Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  “You’re a gent, Mr Fielding. What will you have?”

  “Nothing. I have a long walk ahead of me tomorrow, so I shan’t have any more.”

  “That’s the way!” Singleton cried approvingly. “Keep your form!”

  *

  Warneford had already left Barcombe by the time Dan set off in the morning. Singleton drew him a map and explained the route. He was to head to Bath, then swing off towards Bristol, asking his way in villages with odd-sounding names like Combe Hay, Englishcombe, Newton St Loe, and Keynsham, by when he should find himself on the main Bristol road.

  Mrs Singleton cooked him a hearty breakfast while a crowd gathered in the yard. They squeezed into the kitchen to watch him eat, a pugilist consuming ham and eggs apparently being a rare spectacle. She made up a parcel of food and lent him a knapsack to put clean linen in. The men clustered around the gate to see him off, and he strode away with their good wishes in his ears.

  On the edge of Kingswood Forest, he asked the first man he met, a miner stumbling home with a belly full of beer, if he knew Bob Budd. He belched “No”. A farm labourer was no more help. Then Dan saw a woman and two children at the side of the road, gathering blackberries. The woman hesitated before answering that she did not know Budd. Dan suggested the information might be worth a shilling and she remembered where she had heard the name. He produced the coins and she remembered where he lived, and when he handed them over she remembered the directions.

  Budd’s new dwelling was on the edge of the wood in a setting very much like the one at Barcombe. There the resemblance ended. Even in its ruined state, Dan could tell that his old home had been a snug cottage. This was nothing but a hovel made of bits of wood, sacking and straw.

  A girl and two small children sat in the grass outside the hut, washing snail shells in a wooden bucket. They would make a little money selling them at the local market for the bottom of bird cages, along with whatever else they could scavenge from the countryside – berries, nuts, rushes for candles.

  The girl stood up and shooed the little ones, under protest, into the hut. She stood in front of the rickety door, arms akimbo, her pinched face taut with hostility.

  “Is your dad in?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m from Barcombe.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “I’ve not been there long. I’m Dan Fielding. I work at the forge.”

  “You’re the boxer?”

  “That’s right. Are you Betty? Singleton told me about you.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then said, “You can wait if you like. Don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Thanks.”

  He pulled off the knapsack and sat down. She called the children back to work. He waited in silence broken only by clicking and splashing. The children peered at him, and Betty pointedly ignored him.

  Bob Budd appeared half an hour later. He was a man of medium height with sandy hair and eyebrows, pale, watery eyes, and a mouth set in a bitter downturn. He wore leather breeches, a coarse woollen jacket, and a homespun waistcoat made of odd bits of wool found snagged on hedges. He carried a couple of fish, which he tossed at Betty. She sent the children for fresh water, produced a knife from a pocket beneath her filthy skirt, and proceeded to gut the catch.

  “Who are you?” he asked roughly.

  “Dan Fielding.”

  “He’s the boxer,” Betty said.

  “I know that.”

  She glared at her father above the bloodied knife and, determined not to be silenced, added, “He’s been waiting for you.”

  He shot her a look full of hatred and made no reply. She smiled and resumed her gutting.

  “What do you want?”

  “I think you may owe me something.”

  “Then you’ve waited for nothing, because that’s what I’ve got to owe. Nothing.”

  “It’s not goods or money I want. I don’t take kindly to being bludgeoned.”

  “What’s your bludgeoning to do with me?”

  Dan took off his coat. “It was me you knocked down outside the Hall the night you tried to shoot Lord Oldfield.”

  “I never tried to shoot him.”

  “Not so keen on standing up to me face to face, eh?”

  “I’ll stand up to you where and when you like – ” Betty guffawed “ – but I’ve no idea what it’s all about. I’ve never seen you before in my life, man. How do you make out I knocked you down?”

  Dan put up his fists. “We’re wasting time. Come on.”

  “I don’t know who belted you, but it wasn’t me, and I don’t know why you should think it was.”

  “You have good cause to hate Lord Oldfield. I know you burned his barn. No man could blame you if you took a potshot at him through his window as well.”

  “Now just a minute. I fired his barn, but I never tried to kill him. Wouldn’t have missed if I had. But I’ve got nothing to fire with. Bastards took my gun.”

  “And I suppose you didn’t kill the gamekeeper by sneaking up on him and bashing his brains out, nor try to do the same thing to me?”

  “I’ve danced on Castle’s grave, but it wasn’t me who put him in it. I’d raise my glass to the man who did.”

  “That’s about all you could do,” Betty muttered.

  “As for bashing any man’s brains out, it’s a thing I’ve never done. If you won’t take my word for it, speak to Singleton. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “If it wasn’t you, I’d like to know who did do it, so I can pay him back in kind.”

  “And I’d like to know who the bloody fool was who missed Lord Oldfield.”

  “You have no idea?”

  “I don’t.”

  Dan picked up his coat and shrugged it back on. “No hard feelings, then. The Kingswood road is in that direction?”

  “That’s right. What makes you think you’ll find your man in Kingswood?”

  “I’m not looking for him there. I’m fighting in the fair on Saturday.”

  “Who are you up against?”

  “I don’t know. Warneford is arranging something. Do you know him?”

  “I know Warneford all right. So he’s in Kingswood on Saturday?”

  “He’ll be there tonight. I’m to meet him at The Rose and Crown.”

  Betty flung a fish’s head into the bushes. “I’m taking the childer to the fair.”

  “You aren’t going to any fair,” he snapped.

  “Got these shells to sell,” she retorted. “And don’t think you’re having it for beer money neither.”

  He moved towards her, his open hand drawn back. She flung her head back, offering up her face to his blow. His arm fell to his side.

  “Bitch. Just like your mother.”

  “Except I’m still here and she’s gone.”

  She rose, selected some branches from a heap by the hovel, and began to lay a fire.

  “Give us your tinder box.”

  He handed it over. “I’ll walk with you, Fielding.”

  “Glad of the company.”

  They left the girl striking sparks from the flint.

  *

  Budd trudged in silence, his hands bunched into fists in his pockets, his jaw grinding. He began to look about him a little when they reached Kingswood. He knew his way, and Dan was glad to follow him through the ill-lit streets – if such runnels of mire could be called streets.

  Kingswood made Stonyton look like paradise. Every other building was a pub or tavern. Snotty children and ragged women hung around the doors. Groups of young miners tumbled out of one bar and staggered a few yards along to another, though what advantage there was to them in the constant change Dan could not see.

  Dan and Budd shouldered their way into The Rose and Crown, an old inn on Two Mile Hill. An out-of-date s
ign on the door advertised last week’s inquest of a miner found dead at the bottom of a pit shaft. Inside, the room was crowded but there was a wholesome smell of food, a good fire in the hearth, and the barmaids running up and down with ale and bottles were only as untidy as heat and hurry made them. The company was there for the fair: men with business interests to look after and more on their minds than drinking themselves into a rage or stupor.

  Warneford waved from a corner. As usual, he had found himself an obscure spot on the edge of things from where he could see everything and everyone. He called one of the waitresses.

  “Well, Dan, you made it. And Bob Budd! I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  Dan dropped his bag and sat down. “We didn’t until an hour ago, and that was only because I was going to give him a beating.”

  Warneford raised an eyebrow. “I’m glad you didn’t. I need you fit and well for Saturday.”

  “I’m fit enough.”

  The girl arrived at the table.

  “Bring a pint of sack,” Warneford ordered.

  “Lemonade for me,” Dan said. “And I’d like something to eat.”

  “There’s stew and bread,” she offered.

  “Then I’ll have stew and bread. What about you, Budd?”

  Budd shook his head.

  “Come on. This is on me.”

  A sudden smile split his face. “All right then. I’ll have the same.”

  “Beer for him and stew for two.”

  “So, Bob,” said Warneford, “how are things going with you?”

  “Not so bad,” Budd said, and at that moment, eyeing the brimming glass the girl put in front of him, he meant it. He took a long draught and smacked his lips. All thought of the hovel on the edge of the wood, the resentful girl, and the snivelling children dropped from him as the beer went down. He only put down the glass when the food arrived, and this he devoured as if he had not eaten for days – which he probably had not, or at least not enough to keep a grown man satisfied.

  Dan signalled to the girl to refill Budd’s glass and ate his own meal. Warneford was pouring his third bumper of wine when they pushed the plates away. The food and drink had put heart into Budd. He opened his business with Warneford like a man confident he has something valuable to sell.

  “I’ve been here long enough to find out the warrens and coveys, so if you need anything…”

  “I’ll take all you can get,” Warneford answered. “Get it to Buller by each Friday and he can send it on with Bryer.”

  A shadow fell across the table, cast by a squat, flashily-dressed man. Though run to fat and well past his prime, his well-formed shoulders and broken nose were evidence of a past spent in the ring. He looked from Budd to Dan, trying to make up his mind who was the challenger. Warneford invited him to pull up a chair, and when he had settled, the two men regarded one another for a moment, Warneford smoking nonchalantly, the newcomer twisting a large gold ring around his thick finger.

  “Warneford,” he said at last.

  “Grey.”

  “Which is your man?”

  Warneford nodded at Dan. Grey flicked a glance at him, calculating with the speed of long practice what he stood to win by Dan’s defeat.

  “I’ve got a match for you. A lad from Bristol, about nineteen, new to the ring. Will you take it?”

  He was playing down the opposition, trying to lull Dan into a false sense of security.

  “We’ll take it.”

  “I’ll go back and let his side know. What name does your man go by?”

  “Dan Fielding. Budd here’s his bottle holder. And yours?”

  “Henry Pearce.”

  “Broughton’s Rules?”

  “Agreed.” They shook hands, and Grey left.

  Budd was still blinking in surprise over his unexpected appointment.

  Dan grinned. “You don’t mind attending me, do you, Budd?”

  “Glad to,” Budd said. “What does a bottle holder do?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time Dan, Budd and Warneford got to the fair on Saturday afternoon, the stewards were clearing up after the dog fights and adapting the pit for the boxing. They took down the wooden fence, swilled the gore off the boards, hammered in posts, and attached ropes at the four corners. The ring lay in a natural, shallow amphitheatre, so they did not bother to raise it above ground level.

  The crowd, already excited by a morning’s drinking, betting and bloodshed, was as rough a one as Dan had ever seen. Kingswood was not a place that attracted the noble amateurs of the Fancy. There were no smart carriages positioned on the high ground around the ring, no huddles of London trainers and backers on the lookout for talent, no weedy quill-pusher to take down a round-by-round account of the battle for the Sporting Magazine.

  After a night and day in Budd’s company, Dan had concluded that the only crimes the man was capable of were sneaking ones such as arson and grave robbery. It turned out he had carried out the latter part of the business while the drink was upon him, and it filled him with disgust now.

  Castle’s murder had been a sneaking one, the killer unseen and in the dark, and the steeling influence of drink could easily have played a part in it too. Yet while Budd freely admitted to at least one capital offence – arson – he gave no hint that he’d had a hand in a crime of which he thoroughly approved. It was the same with Dunnage and the rest of the gang: consistent denial coupled with outspoken admiration for the killer. Either they were all very good liars – not impossible – or none of them was the man he sought.

  Budd was popular with the Barcombe lot, especially when they found out that he had a place ringside. They were all there: Singleton, Travell, Abe, Dunnage, Buller, and the other Fox and Badger regulars. Walter Halling had come too, though whether to cheer for him or shout “Hoorah” for every blow he took, Dan did not know. He was glad to see them. A young fighter like Pearce might be flustered by his opponent’s noisy supporters.

  The first match came and went. It was mere butchery. Another followed, short and brutal as the first. It ended when the challenger, a saucepan-maker from Bath, left the ring with a broken jaw. If this was the standard Dan had to expect, it should not take him long to finish off his opponent, not with Noah’s training behind him.

  Warneford and Grey got into the ring to agree on the position of the mark, the square yard chalked in the middle which each man must step up to at the start of a round or within half a minute of a fall, or else forfeit the fight. None of the earlier fighters had bothered with it. It had been straight out of the corner and start swinging punches for them, but Warneford and Grey had agreed Broughton’s Rules, and Dan was determined that was what they would have.

  He passed the time skipping about to warm up. At least he tried to, but his Barcombe acquaintances kept coming up to slap his back and shake his hand. They beamed proudly at those outside their charmed circle, as if to say, “Here is our hero – what do you have to match him?”

  Dan could not help thinking that he did look the part in smart pumps, breeches, and stockings provided by Warneford, with his bottle holder hovering about, dabbing officiously at his back and shoulders with a towel, though he was not sweating yet. Warneford had instructed Budd in the use of the smelling salts, and he had tied the phial on a string around his neck to be ready if needed. His enthusiasm for his duties and his excitement about the coming battle began to affect Dan. As he flexed his muscles, the sense of his own health and strength took hold of him. What with this and the furious betting on him from the Barcombe men, he was thinking very well of his chances by the time his opponent approached the ring.

  The minute Dan saw Pearce, he knew that Grey had not just underplayed the opposition. He had lied. This was not some inexperienced youth. He wore a yellow sash around his waist, the favour sported by Bristol pugilists. He was a fighter of some pretensions, a
nd Dan realised how high those pretensions were when he recognised the little man at his side. It was none other than Bob Watson. Dan had heard Watson had become a butcher in Bristol after he left the ring. It seemed he had not entirely given up his interest in the sport.

  Among Pearce’s entourage were a couple of handsome brothers, the elder about fifteen. The group climbed into the ring, and Dan followed Budd through the ropes on the opposite side to meet them. The brothers gazed at him in frank appraisal. The younger one said something to the elder with a doubtful air.

  “No, Tom, he’s no match for Hen,” he hissed back, the loud whisper reaching Dan’s ears as intended.

  Pearce came forward and held out his hand. “I’m Hen.”

  He smiled at Dan as if he expected them to be firm friends, not two men about to batter one another before a baying crowd. Under the cloak of his smile, he weighed up the opposition, as Dan weighed him up. Hen was about five foot ten inches tall, well-muscled, and light on his feet. His apparent warmth might put other fighters off guard, but Dan was more wary.

  Usually each side chose their own umpire, and if they did not agree on any point a third would be appointed to settle the matter. There were no suitable candidates among the organisers of the previous fights, so Grey and Warneford agreed to let Bob Watson supervise the match and make all final decisions. Though he was Hen’s trainer, he was the only man with the skills, and they could trust him to be fair.

  They retired to their corners. Dan rounded on Warneford. “Who is Pearce, and how does he come to have Watson seconding him?”

  “You see his friends?” asked Warneford. “They’re the Belcher boys, Jem and Tommy, good little fighters both. Watson is their brother-in-law. Their grandfather,” he added casually, “was John Slack.”

  “The John Slack?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Budd.

  “Oh, nothing,” Dan answered. “Only that John Slack was the man who beat Jack Broughton in fourteen minutes. Only that Watson is a veteran of the ring – I saw him beat Elisha Crabbe in ’88. Only that this new-to-the-ring boy has the backing of what you might call the nobility of boxing. And Warneford knew all along what I was up against.”