‘It must be a terrible time for them.’
‘It made me think of what happened to you and your mother, all those years ago.’
Felix’s face softened and suddenly the years fell away. ‘I still think about her, you know. Sometimes I can hear her voice, the way she laughed, and but I can’t picture what she looked like.’
‘You were five years old at the time.’
‘I know. But still, she was my mother.’
This was the longest conversation they’d had about Emily in years. ‘You look a lot like her, you know. Your eyes and your nose, especially.’
Felix stood up, agitated, and then sat down. ‘I wish we had a painting of her.’
‘I tried to persuade her to sit for one but she told me she was too busy.’ Pyke laughed.
Then Felix grabbed hold of Pyke’s wrist and squeezed. ‘Find this boy and return him to his parents.’
‘That’s exactly what I intend to do.’ Pyke tried to show his gratitude at this unexpected show of support as Felix had never expressed much interest in his work.
‘I know you will.’
Pyke thought about mentioning the thousand-pound reward but stopped himself at the last moment.
Later, on the platform, while they waited for the arrival of the Bristol-bound service, they were joined by Jakes, who assured Pyke he was welcome to stay for as long as he liked on his return from Wales. Taking Felix to one side, Pyke put his hand on the lad’s shoulder and said he hoped — one day — to attend his ordination ceremony. It was the first time he’d given encouragement to Felix’s decision. Felix just smiled. The train pulled into the station and blanketed the platform with steam. Kissing Felix on the forehead, Pyke whispered that he loved him and then took his suitcase and boarded the train. As it lurched forward, Pyke opened the window and waved at Felix and Jakes. It felt as if he were leaving a part of his life on the platform. You have to let them go, Godfrey had warned him shortly before his death. Now Pyke knew what he had meant.
FOUR
THURSDAY, 7 JANUARY 1847
Cashel, Co. Tipperary
K nox woke suddenly, startled by a noise beneath the window. He lay there, listening to his wife sleeping and to the sound of raindrops pattering against the windowpanes. He waited for the dog to bark but nothing happened so he climbed out of bed, taking care not to wake Martha, put on his robe, and looked at their child, who was fast asleep. Downstairs, Knox unlocked the door and peered out into the yard. The dog looked up at him from the shelter they had built and began to wag its tail. Knox stepped outside and patted the brown mutt on the head. It was barely light and the clouds overheard were ominous. At least it wasn’t as cold as the previous two days, he thought, as he lit a fire in the back room. The dog joined him, even though it wasn’t meant to come inside. Knox patted it on the head again and wondered how long they could keep the animal. It was useful to have a guard dog, Knox supposed, but they could barely take care of themselves, and another mouth to feed was a luxury. He had heard stories of stray dogs being killed for their meat, but as he patted the midriff of the animal at his feet, it struck him that Tom — that was what they’d decided to call him, after Thomas Davis — wouldn’t make much of a meal.
Getting dressed, Knox turned his thoughts to the dead body he’d brought back from Cornwallis’s estate. The day before, he had petitioned in vain for the sub-inspector to pay for an undertaker to embalm the body, at least to preserve it until someone had identified the dead man. But he had been told in no uncertain terms to get rid of it, something he’d promised to do as soon as he got to the barracks. If no one identified the man, Knox knew that the inquiry was as good as dead.
Upstairs he heard James cry, and almost immediately, his wife’s footsteps crossing the bedroom to comfort him. Knox boiled a kettle of water, poured it into their mugs, along with some crushed nettles from the yard, and placed a saucepan of water on the range. Then he took the nettles out of the mugs, discarded them and measured half a cup of Indian corn before tossing the grains into the saucepan. His thoughts turned to the cured meat which he had given away to the man who’d lost his family. He’d done so because he’d felt sorry for him, and because it had seemed like the right thing to do, but now he regretted it. He had his own family to think about.
He took a mug of nettle tea to his wife, who was breastfeeding James.
‘It’s the coroner’s inquest today.’ Knox looked at her and James and waited for her to answer.
‘And then?’ she asked, finally.
Knox nodded. She was quite right. The verdict wasn’t in doubt: murder by a person or persons unknown. How could it be declared otherwise? The real question was whether Hastings would want the matter investigated further.
James gurgled a little and continued to suckle on her breast.
‘I don’t know. It’s not my decision.’
‘Then why are you so worried about it?’ Martha tried, not entirely successfully, to keep the judgement from her tone.
The previous day Knox had trudged around the inns and guest houses of Cashel, asking if anyone had taken in a man — very possibly an Englishman — whose description matched that of the corpse. No one admitted to having done so.
He stood there, staring out of the window that overlooked the yard. ‘I can’t explain it, Martha. I just feel like I owe it to him.’
Knox could tell that his wife didn’t like his answer.
‘I understand, Michael.’ Her expression softened. ‘Remember, we’ve been married nearly five years now.’
‘But?’
‘Moore gave you orders to drop the matter. What do you think he’ll do if he finds out you’re still digging around?’
Knox saw her discomfort. It was true that Martha was just as vociferous in her criticism of Moore as he was, at least in private, but now there was something else in her eyes. Could it be fear?
‘If I say and do nothing, that man will have died alone and unmourned. Is that what you would want?’
‘No, of course not.’ She sighed and turned her attention back to the child. ‘But I don’t see how this one man is any different from the countless other men, women and children who are starving to death even as we’re talking.’
Knox stared down at his muddy boots and listened to the rain outside.
‘What you’re doing, what you’re proposing to do, is right. I’m not denying that. It’s just we have other things, other people, to think about.’
After breakfast, Knox walked the mile and a half into town. It took him along a narrow track flanked by hedges as tall as he was, past the ruins of Hore Abbey on one side and the Rock of Cashel on the other. He entered the town and turned on to Main Street near the fountain. The barracks was a squat two-storey building that sat at a ninety-degree angle to the courthouse. He was instructed to report immediately to the sub-inspector.
‘Constable Knox,’ Hastings said, after he’d presented himself at the sub-inspector’s door.
‘Sir.’
Hastings was a dour Protestant, forty-one years old, married with three children, and as fair-minded as it was possible to be in the post he occupied. His moustache was trimmed and flecked with grey, and he made a point of donning the same uniform as the rest of them: a blue swallow-tailed coat and a pair of matching woollen trousers. His one remarkable feature was a glass eye: he had lost the real one in a brawl some time before Knox had joined the constabulary.
‘Constable Knox, I wanted to ask about your plans for the disposal of the corpse lying in the cellar.’
‘I intend to take it to the cemetery this morning.’
Hastings gave him a perfunctory nod. ‘I’m afraid it won’t be possible to bury the body there. They’ve dug a pit at the back of the workhouse. You’re to take it there.’
Knox knew better than to question the man. ‘Of course. Will that be all, sir?’
Hastings looked up from a document he’d been browsing. ‘I believe the inquest is due to take place today.’ Not waiting for an answer, he said, ‘A verdict of murder will be returned. Since Lord Cornwallis asked you to attend to this matter, I see no reason to make alternative arrangements. It’s Thursday today. You can have until Monday.’