Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  “I was supposed to tell you Warneford’s coming with your money this morning. I did offer to bring it for you, but he wanted to do it himself.”

  Wise of Warneford not to trust the cash to a bunch of drunken men. He tethered his horse by the forge and strolled into the kitchen, his heavy boots ringing on the flagged floor. He put his hat and gloves on the table.

  “Morning, Singleton. Dan. Let’s take a look at you.” He grabbed Dan’s chin and tilted his head. “Nairy a mark on you.”

  “He had His Lordship’s doctor out to him,” Singleton said.

  Warneford lowered his bulk onto one of the chairs. “Did you now? Enjoy your taste of the high life?”

  “Not really. I slept through it.”

  Warneford laughed. “Well, now. To business. Bit dry, though, ain’t it? Morning, Missus.”

  Mrs Singleton appeared at the foot of the stairs, a handful of laundry in her arms. “Humph!” she said, and stalked out to the wash house.

  Singleton took the hint and poured himself and Warneford a glass of beer. Dan shook his head. Warneford took a bulging purse out of his pocket and tipped the contents onto the table.

  “Here it is, less ten per cent to the loser.”

  “No man deserves it more than Hen Pearce,” Dan said.

  Warneford counted the coins, swept them back into the purse, tied the strings, and handed it to Dan. He took a long swig at his drink, took out his pipe and baccy pouch, and began to tamp in the weed.

  Dan weighed the purse in his hand. “You asked me once if I wanted to make a living out of boxing.”

  Warneford stood up and helped himself to a spill from the jar on the mantelpiece. “And do you?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  The tobacco glowed red. Warneford threw the light away and stood with his back to the fire, puffing at his pipe and looking at Dan through narrowed eyes. “You ask me, you don’t need to think too hard. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be champion of England one day.”

  “You think I could challenge Jackson?”

  “I do.”

  “I heard Mendoza is itching for a rematch,” Dan said.

  “Jackson won’t make no rematch with the Jew. He only beat him after grabbing on to his hair in the fifth and forcing him down. Mendoza had no chance to recover from the beating, and that’s the only reason he fell in the ninth. It was a clear foul and should never have been allowed. Jackson couldn’t beat him if he fought fair.”

  Easy to tell who Warneford had put his money on.

  “What if Jackson won’t fight? He hasn’t fought since becoming champion last year, and the word is he won’t fight again.”

  “Then challenge Mendoza. By rights, the championship still belongs to him in any case, and I’m not the only one who thinks it.”

  “You really think I could beat Daniel Mendoza?”

  “The Barcombe Bruiser, Champion of England?” Singleton cried. “That would be something, Dan!”

  Warneford ignored the blacksmith’s interruption. “Not straight off, no. You need to get a few more victories under your belt first. I could get you those.”

  “But His Lordship says I’m ready to fight now. He says he’ll back me.”

  “You don’t want to let him turn your head. You take on something before you’re ready for it and your career’ll be over before it’s begun. His Lordship will drop you like a hot coal.”

  Dan pretended to think about this, then said reluctantly, “Who would I have to fight?”

  “Couldn’t say offhand, but I dare say I could scratch something up in a few days.”

  Warneford finished his pipe and emptied the ashes into the grate. “There are plenty of good Bristol men, and you could beat any one of ’em all hollow and make a name for yourself into the bargain. Then you’ll have your pick of lords for backers. Maybe Prince George himself. Look, I’ve got some business over there this week. Why don’t I ask around and see what’s doing? When I come back, I’ll let you know the form and then you can decide. How does that sound?”

  This was the tricky bit. Warneford did not like giving out advance notice of his movements, but Dan was banking on his desire to get his hooks into him before Lord Oldfield did. He looked sulky and said, “But when will you be back?”

  Warneford seemed to hesitate for an age before admitting, “Wednesday week.”

  “All right,” said Dan. “I’ll wait until then, but no longer, mind.”

  When Warneford had gone, Dan laughingly shook his head. “Champion of England. It doesn’t sound like me.”

  “Sounds right to me,” Singleton said, pouring himself another drink. “I’ll drink to your success.”

  Mrs Singleton bustled back in. “What sounds right? Nothing connected with that man, I’ll be bound. I don’t know why you allow him in the house. He’s never up to any good.” Grumbling, she passed through the room and went upstairs again.

  “I’m going for a walk,” Dan said. “Don’t want to seize up. What about you?”

  “Nah.”

  Singleton heaved himself from the table and got as far as one of the chairs by the fire. He put his head back and closed his eyes. He was snoring by the time Dan reached the door, which was just what Dan had hoped he would do.

  *

  The church clock struck twelve, the sound lingering sweetly in the still atmosphere. The day was sunny with a cool edge to it, very pleasant for walking. Wisps of woodsmoke hung on the haze. Occasionally the faint sound of a cow lowing or sheep bleating drifted down from the fields. Dan sauntered through the village, but when he had left the houses behind, he broke into a run. His muscles did not like it at first, but as they warmed up they benefited from the loosening and stretching.

  The doctor’s front door stood open on to an untidy porch filled with walking sticks, coats, gaiters and boots. Dan did not go in that way; he wanted to speak to the doctor without being seen by anyone else. He skirted the house until he came to the consulting room at the back. It had glass doors opening into the garden. Dan peered inside. It was a large room with armchairs dotted about, small tables piled with books and magazines, and a desk with papers and inkstand neatly arranged upon it. The walls were lined with glass cases containing jars of varying sizes, but he could not see what was in them. A fire had been laid in the hearth, but not yet lit.

  Dan tried the handle. The door was not locked and he stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to leaving the sunshine, he realised his mistake. The room was not empty. There was a woman in a pale gown standing in a corner. She turned slowly towards him, and his heart, still hammering from his exercise, all but broke out of his chest. It was not a woman at all. Or perhaps it once had been. He had no way of knowing.

  Not for the first time, the image of Girtin’s gore-soaked Bloodie Bones flashed into his mind. Barcombe superstition was infectious, but his senses and mind were too used to working in unison for the contagion to last more than a few seconds. Of course a doctor would have a skeleton in his study, as he would also have models of feet and stomachs and hearts, jars of pickled limbs, cases of dissected frogs and birds and mice. The skeleton, wired together and suspended on a stand, swung softly in the draught.

  Dan was congratulating himself on not being ridiculous enough to flee when the inner door opened and in came Dr Russell.

  “I thought I saw someone coming round the house. I suppose I should be glad it’s the police and not a housebreaker.”

  Very cool, for a man who thought he might have a burglar in his study!

  The doctor laughed. “Actually, I recognised you. What seems to be the problem? Your injuries didn’t seem too serious when I examined you last night.”

  “No, they aren’t, but if anyone has seen me coming here, you can say you treated a sprained wrist. I’ve a message for Lord Oldfield.”

  “What is it this time? Is he to b
reak down his own fences or throw stones through his own greenhouses?”

  “He’ll be pleased with this one, and with getting it so soon. Tell him he can write to Sir William Addington at Bow Street and ask him to send ten or a dozen men, to be here the Wednesday after this, to rendezvous after dark at the location His Lordship and I discussed this morning.”

  “Then you are making the arrests at last. Is His Lordship allowed to know who the men are yet?”

  “He already knows.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll leave it to him to tell you himself, if he wishes it. Do you think – ”

  “I could go up to the Hall at once? Of course. What will you be doing in the meantime?”

  “I’ll carry on at the forge as normal.”

  “Good luck then, Foster.”

  They shook hands, and Dan left the way he had come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dan was not attracted by the prospect of watching Singleton snore off last night’s excesses. He had not seen Anna Halling since giving her the lace. Now it was his turn to acknowledge a gift.

  “I came to thank you for the salve you sent me,” he said when she opened the door.

  She eyed his cuts and bruises. “You don’t look too bad for it. But look at your knuckles! Didn’t you put anything on them?”

  “I forgot.”

  She clicked her tongue and pointed to the bench by the door.

  “Sit down.”

  She went inside and came back with a cloth and a jar of ointment.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  “It stings!”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  He watched her dab gently at his broken skin. “So you don’t mind me fighting?”

  She put the lid on the jar and wiped her hands on the cloth. “I’m a healer. I can’t see the point of deliberately seeking harm.”

  “That’s not why I do it. It’s a discipline.”

  “Are you so undisciplined without it?”

  “I was until I learned the rules of boxing.”

  “There are rules? I thought it was just two men punching one another.”

  “At its worse, that’s all it is. At its best, it’s a sport. An art even.”

  “You do make it sound grand. Walter thought it was. He couldn’t stop talking about you last night.”

  “What did he say?”

  She shot him a sideways glance. Yes, he was fishing for compliments.

  “He said you were brave, that you fought fair, that you didn’t gloat when you won.”

  “He said all that, did he? And what do you say?”

  “I say – what do you care what I say?”

  “I do. Truly. I would like to know.”

  “Then I say it’s a shame you should get involved in such a low business.”

  “There’s good money in it, honestly earned.” He grinned. “More or less.”

  They could not, after all, make criminals of the Prince of Wales and pugilism’s other aristocratic supporters. Dan had often been called upon to police a fight, but only if the crowd threatened to be disorderly, or to keep a lookout for thieves. Unless a magistrate had a special reason for preventing it, most turned a blind eye to the fight itself.

  “I don’t call betting on the outcome of a brawl an honest way to earn a living. I don’t see the wisdom of risking your life for a new suit of clothes either.”

  “They do look handsome, though, don’t they?”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “Perhaps.”

  The bench was a pleasant spot to sit in the afternoon sun. Soothed by the trilling of small birds, the rustling leaves, Anna’s gentle presence, he leaned back, stretched out his legs, and shut his eyes. Something brushed lightly across his cheekbone. His eyes shot open. She pulled her hand away.

  “You should put something on that bruise.”

  He clasped her fingers and put them back on his face. “Have you got anything?”

  *

  It was late afternoon when he left. He would rather have stayed in the warmth and peace of her bed, but Walter would soon be back for his dinner. The air was cool and shadows were gathering under the trees. He walked back to the forge, still half asleep, lulled by the sound of the church bells ringing for evening service.

  He had become the adulterer Caroline had long and groundlessly accused him of being, and the only thing he regretted was that he could not tell her. If he did, she might leave him and he would be free of her for good. But it would not make any difference. As Caroline delighted in reminding him, even her death would not do that, not while the church said a man could not marry his wife’s sister. Caroline knew no word of love had passed between him and Eleanor, but far from respecting his restraint, she looked on it as a pose, accusing him of playing the hard-done-by husband still loyally protective of his difficult wife. She twisted even his efforts to do the decent thing, and Anna would be one gift she would accept with real gratitude. She would take great delight in telling her sister, “This is the man you think so noble and long-suffering…”

  Yet he had never set himself up to be either of those things. Even so, Eleanor’s good opinion was all he would ever have any right to, and he could not face the thought of losing it. So he would not tell Caroline, and she would not leave him, and everything was back where it was.

  He had not made any promises to Anna, and she had not seemed to want any. He had started to tell her that he was not sure he was going to stay in Barcombe, but she had hushed him and said they would talk later. They had not talked later. Even if they had, there was not much he could say. She would find out who he was and why he had come to Barcombe soon enough. He would be able to explain everything. Then, of course, she would understand, and no harm done.

  *

  Sir William sent a six man patrol under Captain Sam Ellis, a carpenter by day and a patrolman by night. Dan had paired with him when he worked the turnpike roads. They had been together the night Dan shot and killed the highwayman, Jack Williams, a vicious piece who had crowned a violent career the day before by stopping a coach with two women in it and beating the mother half to death in front of her daughter. The rest of his gang gave themselves up when he fell. Perhaps it was the shock of realising the Devil had not granted their leader immortality.

  Dan got to Cottom’s place and whistled softly. Patrolman Thomas stepped out of the shadows, recognised Dan with a grin, and let him pass. Dan warned him to be on the lookout for the keepers, who were due at midnight.

  The bare room was dimly lit by two shuttered lanterns, easy to snap shut if someone should pass by. Dan was not surprised to see Rawlinson, who usually partnered with the Welshman. Thomas and Rawlinson were experienced officers, older than Dan, but they did not envy his promotion. There were only six Principal Officers at Bow Street; not everyone made the rank, or wanted to.

  Sibbetts was sitting cross-legged on a heap of old sacks, sharpening his blade. Tickner, a burly, genial-looking young man who could be far from genial when up against low life, was having a quiet smoke. Robbins lolled on the floor with his back against the wall and his eyes shut, which meant he was alert to everything going on around him – a ploy that had fooled many a villain. There was one Dan did not know, a young recruit called Jones. They were all armed with cutlasses as usual, and had also been issued with pistols.

  Dan and Captain Ellis shook hands. “You’re looking well, Dan. Country life seems to agree with you.”

  “I’d rather be back in London. I feel safer there.”

  Ellis laughed. “What’s the plan?”

  “Simple enough. Gather round, men.”

  Dan had drawn a map of the village and marked on it the forge, Travell’s shop, Dunnage’s farm, Abe’s cottage, and the Fox and Badger, where Warneford was sleeping. Dan had been in the Fox with him and Singleton earlier, discus
sing Warneford’s proposed match against Bill Ward. Ward lived in London, but would be happy to come back to his native Bristol for the fight. He had been defeated twice by Mendoza. He had also served three months in Newgate for the manslaughter of a blacksmith in a brawl in a coaching inn yard. Dan said he did not see how beating such a man would win him much praise. He knew all the time that Ward was a skilled fighter, but he grumbled all evening until seeming to give in at last and telling Warneford to go ahead and arrange it.

  Sam Ellis held up one of the lanterns so the men could study the drawing.

  “The keepers are bringing the warrants with them,” Dan said. “They’ll be your guides. You can also rely on them to help with the arrests. Remember to keep it quiet, we don’t want to rouse the village. Singleton is likely to be the most trouble, so I’ll go for him myself with Tickner.” He reeled off the other assignments.

  Ellis pulled an enormous ancient watch out of his pocket. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  “Sounds like someone coming, sir,” piped up Tickner.

  The door opened and Thomas put his head in. “Here’s the keepers.”

  Instead of the three Dan expected – Mudge, Witt and Potter – four men crowded into the room. At their head was a dashing figure in boots and dark cloak, a pair of pistols at his belt.

  “Lord Oldfield!” Dan exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think? I’ve brought the warrants as you asked, and here’s your pistol.”

  “I did not mean that you should bring them yourself. This is a dangerous operation, My Lord. You’d best leave it to us.”

  He laughed. “Not likely, Foster. I want to be in on this. I’m coming with you.”

  There was no point telling him it would not be as much of an adventure as he seemed to think. Something about taking a sleeping man unawares took any glamour out of the thing. There was nothing for it: Dan had to adjust his plans. Though as head of the operation he should take the most hazardous assignment, he would send Ellis for Singleton. The captain would understand the need to keep Lord Oldfield out of danger.