Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery (16 page)

Knox looked over what he’d written. It was short and to the point and might even earn him a promotion. He blotted the paper and put it to one side of the desk. Tearing off another piece of paper, he dipped the nib in the inkwell.
Dear Felix
… How did you tell someone that their father was dead?
I am afraid I am the bearer of terrible news
.
I believe your father – Pyke – was murdered by a person or persons unknown on the fourth night of January in the grounds of Dundrum House, County Tipperary.
He stared at the few words on the page. What else was there to say? That the body had been buried along with fifteen or twenty others in a famine pit outside the town? He reached into his pocket, retrieved the letters Felix had written to Pyke, and copied out the return address given on one of the envelopes. Then he added a few more words of condolence to the letter and signed it.

Knox left his report with one of the sub-inspector’s clerks, then
made his way up Main Street to the post office from where the mail coach would shortly be leaving for Dublin. At the counter, he paid the postage and dropped the letter into the mail sack.

Fatigue hit him only on the walk home. He skirted around the Rock and by the time he had reached the top of the lane where he lived, across from the ruined abbey, he was exhausted. From there, it would take him another twenty minutes to reach the cottage. This time, he didn’t bother to call in on his neighbour, as was his custom. He couldn’t face reading the old man his newspaper.

Martha was upstairs in their bedroom singing to the child. He kissed them both and sat on the chair at the end of the bed.

‘Are you unwell?’ Martha touched his forehead, concern etched on her face. ‘Do you want to lie down?’

‘No, I’m just a little tired.’

‘Are you sure? You look terrible.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiled weakly.

‘Did anything happen today?’

‘No, Martha, I’m just tired.’

James started to squawk in the crib.

They ate dinner in silence. Afterwards, Knox scrubbed out the pot in the yard. He patted the dog on the head and stared up at the dark cloudless sky. It was bitterly cold but he hardly noticed. When he let himself back into the house, he saw that Martha had already gone to bed. The dog scratched on the door to be allowed inside but Knox ignored it. Upstairs, he undressed in the dark and climbed into bed.

Martha had turned her back to him but he knew she wasn’t asleep. They lay in silence. What was there to say?

‘Oh, Michael.’ Martha turned to face him. Her body felt soft and warm. He wanted to cry. ‘You seem so sad and lost.’

He could just about see the outline of her face. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘I’m just sorry.’ He wanted to fall asleep and never wake up.

‘What is it, Michael? What happened today?’

‘I need to sleep.’

Next to him, he heard Martha sigh. ‘It’s hard sometimes, I know, to keep going.’ She reached out in the dark and gently touched him on the cheek. ‘But we have to. We all have to.’

Q
uarry Row was a short walk from the centre of the town but going there was like stepping into a different world. The street ran adjacent to the River Taff and was like a bog, wheel-tracks cut deep into the mud, making it all but impassable to vehicles. Cinder heaps and mounds of human excrement sat in piles outside most houses and wolfish dogs scavenged for scraps. The terraces had been thrown up by unscrupulous speculators using the cheapest materials and many were already sinking into the mud. It was the kind of street that ought to have been razed to the ground, yet each week the numbers grew, the poor and destitute arriving from famine-hit Ireland in search of a job and a new life. These same people were now being thrown on to the street by constables, while soldiers waited in the shadows.

Pyke found Superintendent Jones co-ordinating the search at the far end of the street. The constables were moving from house to house in pairs. On the street, small knots of young men shouted at them as they passed. A rock was thrown and a window shattered.

‘Who gave the orders for this to happen?’

Jones turned to face him. ‘Ah, Pyke. I sent word to the Castle but you had already left.’

‘Was it Jonah Hancock?’

‘Hancock?’ He screwed up his face. Farther up the street, they heard another pane of glass break.

Pyke took Jones by his coat lapel and pulled him closer. ‘Is this your response to what we found on Irish Row in Dowlais? Why not go door to door there? Who told you the Hancock boy might be here?’

Jones tried to push himself away but Pyke’s grip was firm. The superintendent was clearly angry at being manhandled in public. ‘I do what I’m told, sir. If you don’t like it, go and see Smyth.’

‘Smyth gave the orders?’ Pyke let go of Jones’ coat. They both looked up, jarred by the sound of a chest being dropped from an upper-floor window. Anyone could see that they were minutes away from losing control of the situation. One of the constables blew his whistle.

‘I need to answer that call.’

Jones tried to push past Pyke but he held his ground. ‘The Hancocks are prepared to pay the ransom. We should be helping them to bring their son home, not putting his life in greater danger.’

‘I’m just following orders.’

Pyke looked at the angry faces of the men yelling abuse at the policemen. Suddenly he’d had enough of this miserable town and its dirt-poor population.

‘If the Hancock boy turns up dead as a result of this pathetic circus, I’ll hold you – and Smyth – personally responsible.’

Pyke found Sir Clancy Smyth in the living room at the courthouse. The magistrate was directing one of his servants to shovel more coal on to the fire.

‘Ah, Detective-inspector, glad you dropped by,’ he said, standing up. He offered his hand but Pyke pushed it away.

‘I want to know why you ordered Jones and his men to search all the houses on Quarry Row and Bathesda Gardens.’

Smyth reddened and gestured at the servant to leave them. ‘I would remind you who you’re addressing, sir.’

Pyke took a deep breath and tried to work out why Smyth might’ve taken it upon himself to order the police to the Irish stronghold of lower Merthyr. Sir Richard Mayne had described him as a good sort, a view supported by Johns, but this decision seemed careless to the point of recklessness.

‘If you don’t order your men to pull back, there will be a full-scale riot. Is that what you want?’

Smyth’s face whitened. ‘That bad, eh?’

‘You need to rescind that order, send word to Jones immediately. Then you can tell me why you took the decision.’

Clearly Smyth didn’t like his authority being questioned but the thought of presiding over a riot was even less appealing. He called in a clerk and whispered a few words in his ear. When the man had left, he turned back to Pyke. ‘There. Are you satisfied now?’

‘But why did you send your men to lower Merthyr? Why not Irish Row in Dowlais?’ Pyke thought about the body they had identified there, a man called Deeney.

‘I don’t need to share my information, or my reasons, with you.’ Smyth wandered over to the window.

‘As far as I understand, the family has agreed to pay the ransom. Why put the boy’s life at risk by trying to capture the gang before any money has changed hands?’

Smyth turned around, a frown etched on his face. ‘And you think that’s right? To cave in to criminals?’

‘If it were my son, I’d pay to get him back. Then I’d go after the men responsible and make them wish they hadn’t been born.’

Smyth didn’t seem to have heard him. ‘Places like Quarry Row and China are blots on the landscape. Perhaps if they were destroyed, a new Merthyr could rise up from the ashes.’

Pyke shook his head, incredulous. ‘And in the meantime, a young boy’s life is hanging in the balance?’

‘I had my reasons, Detective-inspector. For the moment that’s all I’m prepared to say.’

‘And if the boy turns up dead?’

‘I’m happy to live with the consequences of my actions, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He gestured at the door.

Pyke remained where he was. ‘We should be on the same side, you and I, but standing here, all I can think about is that I find more common ground with the Hancocks.’

Ignoring him, Smyth went to open the door, but Pyke wasn’t quite finished. ‘Did you know that the Hancocks paid a bully from China to break the strike a few years ago and the police stood by and did nothing? And now that same man seems to be able to operate in China with impunity.’

‘If I had the manpower, Detective-inspector, China wouldn’t even exist and men like John Wylde wouldn’t have a stone to hide under.’ Smyth paused then added, ‘One moment you seem to be defending
the Hancocks, the next accusing them. Perhaps, sir, it is you who needs to work out what your intentions are.’

‘Tell me more about John Wylde.’

John Johns rubbed his chin. They were in the taproom of the Bunch of Grapes on Castle Street. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘I was told he owns all of the brothels in China.’

‘He’s carved up the territory with Benjamin Griffiths. Wylde has seized control of prostitution, Griffiths the gambling. Wylde likes to regard himself as the emperor, though.’

‘Emperor?’

‘Of China.’ Johns looked around the crowded taproom. ‘It’s a self-appointed title.’

Pyke took a sip of his ale. It tasted like mud. ‘I’ve been wondering why people call the place China.’

‘No one really knows. The Celestial Empire. It’s somewhere … different, alien. Where the normal rules don’t apply.’

‘There’s this woman who serves behind the counter at the Three Horse Shoes. Perhaps you’ve seen her. She used to
belong
to Wylde. Then he found out she was fucking Ben Griffiths and he poured hot oil over her face.’

Johns shrugged. ‘Irrespective of their business arrangement, I do know there’s no love lost between Wylde and Griffiths.’ He sat forward, arms resting on the table. ‘Question is, why are you so interested in him?’

‘You were the one who put me on to him,’ Pyke said. ‘You told me the Hancocks used him and his men to break the last strike.’

‘I thought you were here to find the Hancock boy.’

‘I am – and I keep coming back to the two ransom demands, both apparently from Scottish Cattle.’

‘No one I’ve talked to believes the Bull would do something like that.’

‘I know. That’s what I’ve heard too. But think about it. If they haven’t got the boy, then someone’s trying to blame them. If they
do
have the boy, the Hancocks must have done something to provoke them. Either way, this is about more than a five-year-old child. I’ve tried to get people – workers – to talk to me but they’re scared.’

‘Because of the Hancocks’ influence with Wylde and his men?’

Pyke nodded. ‘If we could give Wylde something else to worry about, I might have more success persuading folk to talk to me.’

‘I’d say they’re more afraid of the Hancocks than they are of a bully like Wylde.’

‘Maybe so, but there’s something rotten in this whole business, and the sooner things are out in the open the better.’

Johns didn’t disagree. ‘By the way, I went back to Dowlais yesterday afternoon, this time to the barracks there. I’m afraid I didn’t come across the man I saw up on the mountain that day.’

‘You’re sure he wasn’t there? Perhaps you just didn’t see him.’

‘I watched their drill. The full regiment was present, no absentees. Believe me, I would’ve recognised him.’

‘Well, thanks for trying.’

Johns acknowledged this with a small nod. ‘It seems to me that what you’re actually looking for is a way of rattling Wylde’s cage.’

‘That’s right. I was trying to think of a way of setting him and Griffiths against one another.’

Now Johns was smiling. ‘May the best man win?’

‘Exactly.’

They waited for the pot-boy to hurry past them.

‘Actually, I’ve heard a rumour that Wylde keeps some of his money hidden under floorboards in the back room of a beer shop in China.’

Pyke saw the gleam in Johns’ eyes. ‘Who in their right mind would try and take it?’

‘Exactly,’ Johns said, running the tip of his finger around the rim of his empty beer glass.

‘What’s this place called?’

‘The Boot. You could gut a pig on the floor without causing any noticeable change in the surroundings.’

‘Sounds delightful. What do you say we go there and take a look?’

John Wylde scratched a boil in the centre of his forehead but didn’t for a moment take his small, quick eyes off the pistol Pyke was aiming at him. He seemed comfortable despite the situation, the fact that Pyke and Johns, both with large black handkerchiefs pulled up over their faces to conceal their identities, had stormed into the pub brandishing pistols. He was a smaller man than Pyke had been
expecting and was rather nondescript in person. Still, it was clear that every man in the taproom deferred to him and when Pyke jabbed the end of his pistol into Wylde’s neck, it was as if the entire room gave a collective gasp of astonishment. No one treated the emperor in this fashion, certainly not on his own territory. For his part, Wylde took the invasion in his stride, but Pyke could see that the small man was just biding his time, waiting for a momentary lapse in Pyke’s concentration.

While Pyke kept Wylde occupied, he could hear Johns tearing up floorboards at the back of the building. Pyke’s presence in Merthyr was not a secret and perhaps a man as well connected as Wylde would have heard about him, but Pyke doubted whether he would have thought a policeman capable of carrying out this kind of robbery in broad daylight. For the plan to work, Wylde had to think that he and Johns were emissaries of his rival, Ben Griffiths.

Pyke took his eye off the so-called emperor only for a few seconds but it was all the man needed. Wylde lunged at him brandishing a cudgel that had suddenly appeared in his hand. He missed with his first swing, which gave Pyke just enough time to raise the barrel of his pistol and pull the trigger, the ball-shot almost taking off Wylde’s hand at the wrist, and spraying the counter behind him with tiny fragments of blood and bone. The bully’s screams filled the room but no one else moved. He had fallen to one knee and was clutching his shattered hand.