot.
From a distance of fifteen yards, Pyke rested the butt of the blunderbuss against his shoulder and took aim at the bear, but before he could pull the trigger someone knocked him from behind and the projectile exploded out of the barrel of the blunderbuss; instead of hitting the bear as planned, it struck the recovering dwarf squarely in the belly, lifting him clean off his feet and almost cutting him in two. People tried to flee the room, but Pyke took his time and reloaded the weapon. The first shot hit the bear in the chest; the second shot blew off the entire right side of its head. Bone, cartilage, tissue, blood, chunks of fur and even an eyeball splattered those who had not managed to leave the room. The bear seemed not to have been affected by the double blast at first, aside from the obvious loss of body parts. On all fours, it surveyed the carnage: the mauled giant, the dwarf’s twitching corpse and the vast carpet of blood and intestines that covered the floor of the ring. It tried to open its mouth but, as it did so, its will to live finally leaked from its gargantuan frame, and it collapsed on to the floor with a thud. The remaining audience, such as it was, turned and watched the gruesome spectacle. As soon as the bear had stopped moving, one of them broke into applause. Others joined in. No one seemed to know whether the applause was for the bear, the dwarf or the giant, but since the giant was the only one of them left alive, he presumed it must be for him and hauled himself to his feet to receive the accolades. A flap of skin the size of a large book hung down from his bleeding neck.
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