He was staring directly at Lord Cornwallis and for the first time all eyes turned towards the gnarled aristocrat.
Cornwallis cleared his throat and rose to his feet, turning away from the rest of the Board to address the crowded room. His bald head shone under the glare of the gaslight.
‘I come with a gift and a warning. The gift first: an additional one hundred pounds to the relief effort. This should, temporarily at least, defray the cost of the subsidy unwisely promised to the mob earlier today. But before I issue my warning, I feel compelled to clear up a few misunderstandings regarding the management of my estate. It is true I’ve been compelled to evict some unfortunate families from my land but only because the rent has fallen to such a low figure that the prospects for the estate have become imperilled. Reform is what’s called for; diversification. The old system is dead. No longer can we rely on that lazy root, the potato, to provide for all of our needs. Surely the last year is proof enough of that? Now, on my estate, there is land given over to pasture and grain. But I hear other whispers, too, efforts to impugn my family’s name. To some, I’m to be tarred with the same brush as other absent landlords. Apparently I care nothing for the plight of my tenants and sub-tenants. An absent landlord? Am I not here, addressing you? I am doing my bit, of course, as I should, but is it my responsibility alone to ensure that mouths in the county are fed? Look to the government. And before you think about pointing the finger in my direction, take notice of the money I have spent improving my estate, money which has filtered down to every single one of you.’
Cornwallis put his hands on his hips and stared out across the silent hall. He started to smile. ‘Now to my warning. Should the Board attempt to raise an additional levy against my estate, I shall have little choice but to redesignate my land as belonging to the neighbouring parish, which will mean, of course, that I’ll pay my rate there.’
As he sat down, the full implications of what he’d said started to ripple around the room. If Cornwallis withdrew his rate the workhouse could not be sustained and would have to close, forcing all five hundred men, women and children on to the streets. The result would be calamitous.
Afterwards, Knox was so deep in thought he didn’t notice Cornwallis approaching him until it was too late. The man’s face was glistening with perspiration and Knox could smell the wine on his breath.
‘I understand that your investigation is proceeding as per our discussion.’ He reached out and patted Knox on the face. ‘You’re a good boy, Michael. Loyal as they come. I mentioned this to your mother earlier today. She is very proud of you.’
Knox looked at the older man’s self-satisfied expression and had to rein in the urge to say what he really thought of him.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if it will be Head-constable Knox before very long. Who knows? Perhaps even sub-inspector one of these days.’
Knox stared down at his boots and again said nothing.
FIVE
TUESDAY, 17 NOVEMBER 1846
Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales
Pyke’s first impressions of the town were not very promising and a brief walk around it didn’t alter this perception. Merthyr was a squalid town trapped in a valley between three dirty mountains. If he’d arrived at night, someone said, the sight of jets of fire spurting up from the giant blast furnaces at the two great ironworks would have been impressive, but in daylight the place simply looked depressing, a grotesque man-made sore on an already bleak landscape.
In fact, to call the row upon monotonous row of squat back-to-back houses a town seemed to be a misnomer. Aside from a multitude of poorly constructed chapels, there were no public buildings or amenities of any note: no town hall, no fever hospital, no workhouse, no pavements, no gaslights, nothing to indicate that the civic spirit ran to anything more than letting the two ironworks do exactly as they wished. The High Street was pleasant enough, Pyke supposed, in a rather drab way, but he could see immediately that there were parts of the town where the squalor and degradation were as bad, if not worse, than anything he’d encountered in London.
On the train up from Cardiff, Pyke had sat next to a Chartist called Bill Flint. The radical had told Pyke that the town was booming on the back of a seemingly unquenchable thirst for iron, but that all the wealth was going straight into the pockets of the families that owned the largest ironworks: the Webbs of Morlais and the Hancocks of Caedraw. Merthyr, Flint had explained, was the biggest iron-producing town in the world. Wages were high, he acknowledged, compared with other parts of the country, but so were costs; private landlords were making a killing on rents and the truck system meant that workers had to spend their earnings buying overpriced goods at the company shop. What little remained went into the pockets of the publicans and brothel-keepers. At the last count, Flint said, there were five hundred beer shops and at least fifty brothels, the latter crammed into an area known as China. In turn, this had attracted swell mobs, pickpockets, thieves and gamblers from as far afield as Bristol and Liverpool.
Along the way, the police had lost control of parts of the town. But the ironmasters — to whom the police answered — didn’t seem to be particularly concerned about gambling and prostitution and cared only about excessive drinking after payday when the workers didn’t turn up for their shifts. It was the threat of industrial unrest that really frightened them, and there had been plenty of skirmishes over the years. The Merthyr Rising and the insurrection at Newport had been the most serious instances, and on each occasion soldiers had been called in to quell the unrest, with innocent men being shot and killed. On those occasions, Flint explained, the area had been suffering some of its leanest years and the men had been afraid for their jobs. Now, it was boom time and since there were more jobs than people to fill them, some of the radicals wanted to argue for higher wages. The town was awash with unsavoury types but the worst criminals of all were the ironmasters, Flint concluded. Perhaps not Sir Josiah Webb, who was well intentioned, but Zephaniah and Jonah Hancock were nothing short of pirates.
Pyke hadn’t mentioned the kidnapping and Flint hadn’t asked about it, or about Pyke’s reason for visiting the town.
Before presenting himself at the Hancocks’ home, he decided to call in to the station-house, a two-storey building on Graham Street. There, he found Superintendent Henry Jones, a well-spoken, energetic man in his twenties. Clearly Jones knew about the kidnapping but he hadn’t been forewarned of Pyke’s visit. He greeted Pyke and lamented the shortcomings of the force he oversaw in Merthyr, perhaps worried how the operation might look to a detective-inspector from London. When Pyke explained that he wanted to speak to Sir Clancy Smyth, the young superintendent suggested they wander over to the old courthouse.
‘So what are your first impressions of our fair town?’ Jones asked, as they crossed the street outside the station-house.
Pyke couldn’t tell whether he was being ironic. ‘Do you want an honest answer?’
Jones laughed nervously. ‘It has its moments, you know. The Taff Valley is really rather beautiful.’
They walked for a while in silence. The streets in the town centre were quiet, with just a few drays and carts making deliveries.
‘How many days has it been since the Hancock child was seized?’
‘Five or six, I think.’ Jones kept on walking. ‘I think a ransom note was delivered to the castle the day before yesterday.’
When Pyke had first seen the Hancocks’ address, he’d wondered whether the first line — Caedraw Castle — was an exaggeration. Since arriving in Merthyr, he had actually seen it from a distance, a grotesque mock-medieval pile perched on one of the hills overlooking the town.
‘You don’t seem sure.’
‘As you’ll doubtless find out, the Hancocks have their own way of conducting their affairs. For whatever reason, our expertise, such as it is, has not been required.’