The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  “You’re on desk duties for the next few days, Foster.”

  “Very good, sir.” Dan picked up his hat and stood up.

  “And Foster – well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Though Russell Street was closer, Dan did not go home. Instead he walked down to Cecil Street, where he found Noah and Paul, his assistant, closing the gym for the night.

  “We’re about to have a bit of beef and onions,” Paul said, smacking his lips over the stubs of his teeth, which had been broken by a French musket handle at Quebec during the Seven Years’ War.

  “Good, I’m hungry. First I’m going to the steam baths. Have I got some clean clothes here?”

  Noah, busy stuffing used towels into a laundry sack, nodded. “In the cupboard in the parlour. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  Dan went into the parlour and found himself a shirt, breeches, coat and, most welcome of all, a pair of boots. He kicked off his servants’ shoes and pushed them away with a grimace of disgust, then sat down on the worn old armchair and started to undo his shirt. Even that felt like a mighty effort. His hand fell into his lap and he let his head fall back, closed his eyes. Just for a minute.

  When he woke up he was lying, still dressed except for his hat, bedraggled jacket and muddy stockings, on the narrow bed behind the curtained alcove where he had slept as a boy. Noah and Paul had carried him there and put a blanket over him. They had also washed the matted blood out of his hair.

  He pushed the cover aside and sat up. There was no one in the parlour, but he could hear men punching sacks, lifting weights, exercising hard in the gymnasium. Every now and again Noah or Paul shouted instructions: “Arms up! Head back! Watch that stance!” Good, familiar sounds.

  Barefoot and in his shirtsleeves, he padded into the parlour. Here a cheery fire burned and there was a pot of coffee next to it. Gratefully he helped himself.

  Noah came in, dropped a pair of mufflers on the table. “You’ve had a good long sleep.”

  “How long?” asked Dan, rubbing his bristling chin.

  “It’s four o’clock.”

  “In the afternoon? Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Because you were dead on your feet. And you still look like death.”

  “Nothing a wash and shave won’t put right. And something to eat. I suppose I missed the beef and onions,” Dan ended wistfully.

  “But not the gammon and eggs. Do you want to bathe or eat first?”

  “I’ll eat, if you don’t mind me sitting at table like this.”

  “Sit.”

  Dan did as he was told while Noah bustled about with bread, knives and plates. Paul came in to rearrange everything, then threw some rashers into a pan along with the eggs.

  After he had eaten, with Noah and Paul watching his every mouthful and encouraging him to second and even third helpings, Dan told them about his recent adventures.

  “And you’re on to Kean’s killer?” Paul asked eagerly.

  “I think so.”

  “You knew he would be,” Noah said. Then, lest the praise seem too high, “And now you’d better go and have that bath, son. You stink.”

  Dan took his clean clothes and went to the steam baths next door. After he had soaked away the grime of the last few days and woken himself up with a cold shower, he let the baths’ resident barber, Mr Faraldo, shave him with his usual grim air of the world about to end.

  He bundled up Daniel Bright’s clothes to be given to a street pedlar. Though he was glad to be rid of them himself, he knew that they had plenty of life left in them for someone with only pennies to spend. He shrugged on his coat, pulled on his boots, adjusted his scarf and felt himself grow six feet taller. Dan Foster was back.

  Now he was presentable, he was keen to get home. He anticipated Eleanor’s expression when she saw he had kept his promise to get back safely. He knew that his dream of the two of them together was just that: a dream. All that was real about it was the longing. Yet in spite of it, his steps were still eager.

  When he opened the front door there were voices coming from the kitchen, along with the welcome smell of roasting meat and potatoes. Hanging up his hat in the hall, he could have sworn he heard a baby crying too.

  There was a baby, lying on Eleanor’s lap, with Mrs Harper crowding her daughter and fussing over the infant. Eleanor smiled up at Dan. Seeing her sitting at his hearth with the child was like a stab to the heart, a picture of domestic happiness he would never have. Caroline stared at her sister, her eyes full of envy and discontent. Dan wondered if things would have been better between him and Caroline if they had had a child in the early days of their marriage. The time when they had found pleasure in one another’s bodies was long past, and it was unlikely to happen now.

  The proud parents looked on. Dan did not know the young, rosy-faced woman, but he recognised the lad sitting beside her. Before he could say as much, the youth stood up.

  “Mr Foster, you remember me? Walter Halling. We met in Barcombe.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dan put out his hand. “Yes, I remember you. I didn’t know that you’d married.”

  And had a child in double-quick time, too.

  “This is Rosie,” Walter said.

  The girl flashed a look at Dan, then lowered her eyes.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Dan asked.

  “I went to Bow Street. You were out and they didn’t think you were going back today so they told me to come here.”

  Dan had promised Anna Halling that if she or her son Walter ever needed his help, they only had to ask. He and Anna had been more than friends in Barcombe. She had been angry with him when he left, with good cause. He should have told her he was married.

  Walter certainly looked as if trouble had come to him. His face was thin and there were shadows under his eyes. The consequence, no doubt, of a boy still in his apprenticeship taking on a wife and child.

  “How’s your mother?” Conscious of Eleanor’s and Caroline’s eyes upon him, Dan was careful to put nothing more than friendly interest into his voice.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Dan exclaimed, forgetting the need for caution and heedless of Caroline’s sudden tensing, her hands clenching in her lap. “When? How?”

  “She died in June after she caught a fever physicking a neighbour’s child.”

  Anna had been a healer and herbalist. She would be a great loss to the villagers who could not afford a doctor’s fees, or who did not trust modern medicine. He remembered how she had looked after him following his fight with Bristol pugilist Hen Pearce at Kingswood, cared for him with more than balm for his bruises. There had been tenderness for his unhappiness as well. He had thought about her occasionally when he got back to London, even considered going to see her, trying to put things right between them. But work, home, the gymnasium had put her out of his mind. Now it was too late.

  “That’s terrible,” Mrs Harper said. “And not to live to see her grandchild. The poor chick.”

  The baby, at whom the last remark was aimed, whimpered. Rosie put out her arms and Eleanor handed back the child.

  “What’s its name?” Dan asked, for want of knowing what else to say.

  “Dan!” Caroline laughed, a forced, brittle sound. “He’s not an it.”

  “What’s his name, then?”

  “Davy,” Walter answered.

  Named after his grandfather. Dan remembered Anna talking about her husband and his early death in an accident at work. He pulled up a chair and sat down. Eleanor and Mrs Harper served tea. They talked about inconsequential stuff: how expensive everything was in London, the food not fresh, and the crowds enough to make you giddy. Rosie did not say a word. She sat clutching the child, exchanging secretive smiles every now and again with Eleanor and Mrs Harper. Caroline was quiet too.

&
nbsp; Dan noticed how evasive Walter was whenever he was asked any questions. How long might they stay in London? That depends. On what? Oh, many things. Was he planning to look for work? Perhaps. So they might go back to Barcombe? He didn’t know yet. The lad fidgeted, seemed on the verge of saying something, but after scanning the circle of faces, he would bite his lip and remain silent.

  Eventually the conversation ground to a halt. Rosie looked at Walter. Walter and Eleanor started to speak at the same time. He reddened.

  “After you.”

  “No, what were you going to say?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “We’d better be going, Rosie.”

  She began to wrap up the baby against the cold, but Walter said, “Wait,” and turned to Dan. “Can I speak to you?”

  “Of course. We’ll go into the next room.”

  Dan led Walter into the parlour which they hardly ever used. It was too small for comfort, for one thing. For another it overlooked the yard, which for all the flowerbed and pots of herbs tended by Mrs Harper and Eleanor was still a gloomy London court.

  Dan gestured to Walter to sit down. The young man shook his head and they remained standing.

  “I am so sad to hear about your mother,” Dan said. “If there’s anything I can do to help you only have to tell me.”

  “You’ll help us?”

  A bitter note had crept into Walter’s voice, but Dan, knowing how hard it was to ask for a favour, did not take offence. He could not help being disappointed at the boy’s lack of trust in him, though. He thought they had become friends in Barcombe. He had taught him some boxing; talked him out of running with the poaching gang led by the blacksmith, Singleton, before he arrested them; set him on a straight path.

  “There’s no harm in asking for something if you need it,” he said. “I can see that things aren’t easy for you.”

  “You can see that, can you?” Walter retorted.

  “Your mother knew that when I said I’d help, I meant it. You’ve come all this way to see me, so isn’t it time you told me what’s going on? For the sake of your wife and child, if nothing else.”

  Walter thrust his hands in his pockets and poked at the hearth rug with his toe.

  “He’s not my child and we aren’t married. My mother did catch the fever while she was tending a newborn, just like I told you. That child died and then so did Mother, hours after her own baby was born.” He turned to face Dan. “Davy is yours. He’s your son.”

  “Mine?”

  “What did you think? That she’d get rid of it for you?”

  “I thought no such thing. I didn’t know. Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Because you’d gone back to your wife. I was going to tell you in the other room. That’s what I came here planning to do. I was going to shout it out in front of your people. But when I saw Mrs Foster I couldn’t do it. She’s so sad. So beautiful. I couldn’t do it to her. So.” Walter shrugged. “You’ve got away with it. And I don’t want your money, if that’s what you think. Davy’s my brother and I’ll look after him. Oh!”

  He gazed towards the door in dismay. Dan turned and saw Caroline, her white-knuckled hand clutching the door handle. Her voice was low, deep, almost a growl.

  “I knew it. I knew you’d been unfaithful as soon as you got back from Barcombe. And you so high and mighty. Such a bloody puritan.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I’ll call you what I like. You never let me have a moment’s enjoyment without pulling your long fucking face about it. And what are you? Dan Foster the adulterer. Dan Foster the liar. The cheat. The bastard who begets bastards.”

  “Caroline – please listen to me –”

  “Listen to you? I wouldn’t give you the snot off my nose. You whoring son of a bitch!” She launched herself at him, beat his chest with her fists, clawed at his face. “You bastard! You bloody bastard!”

  He grasped her wrists, held her at arm’s length. She kicked and struggled, screamed at him, her spittle spattering his face.

  “Get your filthy hands off me, you fucking miserable whoreson, and fuck off back to the gutter!”

  Mrs Harper rushed into the room. “What’s all this? What’s going on? Caro, what are you doing? For pity’s sake, calm yourself, lovey. You’ll make yourself ill.”

  Caroline let her mother lead her away. She looked ready to tear herself from Mrs Harper’s restraining embrace, spring on her husband and tear him apart.

  “What am I doing?” Caroline cried. “Ask him what he’s been doing. Ask him whose baby that is.” She rounded on her sister. “Or why don’t you ask him, Nell?”

  Eleanor stood just inside the room. “Dan? Is this true?”

  Her disappointment in him was almost harder to bear than Caroline’s fury. He rubbed his hand across his face. “Yes.”

  Caroline laughed. “My husband’s not such a fine catch now, is he, Nellie? Leave me alone, Mother. I want a drink.” She tore herself out of her mother’s arms and turned back to Dan. “Get out of here and don’t come back. Ever.”

  She swept out of the room, shoving Rosie, who stood in the doorway holding the baby, out of her way. Mrs Harper followed her daughter, paused as she passed Dan and said, “You had better go. You can do no good here.”

  Rosie sidled over to Walter, slipped one arm through his.

  “Mr Foster,” he said. “I – I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –”

  “It’s not your fault.” He moved towards Eleanor. “Eleanor – let me explain –”

  She stepped away from him. “No, Dan. You should do what they say. You should go.”

  “But, Eleanor, it’s not what it looks like.”

  “Yes it is. Just go.” She turned her back on him and walked away.

  “Oh, God!” he groaned, dropping his arms and head on the mantelpiece. Rosie and Walter, stricken with guilt, moved softly towards the door.

  Dan raised his head. “Where are you staying?”

  “We have rooms in Newport Street.”

  “I’ll walk back with you. There are arrangements to be made.”

  “What arrangements?”

  “We can’t discuss it here. Come.”

  He went into the hall for his hat and coat. The kitchen door was closed against him. From inside came Caroline’s noisy sobbing, the clink of bottle on glass, Mrs Harper’s soothing murmur. Not a sound from Eleanor.

  Already in the interlude between day and night the streets had acquired a dangerous atmosphere. Brazen women, alone or in pairs or groups, sauntered towards the Strand or hung about corners and tavern doors, whistling and calling invitations to men as they passed. Apprentices, clerks and shop assistants strolled to their homes or supper clubs, exchanging suggestive banter with the women. Packs of well-dressed young men descended on the restaurants and taverns as a prelude to the evening’s frolics in brothels and bagnios. Many of them would be found later with their finery trailing in the gutters or their pockets emptied in alleyways.

  Dan, Walter and Rosie walked in silence, each busy with their own unhappy thoughts. Rosie hurried along between Walter and Dan, clutching the child to her chest as if she feared someone would snatch him away. But no one accosted them. This was Dan’s beat and he was well known.

  The young couple had taken a bedroom and parlour in the lodging house. Rosie put the baby in a basket while she lit the candles and the fire. Then she sat down and took up some sewing: clothes for the child. Walter, throwing his hat onto the bed in one of his old boyish gestures, stood by the fireplace, occasionally stoking the fledging flame into life with the poker. There was evidence that someone slept in the parlour; presumably Walter.

  “I told you I don’t want your money,” he said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Dan answered. “Are you going to take the child back to Barcombe?”

  “I can’t. U
ncle won’t have him in the house and I can’t afford to give up my apprenticeship. Besides, a Bow Street Runner’s bastard won’t have an easy time of it in Barcombe, seeing as how you got Singleton and the others transported. Uncle’s expecting me to go back without him, and it will be better for Davy if I do. I’ll leave him at the Foundling Hospital. As soon as I’m earning for myself, I’ll come back for him.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “No child of mine is going as a foundling. He’s my son, Walter, and I’ll not have him grow up like that.”

  “What will you do – hand him over to your wife?”

  “When I’ve found myself some rooms I’ll hire a woman to look after him.”

  The needle faltered in Rosie’s hand and tears welled in her eyes. “A hired woman?”

  Then Dan understood. “It was your baby Anna was treating.”

  Rosie nodded. And now she was about to lose another one.

  “Would you do it?” Dan asked her.

  She looked at Walter. “I would, if I didn’t have to live in this great, dirty place.”

  Walter shook his head. “It’s no good, Rosie. I can’t take him back to Barcombe.”

  “Would I be on my own?” she asked Dan.

  “I’ll hire a servant to look after you. My son will have a home. I’ll make sure it’s a good one. And you’ll be welcome any time you like, Walter.”

  “Walter?”

  “It’s up to you, Rosie.”

  She stood up, stooped over the basket, gathered up the baby. “I’ll stay, for a while at least.” She carried the child over to Dan. “Do you want to hold him?”

  Dan hesitated. He did not know how.

  “Like this,” she said. “Support his head.”

  Dan took the hot, wriggling bundle into his arms and looked down at the tightly shut eyes, the mouth working on an imaginary teat, the fingers clasping open and shut. The life of the streets was over and done with for Dan. He would make sure that Davy never knew it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  For what seemed like the hundredth time, Patrolman Jones tightened his grip on his police rattle and checked his pistols were secure in his belt.