Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery (33 page)

Zephaniah seemed almost proud of what he had done. Pyke had to use all of his self-control not to tear the man’s throat out with his bare hands.

‘You consider what’s happened in the town – the deaths, the rioting, the hatred – an achievement?’

The old man shook his head. ‘Now you’re talking like my son, the sentimental fool. I’ll tell you what I told him – the good of the works comes first. First, second and third. Nothing else matters. Is that too hard-hearted for you? I’ll put it in plainer English. There was no way on earth I was going to allow that bastard to inherit what isn’t, wasn’t, his. Now, at least, the future of the works is assured and it will pass to someone with bona fide Hancock blood running through his veins.’

‘Let’s talk about the whole canvas, then.’ Pyke looked into the old man’s watery, bloodshot eyes.

Zephaniah sighed. ‘You seem to have all the answers, sir. Why don’t you enlighten me.’

‘Set up the Irish as scapegoats so that when news of the kidnapping, and eventually the boy’s death, spreads, the natives will turn on them. But because you’d already cut back on the number of Irish workers, Caedraw wouldn’t be too badly affected. Not so with Morlais, though. That was the point, wasn’t it? To drive the competition out of business. Because of the rioting, the fighting, the bad blood, Webb’s been forced to close Morlais. After all, about a third of his workers are Irish. But at the same time he needs to
increase
his productivity – if he’s to meet this order from Russia by the end of the year. That was the first front you opened against Morlais. For the second one you needed Sir Clancy Smyth.’

‘Everyone has a price, sir. Even you.’ Zephaniah managed the thinnest of smiles.

‘You used Smyth’s friendship with Morlais’ landowner to force up the rent. In the meantime, you got Smyth to work for you, used him to do your dirty work, with house-to-house searches of Quarry Row, stories of an Irish mob seizing William fed to the local newspaper. What did it take? How much? Ten thousand?’

‘As I said, everyone has their price. Smyth’s estate has fallen on hard times. But when this blows over,
if
it blows over, he’ll get what he wants. The troops will have brought order to the streets, the town will have been cleaned up, China a shadow of its former self …’

All cleaned up and ready to go to the dogs again, Pyke thought. Cut off one head, two heads even, and more will appear. Zephaniah Hancock was not long for this world but Pyke knew it was a futile act, one that would have little bearing on the lives of most of the people in Merthyr. In that sense, Zephaniah was right: the ironworks did come first. And in the end men like Smyth always bent to the ironmasters’ will.

‘Smyth didn’t see you were using him, did he? That he was being lined up as someone to blame for the boy’s death in case you weren’t able to deal with Johns – or me.’

‘I never wanted you here in the first place. That was Jonah’s idea, a stupid one. Plenty of other people we could have given that suitcase to. Someone to blame, someone greedy, who wouldn’t think twice about running off with the twenty thousand. The public
and police would need a reason why the boy was murdered. If they believed you’d absconded with the money, left the kidnappers with nothing, well, that would have been enough.’

‘That was why he wrote to me?’ Pyke felt sick, knowing he
had
been lured down there by the promise of money in the first place.

A thousand pounds; Jonah Hancock had paid him too. Blood money. If it had meant nothing to him, he would never have come. Felix would never have come. His son would still be alive.

‘Offered some astounding sum, he knew you’d come here sniffing, either for Cathy or the money or both. He was right about that, but I saw straight away you’d be dangerous. I couldn’t talk him round, though. For years, he’d had to endure that bitch’s taunts – that he was a lesser man than you. This was his chance to sully your name and rub Cathy’s face in it.’

Pyke felt himself shrivel up inside.

‘Jonah didn’t know I intended to kill the boy, of course. And when he found out about the death, he went berserk, threatened to kill me, kill himself. In the end, I made him understand.’

‘And Cathy?’

‘That’s where Smyth was useful to us. I wasn’t too concerned about Cathy but I didn’t want that brute John Johns coming after me. That’s why I made certain that her nanny, that Atkins woman, saw Smyth when we snatched the boy, why we let her live. Sure enough, she ran back to Cathy and Johns and blabbed, as she was meant to do.’

‘But Cathy must have suspected that you had something to do with her son’s death?’

‘Why? A woman she trusted with her life saw Smyth with her own eyes. And she knew that Smyth hated this family.’ Zephaniah grinned to reveal raw, bloody gums. ‘I was able to break the news to Cathy, tell her the boy had died at Smyth’s hands and, best of all, that you’d absconded with the ransom money.’

‘I found her body in the underground passageway. You as good as put the knife in her hand.’

Zephaniah nodded blankly as though he’d just been told the latest stock prices. ‘It was Jonah who found her first. He wanted to give her a proper burial, in spite of what she’d done, what she’d been
planning to do. I talked him round. Told him the rats would get her if we left her there long enough.’

Pyke closed his eyes. So she had died believing that he had turned his back on her, sacrificed her son’s life for a tidy sum.

‘And William?’

‘What about him?’

‘Who actually killed him?’ Pyke realised that he didn’t know how the boy had died.

‘Does it matter?’ Zephaniah shrugged. ‘The point is, his death tipped the scales, set the fuse.’

‘Did Smyth ever realise you’d set him up?’ he asked eventually.

‘Didn’t have to have the conversation. I was going to suggest to him that he lie low for a while, perhaps go back to Ireland for a month or two, and then I heard he’d fled the town of his own accord.’

‘To?’

‘Ireland, I believe.’

‘Do you know why?’

Zephaniah shook his head. ‘Perhaps he realised what he’d become a part of. It worked out perfectly for us, though. Johns went after him, of course. Johns and Smyth, both out of the way, Johns blaming Smyth for the boy’s death. The Hancock family devastated by the loss and above suspicion.’ The old man eyed the pistol in Pyke’s hand. ‘Listen to me. Why don’t you put that thing down and we can have a proper conversation?’

Pyke watched the old man, listened to him talking, so pleased with himself and with his cunning. He rammed the barrel of the pistol into the old man’s cheek.

‘So why stay here? Why not get out, and come back when the dust had settled?’

‘You’re a funny fellow, aren’t you?
Leave?
When there’s business to be done? Last week I met with the Russians, promised them the iron, the full order, as Morlais won’t be able to produce it in time. When the deadline elapses, the Russians will tear up their contract with Webb and come over to us. Our iron is ready and waiting. Morlais will be forced to close, at least temporarily. But once Webb has gone, the works will reopen under new owners,
us
, and Caedraw will become the biggest ironmaker in the world.’ The old man took a
breath. ‘It’s why money isn’t an issue. I’ll give you whatever you want. Let’s say fifty thousand, to make you go away?’ He seemed certain that Pyke would agree to his price or name a higher one.

‘I want to know about my son.’

‘Your son?’

Pyke tried to assess whether the bluff was genuine; whether Zephaniah really had no idea about, and therefore no hand in, what had happened to Felix.

‘My son arrived in Merthyr on or around the twenty-third of November to visit me. A few days later, I found his corpse laid out on a bed at the courthouse.’

This was another thing he hadn’t been able to work out – why someone had left Felix’s corpse for him to find, rather than burying it in an unmarked grave up on the mountain. It was almost as if someone had
wanted
him to find the body.

Doubt had crept into the old man’s eyes. This was something he hadn’t expected, something that altered the balance of negotiations. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Felix would have gone to the station-house to find me. I’m guessing Smyth snatched him and took him to the courthouse.’

‘I had no idea you even had a son.’

‘Smyth didn’t share this information with you?’

Zephaniah tried to swallow. ‘Not with me, not with my son.’

‘I buried my son in London and I’ve come back here for answers.’

‘As I said, Smyth has fled to Ireland.’

‘Then I want the address of his estate.’

Zephaniah looked at the pistol, still in Pyke’s hand. ‘His family own land in Tipperary, near a place called Lisvarrinane.’

‘And Johns?’

‘All I know is that he grew up on an estate in Dundrum.’

‘Nothing else?’ Pyke took the pistol, aimed it at Zephaniah’s head and waited.

‘That’s all I know.’

‘Then it looks like our business is done.’ He lowered the pistol, and tucked it into his belt.

‘You’re going to let me live?’ There was a hint of incredulity in Zephaniah’s voice.

‘Did I say that?’

Turning suddenly, Pyke clenched his fist and smashed it against the old man’s face, felt his bones crumble under the impact. Zephaniah passed out.

Downstairs, Pyke found a tin of lamp oil in the pantry and took it upstairs to Jonah’s room. He doused the curtains with half of it, and took the other half to Zephaniah’s room and did the same. Then Pyke lit a match and tossed it on to the curtains. Flames shot up the fabric. In Jonah’s bedroom, he did likewise and waited to make sure the flames spread.

By the time he’d retraced his steps down to the cellar and out through the passageway, smoke was pouring out of the upstairs windows, and when he’d climbed up the mountain and turned around to inspect his work, flames had engulfed an entire wing of the Castle, plumes of orange lighting up the night sky.

As he stood and watched the fire, Pyke tried to feel something, anger, despair even, but nothing would come. He would go and find Captain Kent.

K
nox had wandered for most of the night, not really knowing where he was, where he was going, only vaguely aware that he was heading north and west in the direction of Clonoulty. The sound of his father’s sobs echoed in his ears, except that he wasn’t Knox’s father, Asenath Moore was. At one time, his mother had willingly lain down next to the man and had borne him two children – John Johns, who she had given up to the childless gatekeeper, and
him
, the child she’d kept. Time and again, he thought about his childhood, his mother keeping him close to her, protecting him against his father’s drunken rages, his mother the saint, his father the devil, all of it now turned upside down. As he walked, Knox saw his father through new eyes; he understood his anger, his hatred of his wife, his self-hate, his self-pity. Knox hadn’t asked about his two brothers but he didn’t need to. They looked like their father and it was clear he loved them; loved them in a way he had never loved Knox. But how could he have loved another man’s child? His father had suffered in silence, drowned his anger in alcohol, taken it out on him and his mother, a broken man before he had become a broken father. How had it been for him, knowing that each day his wife went to work in the kitchens of a man she had slept with, a man whose children she had secretly given birth to?

His mind turned to one of his recent visits to the house, Martin Knox comfortable in the presence of his two sons, his real sons, a gentle man embittered by circumstances.

As the first skeins of milky light gnawed at the sky, Knox stumbled almost by accident on the flint track, Clonoulty just a few miles farther along.

By the time he reached Father Mackey’s house, the sun was pale
and orange in the east. He paused on the doorstep, remembering for the first time in hours that his son was gravely ill. He let himself into the house, careful not to make any noise. It didn’t matter. One of the servants met him in the hall.

Knox stepped into the drawing room where he could hear voices. He saw Mackey first, standing by the window. Then he saw Martha, both of them up, despite the early hour. He saw her face, the deadness in her eyes, and felt his stomach lurch.

‘Is James … ?’

‘The doctor thinks he’ll make it.’ Relief flooded her face. ‘It was touch and go for a while but the fever has passed. He doesn’t think it was cholera after all, just a fever.’

Knox went to hug her but she pushed him away. ‘I had to go through all of this on my own, Michael. Do you know how lonely I’ve been? How afraid? You said you were only going to the barracks …’

Already exhausted, Knox blinked, not knowing what to say; how to make this better. ‘Can I see him?’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say, Michael?’

‘I …’ Knox wanted to tell her what he’d found out, about his father, about Moore, but the words wouldn’t come.

When he tried to take her in his arms for a second time, tried to hug her, to comfort her, she pushed him away. ‘You just weren’t here, Michael. You haven’t been here for a while.’

Mackey coughed and then excused himself – he couldn’t get out of the room quickly enough.

Martha’s face was like a suit of armour. ‘Where have you
been
, Michael? What could have been more important than being here with us?’

Knox felt light-headed. All he could see was his father’s face; all he could hear were the man’s sobs.

‘You made your choice, Michael. You chose to chase after a dead man, find justice for a corpse.’

What he wanted to say was: there is no justice. Not at this time. Not in this land.

‘I don’t know you any more, Michael. I don’t know who you are, what you believe in. I want to be by myself for a while.’

‘But James is going to live. He’s going to pull through. Isn’t that the important thing?’

Martha stared at him. She wanted him to say something else, to reassure her, to be the husband she hoped he still was. Knox could see this, see how much she needed him.