Later, once Pyke had led the now amenable black horse from the stables and mounted it, using moonlight to guide his boots into the stirrups, he took a few moments to arrange himself in the saddle, and then kicked the heels of his boots into the horse’s midriff and steadied himself as the beast surged forward, carrying him into the darkness of the marquess’s estate.
He’d liked that little dog, Pyke thought without joy, as he took up the reins and steered the horse away from the main house.
SEVENTEEN
Though the sun had been up for almost three hours, the air was still cool - it smelt of burning wood and freshly cut hay - and the dew-covered ground shimmered like a dazzling carpet of precious cut stones. It was attractive country, Pyke thought, as he looked down on the tiny hamlet from his vantage point on ground that rose gently up from the Blackwater river. In one direction, four miles away through estate land and orchards and beyond sporadic dwellings linked by hedge-lined tracks, was the village of Loughgall. In the other direction, the hills fell away gradually towards an expansive lough. The small valley below him was dotted with beech, ash and sycamore trees.
He had ridden for three hours the previous night, stopping to rest only when the terrain had become too marshy to negotiate in the fading moonlight. Sleeping fitfully on the floor of an abandoned cottage, Pyke had resumed his journey at first light and it had taken him a further two hours of hard riding to reach Loughgall, and from there, following directions given to him by a passing farmer, another hour to find the hamlet where the Magennis family lived.
The hamlet itself, straddling a junction between two tracks, consisted of seven mud-walled cottages roofed with straw thatches. From what he had been told by the farmer, the Magennis family occupied the farthest dwelling from the crossroads. In the centre of the hamlet was old Dan Winters’ pub. The farmer had said this as though he would know exactly who ‘old Dan Winters’ was.
Tying the horse to a tree on the slopes above the hamlet, Pyke made his way down the hill, using cover from the oak and beech trees to keep himself hidden, until he was less than fifty yards from the Magennis cottage. From there, concealed behind a hawthorn bush, he spent the next hour watching the various comings and goings. Shortly after settling, he witnessed an adolescent dressed in labourers’ clothes emerge from the cottage and disappear along the track heading east out of the hamlet. Later, he was followed by a slightly older girl. Pyke had watched with interest when a much older man, wearing a cotton shirt tucked into coarse trousers, appeared in the doorway, stretched, looked around him and then disappeared back inside the cottage.
In that time, Pyke did not see any indication of Davy Magennis’s presence, but he knew this was no guarantee that ‘the big man’ was not there.
From what he had been told about the father, Pyke did not imagine that the man would easily give up information about his family, nor did Pyke think he could be tricked or fooled into doing so.
Pyke pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold. In the middle of the orderly room was a fire with stumps of cut wood and turf glowing in the metal grate and, above, a hole in the roof for a chimney. Next to the fire, an older woman attended to a saucepan filled with milk and wilted green leaves. Nearby was a solid wood table surrounded by tree stumps for seats. On the table, next to a pool of dried candle wax, there was an open prayer book. Bedclothes were tossed carelessly around the earthen floor.
‘Can I help you?’ a male voice said, from behind him. The woman looked up at him, startled. Pyke turned around to face who he presumed was Andrew Magennis and saw at once that the old man had noticed his pistol. ‘Aye,’ he said, slowly, his eyes not leaving Pyke’s. ‘Will you leave us alone for a moment, Martha?’
He was a wiry man of about sixty, but his apparently slight build and taut frame belied his age. Aside from his paintbrush moustache, which was flecked with grey, the rest of his hair was still dark. His piercing, almost translucent eyes gave no intimation of what he was thinking.
Once Martha had left them, he said, ‘I don’t take kindly to strangers bringin’ weapons into my family’s home.’
Pyke allowed the man’s hostility to subside before he said, ‘Is Davy here?’
Magennis did not seem surprised by Pyke’s mention of his son’s name. ‘No.’
‘Mind if I look around?’
‘I mind, sure I do, but I don’t reckon I can stop you.’
Pyke conducted a very brief search of the small cottage but found no one.
‘Has he been here recently?’ They were standing on opposite sides of the wooden table.
‘No.’
‘How well do you know John Arnold?’ Pyke asked, trying to throw the older man off balance with his questions.
‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
Pyke realised that Magennis had probably not heard the news.
‘Would you say that the two of you are friends?’
‘Not friends,’ Magennis said, frowning. ‘Him, the Grand Masters, they like givin’ orders but none of ’em know what it’s like, actually havin’ to live alongside the papists.’
‘When was the last time you saw Davy?’
‘Davy? A year back, maybe more.’ Magennis shrugged.
‘Where was that?’
That drew a determined sigh. ‘Mind telling me why you’re interested in Davy?’
‘A year back, you say?’ Pyke said, ignoring the question.
‘This was just after he’d been thrown out of the police? For beating a Catholic man to within an inch of his life during a riot in Monaghan?’
Magennis did not seem to be impressed by his knowledge. ‘What do you need from me? You have all the answers.’
‘So let me tell you what else I know,’ Pyke said. ‘I know Davy wasn’t prosecuted for that particular crime. I know he got that job in the first place because Arnold arranged it. I know that a man called Fitzroy Tilling came to this house in person, as a favour to Arnold, to sign Davy up. Do you want me to continue? I know your other son Stephen fell in love with a Catholic girl, ran away to London and had a child. I also know that Stephen, Clare and the baby were murdered in their lodging room in London. The baby was strangled and discarded in a piss-filled metal pail. I know Davy was seen in London around the same time. I don’t know but I can only guess that Davy hated Stephen for running off with a Catholic and siring a half-Catholic child. All of you did, no doubt. Except Davy took your pronouncements of hate literally, didn’t he? I can imagine Davy sitting here in this room listening to you telling stories of Catholic rapists and whores. I can make other deductions, too, but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what those might be.’
This time Pyke kept his anger in check, guessing it would have no effect on the older man’s attitude. Pyke wanted answers but he also needed proof of Davy Magennis’s involvement. If Pyke could nail Magennis, he could implicate Tilling - and therefore Peel.
Magennis took a while to prepare his response. ‘You know a lot, but then again, you know nothing.’ He pulled out a stump to sit down on, and motioned for Pyke to do the same. ‘For example, do you know where you are right now?’
‘A hamlet near Loughgall.’
Magennis nodded. ‘You talk of our hate as though it’s something other-worldly, monstrous even. But what about the hate that’s been turned against us, for no other reason than we’re proud, God-fearin’ Orangemen? If you know so much, why don’t you tell me about the time when, two hundred years back, Irish papists led by Phelim O’Neill marched into Market Hill, a few miles from here, and started gleefully killin’ all the good Protestant men, women and children they could lay their hands on, ended up murderin’ thirty thousand, three-quarters of all the Protestants in Ireland.’
His voice was trembling a little. Pyke decided to let him finish.
‘Let me tell you the story of this wee place. We call it the Diamond. Twenty-four years back, I was a strapping lad, like you, just startin’ off in the world, a new wife and child to protect. Thing was, we’d suffered
