The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  “Miss Chambers!”

  She looked up, a rebuff on her lips. When she saw who it was she snapped the book shut, dropped it into her bag and jumped up to meet him.

  “Mr Bright!”

  “Foster.”

  “Yes, of course. Principal Officer Foster of Bow Street. I heard you had been injured. I hope you are well now?”

  “I’m well, thank you. I thought you would be in Liverpool by this time.”

  “Oh, Liverpool is quite out. Father and I have opened a bookshop on the Strand. Chambers and Daughter. It sounds well, does it not?”

  “So no more bawdy pictures?”

  “As a matter of fact, I…we have decided to continue that part of the business, in a separate workshop. It is the only way we can finance the shop at the moment.”

  She at least had the decency to blush. Dan suspected that “at the moment” was likely to turn into “a very long time”. Miss Chambers was a young woman determined to make her way in the world. She would go where the money was.

  “What are you doing here? Won’t they let you in to visit your mother?”

  “I can go in if I choose, but I don’t choose. I’m waiting for Father.”

  “Don’t you visit her?”

  “Not I! I hope never to see the woman again. She’s broken Father’s heart.”

  “Which is surely a matter between her and your Father. And if he can see her –”

  “Then why won’t I? I won’t. That is all.”

  “She’s your mother, and for the best part of your life she’s looked after you. And your Father loves her.”

  “And look where that’s got us. No, Mr Foster, the sooner she’s gone, the better.”

  “For you, do you mean?”

  “And for Father and the girls. But you have no right to speak to me like this. It is not your place.”

  “You’re right. But I tell you this, Miss Chambers. Whatever crimes your mother committed, she’s about to pay a terrible price for them. You may have very few chances to see her in this world again. And one day you’re going to wake up and be sorry that you never said a kind word to her in her time of trouble – never said any word at all.”

  “How dare you! You – you –”

  Dan interrupted her. “Mr Chambers, sir! Your daughter was just telling me about your new venture.”

  Chambers shuffled towards them. He stooped more than Dan remembered, and his face was more lined, his eyes red, and he was thin and gaunt. The hand he placed in Dan’s trembled.

  “Mr Foster, how can I ever expect you to forgive us? But my wife – she was not in her right mind. If you could see her now, how guilt torments her, hear her beg me to abandon her, to let them send her to the hulk as soon as possible.”

  “I assure you I have not come to add to her torments,” Dan answered. “I only wish to ask her a few questions that are still unanswered. Details only.”

  Chambers grasped Dan’s hand in both of his. “Bless you, Mr Foster, bless you!”

  Dan awkwardly freed himself. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  “It was a kind of madness, you know,” Chambers said. “A kind of madness.”

  “Come along, Father,” Evelyn said. “It won’t do you any good to linger in this unhealthy spot.”

  “Of course, my dear. Perhaps you will call on us at the new shop, Mr Foster?”

  “Yes, I will.” Dan tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Chambers.”

  She took her father’s arm and nodded coldly.

  Dan walked through the court to the women’s block. A turnkey met him and led him into the building. They went up a couple of flights of stairs where the man unlocked the door to a long chamber crowded with beds. Women of all ages clustered on and around them, smoking, drinking, talking, arguing, weeping, nursing babies.

  The gaoler pointed. “She’s over there.”

  Dan thanked him and slipped some coins into his outstretched hand. He made his way along the filthy room, ignoring the whistles and catcalls. The air was pungent with the smell of bodies, piss pots, foul breath.

  Mrs Chambers sat on her narrow bed, her hands in her lap, gazing vacantly into space. With an effort she tore herself away from whatever gloomy visions occupied her and looked up at him.

  “It’s you,” she said dully.

  Thanks to her husband’s care, her appearance was clean, though she was no longer the image of the busy, prosperous shopkeeper. Her dress hung off her thin body and her hair was carelessly arranged. The parcel of food Mr Chambers had left her was already nearly empty, most of it taken from under her apathetic nose by her neighbours who sat in a huddle, gobbling the pies and cake.

  “Can I sit down?”

  She shrugged and swung her legs over the side of the iron bedstead. He sat down beside her, removed his hat, took a minute to put into words what he had come to say.

  “I’m sorry it ended how it did. I didn’t mean Broomhall to die like that.”

  “But he did.”

  “There was nothing else I could do. I had to stop him. You know what he was planning.”

  “He was planning to overthrow a corrupt regime.”

  “He was planning to unleash violence and anarchy.”

  “In order to put a stop to the greater violence inflicted on the people by the King and his bloodthirsty ministers.” She turned her face towards him. “Are you proud of what you do?”

  “Not always, no.”

  “Nor should you be.”

  “I’m a police officer. It’s my job to bring criminals to justice.”

  “You’re a spy and an informer, the upholder of a rotten cause, the servant of a cruel and vicious government.”

  “Dress it up how you like, murder is murder. I saw Broomhall kill one man, order the death of another, and I know he was involved in Kean’s death.”

  “Edward had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then it was Metcalf did the deed, but Broomhall helped him.”

  “It wasn’t Metcalf. It was me.”

  “What?”

  “I killed George Kean.”

  A shrill voice broke in on them. “Is he bothering you, love?”

  Dan looked up. A pair of young, slatternly women with heavily painted faces had stopped at the foot of the bed.

  “He can bother me any time,” the other girl cried.

  “Go away,” he snapped.

  “Hoity-toity! Enjoy your bag o’ bones then!”

  Screeching with laughter at their own wit, the women promenaded away arm in arm.

  Dan turned back to Mrs Chambers. She showed not the least sign of emotion. He could hardly believe that the confession had passed her lips.

  “What reason would you have to kill him?”

  “He was my husband.” She stared ahead of her, her voice toneless. “He was a soldier. We married just before he was sent to fight in America. He said he’d come back, but he never did. I thought he was dead. And then one day he walked into the shop with Edward. I was so angry to discover he’d been alive all the time, that he’d abandoned me, left me with nothing. He came back to the shop on his own afterwards, maudlin with drink.”

  Evelyn Chambers had told Dan that Kean, calling himself Scott, had called at the shop. When Dan had mentioned this to her father, Mr Chambers said he came to buy a book. Since that had been sufficient to explain his visit, Dan had thought no more about it. Why would he, when he had two strong suspects in Broomhall and Metcalf, and no reason to connect Kean and Mrs Chambers?

  “He said he was sick of everything – of his wife, his job. His job above all. He’d thought waging war on the old laws and stringing up the lawyers and judges was the only way to change things. But now he’d seen me again after all these years, he realised what it was he wanted. He said he’d never had a day’s happiness since he lost me. Los
t me! We’d go away, start afresh…the only way I could get rid of him before Mr Chambers discovered us was to agree to meet him again. I said I’d come to him at his lodgings, we’d talk properly, make plans. He was going to destroy my marriage, make my daughters illegitimate. I couldn’t let him do that.”

  “But he had as much to lose as you did. You could have threatened him with gaol for bigamy.”

  “How would it have helped to have the truth come out in court? No, there was only one way to be safe.”

  “What happened?”

  “He took a room in a lodging house on Gainsford Street, one of those you hire by the hour, so we could meet. The next evening I went to see him as we’d arranged. I hid a knife in my pocket. When I got there he was in his shirtsleeves. He was drinking. I told him it was too late for us, begged him to leave me alone, but he wouldn’t listen. He just kept slobbering and pawing at me. Oh, he drove me to distraction. So I stabbed him. It was only a scratch and he was more surprised than hurt. He stood there staring at me, clutching his stomach, the blood seeping on to his shirt. I stabbed him again, harder this time, and I just kept going until he fell. My arms ached and my hands were wet with his blood. I didn’t know what to do. I ran to Edward’s shop and he came and sorted everything out.”

  “Is that when Broomhall found out who Scott really was?”

  “Edward always knew he was a Runner, but he kept it from the others. He didn’t know we’d been married until after George died. Then he said he’d just found out he was a police spy and that was why he had him killed. Of course, they all thought he’d done it himself.”

  Dan guessed that, knowing Broomhall’s temper as they did, no one had dared ask too much about Kean’s disappearance. “How did Broomhall know Kean?”

  “They first met, if you can call it that, during a raid at the London Corresponding Society committee rooms in Wych Street a couple of years ago. George was afraid that if he went to meetings close to home, he’d be recognised. When he found out Edward was in charge in Southwark, he tracked him down and told him he wanted to join the fight against tyranny.”

  “And convinced him of his change of heart? But how did he know about the United Patriots?”

  “He didn’t at first, but Edward soon realised he could be useful and recruited him.”

  Dan could see how useful Kean, a serving police officer and ex-soldier, must have seemed to Broomhall. But did Mrs Chambers know anything more specific than that? Did she know about the map with Kean’s notes on it?

  “How did Kean make himself useful?”

  She shrugged. “Made bombs, I suppose. It’s a pity that Edward didn’t get the chance to use them.”

  “To blow up half of London.”

  “And build it up again.”

  “If you say so.” Dan picked up his hat and stood up.

  “Will I hang now?”

  “Not because of me, you won’t.”

  “You won’t arrest me for the murder?”

  “You’ve already been tried and sentenced. You can make a confession to someone else if it’s the rope you’re after. But if you’ve any feelings left for your family, you’ll spare them that. I shan’t say a word.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dan was in the Bow Street office one afternoon a couple of weeks later writing up an arrest report when John Townsend sauntered in. Inky Tom jumped up to fetch him a chair, which he took in pompous style. He removed his hat, placed the tip of his cane on the floor and folded his hands over the handle. Lavender, Principal Officers Taylor and Miller, and a small crowd of gaolers and clerks gathered around him, eager for royal gossip.

  A few days earlier, Mrs Chambers had been taken down to Portsmouth to join a women’s convict ship bound for Botany Bay. She had not shared her confession with anyone else, for which Dan was glad.

  He wasn’t the only one with something to be happy about. For the last few days Captain Ellis had been walking around with a huge smile on his face: Eleanor had written to say she would be home next week. She was bringing her aunt with her. The distraction of having a visitor should make the homecoming easier for all of them.

  And Caroline was more contented than Dan had seen her for a long time. The novelty of a baby had not worn off and she still seemed enchanted by Alexander. On his way out of the house that morning, Dan had been thrilled to see his boy clench his fists, though Caroline said it was only what all babies did.

  Dan, back on a training regime himself, had taken Nick to Noah’s gym and introduced him to the fistic arts. The lad had taken to the sport with gusto. Though not an elegant fighter, he showed signs of being a plucky one.

  “You’ve seen the news today, no doubt?” Townsend said. “The arrests in Scotland?”

  The answer was a chorus of “no’s”, so Townsend explained. “A number of rebellious Caledonians calling themselves the United Scotsmen have been arrested. That’ll pull ’em up short, eh? Give the Irish rebels and the English radicals something to think about.” He leaned forward with a confidential air and said loudly, “I have it on good authority that there’s going to be a similar operation against the London Corresponding Society. I played my part in the downfall of the United Patriots, and I’ll do the same against the LCS, until every enemy of His Most Gracious Majesty is put down. Why, only yesterday the Prince of Wales said to me, ‘Townsend,’ he said, ‘Townsend, I am relying on you to protect the Queen and the Princesses from these damned levellers and dissenters!’ ‘Why, Your Highness,’ says I, ‘you can rely on John Townsend for that. I won’t rest until every one of your enemies is burning in the pit of hell.’”

  Inky Tom’s mouth fell open in admiration. The others declared their determination to support Townsend. Dan said nothing, scribbled his signature at the bottom of a sheet of paper and reached for a fresh piece.

  Townsend looked at him. “What do you say to that, Foster? Time to see the rogues on the run properly this time, eh?”

  “If they’ve committed a crime, yes,” Dan answered without looking up from his writing.

  “What, you don’t think it a crime to wish to overthrow the wisest, the most benevolent, the most enlightened constitution on the globe?”

  “I’d think the wish a crime if there was such a thing to overthrow.”

  Townsend’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “That is a strange opinion for an officer of the law to hold. The best thing to do with these treacherous, malcontented rats is to ferret ’em out and nail ’em to the gibbet.”

  Dan shrugged and went back to his report. He was not interested in pursuing the argument.

  Townsend winked at his audience. “I do believe our friend here has caught the levelling contagion himself.”

  “Oh, no, sir!” Inky Tom cried. “I heard Sir William say that without Mr Foster we’d never have brought down the United Patriots.”

  Townsend frowned. “I don’t think Foster was all on his own, though?”

  “He was when he risked his life to join ’em, the murdering gang of body snatchers.”

  “That’s enough, Tom,” Dan said. “The case is closed and no more is to be said about it.” For some minutes he had been aware of a commotion outside and he changed the subject by asking, “What’s that noise?”

  Tom went to the window and looked out. “There’s a crowd gathered.”

  “What, a riot?” asked Officer Taylor, his hand moving to the handle of his pistol.

  “It looks like you might get a chance to quell a rebellious mob this very day, Townsend,” Dan said.

  “I don’t think they’re rioting,” Tom called over his shoulder.

  Lavender, who was standing behind him, nodded. “They look as if they’ve found something vastly entertaining about the police office all of a sudden. And the officers who have come out of the Brown Bear seem to be sharing the joke. Macmanus is almost bursting with laughing.”


  Reassured by this, Townsend and the rest crowded into the passageway to get a closer look. Dan stayed at his desk. A minute later Macmanus appeared in the doorway.

  “Hey, Foster, something here for you!”

  “What?”

  Macmanus had already gone. Dan got up and followed him into the passage. He could just see over the tops of his colleagues’ heads to the laughing, cheering crowd outside. From somewhere in its midst poured a stream of obscenities.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “See for yourself,” chuckled Macmanus, stepping aside to make room for Dan on the doorstep.

  Officers Taylor and Miller had gone down into the crowd. It had parted to let them through, revealing two men sitting on the pavement, tied together back to back. They were red in the face with rage, spitting, kicking and cursing. One of them had a large sheet of paper pinned to his coat.

  The officers dragged the captives to their feet and Taylor tore off the note.

  “Here, Foster!” he called.

  Inky Tom grabbed the paper and passed it back to Dan, who read out the words scrawled on the sheet.

  “Officer Foster. A token of my gratitude. BH. It’s from Ben Hardyman, the resurrectionist.”

  He put the note in his pocket and looked down at the battered and mired figures of Nipps and Trinder, the missing members of Dawson’s body-snatching gang.

  “You have some unsavoury friends, Foster,” said John Townsend.

  Dan ignored the remark. “Bring them inside,” he said.

  Taylor and Miller marched the hapless pair into the building. The crowd, seeing the fun was over, dispersed quietly. Dan remained on the doorstep and watched Townsend strut off after them, his cane tapping irritably on the pavement. As if aware of Dan’s gaze, the Prince of Wales’s friend turned and looked back at him.

  It was a look of pure animosity. Still, Dan told himself, their mutual dislike was unlikely to make much difference to either of them. Their paths did not often cross. The centre of Townsend’s life was Buckingham House, Dan’s Bow Street. Dan put it out of his mind and followed the others back into the police office.