By the time he had stumbled the mile or so from the Castle to John Johns’ cabin, Pyke ached from tiredness. It was now completely dark and all he could think about was Cathy’s crumpled form. He tried to remember her as she’d been, the time they had lain together, beautiful, coquettish. It was such a waste of a life. But she had lost her daughter and then her son and she was trapped in a loveless, moribund marriage. What did she have to live for? Pyke blamed himself — for not doing more to ensure her son’s safe return and for abandoning her in her moment of need. Perhaps if he hadn’t been shot, he could’ve found her, reasoned with her, reassured her. But what would he have said? What did you say to someone who’d just lost their son? Words were useless in the face of grief. Pyke knew this better than anyone.
Looking around, it struck him he would need to forage for wood, light a fire. He didn’t need food, he wasn’t hungry, but the cold was intense.
An envelope had been shoved under the door of the cabin. He saw it as soon as he stepped into the room. His name was scribbled on the front. Straight away, he recognised the writing, the same hand which had penned the first and last ransom demands. Quickly he tore it open and studied the contents.
Vaynor cemetery. Tonight at nine.
At the bottom of the page, there was a name, a signature. It took Pyke a few moments to place it.
TWENTY-THREE
TUESDAY, 2 FEBRUARY 1847
Clonoulty, Co. Tipperary
Knox stood over James’ cot, watching his son sleep. It was five in the afternoon and nearly dark, the first time James had slept in almost twelve hours. Martha was also asleep, on the floor, exhausted. She hadn’t put her head down in nearly three days. The doctor had visited again that afternoon and his prognosis wasn’t good. He had been especially concerned by the fact that some of James’ skin, especially on his back, had turned blue-black and he was still running a fever. James hadn’t eaten in two days, wouldn’t take any food, and for most of the day he was curled up in a ball. The doctor had mentioned cholera. When he’d left, they had gone back to the cot and stared down at their son, hoping for a miraculous transformation. Father Mackey had gone to the church to pray for James. A while later, the boy finally drifted off to sleep. Knox had ordered Martha to do likewise. A long night lay ahead of them.
Martha had tried to reassure James, tried to talk to him, comfort him. It had worked to some extent but the lad was still very weak. Knox listened to his breathing, reassured, looking at his little hands.
‘Should we wake him?’ Martha said, about an hour later, after she’d splashed water on her face.
‘The doctor said sleeping was good.’
She nodded, bit her lip. ‘He is going to be all right, isn’t he?’
‘The next two days will tell.’ This was what the doctor had said.
Smiling, Martha reached out and touched his face. ‘Thank you for staying with me today.’
The previous night, Knox had returned — euphoric — following his trip to Cashel and had told her about the exchange between Hastings, the County Inspector and Pierce, the policeman from England. Told her what he had said and done, played up his triumph, and that Pierce had forced his superiors to reinstate him in the constabulary. They would be able to eat, he’d said. They would find a new place to live. James would get better. Everything would go back to how it used to be. In the night, however, James’ fever had worsened and the cramping in his stomach had become more severe. By the morning, Knox hadn’t wanted to leave James’ side and no mention was made of his appointment in Cashel.
Now it was evening and James’ condition had improved a little, Knox found himself thinking about Benedict Pierce, whether he’d travelled to Dundrum House alone and, if so, what kind of a welcome he’d received.
‘You’re worried about something. I can tell.’ Martha stroked his hand.
‘I’m worried about our son.’
‘But you’re thinking about what you missed today, whether it’ll count against you.’
‘We need to eat, pay the rent. I just wonder what will happen when this Englishman leaves.’
‘If James has a better night, you should go and find this man Pierce tomorrow.’ Martha gave his hand a squeeze.
Knox looked at her and nodded. She was a good wife. ‘Some day we’ll look back at this and smile.’
‘God, I hope so.’ She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek.
Knox set off for Cashel before dawn. James had slept all night and his temperature was lower. The lad had even managed a smile, the first in three days. That was when Martha had told Knox to go. He had prevaricated but her certitude and James’ improved condition were enough to convince him. He would travel to Cashel and find the Assistant Commissioner; between them they would determine what had happened to Pyke.
Knox had to wait for an hour before the first cart heading in the direction of Cashel appeared. The driver, a shoemaker from Tip Town, didn’t hesitate to pick him up and they talked about the weather, their families, the countryside, anything but the famine.
The sun had risen above the Rock by the time they entered the town, the shoemaker dropping Knox off by the fountain at the bottom of Main Street. Farther up the street, a brewer’s dray had pulled up outside the King’s Head and two men were unloading barrels of ale.
As Knox entered the station-house, Sub-inspector Hastings was coming down the stairs. He saw Knox and stiffened slightly. ‘A word, if you please, Constable.’
Knox followed the man back up the stairs to his office. At least the sub-inspector had referred to him by his rank.
As soon as Knox shut the door, Hastings said, ‘Assistant Commissioner Pierce has had to return to London. He left last night on the stagecoach for Dublin.’
Knox felt a tightening across his chest, not sure what this would mean for him. ‘Did he…?’
‘He wanted me to give you this.’ Hastings took a letter from his desk and handed it to Knox.
While Knox opened the letter, Hastings said, ‘A special coroner’s inquest was held yesterday afternoon. The deceased’s name was officially recorded. A verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown was entered.’
Hands trembling, Knox read the short missive. It thanked Knox for his diligence and hard work but pointed out that it would not be in the public interest to pursue the inquiry any further.
‘Did he go to Dundrum and pay Lord Cornwallis a visit?’
Hastings affected a look of indifference. ‘Yes, I believe he did. What’s that got to do with anything?’
How had Cornwallis convinced Pierce to drop the investigation? Knox wondered. A threat perhaps? Or a bribe? The aristocrat had connections in London. He could help a man like Pierce. In any case it didn’t matter. Knox had missed his chance. The letter made no reference to the precariousness of his situation.
It would not be in the public interest. Anger replaced consternation. Who determined what was, and wasn’t, in the public interest?
Hastings strode across to the door and opened it. ‘You don’t imagine that your old position has been kept open, do you?’
Knox was too dumbfounded to answer. When he reached the top of the stairs, he heard Hastings say, ‘Good day, Mr Knox.’
His future had been decided in a matter of minutes. They hadn’t regarded him as a threat. Once again they had taken his home and his job and now they were slamming the door in his face.
From Cashel, Knox had to walk as far as Pubblehill, about five miles, before he got a lift. Knox sat listlessly next to the driver, a wire-maker, hardly able to talk, too stunned by what had happened, another reversal of fortune. He sat there, arms around his knees, thinking about a decision he’d already made. It was time to confront Moore in person, find out once and for all what he knew about the dead man, about the murder, and why he’d tried so hard to bury the whole matter.
The wire-maker dropped him on the High Street and Knox walked the remaining few yards to the Anglican church. There was no Catholic church in the village. Moore had seen to that.