Andrew Pepper - Bloody Winter

‘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?’