‘What a terrible business,’ Webb said, shaking his head. ‘Then again there has been so much brute ugliness over these past few weeks I hardly recognise this town.’
Pyke strode across to the window and looked out at the small courtyard and garden. ‘I understand you’ve been forced to halt production at the Morlais works.’
‘Temporarily, I hope. Now that the soldiers have restored order, I expect to be back in business in a day or two. To be perfectly frank, my future depends on it.’ Webb tried to laugh but there was tension in his eyes.
‘I’m told you’re close to Captain Kent, the man who’s billeting at the barracks and is in charge of the soldiers.’
‘Who told you that?’
Pyke opted to ignore the question. ‘Does that mean you’re coordinating the clean-up effort?’
‘Kent’s his own man but it’s true that I’ve made my wishes known to him.’ Webb was clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning.
They stared at one another for a moment. ‘Why did you have to close the works?’ Pyke said, finally. Earlier he’d passed Caedraw and had seen plumes of smoke spurting from the top of the blast furnaces.
‘The atmosphere was too poisonous, given what happened: the violence, the riots, the beatings.’
‘I understand there are no such problems at Caedraw, though?’
Webb took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘I would gladly choose my current predicament, as desperate as it is, over the ordeal that my friends from the Castle have had to endure.’
Pyke thought again about what had happened to the Hancock boy, the sheer needless tragedy of it.
‘I do know that the Hancocks, pere and fils, have drastically reduced the number of Irish workers at Caedraw. As a result, they haven’t been faced with the same difficulties as we have.’ Webb shrugged. ‘With the benefit of hindsight, it seems like a clever decision.’
Pyke left the window and joined Webb in front of the fireplace. ‘The reason I came to see you was because I thought you might know where I could find Sir Clancy Smyth.’
‘Me? Why would I know that?’
‘He hasn’t been seen for a number of weeks. I’m told he’s gone back to his family pile in Ireland.’
‘That may be so, but I’m afraid Smyth and I haven’t been on speaking terms for some months.’
‘Oh?’
Webb sighed. ‘I’ve had troubles with renegotiating the lease at Morlais. It runs out at the end of this year; in a couple of weeks, actually. To begin with, the landowners, the Thomas family, wanted thirty thousand a year. That’s sixteen more than I’m currently paying but the order books are full and I would have agreed to their demands. Then out of the blue Thomas came back and said he wanted fifty thousand a year. Fifty thousand pounds. At fifty, I’d be broke within months. It’s outrageous… pure greed.’
‘What’s any of this got to do with Smyth?’
‘His hands are all over it. He’s good friends with the Thomas family, sees himself as a defender of traditional values against parvenus such as myself and, I suppose, the Hancocks.’
Pyke thought about the rancour that existed between Smyth and the Hancocks. ‘I see, but where’s the profit for him — and for the Thomas family — in driving you out of business?’
‘That’s a good question but I’m afraid it’s one I can’t answer. It’s very simple, really. I need to meet a sizeable order currently on the books from Russia if I’m to pay the rent they want to charge. But because of what’s happened, the trouble, I’m behind on production and I’ve heard that the Russians are looking around for alternative sources.’
‘And if you don’t meet the deadline?’
‘If I don’t meet the deadline and the Russians don’t pay for the iron that we’ve already produced, well…’ Webb shook his head, more sad than angry. ‘I’d have to shut down the works for good.’
‘So when did Thomas have this change of heart and demand fifty instead of thirty thousand?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘At Smyth’s bidding — or so you think?’
Webb looked around the simply furnished room, seemingly lost for a few moments. ‘If you want my opinion, Detective-inspector, I don’t believe he’s gone back to Ireland.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s too involved with every aspect of what goes on in this town. He wouldn’t leave all of it behind, not willingly anyway.’
But what if something had gone terribly wrong and he’d found himself with the body of a sixteen-year-old boy on his hands?
‘If he decided to stay here, but he wanted to hide, who would put him up? You say he’s close to the Thomas family?’
Webb’s eyes brightened. ‘I was planning to visit them later this morning, plead my case one final time. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?’
In Webb’s company, William Thomas assured Pyke he knew nothing about the whereabouts of Sir Clancy Smyth, and when Pyke questioned the servants and stableboys, he was told that no one matching Smyth’s description had been seen in or near the house.
Later Webb told him that he’d struck a deal with Thomas to pay thirty thousand a year, on the assurance that the full amount would be paid on the first of January.
‘Now I just need to meet the deadline for the Russian order, make sure they pay on time.’
Webb dropped Pyke off in the middle of the town. As he had the previous night, Pyke intended to sleep in John Johns’ cabin and wanted to get there before the light disappeared. The track took him past the Caedraw works and the Castle.
Had it really been only a few weeks since he had first set foot inside that Gothic monstrosity?
It was hard to recall what he had expected on that occasion, what he had wanted to do, his hopes and fears. Pyke felt a gust of rage swell in his stomach but he did his best to quell it. He was thinking about Jonah and Zephaniah when he noticed there were still men posted at the gate. Without really thinking about what he was doing or why, Pyke slipped into the grounds and made his way up the slope to the walled garden where he had embraced Cathy. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Still not sure what he hoped to find, Pyke followed the route she’d shown him to the back of the building and the hidden passageway into the Castle. His boots may have been made from the best leather but Pyke had long since lost any feeling in his toes, and the left side of his stomach — where he’d been shot — ached, in spite of all the laudanum and gin he’d consumed.
Earlier it had snowed and Pyke could see that farther up the mountain it had started to settle.
Entering the passageway, he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had a box of matches in his pocket and it took him a few moments to retrieve it and light one. Briefly the match flared, illuminating the dank passageway. Pyke looked ahead and sniffed; he’d expected the air to smell of damp but a thicker, riper scent invaded his nostrils. Instinctively he knew what it was. Lighting another match, he took a few nervous steps forward and saw what looked like an old sack directly ahead. But he knew it wasn’t a sack; he knew what it was and the closer he edged towards it the more certain he became.
Kneeling down, Pyke could see it was a human body and it was clear to him that the flesh had begun to rot. The air was so obscene that it took every ounce of his self-control not to vomit. Chivvying away a rat, he reached forward and felt his fingers touch flesh; cold, decomposing flesh.
It was hard to tell who the corpse belonged to at first; maggots had eaten some of the flesh and the face and hair were covered in mud. Holding the match with one hand, he scraped away some of the mud from the face and felt a sudden jolt of panic. Her lips had turned blue and her eyes were as small and hard as stones. Both her wrists had been slit and next to her corpse lay a knife, the blade covered with dried blood.
As he stood there, Pyke wondered what had passed through Cathy Hancock’s mind just before she had cut her own wrists.