Outside a high, piping voice broke the night silence, accompanied by what sounded like someone hammering crazily on a saucepan. “Resurrection men! Here are resurrection men! Here are body snatchers!”
The dog in the cooper’s yard set up a furious barking. From further down the street another joined in, then another and another, until it seemed that every hound in Southwark howled at the moon. The warning bell in St John’s churchyard started to clang. The man in the sentry box had woken up.
“Resurrection men! Resurrection men!” he shouted sleepily.
“What the fuck’s going on?” cried Dawson.
Dan took advantage of his captors’ surprise and twisted himself free of Smith and Lucas. Smith lunged after him, but Dan met him full on with a fist in the face. The grave robber staggered away, his hand clutching at his mouth, blood spilling between his fingers. Dan and Broomhall made a grab for the gun on the butcher’s block, but Dawson beat them to it. Dan flung himself to the ground and skidded on all fours to come up with a bang against one of the stout wooden legs of the block as Dawson’s bullet passed over his head.
By now they could hear running feet, people yelling and hammering on the yard gates. Dawson’s men began to grasp the danger of their situation: their clothes coated with grave mould, the corpses on their handcarts. The good people of Horsleydown might not have turned out to prevent a night-time stabbing, but grave robbing was another matter. Dawson shouted orders but no one listened to him. Smith turned and fled. Lucas, Nipps and Trinder were not far behind him. They pelted out into the yard just as the gates crashed open. Dawson swore and sprang after them.
Broomhall threw the tipstaff down and ran to the door. Dan rolled away from the block, grabbed his knees and brought him down hard on the stone floor. Broomhall tried to crawl off, kicking viciously at Dan’s hands and arms. Dan threw himself on top of Broomhall and gripped his throat.
“Who killed Kean?”
“Who?”
“The man you knew as Scott. Who killed him?”
Broomhall laughed. “Not me. You’ll have to ask Dawson.”
“It was Dawson?”
“Ask him.”
“Was he acting on your orders?”
Broomhall, still smirking, refused to answer. There was no time to get more out of him: Dawson was getting away. Dan would have to come back for Broomhall later. He delivered two crunching blows to the watchmaker’s jaw. Broomhall sank back, unconscious. Dan left him where he lay, slammed the door and pushed the wooden bar back into place between the staples to lock him inside.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Smith had come to a dithering halt on the threshold of the warehouse door. Coming up behind him and Dawson, Dan saw that the yard had been taken over by a baying mob: prostitutes and their clients; apprentices and their masters; tradesmen and servants. Even the wretches who had only the gutter to sleep in had turned out, hating the thought that their bodies, starved and loathsome as they were, might end up in a surgeon’s hands. Some carried torches, many were armed with household implements or tools, some with sticks and cudgels. One or two carried ancient pikes.
Dawson, pistol at the ready, hurtled into Smith, shoved him outside and yelled, “Here’s one of the grabs!”
The crowd fell on the stumbling man. A hatchet caught him across the mouth, sending out a spray of blood. Lucas was down on his knees, surrounded by a group of screaming men and women, powerless to defend himself. Dan glimpsed Trinder disappearing around the side of the building. He could not see Nipps.
In the confusion Dawson backed away into the shadows. He swung himself onto the low roof of the lean-to and from there onto the wall. Dan raced after him.
A goblin figure brandishing a knife reared up in front of him. Dan drew back his fist and sent the fight-maddened man staggering away. Another, hunched and slavering, got the same treatment. Then Dan was in the shadows and the battle was behind him. He thought he saw something pale and imp-like scuttling after him, but lost sight of it and was too busy climbing after Dawson to give it any further thought. He swung his legs over the parapet and dropped down into the darkness, praying that he would not land on jagged glass or metal.
It was something soft and foul-smelling, a dead dog or cat. He rolled nimbly away and got to his feet. Ahead of him he saw Dawson’s shadowy form picking its way over the dust heaps and rubbish towards the rubble of the ruined house. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, looked back and there was the imp again, straddling the wall. Dan shook his head: that beating was making him see things. He gritted his teeth and moved off. When he glanced over his shoulder, the apparition had gone.
Dawson ducked through an empty doorway. Dan was close enough to hear the man’s feet crunching on the ruined floor. And something else: a crash, a curse, the thud of a body hitting the ground. At the same time something small and sly crept up behind Dan. He turned to meet it.
“Mr Bright! Are you all right?”
Dan gazed down at the boy. “Nick? Is that you?”
“Yers. How do you like your rescue?”
“It was you who started the alarm?”
“It was.”
“But how – no, there isn’t time. That man who was running away. I have to stop him.”
“No you don’t,” said a modest voice from the doorway.
Ann stood on the broken doorstep. She moved aside to present her handiwork. Dawson lay on the debris-strewn floor, a deep gash across his white forehead.
Dan gasped. “What did you do?”
“I was hiding up there.” She pointed to the upper floor, in the middle of which was a sagging hole. “I dropped a brick on his head.”
“You’ve got a good aim, girl. But I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“We knew you was gone but we stayed because it’s a good place to hide,” Nick said.
“Cos he thought you might come back,” the girl said, ignoring Nick’s embarrassed attempt to silence her.
“Well, I’m glad to see you both again, and I shall see you rewarded for this night’s work. Nick, do you think you could run to the Chequers and ask for Captain Ellis of Bow Street patrol? Tell him to bring some men with him.”
The boy recoiled in dismay. “You’re a Runner? I thought you was in another gang.”
“I was what you are once,” Dan said. “Now I’m a Runner.”
Nick’s eyes widened in wonder at the new possibility that opened before him. Even so, he hesitated.
“I promise you won’t come to any harm,” Dan said.
Nick nodded and ran off. Dan picked up Dawson’s gun and used the prisoner’s own scarf to tie his hands behind his back. He pushed him into a sitting position against a pile of bricks and crouched beside him. Dawson groaned and his eyes flickered open.
Dan cocked the pistol and pointed it at his chest. “I wouldn’t struggle if I were you. Wouldn’t want this going off.”
Dawson sank back. “Bow Street pig.”
“That’s right. The man you knew as Scott was a friend of mine. Broomhall says he didn’t kill him. He says I should ask you. I’m asking you. Did you kill him?”
“Broomhall? That whoreson! It wasn’t me. I know nothing about it.”
“My hand’s getting tired holding this gun. A bit shaky. Hope I don’t accidentally pull the trigger.”
“It wasn’t me, I tell you. Broomhall’s lying. All I did was get rid of the body.”
So that was why Broomhall had been smirking at him, Dan realised. He’d been sent on a false trail, and for no other purpose than to spite him. Broomhall had had nothing to gain from the lie: he knew he was going to hang. Dan didn’t regret the second punch he’d given him. He wished he’d landed a third.
“You’d better tell me everything you know.”
“That’s it. Broomhall brought me the body and I got rid of it.”
“What I said. He brought it to the warehouse. We cut it up for the schools.”
“How did he die?”
“Stabbed. Several times.”
“So it was Broomhall who did it?”
“Not he. He never lost control. This was too angry.”
“So who then?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
Dan sank back on his heels. Assume Dawson was telling the truth and what did that leave? Broomhall had ordered someone, possibly Metcalf, to kill Kean when he discovered he was a law officer, and then he had ordered Dawson to dispose of the body. Or Metcalf, acting alone and from personal motives, had killed Kean because he felt he threatened his position in the organisation. Then Broomhall had ordered Dawson to get rid of the body as a favour to his second in command.
There was a loud roar, followed by a flash of light. Startled, Dan looked up. The night sky above the yard had turned an ugly red. The warehouse was on fire.
Dan listened to the mob’s shouts and screams, the roar of the fire, the collapsing of charred and blistered beams. His stomach, already painful from his beating, roiled when he thought about Broomhall locked inside the warehouse. It was not the end he had intended for him. He hoped it would be quick.
It was then he noticed that Ann was not there. Perhaps she had gone after Nick. Or perhaps she had run away when she discovered he was a Bow Street Runner. Perhaps they both had, and there was no help coming. He’d have to get Dawson to Bow Street himself.
As he reached down to drag his prisoner to his feet, he heard a footstep behind him.
“Dan?”
Captain Ellis stood in the doorway, Nick beside him, both still panting from their run.
Dan got painfully to his feet. “We need the fire engines.”
Ellis grinned. “For that big fire, do you mean? Already sent for.”
“And there’s a riot. You need to send some men.”
“Already done. You look as if you need a doctor.”
“It’s nothing. Can you send a couple of men to Bow Street with Dawson?”
Ellis shouted an order over his shoulder and two patrolmen stepped into the ruin and dragged Dawson away.
“Where’s Nick?”
The captain looked round in surprise. “He was here a minute ago.”
No doubt he had gone to find Ann. Dan was not surprised. He would not have wanted to hang around law officers himself at their age. Nick had already done more than could be reasonably expected of him. Pity, though. Dan would have liked to thank him.
He picked his way over the uneven ground.
“Where are you going?” asked Ellis.
“To Metcalf’s.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the only suspect for Kean’s death still alive. He’s not likely to offer a confession though, not unless I can find some hard evidence to link him to the murder.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. There’s probably nothing. But I won’t know till I look.”
It took Dan only a few minutes to reach Metcalf’s rooms on Joyners Street. He banged on the door. A dim light appeared in the dusty glass above it, but no one came to let him in. He stopped knocking and listened to shuffling feet in the hall.
“Bow Street Officer! Open up or I’ll have you arrested.”
This provoked a sob, followed by the squeal of bolts and locks. A cross-eyed serving girl in a nightgown and heavily patched slippers stared out at him. Dan pushed his way inside.
“Which rooms are Metcalf’s?”
“Mrs Carter! Mrs Carter!” the girl screeched. “There’s a Runner here.”
A door opened upstairs and the landlady, trailing tawdry lace and ribbons from her voluminous nightgown, appeared in the doorway. In one hand she held a candle, in the other a poker.
“Haven’t I told you no one is to be let into the house after midnight?” she called.
Dan loped up the stairs. “I need to look at Metcalf’s room.”
“Mr Metcalf? Is he in trouble?”
“Just tell me where his room is.”
“It’s upstairs. But you can’t –”
Dan snatched the candle and left her protesting on the landing. It was a large room, sparsely furnished. Only a jug of spills adorned the mantelpiece. The tabletop was bare, as was the table by the bed. There were no books, no letters, no London Corresponding Society magazines, pamphlets or papers. There was no shaving soap or razor on the wash stand; Dan found them stowed in a case in a drawer in the bedside table. He drew back a curtain over an alcove. Behind it were two pairs of polished boots and two identical suits of clothes. He searched the pockets: empty. There was nothing to suggest that Metcalf had recently been here, let alone link him to the London Corresponding Society, the United Patriots or Kean’s death. Hardly anything to suggest he had ever lived here at all.
The mistress had gone back to her room to have hysterics, leaving the servant girl waiting in the cold hall to lock up after him. He thrust the candle at her, with a warning that some colleagues would call in later to take Metcalf’s things and in the meantime no one was to go into the room.
The door of Broomhall’s shop stood open and lights blazed from every window. Despite the lateness of the hour, the street was thronged with onlookers: neighbours who had left their warm beds; late-night revellers; market traders pausing on their way to work. At sight of Dan they all craned forward excitedly, hoping to see some new wonder.
He passed through the line of constables who were keeping back the crowd and asked the man on the door, “Who’s in charge?”
“Officer Macmanus,” he answered.
Inside, constables tramped about filling boxes and bags with papers. The massive locks on the strong box had been broken open, the trays emptied, the shop goods tipped into a sack. At the back of the building, men crashed around Broomhall’s tiny workshop.
Dan ran upstairs. In the parlour the men had pulled out drawers, emptied cupboards, slashed cushions and dismantled furniture. They had even taken the prints off the walls and cut them out of their frames. Dan heard the racket of the same process going on next door. He pushed open the bedroom door.
Principal Officer Macmanus stood in the middle of the room, a pinch of snuff between his fingers, directing operations. He considered it beneath his rank to do the work himself. He had been a hatter before joining the force, though he had since reinvented himself as a gentleman investigator. He caught sight of Dan and with the air of a great man bestowing a favour he cried, “Foster! Let me shake your hand, man.”
The men cheered as Macmanus pumped Dan’s arm up and down, oblivious to his winces.
“Bloody good job, Foster,” he boomed. “We’ve netted the lot of them.”
“What have you found here?”
“The usual trash. Seditious books and pamphlets. Notes from their meetings.”
“That’ll be the London Corresponding Society. The United Patriots didn’t keep notes.”
“Correspondents, Patriots, it’s all the same.” Macmanus pointed at a roll of drawings on the stripped bed. “Found these plans of Warren House too. So that clinches it so far as Broomhall is concerned. All the proof we need to hang him.”
“Broomhall is dead.” Briefly, Dan told Macmanus what had happened at the warehouse. “I wondered if you could spare a couple of men to go through Metcalf’s room. I think either he or Broomhall killed Kean. I’ve just been to his place but couldn’t find anything. I also wondered if you’d object if I had a quick look round here too.”
“Help yourself. We’ll keep an eye out in here.”
Dan went into the parlour and sorted through the mess. He found nothing and went back to the bedroom to let Macmanus know he had finished. The plans of Warren House and the surrounding area s
till lay on the bed. While he waited for Macmanus to finish overseeing some packing, Dan looked through them.
“These must have been supplied by an insider,” he said. “A servant maybe. We need to get some officers over there before news of the raid on the Chequers reaches Wimbledon, else whoever it was will be gone.”
“You’re right. I’ll get someone on to it. Find anything to help with the murder?”
“No. Didn’t really expect to.” Dan came to the last drawing. Someone had scribbled notes in the corner. It was a detailed description of the strength, route and routines of the horse patrol out of Wimbledon police depot. It too must have been supplied by someone on the inside. By a police officer. What was worse, Dan thought he recognised the handwriting.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
Dan looked up. “Nothing. I’ll take these downstairs and put them in one of the crates.”
“Right…you, man, lift down that hat box.”
Macmanus was already refocussing on his search. Dan took the roll of papers and went out onto the landing, pulling the door to behind him. Here he stopped for a moment. There was no one on the stairs. He extracted the annotated plan from the bundle, put the rest on the floor and folded it up so the handwriting was uppermost. Then he opened his pocket book and took out the note he had taken from Kean’s home: “14 B&C 1/9”. It was not much to compare, and he only had a strip of light from the doorway, but he had seen larger samples of Kean’s writing when he searched his desk. He was as certain as he could be that the writing was the same. Kean had been feeding information to Broomhall.
So Broomhall had known who Kean was. Did that make it less likely that he had killed Kean? Perhaps he got rid of him after he had the information he wanted, just as he had shot the sailor who brought him the message from France.
And why had Kean supplied the information anyway?
All he had were questions and the slender hope that he could get Metcalf to answer them. There was nothing else to try. He folded the sheet and shoved it into his pocket, picked up the rest of the roll and continued downstairs. He deposited the bulk of the plans in a container with the other confiscated papers and set off for Bow Street.
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