Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery (27 page)

Hastings shook his head warily. ‘It was buried with countless others in a pit at the workhouse. There’s no way you’d be able to tell any of them apart now due to the decomposition.’

‘In any case,’ the County Inspector said, ‘as I understand it, we have no idea whether this man, Pyke, even travelled to Ireland …’

Knox coughed. ‘It’s my guess he was looking for someone called John Johns. Johns was born in this part of the world but he joined the army and ended up in Wales. I might not be the finest investigator in the land but I do know that Pyke had come here from Merthyr and he’d gone to Wales to investigate the kidnapping of a child.’ Knox could see straight away that he’d scored a hit. Hastings and the County Inspector could see this too and went quiet.

‘It would seem,’ Pierce said, turning to Hastings, ‘that your former employee is not the dim-witted investigator you perhaps believed him to be.’

The sub-inspector reddened but said nothing. Pierce gestured for Knox to continue.

‘I knew I had to identify the victim,’ he said, deciding to play what was his strongest card. ‘But I also knew that, untreated, the corpse would quickly decompose beyond recognition. I put it to Sub-inspector Hastings that we should either pay someone to embalm it or arrange for a daguerreotype image to be fixed on a copperplate.’

Pierce glanced across at Hastings, scowling. ‘I’m assuming your suggestions fell on deaf ears.’

‘That’s unfair, sir,’ Hastings blustered.

Pierce cut him off. ‘Pity your ideas weren’t taken up.’

Knox saw a faint glimmer of hope. ‘The sub-inspector made his position clear. But I chose not to listen to him.’ He waited for the implications of what he’d just said to sink in.

Pierce sat forward. The atmosphere in the room had changed in an instant. ‘Did I hear you right?’ the Englishman asked.

‘I know a shopkeeper who has an interest in daguerreotypes and I asked him to help me. He agreed. Of course, I had to pay him out of my own pocket.’

‘And did he capture an image of the dead man?’

Knox nodded. ‘Two, in fact. It’s amazing how good – how
clear
– the images are.’ He was almost enjoying himself now.

‘Do you still have them?’ There was wariness in Pierce’s tone now. This revelation had thrown him too.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Here.’

‘Here?
Now?
’ Pierce seemed almost panicked by this notion.

Knox reached into his pocket and retrieved both copperplates.

Pierce eyed him carefully. ‘I presume this shopkeeper will corroborate your story?’

‘I expect so.’ Knox glanced over at Hastings. ‘He doesn’t have any reason to lie.’

‘Do you think I could see the daguerreotypes, please?’ Pierce held out his hand.

Knox passed them to him and watched as Pierce, hands trembling, inspected the images. His expression remained inscrutable.

Pierce then passed the daguerreotypes to the County Inspector. ‘I have known Detective-inspector Pyke for the best part of twenty-five years. I wouldn’t say we were friends and I might even confess that I’ve never cared for the man, although he is undoubtedly a fine detective.’

Knox tried to read some kind of inference into this but couldn’t.

‘Perhaps I should say he
was
a fine detective.’

Knox stared at him, felt his heart skip a beat. ‘Was?’

‘It would seem that my journey over here has not been in vain.’ There was a curious smile on his lips.

‘It
is
Detective-inspector Pyke, then?’

‘As I said, I’ve known Pyke for half my life and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that man in the picture is him.’

Pierce turned to Hastings and the County Inspector. ‘It would seem that one of my detectives was murdered in your jurisdiction. I would like to know what steps you have taken to find and apprehend the guilty party, sir, aside from handing over the inquiry to a constable with no experience of these matters.’

Flustered, the County Inspector looked over at Hastings, spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

‘
Well?
’

‘I assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that the deceased was a vagrant, a poacher …’

‘That’s what Lord Cornwallis told you to assume,’ Knox said, then to Pierce, ‘Cornwallis also wanted me to investigate the murder. That way, he supposed, nothing would come to light. He assumed he could intimidate me. When his Lordship realised what I’d done, that I’d betrayed his trust, he made sure I lost my job here at the constabulary and arranged to have me evicted from my home.’

Pierce regarded Knox for a moment. ‘These are very serious accusations. But I can’t see that it is in anyone’s interest for these matters to be aired in public. As such, I’d like to propose that I work with Constable Knox to have another look at the murder and bring the affair to a more satisfactory conclusion.’

Constable Knox. Pierce had just referred to him as
Constable
Knox. ‘Does that mean I’ve been reinstated?’

‘You should remember that Knox was dismissed for an entirely separate, and highly grievous, incident.’ This time it was the County Inspector who’d spoken.

‘Indeed,’ said Pierce, ‘but
you
should remember, sir, that gross procedural irregularities have been committed by all parties, including yourself.’

Knox felt light-headed. Suddenly his future seemed much less bleak. But almost at once, he had another far less palatable thought. What would happen when Pierce returned to England? Would Hastings honour his commitment to give him back his job? The man had been humiliated and Knox knew just how dangerous a wounded beast could be.

‘Far be it for me to be awkward, sir, but it would be remiss of me
not to ask under what or whose jurisdiction you intend to conduct this investigation?’ The County Inspector looked at Pierce.

‘I wouldn’t advise you to make life any more difficult for yourself than it already is,’ Pierce replied.

The County Inspector and Hastings fell silent. It was clear that Pierce had won this particular skirmish.

‘One of my best detectives has been killed. The fact that I didn’t like the man is not the issue here. One can’t simply murder a policeman and expect to get away with it.’

The County Inspector muttered, ‘Of course,
of course
.’ But the strain on his face was evident.

‘From what I understand, you’ve been considerably inconvenienced as a result of your investigation,’ Pierce said to Knox. Then he turned to Hastings. ‘I’d like to propose that Constable Knox be recompensed to the tune of, let’s say, ten pounds for the time being? That should be enough to get him back on his feet.’

Knox’s thoughts now turned to his fever-stricken son. ‘I will need to be driven back to Clonoulty tonight.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’ Pierce raised his eyebrows. ‘Should it, Sub-inspector Hastings?’

‘Not at all,’ Hastings said. He looked pale and beaten.

‘But you’re to report to the barracks first thing tomorrow morning. I want to get to the bottom of this business before I leave.’

Outside, as the carriage was being prepared, Pierce sidled up to him. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your son’s illness. Please pass on my best wishes to him, and your wife.’

Knox nodded. ‘Thank you for what you did in there.’

The Englishman acknowledged his gratitude but didn’t speak for a few moments. ‘Why do you think this murder has unsettled them so much?’

‘I don’t know but if I had to wager, I’d say it has something to do with this man, Johns.’

Pierce agreed. ‘You were right, by the way. Johns lives, or rather lived, in Merthyr Tydfil.’

‘And something brought him over here?’

They waited while the horses were led out of the stables. ‘How much do you know about what happened in Merthyr?’

‘Nothing, really. Only what was mentioned in the letter.’

‘Which was?’

‘That the deceased had gone there to investigate the kidnapping of a child.’

The Englishman stared up at the cloudless sky. ‘You might have read about it in the newspaper. Something went very wrong and the child was killed.’

Knox thought about his own predicament. ‘You think it had something to do with Pyke coming over here?’

‘I think Pyke followed Johns – and a magistrate called Sir Clancy Smyth. He’s another Tipperary man.’

‘So was Johns involved in the kidnapping?’

‘I don’t know. I’m guessing Pyke blamed him for what happened afterwards. After the boy was found dead.’

‘And what
did
happen?’

Pierce didn’t answer right away. ‘You know the letter you sent to Pyke’s son, Felix, informing him of his father’s death? He never got it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Felix had gone to Merthyr to see his father.’

‘What about when he returned to Somerset?’

Pierce gave him a strange stare. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘He never returned to Somerset.’

H
e entered the old courthouse via the back door, which was unlocked. Inside the air smelled fetid and stale, and nothing moved. The only sound was the wooden shutters rattling against their jambs. Pyke stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out, ‘Hello,’ but no one answered. Sir Clancy Smyth had not been seen in Merthyr for a number of days, at least according to Superintendent Jones, who’d shared this information with John, the man who’d shielded Pyke from both the police and Hancock’s emissaries.

Pausing to catch his breath, Pyke touched his wound and winced. He could walk unaided, albeit with a pronounced limp and considerable pain, but it was slow work and his recovery would be long and arduous. None of this concerned him, though, not compared to his desire to find Felix or determine once and for all that he was safe and hadn’t travelled to Merthyr in the first place. Pyke had written to Jakes in Somerset and was still waiting for a reply. In the meantime he’d scoured the town for his son. He had even tried to sneak into the Castle to speak to the Hancocks, but the grounds had been too heavily patrolled and, as he had later found out, the entire family, including Cathy, had now left Merthyr, having buried William alongside their deceased daughter at the Vaynor cemetery. They were said to be mourning in private at their family estate in Hampshire. From what Pyke had heard, the police were still looking for him in connection with the kidnapping and therefore believed he might have been involved. Pyke wasn’t concerned what the police – or the Hancocks – thought of him, but it bothered him that Cathy might think that he had knowingly put her son’s life in danger.

Pyke ascended the staircase, listening for sounds above him, but
there was nothing except the creaking of floorboards under his feet. To lose one child to illness must be hard enough, but to lose another? Pyke couldn’t comprehend her grief. Would William’s death have brought her closer to her husband? It was always possible, he supposed. They could both blame him – for running off with the money and letting their beloved son perish at the hands of his vengeful kidnappers – but to Pyke, this explanation rang hollow. He still had no idea what had happened, but he didn’t see how it would profit the kidnappers to execute the lad in cold blood, even if they hadn’t actually received the ransom money. Why not just try again? Why murder the boy and throw away any chance of getting the twenty thousand? Pyke also didn’t know what had happened to the suitcase he’d left on the train departing for Cardiff.

On the landing Pyke paused again. Smyth had lived in this building for – what? – ten years, before moving to a bigger pile a couple of miles south of the town. The decor was dated and the wallpaper peeling. It certainly wasn’t a place to inspire envy in others, to show off the owner’s wealth and social standing. Instead it was the residence of a man who had fallen on hard times, where nothing had been attended to for years and where neglect was visible everywhere you looked; the old courthouse was no longer a functioning seat of law and the entire building conjured an air of decay.

Pyke had expected there to be servants or at least an ancient retainer, someone to keep the place from total rack and ruin, but the upstairs, like the downstairs, appeared to be entirely deserted. It was true that someone had hastily thrown white sheets over some of the furniture, but this didn’t explain where Smyth was or where he had gone. As chief magistrate, would he really have cut and run at the time when the town needed him most? When riots and rioters had necessitated calling in the army? Smyth had presented himself as someone who loved the town, despite its flaws.

Outside, a cart clanked passed the building and farther down the street he could hear a dog barking. The army had re-established control of the town and the streets were more or less empty. Still, the damage to property was extensive and people had been killed – Pyke didn’t know how many. Workers from Caedraw and Morlais had turned on one another, but mostly the violence had been
sectarian, Welsh against Irish, Protestant against Catholic. Pyke had witnessed the aftermath: shops destroyed, churches burned to the ground, homes ransacked.

He tried the first door off the landing, peered into the gloomy room. It was a study of sorts and like the rest of the building it was unoccupied.

‘Smyth?’ His voice echoed off the walls.

The next door he tried was a bedroom; the curtains were drawn but a few cracks of light seeped in around the edges. Pyke saw the dresser first and caught a glimpse of the bed in the looking glass. Feet on the bed. Quickly he crossed the room and tore back the curtains, let the daylight flood in; he turned and saw a figure sprawled on top of the bed, fully dressed. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the light; blinking, he moved towards the figure, panic rising in his chest. Standing over the bed, Pyke stared down, open-mouthed, at Felix.

A hot spike of bile spewed from his mouth. Instinctively he reached out and shook the boy; his son’s skin was as cold and stiff as marble. At once he knew; he didn’t need to check for a heartbeat. There wouldn’t be one. Felix had been dead for a while, at least a day. The body didn’t even look like his son; the cheeks were pale and wax-like, the eyes like those of a dead fish. Pyke opened his mouth and fell to his knees, but what came out was more of a strangled cry than a scream. His son was dead; Felix, dead. He could see the truth of the words but he couldn’t accept them, accept that Felix would never walk or smile or talk or argue with him ever again. Pyke fell on top of his son, enveloped his body in his arms, his cry becoming a sob, and he imagined just for a moment that he was dreaming, that none of this had actually happened. But Felix was real, his son’s corpse was really in his arms, and then it struck him, the finality of it, that Felix wasn’t ever coming back.