The Butcher's Hook

by Janet Ellis

  ‘What’s that?’ says my father.

  ‘Ugh!’ is all the boy can manage.

  ‘Alas!’ cries Aunt Elizabeth, as though she witnessed it.

  The vicar raises himself to his full height, enjoying their attention. ‘A little lad died in our churchyard,’ he says, ‘and it transpired he knew a man that was recently murdered.’ Jane and Grace cross themselves, they’ll be working up to seeing more ghostly visitors again.

  ‘Who was it?’ My father is serious now, walking heavily towards the vicar, scattering the fluttering women nearby. ‘Who was it?’ he asks again, with more intensity.

  ‘I do not know the victim’s name.’ The vicar looks nervous now, as if he were a suspect. ‘A professor, they told me. Killed in a field for his purse.’

  ‘Dr Edwards.’ My father crumples, his head in his hands. ‘It must be him they speak of. He was a dear, dear friend.’ Sentimental tears well in his eyes. ‘And now a child dead, too? These are terrible times.’

  ‘The boy’s death was an accident, of course. And I am sorry for the loss of your friend.’ The vicar lays a reassuring hand on my father’s arm. ‘The Lord giveth . . .’ He looks upwards and my father’s gaze follows momentarily, with reluctance.

  ‘Did they say there were any clues, any more information? Have they any idea who might have done it? What did they tell you?’ My father shakes the man’s hand away as he speaks, his voice rising with agitation.

  The vicar regards this outburst with some distaste. ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘please do not ask these questions of me. I was officiating at a funeral, not conducting an enquiry. It would have been inappropriate of me to press the mourners on these matters. Tantamount to gathering gossip. It was mentioned that there had been another death, a savage one. That is all. They vouchsafed nothing more and I did not press them.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ my father mutters, though it is clear he thinks it was an opportunity wasted. His brow stays furrowed as he considers what he’s heard. I think I can actually hear the cogs turning in his brain and, sure enough, he turns to me. ‘What business is it of hers?’ he says, nodding in my direction.

  ‘What? Oh, Mistress Anne was present. That is to say, she was in the church. On the very day the boy died. Quite possibly at the very time.’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘The angels could have brushed you with their wings, Miss Jaccob, but instead you were closer to the devil’s work.’

  ‘Indeed?’ My father still doesn’t look at me but I feel the gathering storm. Just as there is a tang of iron in the air before rain falls, so there is lead behind his words. ‘You have been in the church a great deal recently, haven’t you? Elizabeth!’ Aunt Elizabeth jumps like a startled nag. ‘Didn’t you tell me Anne had attended church with unusual frequency of late?’

  When she realises it is I being quizzed and not she, she puts her shoulders back and marches forward. ‘Yes, yes,’ she agrees. ‘When we had our . . . difficulty with Mr Onions . . .’ she trails off, she must not offend my father or she’ll be cast out again. ‘I did tell her that a young woman might do better to spend her time elsewhere, or doing good works, but she was adamant. “I have led him on, Aunt,” she said to me, “It was wicked of me, and I must atone.’’’

  I once stood at the edge of a high wall and felt a swooping sensation in the pit of my stomach when I looked down. My exhilarating fear dared me to jump or fall. As I listen to Aunt Elizabeth’s betrayal, my insides lurch again. If Fub were here, I think.

  But if Fub were here, he would be of no use to me. He would stand transfixed while my father held the magnet of his authority up to him, then stick fast, unable to move. This is the plain truth and, as ever, the truth is a sorry thing and lets me down. I know I must deal with these tribulations alone.

  ‘Well?’ my father’s face is close to mine. I could easily count the large open pores on his nose.

  ‘Sir.’ The vicar tries to intervene, his tone kindly but ineffectual. ‘Your daughter is a clever girl, who—`

  ‘Clever!’ my father retorts as if he had called me a bad name: ‘I agree that she can find her way from the front to the back of a book, but she isn’t clever enough to behave as she should. Her wanton attitude nearly cost her the hand of a good man in marriage, but fortunately,’ he strokes his lips, pleased with himself, ‘I have the brains to put things right.’ He puts his hand on the vicar’s back, guiding him out of the room. He has had enough of rhetoric. ‘Many people, Sir,’ he explains, ‘are doubtless as clever, too. But you need your native wits about you to get on. Cleverness chases common sense away.’

  ‘I can see where that absence leads, to be sure. As I fear that I myself have no native wit, then I must be content to stay where I am in life.’ As he goes, the vicar turns to me and I think I catch him winking, but I cannot be sure. The pitted boy sidles crab-like behind him, bearing the box as if it were a small coffin.

  ‘Come and eat, Anne.’ My mother takes my hand. Her action keeps my father at bay. When I turn to her I cannot see her clearly; she seems out of focus and distant.

  ‘My head aches,’ I say. ‘The room oppresses me still, I must have some air.’

  She lets me go. ‘Later,’ she says.

  ‘Off to church again, eh?’ my father shouts after me.

  The vicar and his boy are ahead of me on the road; they walk side by side in step. Their heads are close as they speak and then a burst of riotous laughter drives them away from and towards each other several times, the merriment doubling at each meeting.

  If I were near enough to send them into the path of a carriage, I would. Or at least under the passage of an emptied pot.

  Chapter 26

  Carrying a candle under a shawl proves harder than stowing a knife. The beeswax smell climbs into my nostrils and lodges there. At first, I do not mind – it makes a change from horse muck and human sweat – there is something of the church about it and that’s pleasant. But soon I find it cloying: it scents my hands and clings to my clothes till, if it were a poison, I’d be dead of it. The fact that I am carrying a large candlestick as well makes my burden all the more awkward.

  The shop is dark and shuttered, as Margaret had promised. In the little window at the top, her hat sits in plain view. With a heavy heart, I realise this is the first visit to Levener’s where I will not see Fub. In my mind’s eye, though, I see him everywhere. He walks jauntily from the slaughterhouse, his hands sticky. I hear him whistling as he sharpens a knife. He sits at the bench to eat, sweeping the crumbs into his palm. He takes the stairs two at a time in front of me as I go to Margaret’s room and swings the door wide. ‘Here she is,’ he says. ‘Make it quick. I will see you soon.’

  Margaret looks up, frightened. ‘You didn’t knock . . .’ She rises from her little chair. ‘I thought I would have to guide you here.’

  There is no point in explaining how, and how well, I know the house. If you put your ear to the wall, you might still hear us. Fub says I am a noisy girl but I do not know another way to be and he seems loud enough, anyway. This thinking is very distracting. We must lie down together soon or I will have to squeal away on my own. ‘I followed my instinct,’ I say. ‘Are you prepared?’

  She nods and smooths her skirts, although they have no creases. When she notices the swollen shape of my shawl, she stares for longer than she should. Her eyes meet mine again and she looks away quickly, as if she caught me naked. She goes towards her chest of drawers.

  ‘Oh, wait. I have brought something for you.’

  She turns to see me holding the candle. It is a ten, large enough to last several weeks. ‘Wax?’ she says, taking it and sniffing the stem. ‘How precious. And a candlestick, too,’ she says, biting her lip in wonder as I assemble the pair. ‘That is what you carried!’ she says, as delighted as if we played a guessing game.

  ‘You might like to see it lit,’ I say. ‘I swear they have a purer flame than tallow
.’

  ‘And no stink.’ She pauses, looking guilty at having said a vulgar word. ‘But we shouldn’t light it now, it’s not nearly dark yet.’

  ‘I should like you to see it burn. It’ll last you a good long while, do not fret, but I want to show you how bright and clear it is. Do you have a tinderbox here?’ The ashes in her grate look dry, they are probably several days old.

  ‘By the kitchen range,’ she answers reluctantly, disappointed by my insistence. She makes to leave.

  ‘I will go,’ I tell her. ‘You prepare our music.’

  ‘I have only a few sheets,’ she says, embarrassed. ‘The best song is only in my head.’

  ‘I will write it down as you sing,’ I say. ‘I have no talent for remembering. I can use the back of these pages for the purpose.’

  The kitchen smells so strongly of meat and fat that I almost have to slice my way in. The aprons hang on their hooks; they are empty of their owners but hold their shape: Levener’s swells, dome-like, in the centre, while Fub’s is straight. I turn it away from me, stroking the smooth underside where it lies against him. Holding it to my face, I breathe him in. Above me, Margaret practises her hums and trills. The floor is swept clean and dry, there’s no sound from the slaughterhouse and the suspended meat hangs still and cold. Empty hooks wait ready and sharp.

  I stand behind the counter, pressing my hands flat on the bare wood. ‘Six eggs and a belly of pig?’ I say to the empty air. ‘Fub’ll ready that for you.’ My voice sounds like a child’s would do playing shop. I look down at my splayed fingers; they are pink and soft, the nails tipped white. There’ll be grime there soon, dried blood and skeins of fat. Washing my hands over and over will make them red and coarse, the nails will break and the knuckles roughen. ‘Fub’ll prepare that for you,’ I say, loudly. ‘Wait here, Fub is coming.’

  ‘Mistress Jaccob?’ Margaret calls from upstairs. I had almost forgotten she was there. ‘Did somebody come?’

  ‘No,’ I shout back. ‘I am alone.’

  ‘I thought I heard you speaking.’ She comes in to the room, her dress hovering that miraculous distance above the ground. ‘There is no fire here,’ she says sweetly, as though I am the simple one. ‘The kitchen is beyond.’ She gestures with the grace of a dancer. I follow her to the range and coax a little flame onto a firelighter. As we climb the stairs, my hand cupped over it, it would be easy to touch it to the hem of her swinging skirt. But then she could run to her room, shut the door and extinguish the flames, sacrificing only her petticoat, so I wait. My hand shakes with the effort of keeping the flame close to me.

  ‘The sheets of music are here,’ she holds them up. ‘These are two songs, but I have a third that is more suitable for such an occasion.’ ‘What is so strong as her soft and delicate hand?’ she sings, then breaks off with a nervous cough. The sound of music in the small room makes us unwontedly intimate with each other.

  ‘There!’ I light the candle easily, though neither of us trimmed the wick. I put the firelighter in the grate where it splutters and dies in the cold ash.

  ‘Thank you for this gift,’ she breathes, and the flame trembles with her exhalation. We regard it silently for a moment, bravely shining into daylight. Margaret raises her limpid eyes to me. ‘May I pinch it now?’

  ‘A moment more. Sing to me what you will teach, please.’ She frowns, then puts her little white hands together in preparation. ‘Wait,’ I say. I draw the little curtain across the window. It has a pattern of stars printed on the thin fabric and hardly shuts out the light.

  ‘Sit on your bed,’ I tell her. Then, seeing her becoming downcast as she struggles with my commands, I smile and say more softly, ‘I will not ask much more of you, Margaret.’ I have never said a truer word, have I?

  She perches on the very edge of her coverlet, automatically arranging her skirts wide. ‘Good,’ I say. ‘I intend to transcribe the verses, but let me just listen as you sing, so I may become familiar with the song.’ The sheaves of paper lie beside her, the tableau is complete.

  As she sings, I drop my eyes to the floor so that we do not have to look at each other, but nonetheless her cheeks are bright red by the time she reaches the last verse. She stops, drawing a deep breath as if she’d used it all up. I choose not to applaud – the sound of a single pair of hands clapping might sound cruel. ‘My turn,’ I say.

  ‘Do you know it already?’ she asks.

  ‘To begin,’ I say, ‘I will hum the tune only, so you can hear if I have that part down pat, then you may say the verses aloud for me to transcribe them.’ She seems satisfied with that.

  There is a sudden loud rattling of the shutters in the street, then a voice cries ‘Levener!’ and Margaret and I freeze, listening. ‘Shall I tell them he is not here?’ she asks, her eyes wide. She is caught between our secret and hard business.

  ‘No,’ I whisper, ‘they will gather that for themselves.’ The banging on the door continues for a while, in case Levener merely dozes in his bed. We stare at each other. Eventually, there is silence.

  We seem more alone together than before. Margaret looks inquiringly at me, awaiting my next instruction. It is: ‘Close your eyes, I am nervous and do not wish to be observed.’

  She does. With her half-moon of dark lashes against her pale skin, the rose in her cheeks fading and her chest rising and falling evenly, she could not look more perfect. It is better to end her like this, I reason, than when she begins to spoil. She opens one eye cautiously, to discover why I am delayed. ‘Margaret!’ I admonish, and she giggles like a child and squeezes her eyes shut. She wriggles further onto the bed until her back is nearly at the wall.

  I begin to hum the tune she taught me and, keeping my eyes fixed on her all the time, I separate the candlestick from the still burning candle. Raising the candlestick as high as I can, I bring it down on her shining hair and pretty head with one strong swing. Just as I end my snatch of song, so she moans and sighs. It is not the duet she planned.

  The blow has landed well. Margaret slumps fully against the wall, sitting upright with her eyes closed shut as they were a moment ago but with no sense behind them. Her mouth still curves up in its usual expression of sweet content. Thus far, everything has happened as it should.

  I remember the tedious amount of mess when Dr Edwards bled to death from his wounds and wish I could leave now, but I cannot tell if I have hit her hard enough to deny her ever waking again. She groans, a lower note this time and seems about to say something. That decides me. My arms shake with the weight of my weapon in one hand and the unaccustomed effort of keeping the burning candle away from my clothing in the other. I press my feet flat to the floor to steady myself, then rock gently from side to side to build momentum. ‘Now,’ I say aloud, although I did not mean to speak. The edge of the candlestick, cupped to catch dripping wax, slices as if it had been sharpened for the purpose. It splits her skull with a shocking short clap of splintering bone and then sticks fast a little way in her unthinking brain. With effort, I stand up straight again and pull it free. ‘Oh, forgive me,’ I say, apologising for the undignified suck as it’s released from its gelatinous mooring. I say sorry to her again when I smash it several times on to her hands, first the right and then the left. I have some idea that I must spoil all her perfect features one by one before she burns.

  The only sound now is my panting, coarse and quick like an animal after a chase. This is another vulgar noise that would be an affront to her sensibilities if she were still in a position to be upset by such things. She would be mortified, too, by the disarray. How quickly her broken fingers would fly up to tidy and to tend, if they could. Unstopped by either of us, blood streams from her wound and onto her bodice. It already obscures one closed eye and coats the cheek in its path. The smell is salty, dense and strong. Beneath her skin she is no sweeter than anyone else.

  I study her carefully. Her chest rises and falls, but the move
ment is so little that you could leave a porcelain cup balanced there without fear of its falling. There are long intervals between each tiny breath.

  In the street, two voices join together as they pass, and there is a sudden shrill of laughter. The sound is so vital and so near that I half expect Margaret to incline her head towards it. She stays drooped in her last pose and does not stir.

  Outside the world still turns, but I will stop the clock for her in here. I have more to do. If I left now, if the laceration didn’t finish her, she might well live on, though she would be reduced and ugly and with only half a head of hair to tend. That would not suffice. I mean to make her ash, blowing away on the wind of Fub’s hot breath as he calls her name to find her. ‘Come, Anne,’ I say, imitating her soft tone. ‘Will you leave me like this?’ I shake my head as if she really had enquired and set the candlestick down carefully. All this clouting was just the preparation. It is a bonfire I plan.

  The candle flame bends away from its task as I kneel in front of her, a draft insisting it back as I direct it forward. I am the victor, though, and a steady blaze takes hold on the hem of her skirt. I light the pages of music, dropping them quickly when they catch. When I hold the candle to the bed cover, bright dots of flame quickly join together and form a sparkling chain. The fire is eager now for more tinder and I oblige with a touch to her hat: the dry straw crackles and the little flowers pop. Little eddies of air coming from under the door, in at the window and down the chimney encourage the fire’s spread. The dryness of its kindling does the rest. Leaning

  towards her to ignite her hair, I stub my toe hard against the heavy candlestick where I left it on the floor and cry out.

  Whether it is my shriek or the cooking of her ankles that rouses her, I do not know but Margaret’s one ungummed eye opens. She stares ahead unseeing and brings her hands instinctively to her face. Her bent fingers dangle, useless as twigs held up against swords. She begins to try and to suppress the flames patting ineffectually at her skirt. She is screaming: a high, steady, ugly note made with the same voice that sang so sweetly only moments before. Her mouth opens wide to reveal red teeth.