His mother’s gaze fell to the floor. Knox could tell she was torn.
‘His name is Pyke. He has or had a son called Felix. I suspect he might be a policeman from London. That is, before someone stabbed him.’
This drew a tiny gasp from his mother. ‘I don’t know anything about a policeman, really I don’t. I’ve never left the county, let alone the island. I don’t know anyone from London.’
Knox took her trembling hand in his and squeezed it gently. ‘The man has a son, Mam. A young son. Don’t you think that lad has a right to know his father is dead?’
His mother squeezed his hand back and looked up into his face. ‘You’re a good boy, Michael. Always were. It’s why I love you. But I’m begging you to leave this matter be. For all of our sakes. Especially yours. I don’t know anything about this business and I don’t want to. If his Lordship has told you to let the matter lie, what do you imagine he’ll do if he finds out you’ve been sniffing around?’
Knox didn’t have an answer for her. Deep down he knew she had a point.
She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘All folk like us can think about right now is surviving. Right and wrong don’t come into it.’
Knox had just stepped through the poor door when a voice called out his name. Startled, he turned around and saw the figure of Lord Cornwallis hobbling down the steps towards him.
‘One of the stable boys told me you were here,’ he said. He took a moment to catch his breath. ‘Just seen your mother?’
‘I thought I should return the horse and cart.’ Knox made a point of not looking at the aristocrat.
‘Good boy,’ Cornwallis said, trying to smile.
‘Least I could do, your Lordship,’ Knox muttered.
‘And the brigand I placed in your custody?’
Knox felt his stomach cramp. ‘All taken care of, your Lordship.’ He stared down at the ground. More than anything in the world, he wanted to be as far away from the man — and Dundrum House — as possible.
Cornwallis nodded and sniffed the air. He stared at the grounds, a perfect frost making everything appear pristine. ‘You’re turning out to be quite a man. More of your mother in you, I’d reckon, than your father.’
It was a casual remark — meant both as compliment and warning — but Knox took it to be the latter. It underlined that the affairs of his family were well known to Cornwallis.
The old man patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this little chat.’ He turned around and retreated halfway up the steps. ‘If you ever run into difficulties, see that you contact me first. I always like to reward loyalty.’
The authorities had ceased being able to keep up with the dead. Bodies were slung without grace or ceremony into hastily dug pits. Record-keeping lagged well behind. But every day the police were briefed not about the famine and the dead but about ambushed food convoys and burglaries. Knox could see the senselessness, even the absurdity, of the situation but he kept his thoughts to himself.
After returning to the barracks, he found an empty room and took a pen, an inkwell and a piece of foolscap. His report was due. He cleared his mind and thought about what Hastings would want him to say: no progress had been made; the victim was a vagrant; and his identity would remain unknown. Knox began to write, the nib of the pen scratching against the foolscap. My inquiry has failed to determine the identity of the victim. The victim is most likely a vagrant who had gone to the estate looking for work. He blinked and glanced down at the paper. He was most likely robbed at knifepoint by another vagrant who has now absconded to parts unknown. A struggle ensued and the victim died of a stab wound to his abdomen.
Knox looked over what he’d written. It was short and to the point and might even earn him a promotion. He blotted the paper and put it to one side of the desk. Tearing off another piece of paper, he dipped the nib in the inkwell. Dear Felix… How did you tell someone that their father was dead? I am afraid I am the bearer of terrible news. I believe your father — Pyke — was murdered by a person or persons unknown on the fourth night of January in the grounds of Dundrum House, County Tipperary. He stared at the few words on the page. What else was there to say? That the body had been buried along with fifteen or twenty others in a famine pit outside the town? He reached into his pocket, retrieved the letters Felix had written to Pyke, and copied out the return address given on one of the envelopes. Then he added a few more words of condolence to the letter and signed it.
Knox left his report with one of the sub-inspector’s clerks, then made his way up Main Street to the post office from where the mail coach would shortly be leaving for Dublin. At the counter, he paid the postage and dropped the letter into the mail sack.
Fatigue hit him only on the walk home. He skirted around the Rock and by the time he had reached the top of the lane where he lived, across from the ruined abbey, he was exhausted. From there, it would take him another twenty minutes to reach the cottage. This time, he didn’t bother to call in on his neighbour, as was his custom. He couldn’t face reading the old man his newspaper.
Martha was upstairs in their bedroom singing to the child. He kissed them both and sat on the chair at the end of the bed.
‘Are you unwell?’ Martha touched his forehead, concern etched on her face. ‘Do you want to lie down?’
‘No, I’m just a little tired.’
‘Are you sure? You look terrible.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled weakly.
‘Did anything happen today?’
‘No, Martha, I’m just tired.’
James started to squawk in the crib.
They ate dinner in silence. Afterwards, Knox scrubbed out the pot in the yard. He patted the dog on the head and stared up at the dark cloudless sky. It was bitterly cold but he hardly noticed. When he let himself back into the house, he saw that Martha had already gone to bed. The dog scratched on the door to be allowed inside but Knox ignored it. Upstairs, he undressed in the dark and climbed into bed.
Martha had turned her back to him but he knew she wasn’t asleep. They lay in silence. What was there to say?
‘Oh, Michael.’ Martha turned to face him. Her body felt soft and warm. He wanted to cry. ‘You seem so sad and lost.’
He could just about see the outline of her face. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry for what?’
‘I’m just sorry.’ He wanted to fall asleep and never wake up.
‘What is it, Michael? What happened today?’
‘I need to sleep.’
Next to him, he heard Martha sigh. ‘It’s hard sometimes, I know, to keep going.’ She reached out in the dark and gently touched him on the cheek. ‘But we have to. We all have to.’
ELEVEN
FRIDAY, 20 NOVEMBER 1846
Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales
Quarry Row was a short walk from the centre of the town but going there was like stepping into a different world. The street ran adjacent to the River Taff and was like a bog, wheel-tracks cut deep into the mud, making it all but impassable to vehicles. Cinder heaps and mounds of human excrement sat in piles outside most houses and wolfish dogs scavenged for scraps. The terraces had been thrown up by unscrupulous speculators using the cheapest materials and many were already sinking into the mud. It was the kind of street that ought to have been razed to the ground, yet each week the numbers grew, the poor and destitute arriving from famine-hit Ireland in search of a job and a new life. These same people were now being thrown on to the street by constables, while soldiers waited in the shadows.
Pyke found Superintendent Jones co-ordinating the search at the far end of the street. The constables were moving from house to house in pairs. On the street, small knots of young men shouted at them as they passed. A rock was thrown and a window shattered.
‘Who gave the orders for this to happen?’
Jones turned to face him. ‘Ah, Pyke. I sent word to the Castle but you had already left.’