Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  Warneford chuckled. “But Hen doesn’t know what he’s up against, and I don’t back losers. Come on, Dan, you know you’re a match for any man. You know you can win.”

  He broke off as a buzz of alarm spread through the spectators, who were looking behind them to the top of the field, shifting and muttering, torn between anxiety and resentment. A smart carriage rattled along the track on the rise. Watson grabbed Hen’s arm and pushed him through the ropes.

  Warneford cursed. “It’s the bloody magistrate.”

  “It is a magistrate,” Dan agreed, “but I don’t think we need to go yet. That’s Lord Oldfield’s carriage, and unless he’s brought a local justice with him, he’s no right to stop the match.”

  “No Kingswood justice would risk interfering with the fair,” said Budd. “What’s the bastard want?”

  Dan watched His Lordship step out of the coach, his pair of hounds tumbling about him.

  “I think he wants to see the fight.”

  “How does he know about it?” Warneford demanded.

  “It’s not been kept a secret,” Dan answered. He thought it probable that, like so much that went on in the village, the information had been carried to Oldfield Hall by Ayres, whom Dan had seen slipping out of the Fox and Badger after the fight was announced. The constable could not have expected the result to be that Lord Oldfield would turn up to join the spectators.

  The crowd fell back to let Lord Oldfield through, eyeing the dogs warily. If it had not been for them, he would not have got down to the ring without at least a splatter or two of mud – and maybe worse – thrown at him. His footman followed nervously with a folding chair.

  Nonchalantly, Lord Oldfield leaned on one of the corner posts. “So you are the Barcombe Bruiser, who told me he wasn’t planning any fights. Are the odds in your favour?”

  Dan was going to fight for His Lordship’s entertainment after all! He stifled his irritation. “It’s pretty even at the moment, My Lord.”

  “I had better give you something to fight for then.”

  His Lordship drew out a leather purse and threw it on the boards. It landed with a satisfying chink. “Fifty guineas for the winner!”

  “That’s yours, Hen!” Jemmy Belcher cried. Hen grinned and nodded. The prize gave more relish to the match than merely beating a fairground challenger.

  Watson darted into the arena and snatched up the purse. The footman placed the chair behind Dan’s seconds. Budd glanced uneasily at His Lordship, but Lord Oldfield had no idea he sat within feet of the man who had burned his barn and rifled his ancestor’s tomb.

  Hen Pearce came back into the ring. Abe, ever the wit, made clucking noises and flapped his arms. Soon the rest of the Barcombe mob were copying him.

  Hen had heard it before. He yelled back, “I might be a chicken, but I’m a game one!”

  He and Dan shook hands again and went back to their corners to wait for the bell. Dan rolled his shoulders, feeling every breath, every twitch of his muscles, the prickle of each hair on the back of his neck. It was the same before a raid on a den of thieves and murderers or a night-time arrest. Those last few seconds before the action starts, before the world crashes in…

  The bell sounded from a million miles away and he moved forward like an automaton, raised his fists, and put his head down. And took a facer before he had gone two steps, and where it had come from, he did not know. Pearce had got in right over his guard. But it woke him up. They spent the rest of the round circling one another, feinting, closing, doing little more than getting each other’s measure.

  In the next round, Dan went on the attack and put in a blow which Pearce returned. A few more exchanges followed, and Dan’s nose started bleeding. In the third he attacked again, driving into Hen with a series of rapid blows. Hen was beginning to look distressed. He swung at Dan and fell with the force of his own punch just as the bell went. Watson dragged him back to his corner.

  Round four, and Dan put one in Hen’s stomach that left him winded, and there was little doing for the rest of the round. Hen rallied in round five and they swapped several blows. The lad was tiring, while Dan had never felt so full of energy.

  Though Watson tried to patch him up, Hen came out in the sixth covered in blood, and Dan got in a tap to the forehead that should have finished him off. Except he was as game as he said he was and he kept coming. The match was nearly over though, everyone could see it. Dan had only to hammer one or two more home, and the fight was his. Guarding with his left, he swung at Hen with his right, slipped on the blood-stained boards, and crashed to his knees.

  Dan put his weight on his right hand, tried to raise himself, but the fall had knocked the strength out of him. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs. Watson counted the seconds, beating his arm to emphasise their passing. Dan tried again, but his legs refused to obey him. The crowd yowled, Watson’s lips moved, the thirty seconds Dan had to get to his feet and up to the line before he was declared the loser rushed by, and still he could not move.

  Hen gave a whoop of triumph and danced in for the winning blow. No matter that it would be a foul: no one in this mob would complain about hitting a man when he was down, and if they did it would not do Dan any good. One easy strike, legal or not, and he was done for. Even if he managed to get to his feet, he would not recover. He had lost the fight.

  Hen’s sweating face leered above him, the flesh twisted into a swollen smile, his lips and teeth dripping red. His fist feinted in, out, in, out; his feet skipped to the left, to the right, teasing, jeering, showing Dan how easy it was going to be as he danced around to a position where Watson could not see his fists.

  The crowd was shouting and howling, and now Dan could hear individual voices; one or two at first, but the cry caught on and spread: “Kill him!” Not that the animosity was personal. That was what men came to fights for, and in the excitement the truth often slipped out. Warneford was on his feet, gesticulating and shouting, “Umpire! Umpire!” Bob Budd stood at the corner, screaming and waving his towel, tears running down his face. Lord Oldfield was standing too, one hand gripping the rope. Getting his money’s worth.

  Dan flung up his left arm to deflect the worst of the blow when it came. He heard the words, “Bloody do it!” He had thought or said them, or someone else had. Hen drew back his fist, his smile gone, replaced by the brutal focus of a man about to annihilate his opponent.

  The blow never came. Hen pranced backwards, raised his arms above his head, and jogged around the ring, waving at the yelling crowd. The realisation that Hen hadn’t hit him rushed through Dan like new blood, and at last he found the strength to stand. Though his knees sagged and his head wobbled, he was up with five seconds to spare.

  The bell rang for the end of the round. Budd and Warneford shot into the ring and dragged Dan back to the corner. Water in his face, brandy on his lips, hartshorn fumes under his nose. Warneford hissed into his face. “He’s yours next round. It was only luck, he couldn’t have got you down if you hadn’t slipped.”

  Pearce had not hit him, but he had seen him fall, and he came out in round seven with fresh heart in him. For a time they went at it as if they had only just begun. Hen was flagging again when he aimed a most peculiar one – perhaps in error, perhaps deliberate. Dan only knew that if Hen had got that blow in on his throat with any force, he would have been out of the reckoning. As it was, it was easily deflected. Hen was staggering and could hardly see out of his right eye. Dan followed him around the ring, clipped the side of his head and, spewing his guts, he went down. The Barcombe Bruiser had won.

  In that instant, the life went out of Dan and he crumpled. Budd and Warneford were back in the ring and propping him up before he hit the boards. Warneford held up his limp and bloodied hands in a victory salute. The crowd bellowed, whistled, cheered. Budd threw a towel around him and wafted the salts under his nose. They hustled him into the corner, where he le
aned, gasping, against the post while Budd poured brandy down his gullet. He swallowed some, spat out most, and grabbed the flask off him.

  Hen sat on his second’s knee, his torso sheened with sweat. Jem Belcher sponged his face and Watson knelt beside him, bandaging his knuckles. Dan hobbled over and held out the flask. Hen winced as he reached for it, flashed a grin that set his split lip bleeding, and took a long swig.

  “A noble fight, young master,” Dan said.

  “And where did you learn to fight?” Watson asked.

  “Round and about.”

  Watson’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been well trained. Anyone can see that.”

  “Surprises all round then,” Dan said. He winked at Hen, who could not wink back with his closed eye, and returned to his corner.

  Budd towelled him down, threw a shirt and jacket over him, and led him out of the ring. They pushed through the crowd, the other two shielding Dan as much as they could.

  Walter stood in front of him, staring at his battered face in horrified admiration. He thrust a jar into Dan’s swollen fingers. “Mother sent this. She said you probably wouldn’t have enough left from before.”

  “What did she say? I mean, did she say anything? Did she…?” Dan gave up. He was not sure what he was trying to ask. “Thank her for me.”

  Walter was about to say something, but one of his friends called him. He snapped his mouth shut and hurried off. His place was immediately taken by Singleton, who grabbed Dan’s hand and pumped his arm up and down.

  “Well done, Dan, well done! Going for the stomach in the fourth was a brilliant stroke – just what I’d have done in your place. And that one-two-one-two in six!”

  Dan had not managed to get a word in or retrieve his aching arm when Lord Oldfield’s footman stalked up.

  “His Lordship’s compliments, and will you join him in his carriage?” he said, grinning at Dan before resuming his haughty attitude.

  They all knew that Dan had no choice but to accept the invitation, but he had to be careful not to look too keen. It was not difficult: he was far from eager for the interview. It was bad enough that His Lordship had turned up for the fight. Now he was going to want to know how the case was going, and Dan was not ready to make his report.

  “I’m all right here,” he said.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Warneford said. “Get what you can out of your victory. No one will hold it against you.”

  “You should go,” Budd agreed. “Take the bastard for all he’s worth.”

  This the footman pretended not to hear, though his lips twitched.

  “Yes, you should go,” Singleton chimed in. “The lads will love it!”

  The poacher feted by the lord whose game he had taken. The men of Barcombe would love it, right enough.

  “Lead on, then,” Dan said to the footman.

  They followed him to the carriage, the excited crowd pressing behind them. Dan stopped and shook hands with Budd, Singleton and Warneford.

  “I’ll sort things out here and see you in Barcombe tomorrow or Monday to settle up,” Warneford said.

  Budd looked sorry to be losing him, but as soon as Dan turned away, he was surrounded by men who wanted to carry him off to the beer tent and hear all about the Barcombe Bruiser. Dan wondered if his children had witnessed the fight, and if Betty would have any more respect for her father if she had.

  But the coachman was holding the carriage door open. Dan stepped inside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dan leaned out of the window, waving as he had seen other boxers do when a rich man took them up: full of hope and pride, thinking the moment of victory would last forever, and they would not be cast aside when some new sensation caught the eye of the Fancy. Eventually the cheering crowd fell behind, preferring the attractions of the beer tent to running along in choking dust.

  “You’re a mess,” said Lord Oldfield. “You’ll have a hot bath and then Dr Russell will take a look at you.”

  Dan thought of the cold pump in the yard and the hot bath at Oldfield Hall, and did not argue.

  “Thank you, and for the purse.”

  “Well earned.”

  “It was a tough fight. The boy was fast, and the boy was good.”

  “I thought him a little raw.”

  “As he is, and not at the peak of his strength yet. I think he has the makings of a champion, given time and experience.”

  “Do you?” Lord Oldfield said. “But why don’t you aim for it? I would back you. I’d like to have a fighter of my own.”

  A fighter of his own: that was how they thought, these lords. Even the most generous of them thought they could own you. At the best they would dress you like a coxcomb and drag you around like one of their leashed dogs. At the worst they would turn you into a hired thug, a bully boy to protect them while they dabbled in the low life of taverns and stews. Bill Hooper of Bristol had fallen into that trap with that noble hooligan, the Earl of Barrymore, and lost every bit of the respect he had won in the ring.

  “Thank you, My Lord, but I have no ambition in that direction.”

  Lord Oldfield did not like to be refused and said pettishly, “But if you won’t box for me, what are you doing fighting in Kingswood?”

  “I came to Kingswood on the trail of a murder suspect, and taking on the match was a good way to get here without attracting suspicion. I hadn’t expected the opposition to be so handy.”

  “What suspect? Dr Russell told me over a week ago you knew who was in the gang. You said you needed more time and I gave it to you, with the result that I was shot at and my mother thrown into a fit of nerves from which she has barely recovered. This has gone on long enough, Foster. I want these men stopped.”

  “And they will be, when I’ve completed my investigation.”

  “I don’t see what else there is to investigate. You’ve done what you were engaged to do.”

  “Yes, I know who the poachers are, but I’m not convinced Castle’s killer is amongst them.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “There are plenty of people who bore a grudge against him. Bob Budd, who he helped evict from Barcombe Wood – he was my bottle holder, by the way. The Tolleys, whose daughter Sukie went missing ten years ago. The dead baby found in your lake is believed to be hers and Castle’s, with some even saying he had something to do with the girl’s disappearance.”

  “Nonsense. Josh had no need to go a-whoring.”

  “My impression is that Sukie was simple, not a whore, and that some man took advantage of her. However, that’s not my concern.”

  “It is not. That is catching Josh’s killer. All you have discovered are a few petty grudges, such as are common in rural communities. Can you bring the murder home to any of these people?”

  “No, but – ”

  “Then it is time to draw the matter to a close. I want the poachers arrested.”

  “What about Caleb Witt? I heard he wanted Castle’s job.”

  “If he did, he isn’t going to get it. I’m bringing in a man of Lord Berkeley’s.”

  “But Witt wouldn’t have known that.”

  “Nor does he yet, but he’s never been given any reason to think I’d consider him as head keeper.”

  “All the same, it would be worth checking on his movements that night.”

  “I expect he was out and about with Potter, doing what I pay him for. If he had not been I would have heard of it. Enough of this, Foster. I will not have these men remain at large to encourage others in the belief that they can break the law with impunity.”

  “They are certainly guilty of breaking the Game Laws and assaulting Ford, but I cannot prove any of them killed Castle.”

  “It doesn’t matter which of them struck the killing blow. They are all culpable. I insist that you tell me who they are and arrest them immediately.
”

  “I can’t do that. Not until I’ve finished.”

  “Finished what? You’ve taken a straightforward matter and turned it into something more than it is. No doubt things are different in the London underworld, but this is the country. It’s clear that you are out of your depth here. Sir William should have sent someone who knew what he was doing.”

  This from the man who had shut the people of Barcombe out of the wood without a thought for the hardship it would cause them. The man who had turned petty poachers into deer stealers, who had caused the near-blinding of a little girl, who had kept back information that might have a bearing on the case, who from the start had steered Dan towards the conclusion most convenient to himself. A conclusion more than convenient – if Lord Oldfield was the murderer.

  “I do have one other suspect.”

  “Who is that?”

  Dan had snapped out the words without thinking, too angry to stop himself. He would not back down now, would not let himself be sidetracked by bluff and bluster, whether it come from a lord or a nightsoilman. They could take away his job because he offended the rich and powerful, but not for incompetence – never for that.

  “You,” he said.

  Lord Oldfield started. The dogs, sensing a threat to their master, sprang, growling, to their feet.

  “How dare you make such a suggestion!”

  “If you would get your dogs’ jaws out of my face, I’ll tell you…Why didn’t you tell me that you and Castle were related?”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Perhaps Castle thought the Oldfields owed him more than a cottage and a gamekeeper’s wage. His father was your great uncle’s son, wasn’t he?”

  “Illegitimate son.”

  “Wasn’t there a marriage?”

  “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me.”

  “I could have your hide for this.”

  “I’ve already risked it once today.”