The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  He emptied his glass and put it on the desk. Dan stepped aside to let him go first and followed him downstairs. Two new arrivals stood in the passageway, hats in hands. The younger of the two stood over a crate with a loosely-nailed lid. He kept a respectful silence while Lavender and his master conferred, standing close to one another in order to make themselves heard over the noise from the street.

  “Sir William, this is the undertaker,” Lavender said. “May I send him up?”

  “You may. And mind, the casket is to be lead-lined oak. And make sure it is sealed before his family sees it. Send the bill to me; the office will settle it.”

  “I understand,” the undertaker answered with professional sympathy. “The coffin will be impregnable. Your fallen comrade will not be disturbed in his final resting place.” He shook hands with the clerk, beckoned to his assistant to follow with the crate, and started towards the stairs with soft, self-effacing steps. The effect was spoiled by the ostentatious creaking of his shoes.

  “Foster, have the prisoners brought up,” Sir William said. “And, Lavender, let the reporters in.”

  Sir William continued along the passage and out into the court leading to the courtroom. Lavender moved off towards the front door. Dan drew him back.

  “Were you here when Kean came in Friday?”

  “I was.”

  “Did he say anything about where he was going on Friday night?”

  “Not to me.”

  “What was he working on?”

  “Nothing out of the routine as far as I know. But then none of you officers tell me everything you’re up to.”

  Lavender opened the door and ushered the reporters through the building to the courtroom while Dan went into the clerks’ room and located the gaoler.

  “Bring ’em up.”

  An angry hush fell. The gaoler and his assistant clumped downstairs. The jangle of keys and clink of handcuffs drifted up after them. The cellar door opened and closed, stumbling footsteps approached the stairs. A few moments later Reynolds and Wallace, blinking in the daylight, appeared in the doorway to face a storm of hisses. Reynolds, his hands shackled, halted in alarm. Wallace licked his lips with his thick tongue, his heavy face quivering with fear. The gaoler shoved them forward. The Bow Street staff parted to let them through, their silence more menacing than any uttered threat.

  Sir William was already seated at the table on the raised platform at the top of the courtroom, Lavender at his side setting out pens and paper. The gaolers hustled the prisoners into the dock in front of the magistrate, where they stood gripping the rail and looking timidly about them. Wallace flinched when the gaoler knocked his hat off his head.

  Dan, as one of the deponents, took his place on the benches behind Sir William, next to Captain Ellis and Jones. The young patrolman still looked pale. The remaining space on the dais quickly filled up with Bow Street personnel. Dan spotted a flash of Townsend’s yellow waistcoat.

  In the pit below the dais three reporters, pressed in by the mass of spectators, jostled for elbow room at the railing separating the dock from the audience. Usually the hearings attracted only a few members of the public. Most of the visitors to the courtroom were lawyers and their clients, people waiting to give evidence, or men and women about to face their accusers. They came and went without taking any notice of the magistrate and the prisoners, gossiping or conducting their business, sometimes their flirtations. Today there was a mass of ghoulish faces turned towards the court, eager for sensational revelations. The courtyard was packed with those who could not get in.

  Captain Ellis and Patrolman Jones gave their evidence. The reporters’ pencils raced across their notebooks. In an atmosphere thick with heat and unpleasant smells, Dan outlined his part in events, including his investigations at Guy’s Hospital.

  “So you are perfectly satisfied that Officer Kean was never in Guy’s Hospital?” Sir William asked. “And that there is no employee matching the description given by the prisoners?”

  “I am.”

  “Thank you, Officer Foster.”

  Dan went back to his seat and Sir William consulted briefly with Lavender. An excited hubbub broke out, which the beadle quickly dealt with. When silence had been restored, the magistrate addressed Reynolds and Wallace.

  “You both insist that you purchased the remains of Officer Kean from a man previously unknown to you who claimed to be a porter at Guy’s Hospital?”

  Wallace’s mouth hung open and his wide eyes were fixed uncomprehendingly on the magistrate.

  “We do, as it’s true,” Reynolds answered for both of them.

  “You do not wish to take this opportunity to change your story in any way? To add some details about how and when Kean was killed?”

  “We don’t, as we don’t know anything about it,” Reynolds said.

  “You refuse to reveal the whereabouts of the remainder of the corpse?”

  “We never seen more than them bits in the basket.”

  “You have heard Officer Foster’s evidence. Taking that and all the circumstances of the case into consideration, and in particular the fact that you were found with the victim’s remains in your possession, I have heard nothing to suggest that there is anyone other than yourselves who had any connection with his death. That being so, I have no hesitation in remanding you both in custody pending trial on the charge of murdering Principal Officer George Kean.”

  Wallace plucked at Reynolds’s sleeve. “What’s he saying? What’s he mean?”

  Reynolds shook him off and struggled to make himself heard above the cheers, whistles and applause. “But we never done him in! It was like we told you – we just bought the body parts.”

  “Take them down,” Sir William ordered.

  The gaolers dragged the pair from the dock, Reynolds protesting, Wallace still bleating, “What’s he mean?” They were jostled, jabbed and kicked as they passed through the press of police officers and clerks.

  John Townsend grabbed Reynolds’s arm and hissed into his ear, “Think you’ll be safe in Newgate? Think again.” Reynolds tore himself free, and he and Wallace made their torturous way along the packed corridor, cringing beneath further blows, threats and spittle.

  Dan, who had stood up to watch them go, felt someone slap his shoulder. He turned to see a grinning Ellis behind him.

  “Well done, Dan. If it hadn’t been for you being so quick off the mark, we’d never have got that scum charged this fast.”

  “But there’s no why or where or when to it,” Dan said.

  “What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

  The captain was already talking to the noisome air.

  Chapter Five

  Outside, Dan stood breathing in the cooler air and thinking. He had a couple of options. He could go to the Black Raven, the Chick Lane tavern where Reynolds and Wallace claimed to have bought Kean’s remains, and see if anyone knew anything about the man who sold them – or whether they would tell him if they did. Which was unlikely. But there was another source of information he could try, one that might be more fruitful.

  A commotion from the office doorway announced the spilling forth of John Townsend and the other officers in a noisy, triumphant gaggle. They swept across the road to the Brown Bear. They would be drinking to Kean’s memory and celebrating the arrest of his killers for the next several hours, unless Sir William sent them out on a job, or some robbed or battered victim came in to ask for help. And woe betide any law-breakers who crossed their path in their current mood.

  Dan’s King Street burglar was still locked up in the Brown Bear waiting to be brought up before Sir William. He would have to wait until the evening sessions. Dan straightened his hat and strode away.

  The Falcon in Clerkenwell stood in a gloomy street flanked on either side by filth-filled gutters. Ragged children played around the doors of lodging ho
uses so old they were thatched with straw, their walls bulged and window frames had rotted away. Men and women loitered about on the lookout for the sort of money that could be made on the streets by begging, stealing, selling themselves. None held his or her hand out to Dan as he strode down the road, his boots ringing on the cobblestones, his hands in his coat pockets hinting at the presence of the pistol. A pockmarked young man slouching against a wall hiked himself upright and sidled away into the shadows in front of Dan.

  Dan stepped over a puddle of horse piss, unlatched the alehouse door and flung it wide open. Every face turned towards him. He paused on the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, smoke, and fug of stale ale, stale food, stale bodies. The Falcon was a flash house, as well known to the Bow Street officers as the officers were known to its habitués, who represented a fine cross-section of London’s burglars, footpads, coiners and sharpers. One or two had already slipped out the back way by the time Dan stepped down into the room.

  The pock-fretten youth from the street was at the bar guzzling a glass of ale, his reward for running ahead to warn the company they had an unwelcome visitor. Three men stood next to him. The trio were better dressed than most in the room, the one in the middle showy in buff waistcoat and plum-coloured jacket. The man on his right opened his coat and drew a short bludgeon from an inside pocket, the one on his left snatched a bottle from the counter.

  Dan stepped down onto a floor that had rarely seen water or mop. Now everyone could see that he had come on his own, a murmur of astonishment passed around the room. Some laughed; others exchanged delighted glances. A toothless old bundle of vermin-ridden skirts hissed, “Fucking pig!” Behind him one of the drinkers crept from his chair and fastened the door.

  Dan reached the bar and looked down at the fat landlord, who stood trembling and sweating behind a wall of dirty glasses. From upstairs came the sound of hasty footsteps, the dragging of cases, the opening and closing of a door. Someone was trying to shift a cache of stolen goods.

  “I’ll have a ginger beer,” Dan said into the tense silence.

  One or two people guffawed. The landlord licked his lips, reached for a bottle from underneath the bar, uncorked it and lifted down a glass. The drink spilled over the rim of the glass, but Dan made no complaint and handed over his coins. He took a sip of his drink.

  “I’m looking for Ben Hardyman.”

  “Think you’ve come to the wrong place,” said the man in the buff waistcoat before the quivering landlord could answer. “And this ain’t no molly house neither.”

  His henchmen sniggered. Dan ignored them and asked the landlord, “Is Hardyman here?”

  “Oi, Puss,” Buff Waistcoat said. “I’m talking to you. If you’re going to stand drinking next to me, you’d better have a man’s drink. Otherwise I’ll think you’re trying to proposition me, which I wouldn’t like.”

  “I’m all right with this,” Dan said. “But I thank you for the offer.”

  Anger flashed across the man’s large, flat-nosed face. He snapped at the landlord, “A glass of brandy for the young lady. Make it a pint.”

  “Right you are, Mr Packer.” The landlord reached for a pint mug, filled it with the cheapest brandy he had and pushed it across the counter.

  “Here you are, miss,” said Packer. “Drink it up, or I’ll take it unfriendly-like.”

  Dan took another pull at his ginger beer. “Never touch the stuff.”

  “Now, I consider that a right real insult,” Packer said. “Looks like the madge ain’t got no manners. And someone with no manners don’t belong in an establishment like this, where all is friendly and manly.”

  The man at his right elbow grinned and tapped the palm of his hand with his bludgeon. “Do you think me and Shipley ought to teach him some?”

  “I do, Taylor, I do.”

  There were jeers and cries of, “Give it to him, Packer.”

  Dan put his glass down on the counter, turned and faced Packer. “I don’t want any trouble. All I want is to talk to Hardyman.”

  Packer rubbed his right hand across his nose, his head bent, as if thinking. The pose did not fool Dan, and when he jerked his head up and drove his fist towards Dan’s chin, he was ready to parry the blow with his left, put his own right into Packer’s face.

  Packer staggered back. Shipley broke the neck of his bottle on the bar and jabbed at Dan with the jagged edge. Dan dodged him and landed a fist in Taylor’s stomach. Taylor doubled over and Dan grabbed him by his hair and the waistband of his breeches and swung him at Shipley. The pair tumbled to the floor. Taylor rolled away, scrabbling for the bludgeon which had fallen from his fingers. Dan stamped on his wrist. Taylor clutched it with his other hand, screaming in pain.

  By this time Packer had recovered his balance. He came at Dan puffing and wheezing, blood bubbling out of a nose that had been broken so many times one more punch had almost turned it to a pulp. He did not come empty-handed. There was a knife in his hand.

  Dan skipped back, avoiding the blade. Still the big man came on, stabbing at him, driving him against the bar. The onlookers yelled and cheered. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw that Taylor and Shipley were on their feet and closing in on him. He lunged to the right, grabbed a chair and flung it at them. As the chair bounced to the ground and Taylor and Shipley went down in a tangle, the shouting died away.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Packer whirled round to face the speaker. The newcomer, almost as tall as he was broad, stood on massive, muscular legs. Heavy gold rings glinted from his huge, fight-scarred hands. A thick gold watch chain hung from his silk waistcoat, and his shirt was ruffled lawn.

  “It’s a Runner, Mr Hardyman,” Packer said. “And he ain’t welcome here.”

  “No more is he,” agreed Hardyman. “Where’s the rest of them?”

  “I’ve come alone,” Dan said. “I don’t need a mob to back me up – and I can remember the days when Ben Hardyman fought his own battles too.”

  Hardyman’s little eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

  “Shall we finish him off?” Packer demanded.

  “Go on,” Dan said. “There’s just the three of you. Four if Hardyman joins in. Or do you just watch other men fighting for you these days, Ben?”

  “Think you could have a go, do you?” Hardyman said.

  Taylor laughed. “The last man who thought that shits into clouts now.”

  Packer reached for the pint of brandy that still stood on the counter. “I asked you to have a drink with me. You two, hold him down.”

  Dan backed against the counter and threw up his fists. Something flapped in front of his eyes. Before he could move, a twisted cloth tightened around his neck and his head was dragged back by the landlord’s considerable weight. Dan scrabbled at the noose but could not shift it. Taylor and Shipley forced his hands down and grasped his arms. Packer advanced with the tankard. Someone slapped his palm on a table and cried, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” The company took up the chant, accompanied it with stamping feet and drumming tankards.

  “Wait!” Hardyman’s voice cut through the din. He stripped off his jacket. “Leave him to me.”

  The room erupted into enthusiastic applause.

  “Go it, Mr Hardyman!”

  “Lay him out, Ben!”

  “Crush him! Kill him! Break him!” screeched a young girl.

  “Clear a space here,” Hardyman commanded.

  The landlord loosed the cloth from Dan’s neck. The drinkers dragged the furniture aside and formed a circle. Dan wrenched himself free of Shipley and Taylor and moved into the middle of the room.

  “I’ve come to talk,” Dan said. “That’s all.”

  Hardyman made a fist. “And all I’ve got to say to you is here.”

  This, thought Dan, is one of those times when walking away might be a good option. But he did not rate his c
hances of getting out unscathed. He could face Hardyman one on one, or he could refuse and have the whole lot of them give him a kicking.

  Hardyman ordered a glass of brandy, took a mouthful, swilled it around his mouth and swallowed. He handed the glass to Packer and turned to face Dan, certainty of victory written in his face. Dan understood Hardyman’s thinking: his opponent was a lightweight; he could not last five minutes against the once-legendary fists of Ben Hardyman – especially when those fists were loaded with metal. One punch from those ringed fingers with the power of Hardyman’s shoulders behind it would reduce his face to a mush of broken bone and flesh.

  Dan let Hardyman move towards him, mirroring his advance with his own retreat. The big man sneered and went on the throw, but before he could let fly with his first punch, Dan ducked, charged and brought his right fist up beneath Hardyman’s chin. The bruiser’s head bounced back, and his body staggered after it. Without giving him time to recover, Dan drove his left fist into his stomach. Hardyman’s head wobbled forward and Dan’s right met the jaw again, then the left, the right, the left…

  Dan could hear the people screaming their hatred at him, urging Hardyman to finish him off, but the big man’s eyes were already glazing over. Dan skipped back to avoid his loose swing – and fell over Taylor’s outstretched foot.

  Instantly Packer and his men were all over him, kicking and punching. He tried to get his hands up over his head but he could not move his arms. He flailed out with his legs, landing blows where he could, noted with satisfaction that he had got Taylor in the bollocks.

  “That’s enough!” Hardyman roared. “Leave him be, you dolt-heads.”

  The men climbed off him. Dan rolled on to his side, and sat up. He spat a gob of blood. “Never thought I’d see the day when Ben Hardyman couldn’t stand up in the ring on his own.”

  “And you ain’t seen the day yet,” Hardyman said. “Get up.”

  Dan sprang to his feet and raised his fists.