‘I was told by Bill Flint that you were involved in the strike here at the ironworks a few years ago and that you were part of the group that was set upon by John Wylde and his men.’
Evans looked at him cautiously. Still a young man, he had strong forearms, weathered skin and wore a handkerchief wrapped tightly around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes while he worked.
‘And who are you, sir?’
‘Detective-inspector Pyke from Scotland Yard.’
‘A long way from home. You come all this way to rake over ancient history?’
‘Ancient history? It was only three years ago. As far as I understand it, Wylde and some bullies from China, bought and paid for by the Hancocks, charged into the crowd and smashed a few skulls. After that, I heard, the strike collapsed.’
Evans readjusted his handkerchief. ‘What is it you want to know, Detective-inspector?’
‘Last week Jonah Hancock’s son, William, was seized by kidnappers. Two ransom notes, apparently penned by Scottish Cattle, were sent to the Castle.’
Evans’ eyes opened wide. His fear, and surprise, seemed genuine. ‘And you think that had something to do with me?’ He looked around the forge. ‘With us?’
‘The Hancocks couldn’t have endeared themselves to you that day. Perhaps this is your chance to get revenge.’
The puddler shook his head violently. ‘You’re not going to put this one on me, sir. By no means.’ He grew more agitated. ‘Do you think any of us would dare pull something like this? Have you lost your mind?’ He realised he was almost shouting and tried to calm down.
‘Perhaps not you personally, but what about Scottish Cattle?’
‘The Bull would never go after a five-year-old boy to settle their score with Jonah and Zephaniah Hancock.’
‘So there are scores to be settled, then?’
Evans shook his head. ‘Not here, sir. Not any more.’ His stare was defiant.
‘All’s rosy in the garden?’
‘Compared to three years ago it is.’ He sniffed. ‘You might not believe it but in the last six months, Hancock has given us everything we’ve asked for. Better contracts, higher wages, the chance for men like me to learn a new trade. They’ve even cut back on the work offered to the Irish.’
‘And that’s a good thing?’
‘Too right it is, sir. No one wants their wages driven down by hordes of unskilled workers.’
Pyke made a mental note of this volte-face. Three years ago, the Hancocks had made a point of shipping over workers from Ireland in order to break the strike and keep wages low.
‘Doesn’t this sudden display of generosity make you a little suspicious? The Hancocks are hardly known for their charity.’
‘It’s a boom year, so it is. Orders are flowing in. There’s no way they could cut wages.’
Pyke decided to ignore the remark. ‘I also heard Hancock pays the China bullies to stamp on the slightest sign of dissent before it has the chance to spread.’
Evans regarded Pyke for a moment. Then he leant a little closer and whispered, ‘As long as the Hancocks’ve got the bullies at their beck and call, no one’s gonna say a word against them. Folk are too frightened to open their mouths.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re too frightened to say what’s really on your mind?’
Evans didn’t reply.
Pyke watched as white molten ore hissed and spat its way along the channels carved into the earth. ‘A personal notice has just been placed in the Merthyr Guardian.’ Pyke turned his attention back to the puddler. ‘I want you to look at it and tell all of your fellow workers to look at it, too.’
If Scottish Cattle had snatched the Hancock boy, he wanted them to see the notice.
Pyke left without another word and went to rejoin Dai Jenkins on the other side of the building. Jenkins had been talking excitedly to another man and when he turned to look at Pyke, his face was gleaming with anticipation. ‘I don’t expect you’ve heard the news, then.’
‘What news?’
‘The Peelers have closed off Jackson’s Bridge.’
Pyke waited for him to continue.
‘They’re going door to door along Quarry Row and Bathesda Gardens, turning folk out of their homes.’
Pyke swore under his breath. Jenkins saw this and grinned. ‘Paddies aren’t goin’ to like it. Trust me. There’ll be trouble, sure as night follows day.’
TEN
MONDAY, 11 JANUARY 1847
Dundrum, Co. Tipperary
Michael Knox was not a superstitious man. In fact, it was the superstitions and myths associated with Celtic lore that he most despised. If people chose to put their trust in fairies or leprechauns, it meant they weren’t paying attention to important questions such as political representation and public accountability. He didn’t believe that the Rock of Cashel had fallen out of heaven nor that Asenath Moore had grown a tail. But after he had left the horse and cart back at the stables and paused to look up at the ancient house, its windowpanes gleaming in the morning sun, his mind turned to the local men who, thirty years earlier, had torn down a military barracks a few miles away in Ballack, and their ancestors who, two hundred years back, had fought Cromwell’s Ironsides while resistance in nearby Fethard and Cashel had crumbled without a shot being fired.
Knox knew it was probably just wishful thinking but as the north wind blew and he stared out across the estate in the direction of Ballack, where one of the rebels had been hanged, he thought — just for a moment — he could hear the murmurs of the men who’d fought and been killed or who’d been transported to Van Dieman’s Land for their part in the uprising.
This time, Knox entered the old house through the poor door and found his mother chopping carrots in the kitchen. He hadn’t warned her of his visit and he could see by her expression that she was worried. Maybe, he decided later, it was merely that she didn’t want to be reminded of what had happened the previous day at the cottage. Knox kissed her on the cheek and told her that Martha and James were both well. Secretly he was relieved to see her there at work, unscathed. Knox had been worried that his father might have drunk himself into a violent rage and taken it out on her. He asked whether there was somewhere they could talk in private and followed her as she led him into one of the pantries.
‘Well, what is it, love?’ She tried to smile but it came across as forced.
Knox removed the daguerreotype from his pocket and handed it to her. She hesitated and then looked at the image. When she handed it back to him, her hand was trembling slightly.
‘He was the one they found on the estate.’ Knox waited for a response. ‘The murder I was told to investigate.’
His mother nodded, as though she’d suspected this. ‘Why did you bring this here, love? I mean, what would his Lordship say if he knew …’
Ignoring her concerns, Knox lowered his voice. ‘You’ve been here longer than anyone. I was just wondering whether this face was familiar to you.’
‘Me?’
Knox looked into her eyes. He hated putting her on the spot. ‘Someone told me that when Moore came upon the body, he nearly collapsed from the shock.’
She dug her hands into the folds of her apron. ‘I don’t want you to drag me into this business, Michael. Please. I don’t want to rock the boat, not now, not when his Lordship has been so good to us.’
‘The impression I got was that Cornwallis knew the man who was murdered.’ Knox looked around the pantry, the shelves buckling under the weight of all the food.
‘I wish I could help you, Michael, but I don’t know anything. And even if I did, I need to think about Peter. It would kill him, if we were forced out of our home.’
‘This is important to me, Mam. I don’t expect you to understand but I think Cornwallis asked for me because he thought he could bully me into doing nothing.’