It had taken until noon for the bodies to thaw enough for them to prise the baby from the mother’s grasp.
James had been the same age as that child and for days afterwards, Knox had lain awake wondering what had driven the mother to take refuge in a hedgerow, what her final thoughts had been before passing into unconsciousness; whether she had still harboured hopes that her baby might live if she held him tight enough. It helped having James, of course — being able to pick him up, hold him, feel the child’s soft breath tickle his cheek — but it made him vulnerable too. The fear that something might happen to James would suddenly fill Knox’s head and sometimes make it hard for him to breathe.
Knox left the cot and joined Martha in the front room. The dog was sleeping by the fire but it raised its head when Knox entered the room. He told her what he had said to Jeremy Brittas; that he didn’t understand where his anger was coming from.
Martha kissed him once on the forehead. ‘These are terrible times, Michael. If you weren’t angry, I wouldn’t respect you.’
‘But you still think I’m risking too much, by not doing what Moore and Hastings want me to do?’
Martha didn’t answer him at first. ‘I understand that you have to do what you have to do. But it doesn’t stop me from worrying about the consequences.’
Neither of them spoke for a while. Outside it had started to rain, and they listened to it beating against the windowpanes.
‘I heard that Father Mackey’s planning to denounce Asenath Moore from the pulpit on Sunday,’ Martha said eventually.
Father Mackey was the parish priest of Clonoulty, and over the past few months he had taken to seeking Martha’s opinion, even though she’d hadn’t been to confession for about two years. Knox worried about his presence, worried that any dalliance with the Catholic Church on her part would harm their marriage.
He reached down and patted Tom on the head. ‘So what’s Mackey planning on saying?’
‘He’s livid that Moore is only offering relief to those folk who attend one of his Bible classes.’
‘But he’s not surprised, surely? Everyone knows that Moore has always tried to convert his workers.’
Martha shrugged. These conversations about Father Mackey were always sensitive. ‘But Mackey’s willing to put his neck on the block. Surely that’s the point? I mean, who else has spoken up against Moore in public?’
Knox didn’t have an answer but he couldn’t quite bring himself to commend Mackey as Martha wanted him to.
‘I think I know the name of the man who was murdered on Moore’s estate,’ he said, breaking the silence.
‘Oh?’
Knox couldn’t tell from her tone what she thought about this development. ‘A man called Pyke.’
Martha brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘And what do you intend to do with this information?’ She stood up and went over to the fireplace, feeding a little more coal into the grate.
‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m stupid to be doing what I’m doing. I think how many people have died and wonder why I’m so concerned about this one body.’
Martha came over to where he was sitting and stroked his head. ‘Do you have an answer?’
Briefly Knox thought about all the bodies he had seen since the start of the winter. ‘Moore asked specifically for me.’ He was trying to formulate in his mind what he wanted to say. ‘He asked for me either because he thinks I’m incompetent and I won’t find anything out or because he thinks he can bully me into holding my tongue.’
‘Do you think Moore is afraid that something damaging might come to light?’
‘I’m almost sure of it.’
SEVEN
WEDNESDAY, 18 NOVEMBER 1846
Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales
Pyke had woken early that morning, his dreams formless and unsettling, and since he had not been able to get back to sleep, he dressed quickly and slipped out of the Castle unnoticed. He had gone to bed thinking about Cathy, trying to make sense of the coldness of her greeting. The air was cold and damp and smelled of smog and wet leaves, and the mountains rising up on all sides of the town were just about visible through the mist. Following directions he had been given by Sir Clancy Smyth, it took Pyke half an hour to find the place where John Johns lived: a crofter’s cottage perched on the lower slopes of a hill. Farther up the hill Pyke could see another cabin, though it wasn’t in as good a state of repair. He didn’t try to conceal his presence and had travelled halfway along the track when a tall man wearing a black shooting jacket appeared from behind a tree and aimed a rifle at his chest. ‘Stop right there, sir, and raise your hands above your head.’
Pyke did as he was told.
‘Identify yourself.’
‘My name’s Detective-inspector Pyke. I’m from Scotland Yard in London.’ He turned cautiously to face his interlocutor. ‘I’m looking for John Johns. I was told by Sir Clancy Smyth that I’d find him here.’
‘What’s your business?’ The man took a step away from the trees, still holding the rifle.
‘I need someone to translate for me, someone who speaks English and Welsh.’ Pyke paused, trying to decide whether he should be honest with Johns from the start.
The man holding the rifle was a head taller than he was, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. He was about Pyke’s age, wore gentleman’s clothes and had thick, black hair that reached almost as far as his shoulders.
‘Are you Johns?’
The man unbolted his rifle and let it fall to his side. ‘Aye.’ He took a couple of steps towards Pyke. ‘You said Smyth gave you my name?’
‘That’s right.’
Johns held out his hand and waited for Pyke to shake it. ‘Smyth’s a decent sort. They’re a rare breed in Merthyr.’
Pyke tried to place his accent. He didn’t sound Welsh but he didn’t sound English, either.
‘So what brings you all the way from London?’
‘A child has been kidnapped.’ Pyke tried to assess whether this was news to Johns or not. Merthyr was a small town and some of the servants at the Castle could easily have told their family and friends.
Johns stared at him, his reaction giving nothing away. ‘Aye, the Hancock boy.’
‘So you know.’
‘Clearly.’
‘You heard who might have taken him?’
‘I heard the Hancocks believe it might be some radicals, folks from the Bull perhaps.’
Pyke tried not to show his surprise. Johns’ source of information was as good as his was. ‘You don’t think so?’
Johns turned his attention back to the rifle at his side. ‘Far as I know, the Bull haven’t been active in this part of the world for a few years now, certainly not in Merthyr itself.’
‘I heard they were still organising in the mining villages farther up the valley.’
‘It might make folk feel good about themselves, to blacken their faces and dress up in cow hides, but as far as serious political agitation is concerned, the Bull is a spent force.’
‘Then why would someone want to make it seem as if they’re involved?’
‘I have no idea.’ Johns looked up the hill to the farther hut.
Pyke sensed there was something he wasn’t saying. ‘I’ve heard the Hancocks aren’t the most beloved employers in town.’
The skin above Johns’ nose was knotted into a frown. ‘A few years ago there was a strike at the Caedraw ironworks. It got nasty for a while. Perhaps you’ve already met Jonah Hancock? To keep the furnaces burning, he shipped over hundreds of workers from Ireland. That made the natives angry. They tried to picket the works. When that didn’t work, they broke into the one of the buildings, barricaded themselves inside — a hundred men in total. Jonah Hancock decided to enlist the help of some men who wouldn’t be afraid to crack a few skulls. There’s a bully in China called John Wylde, calls himself the Emperor. Wylde and his men stormed into the building and battered the strikers with pick handles and brickbats. None of the strikers was killed but they didn’t walk out of that building on their own two feet. The police stood by and let all of this happen. Hancock played his hand beautifully. The strikers had to grovel to get their jobs back, and he rewarded them with a massive cut to their wages.’