Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery (21 page)

‘So what do you think Moore’s trying to hide?’ Martha said, suddenly. She broke their embrace and rested her head on her elbow.

‘One of the labourers at the estate told me that Moore knew the dead man. Said that when Moore first saw the body, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.’

‘Does Moore know you know this?’

Knox shook his head. ‘The only way out of this mess may be for you to keep digging.’ She pulled the blanket up over her shoulder. ‘You’ve nothing left to lose.’

‘No. What I need to do is forget about Moore, forget about the murdered man. I’ll find work and a new place for us to live.’

Martha’s smile was sad. ‘Don’t you get it, Michael? Moore’s seen to it that no one will rent us a home. Who on earth will give you a job?’

Knox nodded mutely. He had said what he thought Martha wanted to hear but he had reached the same conclusion.

‘Yesterday, when you went into town, I took James to see Father Mackey in Clonoulty.’

Knox sat up. Her visits to Clonoulty were the only thing they really argued about. He just didn’t understand why she kept going, when she professed to be ambivalent about the Church. ‘You didn’t mention that yesterday.’

‘I’m not the only one who’s kept their silence, am I?’ Her stare was defiant but there was no real anger in her tone.

‘So why did you go to see Mackey?’

‘Because he said if we were ever in need, his door would always be open.’

‘And is it?’

‘He’s not in Asenath Moore’s pocket.’

Knox felt his indignation weaken. ‘He’d even take in a dirty Protestant like me?’

‘No one’s outside of Moore’s reach, Michael.’ Martha bit her lip, wouldn’t look at him. ‘Not even a man like Father Mackey.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, Martha?’

‘Father Mackey denounced Moore from the pulpit. Since then, his home’s been broken into, his horse stolen and the windows of his church shattered.’

Knox was starting to see where this was going. ‘Let me guess. He said he’d take you and James in, but not me.’

‘It would just be for a few weeks, Michael, until this whole thing has blown over. You could use the money you’ve saved …’

‘What about old man Brittas? Remember, he offered us a roof over our heads, too.’

Martha smiled and shook her head. ‘You can be so naive, Michael. He’s an old man. As soon as Brittas finds out we’re staying at the lodge, that’ll be that. He’ll have us out of there in no time.’

Knox felt a wave of bitterness swelling up inside him. ‘So you go to Father Mackey and I sleep in a hedgerow.’

‘Better you in a hedgerow than our son. You think he’d survive even one night out in the cold?’

Knox fell silent, another pang of shame. Martha saw it and reached out, touched his cheek. ‘I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I love you, Michael, I really do. And it would just be for a few weeks.’

‘And in the meantime, I take myself off to Dundrum to find out what connection the deceased had to Moore?’

‘We won’t have a moment’s peace in this town until you do. Moore’s frightened of you, Michael. Of what you already know and what you might find out. That’s why he’s done what he’s done. If you find out what that something is then you can hold it over him.’

Outside in the lane, Knox heard horses’ hoofs and the jangling of harnesses. He got out of bed and went to the window. A carriage pulled by four horses came to a halt. Knox was already halfway down the stairs.

The rain outside was torrential, the sky black as ink. Four men were standing in front of the gate, all wearing hats. Jeremy Brittas was gesticulating at the others while Warburton, his agent, pointed to the cottage.

‘You still here?’ Brittas said gruffly when Knox opened the front door. On the few occasions Knox had met him before, he had always been perfectly civil.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Knox said, ‘but Mr Warburton assured me I would have until midday to clear out my possessions.’

Brittas ignored him and barked orders at the two men he’d brought with him. Warburton refused to look at Knox.

‘I have a wife and child, sir. Please have some mercy.’

Finally Brittas acknowledged him. He had always struck Knox as a kindly man, perhaps even a little meek for his own good, too much in his father’s shadow. Now his eyes were dead. ‘I’m afraid, sir, my mind is made up. You have fifteen minutes.’

‘Fifteen minutes? You don’t understand how much there is to do. We have a young child.’

Brittas looked at his pocket watch. ‘It’s seven now. I’ll give you till quarter past.’

‘Please, sir. We’ve nowhere to go, nowhere to take our possessions. Don’t you have an ounce of compassion?’ Knox turned around and saw Martha standing, arms folded, on the front step.

‘You have fifteen minutes,’ Brittas repeated.

Knox grabbed his wrist. ‘I’ve been a good friend to your father, haven’t I? I’ve visited him nearly every day, read the newspaper to him. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

Brittas pulled his hand free and looked around for his agent. He didn’t want to answer Knox’s question.

‘Please, sir, I beg you to reconsider …’

But one of the labourers shoved Knox to one side and said, ‘We have orders to tear the place down.’ By this time, Brittas had turned and was heading back to the carriage.

‘We have to clear out what we can,’ Knox said, moving around the room grabbing pots and pans.

‘And do what with it, Michael? We have nowhere to take our things.’

‘In less than fifteen minutes, those men will start to pull this place apart. We need to gather what we can and put it outside.’

‘In this weather?’

‘Either that, or they’ll tear the place up and we’ll lose everything.’

Martha began to cry. Knox took her in his arms. ‘Go to Mackey’s now, Martha. Take James, and whatever corn you can carry.’

She looked up at him, her face smudged with tears. ‘What about all our things?’

‘I’ll do what I can. We can stack our possessions outside, in the lane.’

‘But everything will be ruined.’

‘We have no choice, Martha. If we have to leave some things behind, then so be it. It’s more important that you get James to Father Mackey’s.’

Martha bit her lip and nodded. ‘So where should I start?’

‘You go upstairs and find whatever we can carry to Clonoulty, whatever you think you might need. I’ll start down here.’

Martha went over to the window and peered out at the rain. ‘What kind of animals are those men? Did you tell them we have a child?’

‘I would’ve taken off their boots and licked their feet if I thought it would’ve made a difference.’ Knox was throwing the cutlery into the pots. He looked up and saw Martha still staring out of the window.

‘We have to get going. We’ve only got ten minutes.’

As Martha went upstairs, Knox looked at the dresser, the neatly stacked piles of books and newspapers. Martha was right. Everything they took outside – the bedlinen, candles, coal, firewood, clothes – would be ruined. He had brought this upon them. He had done this to them. Taking up a teapot, Knox hurled it against the wall, watched it smash into a thousand pieces.

An hour later, their worldly possessions were piled up in the lane outside the cottage, a pathetic assortment of kitchen utensils, china, pots, pans, books, clothes, blankets and sheets. Knox had left the belongings there and walked Martha and James to the end of the lane, where the driver of a passing horse and cart had agreed to take them to Clonoulty. Too shocked to talk, they’d embraced quickly and Knox had watched as Martha and James had climbed up next to
the driver, wondering when he would see them again. About fifty yards from the cottage he was joined by Tom, who wagged his tail, oblivious to what was happening. The two labourers were discussing what to do and Warburton was overseeing the operation. Lengths of chain and a collection of levers and hooks were laid out in front of them.

The two men fixed one end of a large iron chain to the horses’ harness and attached a hook and a lever to the other end. Then one of them carried this end to the front window and looped it around and through the frame. Knox sank to his knees. Shivering, the dog curled up next to him and started to whine. This was clearly a well-drilled operation. When everything was in place, Warburton appeared with a whip in his hand and cracked it over the horses’ heads. As they bolted forward, some of the front of the cottage came with them. The two men went to inspect the damage and attached the hooks and levers to another part of the wall. This time, when the horses bolted forward, part of the roof came crashing down, brick dust fanning out across the yard. Knox stared at the damage, disbelieving. The only home he’d truly loved, and where he’d spent the happiest years of his life, lay in ruins.

He pictured himself standing at the front door, Martha carrying James, just born, in her arms. More memories: Martha sitting on the back step quietly singing while he hoed the patch of land at the rear; James giggling while the dog poked its wet nose into his face. Knox remembered the bad times, too, but suddenly they didn’t seem so bad. The stink of the first potato blight; a time before when Martha had miscarried their first child. Then, he had been sad, disconsolate even. But this was sheer devastation.

The men had picked up their crowbars and sledgehammers and now set to work on what remained of the cottage. The rain had eased. Knox watched as the last wall was felled. A few minutes later there was nothing left, just a pile of bricks and stones, the thatched roof lying forlornly on top of the rubble.

It took them another five minutes to dismantle the chains and hooks. When everything was cleared away, the two men trudged back to the carriage. Warburton appeared at the gate to assess the damage. He gave Knox a contrite look.

‘For what it’s worth, sir, I’m sorry for what we did.’

Knox waited for the carriage to depart and then there was silence, just the sound of the wind in the branches.

Knox had thought he might be able to rescue some of their possessions but now this idea struck him as hopelessly naive. Where would he take them? If, and when, Martha was settled in Clonoulty, perhaps he could store some of their possessions there but even this, he knew, was unlikely. Soon enough people would learn what had happened and scavengers would turn up; a pan could be exchanged for a bowl of corn, their blankets could be dried and used. The books would be ruined but who wanted to read?

Better to think they had lost everything than cling to false hope. Knox looked at the wet dog, shivering against his legs. What would he do with Tom?

Knox moved a few of the pots and pans, and the blankets and clothes, to the coal shed, which hadn’t been destroyed. Then he took the shovel and dug up the cloth purse in which he’d hidden his last remaining coins. He had also buried the daguerreotypes, and the dead man’s pistol and knife. Holding one of the copperplates in his hand, Knox stared at the silvery image. It struck him, then, that he had not heard from the son, Felix, and that the letter he’d sent to Somerset had ended up at Scotland Yard. Knox supposed it didn’t matter. Nothing would bring back the man, he mused bitterly. And now his own life lay in tatters.

Knox inspected the pistol and realised it was loaded. He held it in hand and curled his finger around the trigger.
You have to answer for what you’ve done, Moore
. He imagined firing it, the noise and the smell of powder. He felt Tom brush past his ankles and his mind was yanked back to the present. The dog couldn’t come with him. It would make him too conspicuous and he had nothing to feed it. The kindest, most humane thing would be to aim the pistol and fire. Knox knelt down and let the cowering mutt lick his hand. Knox had named the animal after Thomas Davis, who had died a year earlier. At the time, one newspaper had called his death ‘the end of Ireland’s hope’, unaware how prophetic these words would become. What hope would the dog have, left to fend for itself?

Knox stood a step backwards, then raised the pistol and aimed at the mutt’s brown face. Tom started to whine. Sweating, Knox lowered the barrel and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He couldn’t
do it; he couldn’t pull the trigger. Unaware of how close he’d come to being shot, the dog stayed contentedly at Knox’s side while he gathered up the daguerreotypes.

When Knox reached the end of the lane, the dog was still following him, but at the junction with the mail coach road to Dundrum, the dog stopped and sat down in the middle of the track. Perhaps it thought Knox was simply going to work, and would be back as usual later that day. Knox thought about calling out to it one more time, giving it a farewell pat on the head, but he decided a clean break would be better. He turned and walked twenty paces along the road to Dundrum before looking behind him. Tom hadn’t moved but his head was cocked slightly to one side. Knox knew that it was no time for sentiment but it struck him that he’d done the dog a disservice by not putting it out of its misery.

T
he next morning Pyke woke early and decided to walk into town. The overnight rain had cleared and the air smelled clean. At the station-house, he asked for Jones, but the superintendent hadn’t yet arrived. One of the constables recognised Pyke and explained there had been more trouble in China: he didn’t know the details or whether there had been any more fatalities. Outside the station-house, a red-faced clerk caught up with Pyke and thrust a letter into his hand.

The writing was Felix’s. Pyke tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. All seemed to be well in Somerset. This calmed him a little. Felix made reference to his visit there and to the kidnapped child. Pyke then diverted his attention to the last few lines.
I’ve been given a few days’ holiday from my studies
.
I plan to visit you in Merthyr for a day or two
. He stared down at the page.
I’ll arrive some time on Sunday the twenty-second
. He went to check the date at the head of the letter. The seventeenth.

Pyke took a moment to compose himself. Today was the twenty-second so Felix would be arriving in Merthyr some time that day. He would almost certainly travel up on the train from Cardiff, but how many services were there on a Sunday? Pyke followed the clerk back into the building.