‘James will pull through, Michael. You’ll see. We’ll be here waiting for you.’
Knox felt the daguerreotypes, heavy in his coat pocket, and tried to remember what he’d done with the deceased’s pistol and knife, where he’d put them. Then he remembered they were wrapped up in the blanket which he had left in the coal shed at the back of the house.
‘Can I have a moment with my wife?’
Hastings and the two constables withdrew to the door but kept it open. Turning his back on them, Knox clasped his wife’s hands and held them. ‘Keep him safe. I’ll be back as soon as I’m allowed.’
Martha let him hold her but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘I’m afraid, Michael. I’m afraid that our son won’t make it.’ She was shivering in his arms.
‘We just have to be strong,’ he muttered, trying to sound convincing.
NINETEEN
TUESDAY, 24 NOVEMBER 1846
Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales
Pyke woke up and had no idea what time it was, whether it was day or night. He touched his wound, as gently as possible, gasping out loud from the pain now that the effect of the gin and laudanum had worn off. Looking down, he noticed that the blood was still fresh. Upstairs he could hear the family moving around. He would have died without their kindness, the fact they’d hidden him from Wylde and had fetched him what he’d needed: gin and laudanum for the pain, bandages and something to pick out the lumps of ball-shot. Pyke had imbibed the gin before going to work on the wound, and when he’d removed the last of the shot, he’d used a hot poker to close it. That had been the worst bit, the part that had caused him to scream with agony. Later, he’d slept and now he was awake. Awake and still alive. Peeling back the bloody bandages, he inspected the wound. It looked grim. At least there was no sign of infection, no gangrenous smell. He changed the bandages and then tried to sit up.
Pyke had offered five hundred pounds to the person who could bring Felix to him. He had made the offer to the family and told them to pass the word on to their friends, the people they trusted, but as yet no one had found him. Pyke hoped this meant Felix hadn’t travelled to Merthyr after all, and he had already sent a message to Martin Jakes in Keynsham. What bothered him was the clerk’s conviction, when he’d asked for his son at the station-house. Yes, Felix had arrived. Yes, he’d taken a room at the Southgate Hotel. Pyke had been set up, that much was clear. But who had given the orders? Wylde had been waiting to ambush him at the hotel, but how had he found out about Felix?
Pyke hadn’t been a good father. He hadn’t been there for Felix as often as he should have. His uncle, now deceased, had helped to bring up the boy. Pyke had spent too much time away from home. The lad had forgiven him but the scars were there for all to see. Pyke had driven him into the arms of the Church. He hauled himself into a sitting position, bolts of pain coursing up and down his left side, almost causing him to bite off his tongue. He had finished the laudanum hours earlier and there was no gin left either. Sinking back to a horizontal position, Pyke stared up at the ceiling, trying to work out how Wylde had found out about his role in the burglary or indeed whether this had been the reason for the ambush. His thoughts turned to the Hancock boy.
Pyke had heard nothing about him either. He had sent a message to the Castle, that he had delivered the suitcase, as requested. All being well, William Hancock had arrived back — in one piece — at eleven o’clock the previous morning. But what if the boy hadn’t materialised? The Hancocks would be frantic and they would be blaming him.
Briefly his mind turned to Cathy, her soft, smooth skin, the way she’d yielded, dug her fingernails into his back.
When he woke up again, the family were downstairs, trying to go about their business. They were talking in Welsh. Noticing he was awake, Megan, the wife, knelt down next to him and touched his forehead. She had kind eyes. Smiling, she said something to John, her husband.
‘Felix? My son?’
They understood that much. John shook his head, frowning.
Pyke wanted to ask them about the Hancocks, whether they’d heard anything about the boy, but he didn’t think they’d understand him.
There was a bang on the door and Megan went over to the window to see who it was. She went to the door and opened it. Must be someone she knew, someone she trusted. Pyke listened. They spoke in Welsh. The woman at the door was agitated, excited even. The husband joined in the conversation, and then indicated to Pyke that he would go next door and fetch their neighbour, who spoke some English. Pyke could tell from the tone of their conversation that something was wrong.
The neighbour came and knelt down next to him. ‘They’ve found a body in Post Office Field.’
‘ Who? ’ Pyke felt as if he had been winded and panic spilled through him, the news he hadn’t wanted to hear.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How far is Post Office Field?’
‘From here? A few minutes.’
Pyke didn’t have to think about it. He staggered to his feet, the pain now a welcome distraction.
A large crowd had built up near the entrance to Post Office Field, an acre of scrubland surrounded by houses. A constable Pyke didn’t recognise was blocking the only route into the place.
Men and women were whispering to one another in a mix of Welsh and English, curious shopkeepers mingling with labourers from the ironworks.
The neighbour turned to him. ‘A woman over there knows the man who found the body. He reckons it’s a young boy.’
Pyke experienced a giddy surge of relief, and then guilt. His thoughts turned to Cathy; he wondered whether she’d heard the news. He heard someone say, ‘Hancock.’
‘It could be the master’s son.’ The neighbour was a Caedraw worker, a furnace-man. He was terrified by the notion.
Pyke imagined the scene, a handful of constables huddled over a corpse, frozen almost solid. He thought about the Hancocks, the worst news a family could receive, the rage and the grief, the devastation they would be feeling. It was the most heartbreaking thing that could happen to a parent, having to bury your child. Nothing would be the same again.
They heard the horses, the rattling of a harness, before they saw the brougham. It turned into the dead end from Victoria Street, the crowd clearing a path before it. It came to a halt, and the driver climbed down and opened the door. There was Jonah Hancock, but no sign of Cathy. Hancock took no notice of the crowd, his expression blank, the muscles of his face clenched tight. The constable let him through; they watched as he crossed the first part of the field.
Pyke reached inside his coat and touched his wound. There was fresh blood on his fingers. He could hardly feel the pain, though. Why had the kidnappers taken the boy’s life?
The crowd had grown and a hushed reverence had come over them. Death was a regular occurrence for the poor but not for a family like the Hancocks.
Pyke’s thoughts turned to Cathy. She would be distraught, inconsolable. He wanted to see her, comfort her, but he knew this was out of the question. Would the family blame him?
The crowd looked up and everyone was quiet: Jonah Hancock in the distance, carrying the body of his son. Someone next to Pyke began to sob, another joined in. Hancock was closer now, striding carefully, his son’s legs and arms dangling down. Pyke watched his hard expression and wondered whether he could have managed such composure, such dignity, if the corpse had been Felix’s.
Approaching the brougham, Hancock handed the body to the driver, then climbed into the carriage and reclaimed it. The door closed and moments later the brougham rattled off in the direction of Victoria Street.
As soon as the brougham had gone, the mood turned ugly, grief turning to anger. Later the neighbour explained that the people had been talking about the police search of Bathesda Gardens and Quarry Row. Hadn’t they been looking for a child? A few people had put two and two together and had come up with an answer. An Irish mob had killed the Hancock boy. Most of the people there worked, or knew someone who worked, at Caedraw, and it was as if an outsider had come into their community and killed one of their own. No one seemed to like Jonah Hancock but he was the ironmaster and deserved their loyalty.