Andrew Pepper - Bloody Winter

‘In the summer,’ the old man croaked finally.

‘Who was the father? Johns?’

Zephaniah nodded. ‘I intercepted a letter she wrote earlier in the year. It confirmed what I already knew: that the boy wasn’t a Hancock — too meek, cried a lot, no backbone.’

Pyke didn’t try to hide his revulsion. ‘The boy was only five years old. For five years, he was your grandson, your son’s son. Blood can’t change how you feel about a person overnight.’

‘Can’t it? That boy was an impostor. This way the estate can pass to Richard’s eldest, my other son in England. A fine chap, strong and clever as a whip.’

The idea that Zephaniah would knowingly arrange the murder of a five-year-old boy, a boy he’d thought of as his grandson for five years, was almost too appalling for Pyke to take in. Worse still was his seeming lack of regret.

‘But Jonah didn’t see it that way, did he? This was your doing, not his? He loved that boy, whether he was the father or not. Right now he’s passed out on his bed, a bottle of gin at his side.’

A frown spread across the old man’s haggard face. ‘I’m afraid my firstborn has always been a disappointment to me.’

‘Because he’s capable of some degree of empathy and still possesses a modicum of humanity?’

‘He could see the logic of what I proposed but baulked at the implementation. But he didn’t build up the ironworks to what it is today. I did — and I found out that the world isn’t a nice place. Wolves eat dogs, sir, but I’m sure a man of your various experiences knows this.’

‘You arranged to have a five-year-old butchered in cold blood and you imagine you can lecture me about the state of the world?’

‘You’re a woolly little lamb, aren’t you? Do you have any idea how many men and women died at the works last year? Because they fell or their equipment failed or due to accidents, explosions, unforeseen circumstances. Am I to be held accountable for their deaths too? If so, perhaps the works should simply close down. But if this were to happen, thousands would lose their positions and the town would go into terminal decline.’

Pyke hesitated and took a deep breath. He would never get a man like Zephaniah Hancock to examine his heart and find it wanting. What he needed to do was get him to talk about what had happened. The truth about Felix would be in there, whether Zephaniah had a direct hand in that death or not.

‘Perhaps you need a lesson in biology, sir,’ Zephaniah continued. ‘But the boy wasn’t my flesh and blood and therefore had no claim over my estate.’ Zephaniah must have seen Pyke’s expression because he added, ‘If you think me cold-hearted and lacking in sentiment, be that as it may. I make no apologies for who or what I am.’

‘Tell me, then. When did you learn that Cathy and John Johns were behind the kidnapping? Before it had even happened?’

‘Of course,’ the old man wheezed. ‘She should have known that nothing happens in this house without my knowledge.’

‘So you knew she was planning the kidnapping and you decided to turn the situation to your advantage.’

‘Stupid bitch thought she could get away with stealing money from under our noses.’ Zephaniah’s pink tongue brushed his dry, shrivelled lips. ‘The whore didn’t know that we knew, of course.’

Now Pyke understood what had happened. The Hancocks had lost a son and grandson — or so he’d thought. Being victims had put them above suspicion.

‘So when Cathy came home that day and told you William had been snatched, you had everything in place. You were the one who sent the second ransom demand. You arranged for Captain Kent and Considine to be up on that hill, paid some poor, innocent Irishman to pick up a parcel from the cabin, sacrificed him; planted a rent book in his pocket, a few of the boy’s clothes in a house on Irish Row, and let rumour and insinuation do the rest.’

‘Just details,’ the old man purred. ‘You’re not able to see the whole canvas, what we’ve been able to achieve.’

Zephaniah seemed almost proud of what he had done. Pyke had to use all of his self-control not to tear the man’s throat out with his bare hands.

‘You consider what’s happened in the town — the deaths, the rioting, the hatred — an achievement?’

The old man shook his head. ‘Now you’re talking like my son, the sentimental fool. I’ll tell you what I told him — the good of the works comes first. First, second and third. Nothing else matters. Is that too hard-hearted for you? I’ll put it in plainer English. There was no way on earth I was going to allow that bastard to inherit what isn’t, wasn’t, his. Now, at least, the future of the works is assured and it will pass to someone with bona fide Hancock blood running through his veins.’

‘Let’s talk about the whole canvas, then.’ Pyke looked into the old man’s watery, bloodshot eyes.

Zephaniah sighed. ‘You seem to have all the answers, sir. Why don’t you enlighten me.’

‘Set up the Irish as scapegoats so that when news of the kidnapping, and eventually the boy’s death, spreads, the natives will turn on them. But because you’d already cut back on the number of Irish workers, Caedraw wouldn’t be too badly affected. Not so with Morlais, though. That was the point, wasn’t it? To drive the competition out of business. Because of the rioting, the fighting, the bad blood, Webb’s been forced to close Morlais. After all, about a third of his workers are Irish. But at the same time he needs to increase his productivity — if he’s to meet this order from Russia by the end of the year. That was the first front you opened against Morlais. For the second one you needed Sir Clancy Smyth.’

‘Everyone has a price, sir. Even you.’ Zephaniah managed the thinnest of smiles.

‘You used Smyth’s friendship with Morlais’ landowner to force up the rent. In the meantime, you got Smyth to work for you, used him to do your dirty work, with house-to-house searches of Quarry Row, stories of an Irish mob seizing William fed to the local newspaper. What did it take? How much? Ten thousand?’

‘As I said, everyone has their price. Smyth’s estate has fallen on hard times. But when this blows over, if it blows over, he’ll get what he wants. The troops will have brought order to the streets, the town will have been cleaned up, China a shadow of its former self…’

All cleaned up and ready to go to the dogs again, Pyke thought. Cut off one head, two heads even, and more will appear. Zephaniah Hancock was not long for this world but Pyke knew it was a futile act, one that would have little bearing on the lives of most of the people in Merthyr. In that sense, Zephaniah was right: the ironworks did come first. And in the end men like Smyth always bent to the ironmasters’ will.

‘Smyth didn’t see you were using him, did he? That he was being lined up as someone to blame for the boy’s death in case you weren’t able to deal with Johns — or me.’

‘I never wanted you here in the first place. That was Jonah’s idea, a stupid one. Plenty of other people we could have given that suitcase to. Someone to blame, someone greedy, who wouldn’t think twice about running off with the twenty thousand. The public and police would need a reason why the boy was murdered. If they believed you’d absconded with the money, left the kidnappers with nothing, well, that would have been enough.’

‘That was why he wrote to me?’ Pyke felt sick, knowing he had been lured down there by the promise of money in the first place.

A thousand pounds; Jonah Hancock had paid him too. Blood money. If it had meant nothing to him, he would never have come. Felix would never have come. His son would still be alive.

‘Offered some astounding sum, he knew you’d come here sniffing, either for Cathy or the money or both. He was right about that, but I saw straight away you’d be dangerous. I couldn’t talk him round, though. For years, he’d had to endure that bitch’s taunts — that he was a lesser man than you. This was his chance to sully your name and rub Cathy’s face in it.’