The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  Hardyman clicked his fingers at the man who held his jacket. He handed it over. Hardyman put it on, twitched it straight and smoothed down his hair.

  “Another glass of ginger beer for the officer,” he said to the landlord. “And half and half for me.” He jerked his thumb at a couple of men who sat at one of the tables and they scuttled away. Hardyman sat down in one of the vacated places and swept their glasses and pipes onto the floor. “Have a seat,” he said to Dan.

  Dan sat down opposite Hardyman. They eyed one another while the landlord served the drinks. A few people muttered their disappointment, but Hardyman’s mean little eyes quelled them. The company went back to its drinking, its conversation falsely casual, none daring to cast curious eyes or ears on Hardyman and the Runner. The landlord, with the help of Hardyman’s crew, straightened the furniture and cleared up the broken glass.

  “You’re Dan Foster, right?” Hardyman said. “The boxing nabman. Trained by your dad, I’ve heard. Good man, Noah Foster. If he’d been my trainer, who knows where I might not have ended up?”

  “He doesn’t train dirty fighters.”

  For a few seconds Hardyman teetered between taking offence and being amused. He laughed. “You ain’t so clean yourself. Going for a man before we’ve even started.”

  “I didn’t notice anyone agreeing Broughton’s Rules.”

  “True enough. Well, you’ve got my attention now. What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “About?”

  “Body snatching.”

  Hardyman took a swig of his rum and water. “What makes you think I know anything about that?”

  “You run the biggest grave robbing gang in London. There isn’t a parish your men haven’t raided. Looks to be a good business too. Pays for your smart duds.”

  Hardyman smiled and twisted one of his gold rings around his finger. “So what do you want to know?”

  “An officer’s been murdered. Murdered and cut up for sale to the anatomy schools. It was a professional quartering. I want to know who has the skill to do that.”

  Hardyman rubbed his hand across his chin, wincing over the developing bruises. “A surgeon.”

  “Or someone who’s seen them at work. Like you.”

  “Yes, I portered at Guy’s for a few years, until they sacked me for trying to make a little money on the side.”

  “Selling corpses to other hospitals.”

  “The surgeons don’t like the idea of anyone but them profiting from the business, see. Students pay well for their nattomy lessons. But it wasn’t me who cut up your Runner.”

  “We’ve arrested two men. Reynolds and Wallace.”

  “Don’t know them. And even if I did, I ain’t no snitch.”

  “But you’re a businessman. Another gang trespassing on your territory is bad for business. You find out who they are, and maybe we dispose of them for you.”

  Hardyman considered this, his knitted brows giving his face an apelike appearance. Yet there was a shrewd brain at work behind the brutish face.

  “Fact is, I don’t know who your Reynolds and Wallace are with. But I’ve heard talk of a new gang muscling in. People have tried before.” Hardyman spread his hands on the table and contemplated his loaded fists. “Never got very far.”

  “Can you find out who they were working for?”

  “Very well, I’ll do what you ask.” He spat on his palm and held out his hand.

  “There’s to be no shaking on it.”

  Hardyman frowned. “You’re a dab with your fists, Foster, but don’t push me too far. Next time you come in here you might not get such a friendly welcome.”

  Dan stood up and put on his hat. “Just get me that information, or next time I’ll come in with the militia and close this place down.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Hardyman said.

  “I’ll give you till the end of the week. You’d better have something for me by then.”

  Dan winked at Packer and his friends. “Gentlemen,” he said, and sauntered out into the alley.

  Chapter Six

  It was late by the time Dan got home, his burglar safely stowed in Newgate. He opened the front door to the sound of voices from the kitchen, Captain Ellis’s amongst them. Reminding himself that he had no right to stop Ellis calling on Eleanor, he forced his jealous scowl into a smile and went in.

  Caroline and Mrs Harper sat at the table which they had scattered with ribbons, beads, buttons, thread, needles and scissors. Eleanor sat by the fire, her hands busy with some mending, looking up now and again to join in the conversation. Ellis, a glass of beer in his hand, sat comfortably by the hearth, gazing at her when she was not looking, smiling when she was, hanging on her every word when she spoke.

  “So you’re in one piece, then,” said Caroline.

  Eleanor gave a sharp intake of breath. Even Ellis, as charmed as he was by his situation, was taken aback. He remembered his manners and jumped to his feet.

  “Am I in your chair, Dan?”

  “No, no, it’s all right, Sam,” Dan answered. “I can sit here.” He pulled out a chair at the end of the table.

  Mrs Harper fussed around him. “What a dreadful thing, Dan! Captain Ellis has been telling us all about it. That poor Officer Kean. The captain says he had a wife too. But you’ve caught the wretches who did it, and a good thing too.”

  “We think we’ve caught them,” Dan said.

  Ellis, who had resumed his seat, said, “Do you think there’s any doubt?”

  Dan hesitated, decided it was better to say nothing and muttered, “No, there’s no doubt.”

  Ellis gave him a puzzled look, but seeing Dan was not in the mood to pursue the subject let it drop.

  “Will you have something to drink, lovey?” his mother-in-law asked him.

  “A soda water.” He glanced along the table, caught sight of the beer jug and Caroline’s glass a few inches away from it. He raised his eyes and met hers, fixed on him with a mocking glint.

  “Why, Dan, do you think it wrong to send out for some refreshment when a friend comes calling?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, taking his bottle and glass from Mrs Harper with a nod of thanks.

  “Just because you want to drink seltzer water doesn’t mean everyone else has to.”

  “I said I didn’t mind.”

  “Big of you.” She drained her glass and resumed the conversation that had been going on when he came in. “So, it’s settled then. We’ll go to the theatre on Saturday. Captain Ellis,” she explained to Dan, “has offered to take us all.”

  “I have managed to secure tickets for one of the boxes at the Haymarket,” Ellis said. “Thought it would be a nice change for us to be inside a theatre instead of outside looking for pickpockets.”

  “Isn’t that kind of the captain?” Caroline said. “I can’t remember the last time anyone took me to the theatre. Or to any entertainment, for that matter. I’m retrimming this hat in honour of the occasion.”

  “It’s going to look lovely,” Mrs Harper said.

  Caroline sighed. “I suppose so.”

  Ellis must be truly besotted, Dan thought. A box at the theatre must have cost him a fortune. It was a pity Eleanor seemed more embarrassed than pleased by the gesture.

  “It’s very generous of you, Ellis,” he said. “What’s the play?”

  Ellis looked blank.

  “The Italian Monk,” Caroline said.

  “Nell, Captain Ellis’s glass is empty,” Mrs Harper said.

  “No, I won’t have any more, thank you,” Ellis said, adding regretfully, “I’d better be getting along. Until Saturday, then.”

  “I’ll have some more.” Caroline reached for the jug.

  Dan saw Ellis out. The captain paused on the doorstep. “Do you have doubts about the men arrested for Kean’s
murder?”

  “I think there are some details yet to be filled in.”

  “But you think the right men are in gaol?”

  “I think that’s where they deserve to be.”

  Ellis smiled. “I get the hint, Dan. You won’t say anything until you’ve got something to say. But if you should need any help, let me know.”

  “I will…goodnight.”

  Dan watched Ellis’s lithe, active figure disappear into the gloom and head towards the light and noise of the Piazza. He shut and locked the door and returned to the kitchen. Eleanor was rinsing the jug and glasses, Mrs Harper gathering up Caroline’s things. Caroline’s glass had been refilled. She held a bunch of ribbons, but her hands were idle, her eyes downcast.

  Dan drew out his purse. “Here,” he said, placing some guineas on the table. “Buy yourself a new hat. Should be enough for all of you there.”

  She let the ribbons fall, leapt out of her seat, flung her arms around his neck and gave him a beery kiss.

  “Oh, Dan, thank you! Look, Mother, what Dan’s given me! Now I can get the hat we saw today.”

  “Well, isn’t that lovely?” Mrs Harper said. “We’ll all go to the Exchange tomorrow, eh, Nell?”

  “But I don’t need anything –” Eleanor began.

  “Nonsense, lovey!” her mother interrupted. “A handsome man like Captain Ellis deserves to have a smartly dressed girl on his arm.”

  Caroline put her hand through Dan’s arm and looked up at him. “And so does a handsome husband.”

  Dan had a couple of warrants to serve the next day, pocketing a shilling fee for each one. The money was not in his pocket for long. The clerks were collecting for a subscription for Kean’s family. Not that Dan or any other officer begrudged their contributions. Who could be sure that it would not be for his own kin one day?

  That done, Dan went to call on Mrs Kean in the rooms she had shared with her husband in a courtyard off Long Acre. No one at the office knew where Kean had been going on Friday, but perhaps he had said something to his wife. His widow.

  When Dan knocked on the door, it opened to present two red eyes and a puffy white face. He started to introduce himself, but she turned her back on him and shuffled away, not caring whom she let in. She moved like a woman much older than her years, which he put at twenty-four or five.

  He took off his hat and followed her. She was on her own, but the table was covered in cups, glasses and crumb-ridden plates left behind by recent company. She sat down in front of the hearth, where a small fire spluttered its last gasps.

  Dan looked about until he located a pail of coal inside a tiny scullery off the main room. He carried it in and started to busy himself with kindling and coal.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said dully after a few moments. “Mrs Martin will be coming in soon.”

  “Who’s that?” he asked, while he drew the flames back into life with a sheet of old newspaper. “A neighbour of yours?”

  “Yes. They’ve all been very kind.”

  “Have you any family nearby?”

  “They’re in Kent.”

  He went into the scullery and washed his hands. When he came back she was gazing into the flames, her chin on her hand. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked, without looking at him. “There’s brandy, I think. Tea. I think.”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  She fluttered her fingers, which he took as an invitation to go ahead.

  “I worked with your husband. He was a good officer.” Dan paused. “I am sorry to bother you at a time like this, but there are a few details we need to sort out. It’s just routine, but I expect you know that it’s important to get everything settled as quickly as possible.”

  “I thought you had the men who did it,” she murmured into the flames.

  “As I say, it’s just a few details…Kean wore a ring, didn’t he? Can you tell me what it looked like?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If we find it, we can return it to you.”

  “It was gold, had a red stone – jasper, I think – squarish, with his initials on. His father’s. They were the same. GK. George Kean.”

  Dan took out his writing tablet and made a note of the description. “Did he tell you anything about the cases he was working on?”

  “Yes.” A thought struck her and she looked up. “No. He usually did. We’d talk it all over, sometimes he’d tell me he was at a dead end so I’d tell him what I thought. Then he’d say I was as good as any man in the force. But lately if I asked him about work, he’d get angry, tell me to talk about something else.”

  “So you don’t know where he was going last Friday?”

  “No. He wouldn’t tell me. He just said he’d be away all night, maybe the next night too. A Runner’s wife has to be used to that. When he didn’t come back on Sunday I was going to call into the office on Monday morning. But Sir William called first.”

  Many of the felons Kean arrested could testify to how rough and ruthless he could be. His wife had shed an unexpected light on a softer side to him: the side that sought her advice and judgement. Dan tried to imagine what life would be like if Caroline had ever shown any interest in his work, but she had never liked discussing what she considered to be a grubby business. As, sometimes, it was. Her feelings would have been different if he had pursued the career she wanted him to choose: a professional pugilist, rich, fêted by the aristocracy, adored by the mob. He had it in him, according to Noah, but he had never wanted to go professional, to be flattered by the Fancy while he won; dropped and left to go to the devil if he lost.

  He put the thoughts aside, refocussed on the matter in hand. “Did he keep any notes or papers here?”

  “A few, in that desk over there.”

  Dan glanced over at the bureau with its pigeonholes and drawers. “Can I have a look?”

  She shrugged. He crossed the room and sat down at the desk. On the wall above it was a pair of crossed tomahawks. Souvenirs from Kean’s Army days, Dan guessed, when he had served in America. Kean had always been proud of his service to King and Country, though he rarely talked about it. Rarely talked about anything.

  The papers were domestic stuff mostly, family correspondence and bills – all paid, Dan was glad for the widow’s sake to see, except for one or two recent arrivals. He discovered that Kean had a sister in Leicester. There were a few financial documents; it seemed Kean had started to dabble in investments in a small way. Dan wondered if he should consider doing the same. Probably wasn’t earning enough yet; better just to keep saving as much as he could.

  He opened the bottom drawer and took out a small notebook. It was a household expenses book containing neat rows of figures and calculations. There was nothing unusual in that: there was one like it in his own house, only it wasn’t his wife who kept it up to date but Eleanor and her mother. Every now and again they would bring it to Dan to have a look at, the theory being that as head of the household he should sign off on the household accounts. It was rare for him to question anything: Mrs Harper and Eleanor were as meticulous and accurate as the housewife to whom this book belonged. There were a few annotations and additions in another handwriting: Kean’s, no doubt.

  Dan leafed through the pages. The sheets at the back were empty, all save the last one which bore a few characters in the husband’s writing. Not that he could make out what they meant – the number “14” circled round, followed by “B&C 1/9”. He puzzled over the letters. The last part might be a date: 1 September, the day Kean left home for the last time. Of the others, Dan could make no sense.

  There was a knock on the door. The bereft woman roused herself and shuffled off to open it, admitting the aroma of meat pie. A stout woman with a relentless voice came in after it.

  “Now then, Mrs Kean, I’ve brought you a bite of supper and a
drop of something to help you sleep, and I’m going to sit here and watch you eat it. Tut! Look at the mess on the table. I’ll clear that out of the way and then we’ll tuck in. Who’s this?”

  Dan, who had taken advantage of the commotion to rip out the page and put it in his pocket, rose to greet the woman he presumed was Mrs Martin.

  “I was just going,” he said, taking up his hat. “Good day, Mrs Kean. Ma’am.”

  “One of your husband’s friends? Eh, poor dear, he was a popular man and he’ll be very much missed. There, dearie, don’t take on. He wouldn’t want that, now, would he?”

  Dan closed the door and left the house.

  Chapter Seven

  On Friday Kean was buried in St George’s Burial Ground behind the Foundling Hospital, as St Paul’s, Covent Garden’s parish church on the Piazza, was still being rebuilt after the fire which had gutted it a couple of years ago. All of Bow Street’s principal officers and many from the other police offices, along with magistrates, constables and watchmen from all over London, crowded the graveyard. The family was represented by Kean’s brother-in-law, a draper from Leicester.

  As Sir William had directed, the undertaker had provided a full-sized coffin so that a comforting – or at least less upsetting – pretence was maintained for the sake of Kean’s wife. Afterwards they went back to Bow Street, the officers to gather in the Brown Bear for gin and beer, the magistrates in the house across the road for sherry and Madeira.

  The following day the deadline Dan had given Ben Hardyman expired and he was back at the Falcon by early evening. The tap room was deserted, but Dan traced the racket of cheering and shouting to the yard at the back of the tavern where a cock fight was in progress. Dan took no pleasure in sports involving creatures who had no say in whether or not they fought, and went back into the bar. He sent the pot boy out to tell Hardyman he had arrived. While he waited, he ordered himself a drink.

  “I’ll get this.” A hand weighted with chunks of gold pushed his coins back along the bar. “And bring over a jug of brandy and water.” With the row from outside, Dan had not heard Hardyman and Packer approach. Dan was gratified to see that Packer’s nose was still red and swollen.