The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  “What does he say?” asked Simmons.

  His words were lost in a whirl of movement and an explosion of sound. Someone screamed, “Fuck!” The men scattered through a cloud of smoke and powder. All except the sailor, who stood staring at Broomhall in astonishment, his hat gone, a red circle in the middle of his forehead. His glass fell from his fingers and smashed on the floor. He sank to his knees and slumped over on to his side. Broomhall stepped towards him, a second pistol in his left hand, took careful aim and fired again.

  It was lucky for Dan that the men in the room were all so taken up by their own amazement they did not hear his exclamation and recoil of surprise. In the shocked silence he remained huddled where he had instinctively flung himself, hands on the floor, his body taut, ready to sprint.

  Broomhall turned and flashed a smile at his companions. “Sorry to alarm you, patriots, but I’m advised that the man’s become something of a liability since he took to smuggling French goods across on the packet. The captain already suspects him and is on the verge of ordering a search. We can’t risk our letters falling into the hands of the authorities.”

  Broomhall handed his spent pistols to Metcalf, who moved towards the side table. Dan heard the heavy clatter of the guns as he put them down. When he came back into view it was to hand the rum bottle round.

  Simmons was the first to take a swig. It put new heart into him. He passed it on to Dawson and glanced pitilessly at the dead packet boatman. “What news then?”

  “Excellent news,” Broomhall said. “The French say they will soon send an agent to make contact with us.”

  “What we need is guns,” Simmons said. “Will they supply some?”

  “That I don’t know yet. Obviously, I will raise the matter when I get the chance. In the meantime, we must continue our own exertions. This news should put heart into the patriots! I’ll announce it at the Chequers tomorrow…I think we’re done for tonight. Dawson, get rid of that.” He indicated the body on the floor.

  “On me own?”

  “Simmons, stay and give Dawson a hand. Lock up when you’ve done.”

  Broomhall and Metcalf left Dawson and Simmons to their task.

  “Thinks he’s the bloody Emperor of China!” Dawson muttered.

  “Shut it,” Simmons said. “Let’s get on with it and get out of here.”

  Dawson drew a bunch of keys from his coat pocket, selected one and unlocked the storeroom. Simmons retrieved the sailor’s hat, then the two men lugged the corpse inside. After much puffing and panting and thumping of dead-weight, they re-emerged. Dawson locked the storeroom door, while Simmons seized a lantern from a hook and went out to the rear of the warehouse. He returned a few moments later carrying a bucket of water. He sloshed it over the blood, which trickled down the sloping floor into the open drain.

  After a last look around to make sure all was tidy, they left the room. Dawson fastened the wooden bar across the door. Dan listened for the sound of the front door closing and their footsteps fading across the yard.

  As before, he got out by the window and over the wall. He had just landed when a small figure loomed out of the darkness and hissed, “Mr Bright!”

  “Nick?”

  “I saw you go in after ’em. Then I heard a shot. Did you shoot someone?”

  “No, but I saw someone who did. You have to be very careful around these men, Nick. Don’t ever let them see you.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Can you tell me where the Chequers is?”

  “Pickle Herring Lane. Shall I show you?”

  “No, I’ll find it tomorrow. Here’s some money. Get yourself some breakfast in the morning.”

  Nick took the coin and disappeared into the shadows. Dan hurried off to his lodgings in the opposite direction. He had got Broomhall and Dawson together at last, and that was cause for satisfaction. It was marred by having to admit that Sir Richard Ford had been right. There was more going on here than body snatching. That was just a sideline, and a lucrative one – a useful source of funding for the United Patriots’ treacherous activities.

  At the Boatswain and Call, Dan had heard the London Corresponding Society defending the legality of their protests and insisting on their right to demonstrate peacefully. At Dawson’s warehouse the United Patriots had discussed their need for guns and shown by the murder of the packet man that violent deeds backed their violent talk. Broomhall had despatched the sailor without giving it a second thought, and the others had been willing accessories.

  Plenty of interest for Sir Richard Ford there, though Dan’s information on the United Patriots was still vague. The spy master liked detail, so best give him some or else risk being accused of incompetence. A trip to the Chequers was in order.

  He wondered how much of this Kean had discovered. Whatever he knew, it had been enough to get him killed. The likelihood was that he had been murdered in the same way as the sailor and by the same hand. And now Dan was following the same path as Kean. It was not a comforting thought.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pickle Herring Lane was a pitted road of crumbling warehouses, cranes and pulleys, all provided to service the vessels moored in the Thames. Dan recognised the tavern from the faded square of chequers painted on the outside wall. He pushed open the door and stepped down into a stinking gloom lit by cheap, smoking candles.

  Gangs of stevedores and warehousemen stood swilling in groups, while around the damp walls those lucky enough to have found a seat made themselves as comfortable as they could on stools made of old barrels clustered around sticky trestle tables. The smell of tobacco and spirits, filthy bodies and unwashed clothes, river mud and horse manure, brick dust and tanned hides hung heavy beneath the stained rafters. Dice clicked, men swore and swaggered, poxed women wheedled, drunks sang. Ugly fighting dogs with massive shoulders and gleaming fangs barked and growled, whined into silence when kicked. There were white faces, yellow faces, black faces; sailors, beggars, thieves; women old and raddled, women young and raddled.

  Swathed in his dark coat, his scarf pulled up to his face and his hat low, Dan took a seat in a corner with his legs outstretched, his arms folded across his chest, a bottle and a glass of daffy on the table in front of him. He scanned the room. Broomhall and company were not in sight.

  A scrawny woman in a skimpy, ragged dress cut low to reveal her bony shoulders lurched close to his table, eyeing him up. He pushed his glass towards her and she sat down, gleefully seizing the gin. She gulped and offered it back to him.

  “You have it,” he said.

  She gave a smile that did not reach her clouded eyes. The few teeth that still clung to her blackened gums looked as if they would give up and let go at any moment. She was young in years, though her life was nearly over, eaten away by drink, pox, malnutrition.

  Dan located a thickset, bowlegged man playing cards with three other men. At his feet lay a scarred bulldog and a cudgel. From time to time he looked over at the woman.

  She emptied the glass and stared greedily at the bottle. Dan refilled the tumbler. She drank again, making sucking noises.

  He leaned forward. “Is there somewhere we can go?”

  “There are rooms upstairs.” She licked her lips and winked at him in a ghastly effort at flirtation.

  “Who else goes up there?”

  “No one. Just us girls.”

  “Bet they ain’t cheap. Is there anywhere else we can go?”

  “Out the back.”

  “What’s out there?”

  “A skittles alley.”

  “There’ll be lots of people about then,” he grumbled. “I ain’t doin’ it like a dog in the street.”

  “You’re partiklar, ain’t you? There’s a reg’lar club in there tonight; none of ’em’ll be out for hours. We’ll be as private as you like in the yard.” She giggled, the breath catching in her throat. “Bet you h
ave a yard hidden away in that coat of yourn.”

  “Maybe I do, and maybe you should do something about it.”

  “Two shillings.”

  “What is this, Covent Garden? One shilling.”

  “One and six pence.”

  “For that, I expect more than a five-minute fumble. And I warn you, no tricks from you and your pimp.”

  “M – my pimp?”

  “The man with the dog face over there. Oh, that is his dog. Anyways. No tricks, else I’ll slit your throat.”

  “Charming bugger, ain’t you?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  He grabbed the bottle of gin and followed her through the packed room. Her bully was too busy with his cards to do more than flick a glance at them. She lifted the latch of a door at the side of the bar and led Dan out into an enclosed cobbled area dimly lit by the murky glow from the tavern windows. The boundary on the right was formed by the windowless wall of a neighbouring warehouse. The river flowed beyond the end wall, which was about six feet high, with crates of empty bottles stacked against it. On the left was a long, narrow skittles shed with a sagging roof. Patches of light shone through the internal shutters which, due to the state of the roof, did not hang properly over the warped, grimy windows.

  The woman led Dan over to a coal bin against the warehouse, close to a rubbish heap seething with plump rats. She wriggled into a sitting position on it, hitched up her skirt, pulled him towards her and wrapped her legs around his thighs.

  “Let’s have a drink first,” he said, putting the bottle to his lips and taking care that none of the gin went down his throat. He held it out to her and she took it and drank.

  “Go on,” he said. “It’s cold out here. Keep the warm in.”

  She drank some more and put down the bottle.

  “I need a piss,” he said.

  He moved towards the far corner, leaned one hand against the wall and pretended to undo his breeches with the other. Looking back he could just see her sitting there like a child told to wait quietly. Her patience only lasted seconds before she reached for the bottle and raised it to her mouth.

  She passed out a moment later, still clutching the near-empty bottle. Dan gently prised it out of her hand. He searched her skirt until he found a threadbare pocket and put two shillings inside. With any luck, she might get to keep it for herself. He laid her down on her side to make sure that if she vomited, her stomach contents would not lodge in her throat to choke her. She looked like just another corpse in a gutter then, a heap of human rubbish to be swept up by the night carts or tossed into the river.

  He went over to the skittles alley and worked his way along the side of the building, looking for a gap in the shutters. He found none until he came to the last window. It had no shutter, most of the panes were missing, and the few that remained were cracked or loose. He peered inside the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the jumble of dark shapes which gradually turned into boxes, discarded furniture, broken skittles and game boards.

  It was not difficult to get inside and drop down onto the rotten floorboards. He crept to the door and slowly lifted the latch, using his scarf to stifle the noise of rusty metal which had not been disturbed in ages. The door opened on to a corridor running across the rear of the skittles alley. There was a door in front of him which, like the windows, did not fit its frame.

  He knelt down and looked through a gap. A score of men sat on two rows of chairs in front of a table, their angry, indignant faces pointing towards Dan, their voices raised in discontent. He recognised many of them from the Boatswain and Call, amongst them lame Upton, his tea-merchant friend Warren, and Broomhall’s doleful shop assistant. Simmons stood guard at the door at the far end of the room.

  Broomhall, his back to Dan, sat behind the table with Metcalf on his right and struggled to calm them down. He gave up and sank back in his chair, rolling his eyes at Metcalf.

  Metcalf stood up, brought his fist down on the table and roared, “That’s enough! The next man who speaks out of turn will have me to answer to.”

  The noise subsided.

  “Patriots!” Broomhall cried. “I understand your feelings. I know that many of you think we have waited long enough. I well know that you are all men of courage, ready for action, but waiting until the time is right is as much a part of our service as action. Maybe it’s the hardest part for men like us, impatient for our country’s good. Our friends in France have promised us aid, but if we move before that aid is secured all will be lost. In the meantime, we must focus on preparing ourselves for the great day, quietly, diligently, without drawing attention to ourselves. In particular, we must carry on going to London Corresponding Society meetings as normal and do nothing to alert them to our existence.” He flashed the smile that Dan was beginning to realise always presaged danger for someone. “Upton.”

  “Here!” Upton stood up and glanced nervously at Simmons, who had moved closer to his seat, thoughtfully cracking his knuckles. Upton grew more agitated as Broomhall let seconds pass. He trembled, bit his lips, broke out into a sweat.

  “Your remarks at the LCS meeting last night bordered on betrayal,” Broomhall said at last.

  “I never said anything that might arouse suspicion,” Upton protested.

  “You questioned LCS policy. Is that the action of a wholehearted Corresponding Society member?”

  “It was a debate. I only said what many others are thinking.”

  “Your role, Upton, and the role of every United Patriot, is to hold his place until he is called upon. That means that for now we must appear to go along with many things we disagree with, things we know to be futile and cowardly. But I promise you that the opportunity for dealing with the London Corresponding Society and other false friends of reform will come in good time and we’ll harvest their heads along with those of Pitt, Portland and all the other peers and placemen. Ours is a great cause, gentlemen –”

  Broomhall’s speech had almost reached a stirring crescendo when a dog started to bark in the yard, and a man yelled, “Where’s the bugger got to?”

  At once the quiet, diligent and patient patriots threw aside their chairs and jostled for the door. Cries of “It’s a raid!”, “The militia!”, “Death or glory!” filled the air. Over all boomed Metcalf’s “Order! Order!”

  Broomhall rose, drew out his pistol and commanded, “Simmons, go and see what’s happening.”

  The thin man nodded and slipped outside. Broomhall and Metcalf forced their way through the throng and met him at the door when he returned with the girl’s pimp in tow.

  “What’s going on?” Broomhall demanded. “Is it the Runners?”

  “Runners, ’ere?” the whoremaster sneered. “Not fuckin’ likely. I’m looking for the cully what came out here with my girl.”

  “Who came out here?”

  “Never seen him before. I came out to see what was taking him so long, found the bitch dead drunk and not a penny the richer and the scab gone.”

  “How many times have you been told that no one’s to come out here while we’re having our meeting?”

  The pimp shrugged. “Got to make a living.”

  “You’re sure he’s gone?”

  “If he ain’t and I get my hands on him, he’ll wish himself in hell with Satan and his imps by the time I’m done with him.”

  Broomhall jerked his head at Simmons. “Take some men and go and make sure there’s no one in the yard. The rest of you search the building.”

  Simmons grabbed a lantern and lit it from one of the candles, then led his group outside, the pimp following. Metcalf and his men spread out through the skittles alley, shining lights into dark corners as they went.

  Dan dodged back into the lumber room and dived behind a pile of broken chairs. Seconds later the door swung open and two figures appeared on the threshold. The first held up his can
dle and shone it around the room.

  “Clear,” he said.

  “That’s not clear,” the other retorted.

  He went inside and pounced behind piles of furniture, pushed boxes out of his way, even got down on his hands and knees and looked along the floor for hidden feet. He reached the tangled pile of chairs behind which Dan crouched in the dirt. The man put his candle down on a wooden box and took hold of one of the chairs. He was so close Dan could have grabbed his hand.

  He looked back over his shoulder. “Here, come and give me a hand with this lot.”

  Dan sprang to his feet, toppling the chairs on top of the two men. They crashed to the floor where they lay entwined in a mesh of sticks and slats, choking and cursing as a dust cloud exploded around them. Dan grabbed hold of the windowsill, hauled himself out head first and rolled down into the yard.

  Simmons’s party had already gone back inside. He had seconds to get to the end wall and over it before they worked out what had happened and came after him. One stride – shouting from inside the skittles alley. Two – thumping and banging as the men in the lumber room freed themselves. Three – he was flexing his fingers, ready to grab the parapet. Four – he was nearly there, about to spring onto the crates and haul himself up.

  A pale shape shot across the yard, emitting a yowl of bloodthirsty delight. Its slavering fangs gleamed in the dark. Its neck and shoulders bulged with hard muscle. It was the pimp’s dog – and there was no way Dan could outrun it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A woman screeched, “Filthy shag-bag!” From the corner of his eye Dan saw the girl he’d brought outside swaying in the middle of the courtyard. She flung the empty gin bottle in his direction. It hit the dog with a loud clunk, bounced off and broke. The dog yelped and swerved aside. Dan jumped onto one of the crates. It tilted under his weight, but his foot was only on it for a second before he swung himself up and over the wall. Behind him the crate tipped over, spreading bottles across the cobble stones.