She flinched and withdrew from him.
Outside, Knox patted the horse and climbed up on to the cart. Listlessly McMullan joined him, shivering from the cold. They sat there next to one another, staring into the darkness.
‘I’m not going to take you to Cashel, Davy. You don’t deserve to be punished for what you did.’
McMullan nodded but didn’t say anything.
‘You’re free to go.’
‘Free?’ McMullan stared at him blankly then shook his head.
Knox watched him trudge off down the track, leaving faint footprints in the snow. Later it struck him that he should have offered the man his coat or some money but by then he was halfway back to Cashel and his thoughts had turned to what would happen when Cornwallis found out that McMullan’s name wasn’t listed among those to be tried at the quarter assizes.
NINE
THURSDAY, 19 NOVEMBER 1846
Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales
The three of them were ushered into the living room of the station-house. The child’s body lay on a walnut table covered by a white sheet. Jones closed the door behind him and remained where he was. Jonah Hancock and Cathy stared at each other and then at Pyke. Before they had left the Castle, Cathy had rinsed her face in cold water and of the two of them, she looked the more capable; Jonah Hancock couldn’t even bring himself to look at the table. The two of them had barely spoken in the carriage but as they disembarked, she had offered Jonah her hand and he had taken it. Pyke didn’t know whether this was just habit or some kind of coming together in the face of adversity.
Pyke strode towards the table. There was no reason to prolong the agony. ‘Would one of you care to step up here?’ His hand rested on the sheet.
Now Pyke could feel his own heart thumping against his ribcage. If the dead child was indeed their son, they would blame him — for not precisely following the orders of the second letter. And perhaps they would be right to do so. He’d taken a risk and it had blown up in his face. A man was dead and they still had no idea who’d taken the boy. Maybe, Pyke thought grimly, the kidnappers had decided to cut their losses, flee the town and kill the lad in the process. Of course, none of the money had changed hands.
Jonah Hancock waved his request away, indicating that the task was beyond him. That left Cathy. She stared at Pyke dry-eyed and tried to smile. ‘Looks like it will have to be me, then.’
Pyke guided her to the spot next to him. Impressed by her fortitude, he touched her softly on the small of her back, not caring whether Jonah saw it. If her husband couldn’t give her the moral support she needed, then he would.
‘Ready?’ Pyke’s hand hovered above the sheet. Briefly he thought about the dead bodies he had seen. Most recent had been Frederick Shaw’s. Pyke had held him as he’d died. He never believed that the dead looked at peace. It was usually a terrible sight, someone you’d known and perhaps even loved turned into a slab of mottled flesh.
‘As I’ll ever be.’ Beside him, Cathy took a deep breath.
As Pyke slid the sheet off the boy’s face, he tried to imagine how he would feel if this were Felix. Cathy looked down at the face, her expression hard.
‘It’s not him.’ She let out a tiny gasp and turned to Pyke. ‘It’s not my William.’
Jonah Hancock barged Pyke out of the way and stared down at the corpse. His hands were trembling. ‘By Gad, it really isn’t him, is it?’ Turning to his wife, he added, ‘How could anyone think it was our son? This boy looks nothing like him!’
Pyke wanted to take Cathy in his arms and tell her that everything was going to be fine but he stood aside to let Jonah comfort her. Jonah simply patted her arm and said, ‘Someone should go home and tell my father…’
‘What you did was reckless, sir, and even worse, it needlessly endangered the life of my son,’ Jonah Hancock said, once Pyke had explained what had happened on the mountain. One of the constables had escorted Cathy back to the Castle.
‘I still don’t believe that second letter was sent by the men who’ve kidnapped your son,’ Pyke said, knowing this didn’t wholly justify the decision he’d made.
‘But you’ve no proof, have you? Admittedly it’s not the same handwriting but that can easily be explained. One of the other kidnappers could have scribed it.’
Pyke looked uneasily at Superintendent Jones, who had said very little. He had to admit that Hancock had a point. ‘What we need to do is find out who shot and killed that man up on the mountain. It couldn’t have been one of the kidnappers. Why shoot one of their own?’
‘So let’s assume that someone else found out about the arrangement and decided to try and put a stop to it. Shoot this chap and have done with it,’ Jones suggested.
‘Perhaps.’ Pyke shrugged. ‘I just can’t see what was gained.’ He turned to Hancock. ‘Your son is still missing and we still have all of the ransom money.’
Jones nodded, similarly bemused. ‘You said Johns saw the assassin? That he’d be able to identify the man again?’
‘One of them, perhaps. He made a good point. It takes considerable skill to shoot a man at such a distance and kill him, so the person who pulled the trigger was a trained marksman. A soldier, probably.’
‘Why on earth would a soldier want to kill one of my son’s kidnappers?’ Hancock said, angrily.
‘For a start, we don’t know whether the dead man was one of the kidnappers or not.’ Pyke went to retrieve the rent book he’d found in the man’s pocket. ‘There’s no name in here but it says the man lived in Dowlais on Irish Row.’
‘So what are we waiting for?’ Hancock said. The sweat on his forehead glistened in the candlelight.
‘Irish Row?’ Jones seemed unconvinced by this. ‘You’re saying this man is Irish?’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Hancock said, rubbing his hands together.
Jones and Pyke shared a troubled look. It was the superintendent who spoke first. ‘I think you’d better let us take care of matters from here, sir.’
Hancock’s face reddened with indignation. ‘It’s two miles to Dowlais. If not by my carriage, how do you intend to get there? Walk?’
‘Irish Row after dark?’ Jones said dubiously.
Pyke looked at him, and then at Hancock. ‘I don’t see we have a choice.’
‘They’re a wild lot and they live in squalor you simply wouldn’t fathom. But I still can’t believe that an Irishman or a mob of Irishmen would do anything as bold or rash as kidnap Mr Hancock’s son. That kind of undertaking requires planning and capital. Most of the Irish here are just trying to survive.’ Jones glanced at Hancock, waiting to be contradicted.
Pyke watched them, their wariness in one another’s company, and thought about what Johns had told him: that the police had stood by while the bullies — bought and paid for by the Hancocks — ran amok among the strikers.
‘What I don’t understand is why a bunch of Paddies would want to pick a fight with us,’ Hancock said. ‘We’ve been damn good to ’em, shipped ’em over here and gave ’em work.’
Pyke looked out of the dirt-smeared window. Even with four horses, the carriage was struggling to negotiate the thick mud. ‘I’m told you used Irish labour to break the strike a few years ago and drive down wages.’
‘Nothing illegal in that.’
‘No, but it must have caused resentment between the Irish and native workers.’
Hancock chose not to respond and crossed his arms.
This was Pennydarren Road, Jones explained, to fill the silence. It hadn’t been metalled, which made it impassable at certain times of the year. Eventually it turned into Dowlais Road, with its string of squat terraced houses clinging to either side.
‘And Dowlais is where the other great ironworks is located?’ Pyke put the question to Hancock.
‘Great, I think, is a misnomer, sir. They employ more bodies than we do at Caedraw but technically ours is a superior operation. With almost half as many workers, our output is nearly the same.’