He did not know if the girl had been aiming at him, the dog or just the world in general, and he was not going to stop and find out. He heard footsteps running towards the wall, then curses and confusion as the men got tangled up with the rolling bottles. There was a slap and a scream, and the pimp’s voice rose above the rest.
“What the fuck have you done to my dog? He’s got a fight on Saturday. He’ll be no good now.”
“Who was that?” Broomhall demanded.
“A cheating cull,” the girl slurred. “Had his way and didn’t pay me.”
Dan had landed on a narrow strip of wharf near Pickle Herring stairs, only a few dark alleys away from Tooley Street. He took the coat off, bundled it up and threw it into the river. When he turned into the main road he stopped running, became just another man out for the evening.
He knew that he should report his discoveries to Sir William Addington as soon as possible. He could go to Butcher Hall Lane now and send a message to the magistrate. But if he did that it would mean he would be missing from his bed in the morning, and Mrs Chambers was bound to report his absence to Broomhall. There was no reason Dan could see why Broomhall should link him to the disturbance at the Chequers, but it might just seem like too much of a coincidence to the suspicious and sanguinary revolutionary. And whatever it was that the United Patriots were plotting, it was not going to happen in the next few hours. Dan decided the safest course was to go back to his room.
He let himself quietly into the shop. The family had gone to bed, and provided no one woke, he could always claim he had been in an hour before this. He drew the bolts on the front door and tiptoed upstairs. He undressed in the dark and got into bed. After the stresses of the evening he did not expect to sleep, and was surprised when the next thing he knew was Mrs Chambers knocking on the door with his shaving water.
He grabbed a quick coffee from a stall near London Bridge, then made his way to Butcher Hall Lane. He was admitted by one of the men he had encountered on his first visit and asked him to send for Sir William Addington. The man immediately sent a messenger to Bow Street.
“The United Patriots?” Sir Richard Ford said. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“I think they’ve kept their existence a secret even from the London Corresponding Society,” Dan answered.
The glance Sir Richard gave Sir William plainly conveyed his opinion that he thought his man a fool. Dan had described his recent discoveries to Sir William: the London Corresponding Society meeting and the murder of the packet man the evening before last; his own narrow escape at the Chequers on the previous night. The magistrate had promptly sent to the Home Office for Sir Richard. While they waited for the spy master, Sir William asked Dan, “Where do you think Kean fits into all this?”
“We know he went to LCS meetings. Now Miss Chambers tells me he was thick with Broomhall. Whether that means he also gained access to the United Patriots I can’t say, but I suspect that he did and it’s what got him murdered, probably by Broomhall. He’s one of the coldest killers I’ve ever seen. An executioner.”
It was a matter Sir Richard did not pursue when Dan repeated his report to him. Instead he picked away at the details Dan had gleaned about the United Patriots.
“You seriously think that the United Patriots are separate from the London Corresponding Society?” he asked.
“Not only separate, but enemies. Broomhall intends to get rid of the LCS if his plan succeeds.”
“I shouldn’t read too much into that,” Sir Richard said. “There is never any loyalty in revolution. One faction lops off another faction’s head, then along comes another faction to lop off theirs. You yourself have reported that the United Patriots are all members of the LCS.”
“It’s their main recruiting ground,” Dan answered, “but beyond that they’re just using it as a cover.”
“Yet we know that Broomhall regularly attends LCS committee meetings. Really, Foster, your intelligence is most – unintelligent.”
“My officer risked his life to get this information,” Sir William protested. “As it’s of no use to you, I’m pulling him out now and issuing a warrant for Broomhall’s arrest for the murder of this sailor and the suspected murder of Officer Kean.”
“No, wait. I spoke hastily. I did not mean that the information is of no use to me. It is just that it is incomplete. What exactly are the United Patriots planning?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Sir William retorted. “Insurrection.”
“Yes, that of course. But what’s really of moment here is their connection with the French. That’s what we need to target if we’re to ensure an end to the danger once and for all.”
“What about Broomhall and Kean?” Dan asked.
Sir Richard fluttered his fingers dismissively. “You don’t have enough evidence to convict Broomhall for Kean’s murder. Without his body you don’t even know if he was killed in the same way as the sailor.”
“But I know both their bodies were disposed of by Dawson and his resurrection men.”
“But can you prove it? Even if you could, it’s hardly enough to secure a conviction against Broomhall for Kean’s death. Of course, you can bring him to the gallows for the murder of the packet boatman. But your colleague’s murder won’t get to court.”
Dan turned to the Bow Street magistrate. “Sir William?”
Sir William shook his head. “I am afraid Sir Richard is right.”
“Hanging is hanging. I can live with that.”
“But His Majesty’s Government cannot,” Sir Richard said. “We must sift this matter to the bottom. We need to know what the United Patriots are plotting. More importantly, we must intercept that French agent. To those ends, you must get yourself accepted into their confederacy.”
“Why can’t we just arrest them?” Dan asked. “Raid the Chequers and round them all up?”
“Because that would simply be cutting off a Hydra’s head. The French know that the only way they can beat us is not from fighting us from without, but from within. There will always be other complainers and outcasts ready to accept their help. We must break the French spy network to strike at the heart of the beast.”
Dan did not know what a Hydra was, but he got Sir Richard’s meaning. He also knew that he could not refuse and keep his job. Sir William must have had the same thought about his own position, for when he spoke again he was all for conciliation.
“I think, Foster, that we should see this as an opportunity to satisfy all our needs,” he said. “Finding the truth about Kean’s death and bringing down these contemptible wretches are one and the same thing. I have every confidence that you can achieve both aims.”
“That’s gratifying, sir,” Dan said.
“And I’m sure,” Sir William continued, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Dan’s sarcasm, “that His Majesty’s Government will show its appreciation in its usual munificent way.”
Sir Richard laughed. “Point taken, Sir William. I am aware that a great deal is being asked of your officer. I will see that he gets a reward. And now you have secured an incentive for him at no cost to yourself, what is to be his next step?”
“Do you have any suggestions, Foster?” Sir William asked.
Dan thought for a moment. “If I could impress Broomhall I was of his way of thinking and might be useful to him, I might worm my way into the United Patriots.”
“You have an idea?” Sir Richard asked eagerly.
“Unless you can think of a better one,” Dan said. “But I’ll need your help.”
Chapter Seventeen
Leaving the two magistrates to return to the safety of their offices, Dan left the house and started walking to the river. He changed his mind and turned towards Covent Garden instead. A man heading back to danger deserved at least a couple of hours’ respite. Besides, he had not had anything to eat yet.
There was no one home. Dan stoked the fire in the stove, put the kettle on to boil, threw eggs and bacon into a frying pan. There was fresh bread in the pantry, and butter and milk. On the sideboard was an issue of the Sporting Magazine he had not seen; Eleanor had put it aside for him as usual. He heaped food on his plate, poured himself coffee, and settled down to read.
The front door opened and footsteps sounded in the hall. Eleanor came in, flustered and tired from shopping and carrying her basket from the market, but at sight of him a smile transformed her face. “Dan!”
He started to get up, but she said, “No, no, finish your meal. What is it, a late breakfast? Can I get you anything else?”
“I think I’m done, thanks. Afraid I finished all the bacon. Where is everyone?”
“Caroline and Mother have gone shopping.” She put down her basket and set some water to warm for washing the dishes. “So are you home now?”
“No. Have to go off again in a bit.”
“They’re sending you on another case already?”
“No. Same case.”
The opportunity to be alone together seldom came and they had got into a habit of thinking it was their own willpower that kept them apart. But though she seemed busy with the dishes and he with his reading, they were acutely sensitive to each other’s presence. Watching Eleanor’s neat, thorough way of working, he was reminded of Evelyn Chambers. The girl too could appear calm at her work, though within she seethed with longing to be free of everything that prevented her happiness.
He refilled his coffee cup. “I met a girl who wants to run away.”
She turned to face him, her curiosity awakened. “Elope, do you mean?”
“No. This girl has other plans. She wants to be independent.”
“How will she do that?”
“She intends to set up a school. Says the girls will learn Latin and Greek and that they won’t do sewing and shell work. What is shell work?”
“You stick little shells on things. Boxes, mirrors, that sort of thing. It’s supposed to make them look pretty. A waste of a woman’s time, if ever there was one.”
“So you’d not miss the shell work if you went to Miss Chambers’s school?”
She laughed. “Not at all. But sewing is useful. And she might find few parents willing to send their daughters if they are to learn no practical skills at all.”
“Is that so? I’ll tell her.”
“Who is she, this girl?”
“The daughter of a radical. Her father used to run a bookshop, but he was arrested for selling seditious books. He was ruined, and now he sells bawdy pictures for a living. The girl helps in the family business. She hates it.”
“I don’t blame her. But how do you come to know her?”
“She gave me some useful information about Kean.”
“Are you any closer to finding his killer?”
Dan hesitated. He did not usually talk about his work at home. He thought of Kean sharing his cases with his wife, seeking her opinion, her sympathy. Why shouldn’t he enjoy Eleanor’s sympathy now?
“I do have a suspect, and a number of accomplices. A man who fancies himself as the next Robespierre and is plotting a revolution with the help of the French. If it was up to me I’d make the arrests now before anyone else gets hurt. But the ministry don’t value lives that way. Except their own, I suppose. Sir Richard Ford would rather I stayed in Southwark spying on them.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. “Was Kean murdered because he found out about their plans?”
“I think so, yes. Or got too close for comfort. I do know they’re a nasty bunch. They’re funding their activities with body snatching.”
Impulsively, she put her hand on his arm and gazed up at him anxiously. “It sounds dangerous. You will be careful, won’t you, Dan?”
It was what he had wanted, to make her show her concern for him, but he felt guilty now she had. He put his hand over hers. “I shouldn’t have said so much. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise you. Only don’t say anything to the others.”
“I won’t. But I wish you were safe home.”
“So do I. I miss you, Eleanor.”
“And I you.”
He moved his hand beneath her chin, gently tilted up her face. She was so beautiful, her eyes wide and brimming with love for him, her lips trembling, her face flushed. He bent his head and kissed her. His arms went around her and they clung to one another.
“God, Eleanor, what are we going to do?”
“What can we do?”
“There must be something. Caroline’s no happier than I am. What’s the point of dragging on like this?”
The front door opened and closed. Dan and Eleanor moved apart. Caroline came in, beribboned packages rustling in her arms. Her eyes narrowed, flicked from her sister to her husband. He was turning the pages of his newspaper; she had risen from her chair and picked up his cup to take it over to the sink.
“Dan!” Caroline exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Dan said. It was meant to sound light, but came out harshly.
“I wouldn’t know it,” she retorted. “You’re never here.”
“Move along in, lovey,” said Mrs Harper from the hall. Caroline stepped out of the doorway and the old lady trudged in and dumped her shopping on the table. “Oh, these blessed bunions! Put the kettle on for a pot of tea, there’s a love, Nell. And here’s Dan!”
Dan stood up. “I was just going.”
“Going?” Caroline cried. “The minute I come in, you’re going?”
“I only dropped in to see how you were all doing. I’m still in the middle of something.”
“Oh, I can see you’re in the middle of something.”
Dan picked up his hat and moved towards the door. Enraged by his lack of response, Caroline drew back her arm and flung one of her parcels at him. It missed and smashed into the dishes in the sink. The second one skidded across the table.
“Caro, Caro!” Mrs Harper cried. “What a state to work yourself into. You know Dan has his work. Let’s pick these things up and have our tea.”
“I’ll give him his work!” Caroline swooped over the table and swept off the newspaper and the packages her mother had just deposited. One of them split, scattering comfits. Mrs Harper fluttered behind her, uttering soothing noises. Caroline flung her mother off, sending the old lady spinning.
Dan threw his hat aside and caught hold of Caroline’s wrists. “Caroline! For God’s sake, calm down.”
“Let – go – of – me!” Caroline shrieked. For a moment she and Dan stood locked together, swaying. She puckered her mouth and spat into his face. He shoved her into a chair and held her down while she struggled to free herself.
Dan glanced over his shoulder at Mrs Harper. “Has she been drinking?”
“She had a glass of liqueur with her ice-cream,” Mrs Harper said. “There’s no harm in one little glass.”
“One while you were looking,” he muttered. “Caroline! Listen to me. You are going to quieten down.”
“Or what? You’ll hit me?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Dan!” Eleanor gasped.
Caroline laughed. “Oh, didn’t you know about that, Nellie? Do you want to see my bruises? Look!” She wriggled and thrust her shoulder forward.
“I’ve never hit you in my life,” Dan said. “And don’t you say I have.”
She smirked up at him. “Not for lack of wanting to.”
He gazed down at her for a moment, then put his hands under her arms and hauled her to her feet. She let herself fall limp in his grip, her head lolling back, and gave no resistance when he half-dragged her upstairs, her mother following. Dan got her into the bedroom. The bed was made, but strewn with handkerchiefs and dresses, and on the floor was a jumble of
shoes. He cleared a space and sat her on the bed.
He crouched in front of her, trapping her hands in his. But she had stopped raving and fallen into an exhausted slump, her dress awry, her hair dishevelled. Her fair complexion was blotched and swollen; her eyes red and puffy; her nose and mouth glinted with tears. The girl he had married had been merry and quick-tempered, her moods as puzzlingly changeable then as now. It was a puzzle he had solved long ago.
He pushed back a strand of her damp hair, smelt the sickly liqueur on her breath. “What happened to you, Caroline?”
Hope sprang into her eyes. She clutched his arm. “Oh, Danny, Danny, why don’t you love me?”
He looked helplessly at Mrs Harper, who was gathering up the discarded dresses. There was no aid for him there; the old lady saw everything, and refused to know anything. Because he could not think of anything else to do, he sat down next to his wife and put his arm around her. Her head sank on to his shoulder and she sobbed into his jacket.
“Hush,” he said, “hush!” and gazed through the window at the jumble of tiled roofs and smoking chimneys.
When Dan went downstairs, Eleanor had tided away the broken dishes, gathered up the parcels and mopped the spills. She sat by the fire, her hands loose in her lap, her face pale. She looked up at him when he came in, quickly looked away again.
He stood awkwardly in front of her. “She’s lying down.”
“I’ll take her some tea in a bit.”
Lying palely in a darkened room, Caroline would take the tea from her sister with a feeble “Thank you”. Her rages always ended like that: in invalidism and denial.
“You know she will have forgotten all about this by tomorrow.”
Eleanor glanced sharply at him – did he really think that? He avoided the challenge in her eyes. In truth, he wasn’t sure. Embarrassment and mortification locked Caroline’s lips, and sometimes drink fuddled her memory, but there was no way of distinguishing between her silence and forgetting.
“What we were talking about before. It was wrong, Dan.”
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