The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  Broomhall made his unsteady way towards the door.

  “Light Citizen Broomhall’s way to his chamber, Bright,” Metcalf ordered.

  Dan, surprised that Metcalf did not prefer to do it himself, took a candle from the table. Broomhall, scattering farewell blessings on the Citoyen and his party – “Vive la Révolution!” “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!” – tottered after him. By the time they were halfway up the creaking staircase, he was leaning on Dan and had to be all but carried to his room. He flung himself on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

  Although not feeling kindly disposed to the man, Dan thought he had better make it look as if he cared, so he loosened his collar, pulled off his boots and left him snoring, his lips flapping over his open mouth.

  Downstairs, the front door was open. The Citoyen stood outside, gazing up at the stars while he waited for his escort. Dan went back into the parlour. Metcalf was deep in conversation with Captain Lewis. He handed something to Lewis which the captain quickly conveyed to his pocket. Before Dan had time to wonder what it was, something struck him on the back of his head and he went down.

  When Dan woke up he was lying on the floor in the passageway with his hands tied behind his back. He could only have been out a couple of minutes for the Citoyen still stood in the same spot, though now he had turned to look dispassionately on the scene.

  Metcalf dragged Dan to his feet, shoved him against the wall and hissed in his ear, “I know your kind, Bright.”

  An image of Kean’s head in a welter of blood at the bottom of the basket flashed through Dan’s mind. Did Metcalf know he was a Bow Street officer? His face was pressed against the plasterwork which made it hard for him to speak.

  “And what kind is that?”

  “A Johnny Newcome who thinks he can muscle in ahead of those who’ve done the hard work. I’m Broomhall’s right-hand man. You’re just a cocky little bugger who’ll do as he’s told.”

  It took Dan a moment to grasp the cause of Metcalf’s grievance. Were they really arguing over who would be next in line to Broomhall’s crazy throne? The thing was so absurd he could not think of an answer. If he had it would have made no difference. Metcalf thrust a malodorous strip of cloth over his mouth.

  “I’ve seen off better men than you,” Metcalf said, tying the gag tight. “And I’ll see you off too.” So saying, he thrust Dan out of the door at the sailors.

  Captain Lewis, pistol in hand, grinned at him. “I’d advise you not to try running. A body could rot in these marshes before anyone knew it was there. Now move.”

  Glutton took the lead. The Frenchman, indifferent to Dan’s plight, moved off. Dan twisted his aching head and looked back at Metcalf who stood in the doorway of the George with a satisfied smile on his face. Lewis prodded him with the pistol and Dan turned and concentrated on keeping his balance on the narrow path through the grasses. Behind them the door snicked shut.

  A cool breeze sighed across the marsh. The sailors were silent, their eyes, used to scanning long ocean distances, constantly checking the terrain for soldiers on patrol from the Sheerness garrison or marines from the war ships on the lookout for deserters. From time to time Dan lost his footing against a hummock of grass, was pulled up by Lewis or Glutton and shoved forward again. The Citoyen strode on steadily, occasionally stopping to let the others catch up with him.

  Dan, his head throbbing, tried to make sense of what had happened. All along he had assumed that Kean died because Broomhall and his men discovered he was a Bow Street officer. Now Metcalf had presented him with a new motive: jealousy. Kean had threatened Metcalf’s position in the United Patriots, so he had got rid of him. He had access to the warehouse, and he could have ordered Dawson to dispose of Kean’s body.

  If Metcalf was Kean’s killer, had Broomhall been a party to it, or had Metcalf been acting independently? That he had waited until Broomhall was dead to the world before making his move against Dan suggested that on this occasion at least he was working on his own. If he had taken it upon himself to kill Kean, he must have given Broomhall a convincing explanation for his disappearance. Presumably he would do the same tomorrow, when Broomhall woke to discover Dan had gone: claim Dan had deserted, or produce evidence that he was a traitor to the cause.

  Though they kept going, they did not seem to make any progress through the unchanging landscape, but after an hour or so Dan realised they had reached a ridge of sand dunes. Beneath them lay an untidy line of inlets. Across the dark water he saw the shadowy outlines of ships dotted with night lights and the occasional massive, dark form of a three-decker man o’ war.

  Lewis shoved him down the slope. He ploughed knee-deep through dry sand, falling face down onto a wet strand. The others climbed down after him. Lewis pulled Dan into a sitting position.

  “Glutton, go and uncover the boat. Monsewer, you go with him. I’ll be along when I’ve finished this little job.”

  The Frenchman silently followed the big sailor. He stood at the edge of the waves looking out to sea, fidgeting in his pocket for something. His snuff box, Dan guessed: a pointless detail to be wasting his last thoughts on, but preferable to giving way to his fear and despair. Behind the French agent, Glutton dragged the rowboat out of a tangle of greenery.

  Captain Lewis stood over Dan and raised the gun. Dan looked about for something that might help. There was nothing but sand. He could flick some into the captain’s eyes, while he struggled with that break his kneecap with a well-aimed kick, get to his feet and run, bound as he was, before Glutton or the Citoyen had time to stop him. Even as he thought it out he was digging his right foot into the sand. The captain cocked the pistol. There was no time left. Dan shut his eyes, felt the tears squeeze out of them, the bile rise to his throat.

  Lewis pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dan felt a weight slam into his chest. He fell backwards, dimly aware of a second gunshot somewhere nearby. For what seemed a long, dark time he was unable to move, unable to see, unable to breathe. Suddenly the weight lifted and he was looking up into the Citoyen’s face.

  The Frenchman dragged Captain Lewis’s corpse off Dan and shoved it to one side. He reached behind Dan and unknotted the gag. A knife glinted in his hand and he sawed at the rope around Dan’s wrists. The cords fell away. Pain shot through Dan’s arms as the blood began to flow again. The Citoyen sank back on his heels and reached into an inside pocket.

  Dan’s mouth was so dry he found it hard to speak. “What happened?”

  For answer the Citoyen brought out a small hip flask, unscrewed the lid and held it out to Dan. “Brandy. Best quality, not the swill we sell to your smugglers.”

  Dan hesitated, then grasped the flask with shaking hands and took a mouthful. It warmed his blood, stopped his shivering, but made his mouth feel worse. He handed it back.

  “Drink,” the Citoyen said.

  “No. Need water.”

  The Frenchman swallowed some brandy and put the flask away. “There’s some in the boat.”

  Dan tried to move but the Citoyen pushed him back. “Sit. I’ll get it.”

  While he was gone, Dan looked about him. Captain Lewis lay face down beside him, the back of his head a glistening crater. Glutton’s enormous bulk had fallen on its back a few feet from the boat.

  The Citoyen came back and thrust a water bottle at Dan. The water was cold, though stale. He swilled out his mouth before gulping down draughts of it. The Citoyen crouched beside him and busied himself cleaning out a pair of the smallest pistols Dan had ever seen. When he put the pistols in an inside pocket, no one would have known they were there.

  “Why did you save my life?”

  “If I go back to the Directory and say the United Patriots are very well organised, very well equipped and well led, I will put heart into those who want to invade England. If I say they are led by a fool and have no weapons, no sup
port, no likelihood of achieving anything, I put heart into those who say we should not invade England. Now, it is not my desire that we should invade England. It is not at all my desire that we should defeat England. It is my desire that the Directory should fall and the monarchy be restored, and with it my estates at – well, my estates.”

  Dan found it hard to focus on anything but the pain in his head. “But you work for the Directory.”

  This being obvious, the Citoyen ignored it. “So, what message do you think I shall take back to France?”

  “That the United Patriots are no use to them?”

  “That is correct. But do you think that message is the whole truth?”

  “You’re going to tell me it isn’t.”

  “They don’t have a vast stock of weapons. Very well. We could provide them with weapons. They don’t have widespread support. But why would they need it? In the last few years governments have learned to tremble when demagogues unleash a mob. It is true the United Patriots are led by a fool, but even a fool’s blade can strike home if no one’s expecting it. An attack on the King at Wimbledon. It’s so insane it just might succeed. Imagine it. A government in disarray, a capital in chaos. Even the most timid Directory members might think twice about passing up such an opportunity. No, it’s not such a bad plan after all.”

  “So you think they could succeed?”

  “Not without our help. So, I say to myself, I will make sure there is no help. I will tell the Directory that they are a hopeless cause. But I have some slight anxiety that they may achieve more than they deserve, and then my judgement will be questioned. It is a risk I have to take. But then I see you, and I think, here is a way to make the thing certain. For you, I think, intend to stop them. And since that suits my purposes, I have saved your life.”

  “Not me. I’m not looking for any trouble. All I want is to get as far away from them as I can.”

  The Citoyen smiled. “But that is the interesting thing. You are a man who looks for trouble, and a man who is used to finding it. I saw it at the inn. You did not beg, or scream, or cry. You calculated, and you never once stopped calculating all the way here. Right to the end you were looking for a way out. It was only in the very last seconds that you gave in to your natural feelings and considered yourself lost. And I said to myself, ‘If I were in his place, that is how I would behave.’ For we are the same, you and I. We both have our secret missions. Am I right?”

  For a moment Dan thought he heard voices drifting across the water. Then the sounds were gone, and there was nothing but the waves on the sand and the wind through the grasses. The blow to the head was making him imagine things.

  “Are you saying you’re on our side?”

  “No, I am not. If a legitimate government of France was at war with you I would be your enemy.”

  “You must have done something to help your government get and keep power, else why would they trust you?”

  “I have done what I had to do. You would have done the same.” The Citoyen stood up. “So you will not answer my question. No matter. If I am wrong about you, then I lose nothing. Can you stand?”

  “Yes.” Dan got to his feet. “How will you get back to the boat now you’ve killed those two?”

  “I do not intend to go back to Gravesend on Lewis’s boat. I have arranged for my own men to pick me up. There is a ship waiting to take me to France.”

  Again voices sounded eerily from across the waves, but now there was no mistaking the reality of the approaching row boat. It came splashing and creaking out of the chill, rolling shadows. A man in a buttoned-up greatcoat leaned from the prow and peered on to the strip of sand.

  “Is all well?” he called softly. “Shots were fired.”

  “I am well,” the Citoyen answered. “Wait there.”

  Three men jumped into the thigh-high water, pulled the boat onto the strand. Their leader, pistol in hand, waded ashore, his boots crunching on the sand and pebbles. His intelligent gaze took in the scene: the dead sailors, the Citoyen’s mysterious companion. He showed no surprise or curiosity, but kept his hand on his pistol in case of lurking danger.

  “It is time for me to go,” the Citoyen said to Dan.

  “Wait…what you said. It’s true. My name’s Dan Foster. I’m a Bow Street officer and I am here to bring Broomhall and his men down. One or other of them killed a colleague of mine, a man called Kean. Killed him and handed him over to the resurrection men. I’m not going to let them be the death of anyone else, whether it’s the King or the most stupid apprentice in a misguided mob.”

  The Citoyen held out his hand. “I wish you luck, Monsieur Foster.”

  Dan returned the Frenchman’s hand clasp. “And I you.”

  Dan watched the Citoyen walk down to the boat, click his fingers at the waiting men, and clamber in. The sailors pushed the vessel into the water and jumped in to take their place at the oars. They disappeared into the grey, misty dawn.

  Left alone, Dan searched Lewis’s pockets until he found a small purse, presumably the money Metcalf had paid for his murder. The price put on his life was ten guineas. The gun Noah had given him was gone so he took Lewis’s, along with a powder flask and cartouche of shot. A trawl through Glutton’s pockets did not produce anything useful. Dan turned his face towards Sheerness and set off at a steady run.

  The lamps had been lit by the time the post-chaise dropped him at the Bow Street office. Inky Tom was on his way back from the courtroom with a bundle of papers in his arms. From the chamber behind him came the sound of a clanking pail and the slosh of water as the housekeeper dabbed a grimy mop over the day’s accumulated dirt.

  “Mr Foster,” the youth cried, “what happened to you?”

  “Is Sir William still here?”

  “Yes, but –”

  Dan pushed past Tom and ran upstairs. He knocked on Sir William Addington’s door and entered without waiting for an invitation. The magistrate, who was gathering his things ready to leave, looked up in surprise. His furious rebuke died on his lips when he recognised a dishevelled and unshaven Dan.

  “Foster!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sir, the United Patriots are planning to assassinate the King.”

  While he spoke Sir William rang his bell, but Lavender was already on the threshold of the room, staring at Dan in amazement.

  “Bring brandy, quickly,” Sir William ordered.

  “Not for me,” Dan said. “But if there’s coffee…”

  “And send for Sir Richard Ford immediately,” Sir William added. “Tell him it is of the utmost urgency.”

  “Very good, sir.” The clerk hurried off.

  “Now, Foster, sit down and tell me everything.”

  It took a long time to tell the story, which had to be told over again when Sir Richard arrived from Whitehall. When Dan had finished, Sir William sat back in his chair and took a long pull from his glass.

  “So who do you think killed Officer Kean?” he asked.

  “Broomhall was the most obvious suspect. He murdered Kean, or ordered someone else to do it, because he found out he was a principal officer. Only now there’s Metcalf, who didn’t want anyone to take his place as Broomhall’s second in command. He told me he’d seen off other men. Perhaps one of those men was Kean. In which case, the Patriots may not have known he was from Bow Street.”

  Sir Richard looked at the page of notes he had jotted down while Dan spoke. “You have no clue as to the identity of this Citoyen?”

  “None.” This was not strictly speaking true. Dan knew that even the little personal information he had gleaned about the Frenchman, coupled with a description, might be enough for the British spies in Paris to identify him.

  “You cannot describe him except to say that he is of medium height and build?”

  “No. He was careful to sit in the shadows, and afterw
ards it was dark on the marshes.”

  “And you believe that he spared your life because he guessed that you were working against the United Patriots, which suits the faction he supports?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you gave him your name and rank, but did not obtain the corresponding identification from him. When I specifically told you it was the agent I wanted to apprehend.” Sir Richard paused to let Dan feel the full extent of his displeasure. “Well, I will let my operatives in France have the paltry intelligence you have been able to provide. If they can locate him, he will be a useful man to get on our side. Let us turn now to the United Patriots’ planned attack. It will take place ten days from now?”

  “That is correct, sir. The conspirators usually meet on Thursday evenings in the Chequers, and I’d say that would be the best opportunity to round them up. But we’ll have to be careful putting the men in place. It’s not the kind of district where citizens like to lend a hand to the police.”

  “Thank you, Foster. I think I am capable of organising the operation,” Sir Richard said. He rose from his seat. “I will speak to the Home Secretary at once. The arrests will take place a week tomorrow. That will give us plenty of time to prepare. In the meantime, Foster, can you provide a list of names of United Patriot members?”

  “Many of them, yes. Some I don’t know.”

  “Very well. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “You haven’t made a very good impression on Sir Richard,” Sir William said when his colleague had gone.

  “I shouldn’t think he’ll be recruiting me to spy for him again,” agreed Dan, too tired to attempt to hide his satisfaction. He never wanted to be dragged into Sir Richard Ford’s espionage network again.

  Sir William cast a sharp glance at him. “You’re exhausted. Go home and get some sleep. And I want you to stay in the office until the arrests are made.”

  “But, sir –”