Bloody Winter: A Pyke Mystery (7 page)

As if to explain this, Smyth added, ‘Zephaniah Hancock is, wholly without justification, contemptuous of our constabulary.’ He glanced across at Jones. ‘He might be more impressed by a detective-inspector from Scotland Yard. You could be our eyes and ears in the Castle. Of course, we want the same thing they want, the boy returned to his family. Everything else is unimportant.’

Pyke’s thoughts turned to Cathy, as they had done on numerous occasions during the journey. Would she be happy to see him? Turning his attention back to the magistrate, Pyke considered what he’d been told. He wasn’t convinced by Smyth’s assurances but appreciated the man’s candour.

‘So what can you tell me about Hancock’s wife?’

‘She’s much younger much than he is and a very beautiful creature. I wouldn’t say it’s an especially happy marriage but then again, I’m not sure I’m the best person to comment on such matters.’

Pyke looked around the room and wondered whether, as a widower, the man had any children. Would this be him in a few years’ time? Pyke’s thoughts returned – briefly – to Felix waving at him from the station platform.

‘If you have no objections,’ Smyth said, looking at Jones, ‘I should like to be alone with the detective-inspector.’

Jones knew his place and nodded before departing, saying he would wait for Pyke in the entrance hall.

‘Jones is a nice chap, honest and hard working, but I’m afraid he’s quite ineffectual. The whole force is. As much as it pains me to say it, Zephaniah Hancock is right.’ Smyth wandered over to the window and peered through the glass before turning around.

‘In my experience,’ Pyke said, ‘policemen are only as effective or ineffective as they’re allowed to be by their superiors.’

Smyth took the admonishment well. ‘Of course, you’re quite right, sir. Our mandate here has never been a strong one.’

‘If you’ll permit me to say it, Sir Clancy, you don’t seem to care for the Hancock family very much.’

The magistrate turned around again and looked out at the street. ‘That’s a difficult statement for me to comment on, sir. Perhaps all I can say is that their general contribution to the civilisaton of this town has been less than I would like it to have been.’ He paused. ‘Did you know that Thomas Carlyle called Merthyr the most squalid place on earth? He was especially worried by the absence of a middling class of men, the kind who could bring some respectability to the town.’

‘The Hancocks would doubtless claim they have provided work for the masses.’

‘Indeed, and this is no small achievement. But if we can’t take pride in our town, how can we expect others to do so? You’ve probably heard people talk about China. That’s what they call Pontystorehouse or the Cellars. It’s a squalid little area and at present we’ve all but ceded it to the gangs.’

Pyke recalled what Bill Flint had told him during their train journey from Cardiff.

‘The rot starts in China,’ Smyth continued. ‘If we cut it out at the root, the town’ll be able to breathe a little easier.’ The magistrate realised what he’d said and tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t come all this way to hear me rant about our local difficulties.’

‘Perhaps there’s some link between the kidnapping and the trouble in China?’

Smyth smoothed back his silver hair with the palm of his hand.
‘Perhaps – but then again I don’t imagine any of the gangs would dare to launch such an open challenge to one of the ironmasters.’

Pyke watched a cart rattle past the window.

‘Actually, Sir Clancy, I was hoping you could recommend someone I could use as a translator; preferably a man who isn’t going to be intimidated by venturing into the more unsavoury parts of town.’

‘Like China?’

Pyke shrugged but said nothing. ‘There is someone actually. A good fellow called John Johns. He’s a former soldier but don’t hold that against him.’ Smyth relaxed into his shabby armchair. ‘To be honest, he’s rather a queer chap, likes to keep himself to himself, but I’m told he’s good with his fists and I know for a fact that he speaks Welsh like a native.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He rents a shack about a quarter of a mile out of town, on the road to Vaynor.’

As Pyke turned to rejoin Jones in the hallway, Smyth stood up and followed him to the door. Putting his hand on Pyke’s shoulder he said, ‘I don’t mean to alarm you, Detective-inspector, but a friendly word of advice. Please watch yourself in your dealings with the Hancock family.’

Pyke was about to ask what he meant when Jones appeared and without another word Smyth turned and closed the door to his office behind him.

Caedraw Castle was a hideous construction with faux-crenellated walls and numerous turrets of different shapes and heights. Pyke didn’t know which was worse: the ugliness of the building or the vanity it spoke of. Its proximity to the ironworks, meanwhile, was a stark reminder to those who toiled there of their lowly place in the world, for it meant that the Hancocks could keep an eye on their fiefdom from their drawing-room window, like a jealous master unwilling to let his mistress out of his sight.

It was dark by the time Pyke approached the Castle from the road and a damp fog was rolling in off the mountains. At the top of the hill he turned to face the works. It
was
an impressive sight, he supposed: jets of fire streaking up into the darkness from the top of the blast furnaces and the eerie glow of the tips that sprawled down
the balding mountain on the far side of the valley. Even from this vantage point, the noise was prodigious too: the clanking of iron chains, the bashing of hammers, the grinding of water wheels. Turning back to the Castle, Pyke took a deep breath and tried to work out what was causing the butterflies in his stomach.

When the butler opened the door hatch and peered out, he told Pyke that the family was not receiving any visitors. Pyke introduced himself and told the man he’d come at the family’s request from London to investigate the kidnapping. Eventually the door swung open and he was ushered into the gloomy entrance hall.

Jonah Hancock’s girth had spread since Pyke had last seen him but otherwise the man was just as he remembered: a tall, commanding figure with sandy-coloured hair, and a strong lantern jaw. But it was his air of superiority that Pyke remembered most, as though everyone he talked to was a lesser species. He pumped Pyke’s hand and then strode into the adjoining room, expecting Pyke to follow. A log fire was roaring in the grate and slumped in an armchair next to it was an old man. Jonah introduced Pyke to Zephaniah Hancock.

As he answered Jonah’s predictable questions about his journey from London, Pyke’s stare kept returning to the old man. He’d heard stories about Zephaniah Hancock’s viciousness and opportunism and it was difficult to reconcile these with the emaciated figure hunched before him, a thick blanket over his legs. Wrinkled skin sagged from his face and gathered in leathery folds around his neck, and the few strands of ash-white hair that remained on his liver-spotted head were as fine as spun cotton. But the moment Pyke looked into his tiny, red-rimmed eyes, he saw that the old man’s mind was undiminished.

Significantly it was Zephaniah who spoke first about the case. ‘We haven’t made the mistake of relying on the good men of the Glamorgan constabulary but, on the recommendation of Jonah’s wife, we chose instead to solicit the assistance of Detective-inspector Pyke of Scotland Yard.’ While the old man caught his breath, Pyke tried to work out whether there was a note of mockery in his voice. ‘I hope you won’t disappoint us. You don’t need me to tell you what’s at stake for this family.’

‘I can’t make any promises but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your grandson is returned to you safe and well.’ He
glanced over at the door. ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me what happened …’

It was Jonah who spoke. ‘Every week, always on a Monday, my wife Catherine takes the boy to place fresh flowers on our other child’s grave.’ He must have seen Pyke’s expression because he added, ‘We had a lovely little girl, Mary. I’m sorry to say she died two summers ago from consumption.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

Jonah nodded blankly. ‘One of the drivers took them. It’s a fifteen-minute ride to the cemetery at Vaynor. On the way back, just past the ruined castle, four bandits appeared out of nowhere, brandishing pistols, their faces masked by handkerchiefs. One of them seized my son, William. They dragged him into the bushes and warned my wife and driver not to follow. This took place a week ago yesterday.’

Pyke made a mental note of the reference to the cemetery at Vaynor. Wasn’t that where Smyth had said John Johns, the prospective translator, lived? ‘I’ll need to talk to the driver, tonight, if possible. Your wife, too.’

Jonah exchanged a look with his father. ‘I’ll have someone summon the driver.’

‘And have you received a ransom demand?’

‘Aye.’ Jonah rummaged in his trouser pocket. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t heard of an organisation called Scottish Cattle.’

Pyke shook his head. At this point, he didn’t want them to know he’d already talked to Jones and Smyth. ‘No. Who are they?’

Jonah found the envelope he’d been looking for but didn’t hand it straight over to Pyke.

‘Terrorists,’ croaked the old man. ‘They claim to be the voice of the working man but they’re nothing but terrorists.’

‘A few years ago,’ Jonah said, ‘there was a strike at the works. It was particularly nasty and coincided with a deep depression. Orders for our iron were non-existent and we had no choice but to cut wages and lay off workers. This was about a year after the General Strike, so tensions were still running high. You couldn’t move in the town without running into Chartists from England spoiling for a fight. To cut a long story short, we shipped over from Ireland all the workers we could lay our hands on and rolled up our sleeves for a
fight. The strike lasted three weeks. The strikers tried to blockade the works but our lads stood up for themselves and the furnaces remained lit. People on both sides got hurt but the strikers, egged on by the likes of Scottish Cattle, came off worse. Finally the strike collapsed and they came back to us, begging for their old jobs. Scottish Cattle were extremely bitter and accused us, unfairly, of all kinds of devious practices. The rancour remains to this day.’

‘And you think this is why they kidnapped your son?’

‘Actually, Detective-inspector, we aren’t convinced that the Bull have our boy, in spite of the first ransom letter we received a few days ago.’ Zephaniah kicked the blanket off his legs. ‘Show it to him, boy.’

Jonah bristled at the old man’s reference to him as a ‘boy’ but said nothing. Instead he handed the letter to Pyke. Briefly Pyke surveyed its contents.

Notice. Remember that the Bool is on rode every night, he will catch you at last. We hereby tell you we have your son. Be on the look out, pig. Raid your coffers of twenty thousand. Do as the Bool says or your son shall be kilt. You will believe it. O madmen, how long will ye continue in your madness.

Pyke handed the letter back to Jonah but kept his thoughts to himself. Even to a family like the Hancocks, twenty thousand was a sizeable amount of money. ‘You said this was the first letter?’

‘It turned up last Thursday morning. William was kidnapped on the Monday.’ Jonah removed another envelope from his pocket and gave it to Pyke. ‘This one came yesterday.’

Pyke inspected the envelope – Jonah Hancock’s name was scribbled in black ink. The first thing he noticed was that the handwriting was different. ‘So who delivered the letters?’

‘Someone shoved the first one under the door in the middle of the night. One of the servants found it in the morning.’

‘And this one?’ Pyke held up the second envelope.

‘After the first letter, we had men patrolling the grounds morning, noon and night,’ Zephaniah said. ‘A furnace-man was approached in a tavern in the town and offered a shilling to deliver a letter to the Castle. One of our agents questioned him thoroughly. We don’t believe he was involved.’

Pyke slid the second letter from its envelope. He realised straight away that it wasn’t simply the penmanship that was different.

Notice. The Bull is riding every night and he will catch up with you if you do not pay. Take one hundred in coin to the old Quarry near Anderson’s farm. Leave it in the stone cottage on the Anderson’s farm road. Do it on Thursday at ten in the morning. Just one man. Do not have the cottage watched. This is to make sure you know how to follow orders. The Bull wants twenty thousand in due course. Do as we say and await our instructions or the boy dies.

‘It’s not written by the same person.’ Pyke handed the letter back to Jonah Hancock.

‘I can see that.’

‘I mean, it’s not even written by the same class of man. The grammar is different for a start. This one was penned by an educated man trying to pass himself off as uneducated. Look at the differences. ‘‘The Bool is on rode’’ and ‘‘the Bull is riding’’. It’s obvious.’ As Pyke spoke, he could feel Zephaniah’s eyes on him.

‘What are you suggesting, sir?’ the older man croaked.

‘Who else knows that your grandson has been kidnapped?’

‘We’ve tried to keep the news of what’s happened to our immediate circle but inevitably people gossip. The servants are loyal and have been sworn to secrecy, but Catherine went and informed the constabulary so now every damned bobby in the town knows about it.’

Again Pyke wondered about the veiled animosity between the Hancock family and the chief magistrate.

Jonah was pacing around the floor. ‘If this second letter was written by a different hand – perhaps even someone not connected with the kidnapping – why demand a paltry sum like a hundred pounds? Especially when the ransom has been set at twenty thousand?’

‘I don’t know. If the letters are from different people in the same gang, perhaps this is some kind of dress rehearsal, to see if you can be trusted.’

‘And if they’re from different gangs?’

‘Then perhaps someone else has heard about the kidnapping and is attempting to turn this information to their advantage.’