The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  “Stop fidgeting,” Dan said. “You’re ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dan and Jones stood in the doorway of a dingy office building opposite the Chequers. The patrolman was almost as pale as when Dan had seen him retching into a bucket the night he brought Kean’s remains to Bow Street. But his was not the worst case of nerves Dan had ever seen, and he knew how hard the waiting could be.

  Dan glanced along the shadowy street. The occasional drop of rain still splashed down, but the heaviest part of the downpour had ended. Captain Ellis sat in the driving seat of a lamp-lit cart, chatting with two workmen who leaned carelessly on the wheel. There were four more men hidden under the tarpaulin at the back. Further down, a card sharper held an audience spellbound by lamplight with the three cup trick. Most of the men following his deft hands were police, as was the player himself – Reeves of the Union Hall office. A group of porters who lounged against a wall, and a crowd of idlers who had gathered around two men on the verge of fisticuffs, were all constables or Runners.

  In a street usually thronged with strangers and foreigners, they had managed to stroll, slouch and sneak into position over the last hour or so without attracting attention. Only John Townsend, with the broad-brimmed hat he had refused to relinquish, looked out of place, though he had consented to cover his yellow waistcoat under a dark greatcoat. Luckily the Prince of Wales’s self-proclaimed friend and confidant need have no fear of being recognised. Pickle Herring Lane society was as ignorant of John Townsend’s appearance as they were of his existence.

  There had been no refusing Townsend when he volunteered for the operation. Gleefully, he had supplemented his police-issue cutlass and pistols with a cudgel. The other five principal officers of Bow Street were there, along with many from the magistrates’ offices around London. John Lavender, whose experience to date was raiding gambling houses, headed the party stationed behind the tavern to round up any who attempted escape that way.

  Dan looked at his watch. The United Patriots had been inside the Chequers for a quarter of an hour. They would be well into their bloody business by now. No doubt thinking themselves close to victory too, since yesterday’s news that the Dutch fleet had set sail from the Texel. The Dutch were allied to the French, but their warships had been pinned down by Admiral Duncan’s ships and helpless to move against the British. A few days ago Duncan had temporarily lifted his blockade and sailed back to Yarmouth for refitting, and the Dutch had seized their chance to launch their fleet.

  The British Navy caught off guard, the Dutch in control of the North Sea, the assassination of the King and his key ministers, Pitt and Dundas: how could the French pass up such an opportunity? The Citoyen’s warnings against putting too much faith in the United Patriots might not be enough to hold back the pro-invasion party in the French Directory.

  Dan drew his pistols from his belt.

  “Give the signal.”

  Jones raised and twirled the rattle. It had the same effect as the shadow of a hawk on a lawn full of sparrows. Men, women and children scattered. The only people left in the muddy street were police. The noise of the rattle, familiar to many inside, penetrated the gloomy interior. Drinkers streamed out, reeking of gin, tobacco, fright. The raiders ignored them and charged into the tap room where panic spread amongst the crowded tables. Some bold souls jumped up pugnaciously, but the column of officers brushed them aside.

  Dan pounded over fallen chairs and tables, broken glass, heard the crack of a truncheon on bone, the thud of a man falling, women screaming, dogs barking, shouts and curses. He shouldered open the door into the yard. His men streamed after him, Jones brandishing his pistol, his face flushed and eyes bright. Behind Dan, John Townsend yelled, “God save the King!”

  From inside the skittles alley came the sounds of chairs scraping, cries of alarm, Metcalf calling for order. A chair flew through one of the windows at the side of the building. The rotten frame easily gave way and a head and shoulders appeared in the aperture. Dan waved at two of his men to seize the would-be escapee. He saw the constables rushing towards him and tried to wriggle back inside, but they caught hold of him and pulled him out. They snapped handcuffs on him, dragged him away and threw him against the far wall before returning to the fray.

  Dan kicked open the door, strode into the room and fired one of his guns into the air. “Bow Street officer! You’re all under arrest.”

  There was a shocked pause, then the constables waded in, truncheons swinging. Dan saw Isaac from Warren’s tea shop dragged out by the arms, his shirt and jacket rucked up above his quivering belly. A massive constable ran past, hugging a diminutive, kicking, weeping Upton in his arms. The Irish shop assistant O’Brian, fighting with his back against a wall, was brought down by Jones with a bludgeon to the knee. MacGregor, who had vowed death to any who stood in his way, held out his hands in a gesture of surrender and Reeves snapped the cuffs on him. Captain Ellis had caught Simmons in an arm lock.

  Dan pushed through the struggle, kicking chairs aside, elbowing men out of his way. Ahead of him stood Metcalf. He had seen off one constable, who lay on the floor. The fallen man’s eyes were open and he seemed more winded than hurt. Having done with him, Metcalf aimed his pistol at Ellis’s back.

  “Sam!” Dan shouted. He flung himself at Metcalf, brought his spent pistol down on the man’s arm. Metcalf’s aim veered, the gun went off, the bullet gouging a floorboard.

  Metcalf wasted no time scrabbling for his gun. He rounded on Dan, fists at the ready. He stopped in his tracks.

  “You! You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “I’m not,” Dan said. “Where’s Broomhall?”

  “I’ll do for you this time,” Metcalf yelled, and threw himself on Dan.

  Dan raised his second pistol and fired. Metcalf staggered to his knees. Dan cursed and thrust his gun back into his belt. He had been saving the ball for Broomhall.

  Metcalf clutched his arm, let the blood seep through his fingers. Realising it was only a flesh wound, he ignored it and tensed himself to spring at Dan. Dan aimed his boot at his jaw. The blow sent him spinning to the ground, out cold.

  “Cuff him!” Dan yelled at Ellis.

  The patrol captain nodded and crouched over the injured man. Dan caught sight of John Townsend standing over Warren. The tea grocer’s face was covered in blood, his hands broken and bruised. He rolled back and forth, squealing beneath the blows of Townsend’s cudgel.

  “King killing no crime, eh?” Townsend yelled. “Liberty, equality and fraternity, is it?”

  Dan grabbed Townsend’s arm. “For God’s sake, man, he’s finished.”

  Townsend roared and whirled round, the cudgel raised. He recognised Dan and lowered his arm. “What’s it to you? Traitors deserve all they get.”

  “Not without a trial, they don’t.”

  Townsend’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s the way of it, is it? You’ve spent too much time with this radical scum. You’re beginning to sound like them.”

  Dan refused to grace this with an answer. He grabbed hold of the nearest constable. “Take this man away. Officer Townsend has finished with him.”

  “Damn you, Foster, I’ve called men out for less.”

  “Another time,” said Dan, who had caught sight of a tall man in a green coat disappearing through the door at the top of the room.

  He started after the fleeing figure. Someone lunged at him. With an impatient flick, Dan punched him in the mouth, sent him staggering away. The door closed behind the green coat. Dan drew his cutlass and snatched it open. The passageway was empty.

  Dan pushed open the door to the lumber room where he had hidden on his first visit to the Chequers. Behind him the fight still raged, and from the yard came the sound of scuffles and voices, but here the cluttered darkness dulled the sounds. The tangle of broken furniture made black shapes that confused his eye. There was a rustling on his
left. He turned, peered into the gloom, could make out nothing. He took a step forward.

  He heard a scuffle in the shadows behind him and spun round. The broken skittle aimed at his head hit his arm instead. His cutlass clattered to the ground. A wild figure flung itself upon him, hands around his throat, eyes red, teeth bared.

  Dan swung back his left arm, put all his might into a blow to the stomach. His right arm throbbed painfully but he used it anyway and delivered a blow to the kidney. The grip on his throat loosened, and Dan brought both hands up to knock the arms away. Without a pause he went after the staggering figure with a right, a left, a right, a left, and one final punch that sent him flying into a stack of chairs that collapsed beneath him. Dan dropped down to his knees, cleared away the debris from the unconscious man, and raised him into a sitting position.

  It was not Broomhall.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dan gripped the man’s collar and dragged him back to the main room, where the outnumbered United Patriots had at last surrendered. Captain Ellis and others were busy fitting cuffs on to their prisoners.

  “Another one,” said Dan, leaving his burden with two constables. “Ellis, have you seen Broomhall?”

  The captain, who had a bloodied mouth but was otherwise unhurt, shook his head. “Just this ugly lot. No one of his description.”

  Dan ran out into the yard. There was a line of shackled men slumped against the wall now, and more joining them every minute. Some of the constables had brought lanterns to aid the search for weapons. Others had started leading Patriots out to the street, where a contingent of fresh officers had been brought up to escort them to Bow Street. Sir William and Sir Richard were ready to hold an all-night session to get the prisoners processed and taken to Newgate. The militia was on stand-by to help with the escorts and maintaining order.

  Dan snatched one of the lanterns. A quick search confirmed that Broomhall was not amongst the arrested men in the yard or the tavern. He asked around, and finally one of the constables told him, “There was a man like that went out a while ago. Said he was from Hatton Garden office.”

  “You didn’t ask to see identification?”

  The young man bit his lip. “No, sir. Everything was so –”

  Dan did not wait to hear his excuses. What mattered was finding Broomhall. But where could he have gone? He was not stupid enough to go back to his shop, which had been secured by a couple of constables. The Tooley Street tea shop had also been raided.

  There would be no shortage of boatmen willing to take Broomhall out of town, for a price. Or he could go to one of the ships anchored in mid-river and secure himself a passage out of the country. But from where – Westminster Bridge? Hungerford Stairs? Wapping? Would he attempt to reach the waterside now, with the area swarming with police? He might: his escape from the Chequers had been brazen enough. On the other hand, he might decide to lie low until things had quietened down. If he did that, where would he hide?

  There was Dawson’s warehouse. Dan could check it out and be back in less than a quarter of an hour. He dumped the lantern and set off at a run.

  Dan dropped from the wall into the yard and crouched in the shadows while he reloaded his pistol. The dog in the cooper’s yard next door moved restlessly, his chain rattling. The watchman was drunk or asleep, though not snoring as loudly as the guard in the sentry box in St John’s churchyard.

  Dan was about to make his way to the window when the wicket door at the front of the warehouse swung open. Two men carrying lanterns emerged from the interior. They wore dark, mud-stained smocks over their clothes. They crossed the yard, entered one of the outhouses not far from where Dan was hiding, and after a bit of rummaging about came out, each pushing a handcart on which he had hung his lantern. They wheeled the carts back to the door and went inside. They were back in a moment, groaning under the weight of the shrouded burden they carried between them. When they had hauled it into one of the carts, they went back inside for another corpse they had left just inside the door. As they swung it onto the cart, one of them lost his grip and the body thudded against the side of the vehicle.

  “Watch what you’re fucking doing, Smith,” his companion said.

  Smith laughed. “He don’t feel it.”

  They went back into the warehouse. After a few moments the door opened again, a light shone out, and another two men came out with a third body. Dawson appeared in the doorway behind them, his bare head shining red in the light from his lamp. He watched them add their load to the carts, then disappeared inside. They went in after him and shortly re-emerged with another cadaver.

  When they had gone back inside, Dan pocketed his gun, darted across the yard and pressed his ear to the door. The body snatchers’ heavy footsteps sounded dully as they made their way back to the room with the butcher’s block. Dan slipped into the warehouse and as before hid amongst the crates outside the room. He heard voices and the grunting of men lifting heavy weights; the thud and drag of the disinterred bodies. The door swung open and the two pairs of men awkwardly manoeuvred their loads out of the room. Behind them stood Broomhall and Dawson.

  “You’ll get your money before the night is out, I tell you,” Dawson said.

  The door closed and Broomhall’s answer was an angry murmur. The four men struggled past Dan’s hiding place, their loads trailing unpleasant smells.

  Dan drew out his pistol. The gang were still busy in the yard, preparing to set off on their rounds to the anatomy schools. All he had to do was wait for them to go, then he could go in and get Broomhall. Dawson too, if he was still there. He hunkered down in the shadows.

  A flintlock cocked behind him. A cold circle of metal pressed into his skull.

  “Drop it.” The speaker was Smith.

  Dan lowered his arm and placed the pistol on the ground.

  “Stand. Slow now. No need to turn round.”

  Dan got up, felt the shove of Smith’s gun in his back.

  “In there.”

  Dan pushed the door open while behind him Smith stooped to pick up the gun from the floor. Dawson’s startled face turned towards them. He whipped out his own pistol and sprang forward.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Found him hiding out here,” said Smith, and held out Dan’s gun.

  Dawson took the gun, squinted at the captive and burst out laughing. “Now that’s what I call a fuckin’ resurrection!”

  Angrily, Broomhall shoved the red-headed man aside. “Bright? Metcalf said you were dead. How the hell did you get here?”

  Dawson put Dan’s gun down on the block. The door opened and the other three men came back into the room. Broomhall’s look warned them to keep their surprise to themselves.

  “Lucas, search him,” Broomhall said.

  A short, thin man with a face as sunken and waxy as those of the corpses he dealt in, nodded at Smith. “You and Trinder grab hold.”

  Smith and Trinder, a stocky man with strands of filthy, straggling hair encircling a bald spot on the top of his head, seized Dan’s arms while Lucas riffled his pockets. He pulled out Dan’s tipstaff and handed it to Broomhall.

  “He’s a Runner,” he said.

  “The devil!” Dawson cried. “You’ve only gone and let another bloody Runner in, Broomhall.”

  Broomhall planted himself in front of Dan. Dan refused to drop his own gaze. He stared his defiance at the murderer who now had him in his power.

  “So Metcalf was right. You are a spy. But he said he’d dealt with you.”

  “He tried,” Dan said.

  “So who are you?”

  “Dan Foster, Principal Officer of Bow Street. You killed a fellow officer, and I’m here to see you hang for it.”

  “You were at the Chequers tonight?”

  “You didn’t see me because you were too busy running.”

  Lucas guffawed. Broomhall
shot an ugly glance at him.

  “We need to clear out of here,” Dawson said. “What are you going to do about him?”

  “What do you think?” Broomhall clicked his fingers. “Nipps.”

  The fourth resurrectionist, a hard-handed man whose knuckles bore the scars of countless fights and who was missing three of his front teeth, stepped up. He drew back his right fist and landed it in Dan’s stomach. Dan crumpled, choking down his nausea. They dragged him upright and the knuckles drove again into the same spot. The pain brought him out in a cold sweat. Nipps grinned gummily and drew back his fist for a third blow.

  “Hold hard!” Dawson said. “He looks to be in prime condition. I’d get a special price for such goods. Could be worth as much as six guineas. Can’t you do him some other way?”

  Broomhall, his gaze still fixed on Dan, said, “Very well. Pass me the pistol.”

  Dawson groaned. “Oh, come on. Surgeons won’t pay so much if his innards is all blown out.”

  Broomhall wrenched his gaze from his victim and regarded the resurrection man with loathing. “What do you suggest?”

  “Trinder?” Dawson said.

  The stocky man drew a knife out of his pocket and let go of Dan’s arm. Lucas took Trinder’s place, tangled his fingers in Dan’s hair and pulled his head back to expose his throat.

  “Go on, then,” said Broomhall. “Make it slow.”

  Dan struggled against the men’s grip as Trinder’s knife moved closer to his throat. Just like Kean, he thought, I’m going to die just like Kean, with a bunch of ugly lowlife jeering at me. He gasped his last, desperate words.

  “If you kill me you’ll never get out of here alive. The place is surrounded.”

  Trinder faltered.

  Broomhall laughed. “I don’t think so. You wouldn’t have come in on your own if that was true. Carry on, Trinder.”

  Dan felt the hellish breath of Trinder’s laughter in his face and braced himself for the final blow. Eleanor, Eleanor…