The Great Stink

by Clare Clark

  As soon as William could adequately stand she insisted he return to work.

  'You have responsibilities, if you haven't forgotten,' she admonished him grimly. 'There's men biting off their own hands to take your position. You think they're going to hold it open for you while you swoon away like a lady?'

  William leaned against the door jamb. Negotiating the staircase had exhausted him and his knees trembled. He had lost a good deal of weight. His trousers sagged on his hips and the flesh beneath his cheekbones appeared to have been scooped out with a spoon. His hair stood up in startled tufts. He resembled more than anything the man who had been returned to her from the Crimea. Polly kept her gaze fixed rigidly upon the fireplace.

  'I will have to inform them,' William said quietly. 'Of the murder. It is incumbent upon me as a servant of the Board. You do understand that, don't you?'

  He started back as Polly wheeled around, her face dark with rage.

  'What is wrong with you?' she screamed. 'Are you set on ruining us? Is that it? Well, is it?'

  'Polly, please. Of course not. I have no wish to cause trouble for us. But the sewers are Board property. If there has been a murder —

  'Murder? You listen to me, you blind addle-headed fool. If there truly has been a murder you'd better bloody hope they never find out. You think they'll just thank you warmly and give you half a crown? You with your — your filthy cuts all over your body and your bloody knife in your pocket? I found the knife, William. I found it. It don't look too good, does it? And if you go trotting off telling them about some murder, who exactly do you reckon they'll think did it?'

  XV

  The Captain'd been vague but Tom was lucky. Him and Lady'd had to go no more than a few hundred yards before they'd happened on the body. Tom'd smelled it first. It was the smell of blood picked it out, powerful strong and with that sticky edge of sweetness that blood always got just when it set to drying. There was the stink of shit too. Before he copped it the cove'd filled his drawers. You wouldn't have thought you'd notice a stink like that down here, given you was already three foot deep in the stuff, but somehow out of the stream it was different. More solid, somehow, and meatier, even though the body had been dead a while. Two days, Tom guessed, for all the cold weather had kept it fresh.

  Apart from its hair the corpse was almost dry. A quirk of the tide had caught it in a bottleneck in one of the narrow tunnels that led off from the Dean-street stream, so as it was wedged clean out the water. Tom set his shoulder against the body and shoved. The body gave a little, like clay that wasn't yet hard, but it wasn't moving anywhere, forwards or back. This channel was deep and even at full tide the body wouldn't be under the water. There wouldn't be the force in the stream to budge him, not till the spring tides came in March. Tom smiled to himself. Make sure it doesn't ever get out, those'd been the Captain's instructions. So long as there wasn't no body for the traps to find they'd not be able to pin anything on his friend. But the Captain'd wasted his friend's money. The stream'd already done the job for him. If he'd chosen it himself Tom couldn't have jammed it in a safer spot.

  Tom peered at the body. A gent, dressed respectable in a greatcoat over a dark suit of clothes. Well, he'd reckoned on that. What surprised him more was the state of him. He'd expected a bodge if he was honest, the way the Captain'd put it to him, shaking his head and frowning as if he wasn't too pleased at having to sort out another man's messes for him. An accident, Tom'd had it down as, perhaps a knock to the back of the head, maybe a single gun shot. But this body'd have turned the stomach of a sailor. For starters they'd cut his throat so deep the head was thrown backwards further than the lid on a pewter pot and the tips of its hair trailed in the stream, but that wasn't the half of it. The spread of his chest was a bedlam of blood and mashed flesh, the dark fabric of his vest pounded together with the stiff front of his shirt into a scarlet pulp. You'd have to stab a man fifteen, twenty times to do that kind of damage. Tom paddled his fingers in the man's ruined chest, hoping for a watch, but there was nothing but the cold oyster-meat of his flesh. He could have what he wanted, that was the arrangement, as long as any papers went to the Captain. The Captain'd been particular about that. He'd asked if Tom could read and when Tom'd said there'd never been much call for reading in his line of work he'd nodded and said that in that case he was to bring anything that looked like a paper, for all it was no more than a scribble. Not that his friend had reckoned there'd be anything important, the Captain'd said easily, but they'd be something by way of proof Tom'd done the necessaries. Papers aside, anything else on the body was Tom's to keep. It was one of the reasons Tom'd agreed to do it, though the Captain's terms weren't what you'd call generous. That and greasing the wheels of business. There was still a week or two to go until the fight. The more a man's interests was tied up with another's, the more he was to be trusted. Tom'd learned that lesson early.

  Tom wiped his hands dainty as a lady on the man's hair before yanking on a handful of it to lift the head. The face of the dead man was cold and yellow as dried wax, save for a splatter of blood beneath one eye, and the corners of its bloodless lips drew back like a dog's into showy black whiskers. Its eyes were pale and wide open and they started from their sockets, staring out in what Tom fancied was more astonishment than terror. Dim-witted beggar, Tom thought, tossing the head back into the stream. It bounced against the brick wall with a dull thud and something in the neck crunched and snapped, letting the head drift further down into the cold water. The tide left a bubbled brown scum on the stretched yellow skin of its forehead.

  'You'd think a gent'd take better care of his appearance, wouldn't you?' Tom muttered dryly to Lady as he set her down on the shelf created by the dead man's legs.

  With a practised eye he looked the man over. Not a man for jewellery then, which was a pity. No rings, no pin in what was left of the neckcloth. Cuff-links in the shirt cuffs, that was something. Good boots, if a little worn at the soles. Lady sniffed cautiously at the man's groin as Tom stripped them off, tipping the water out of them and shoving them toe-down into his pockets. The hem of the man's greatcoat, unbuttoned, trailed in the water. Tom rummaged through the pockets. Papers of some kind, not bank notes, too thick, scabbed with seals and whatnot. A letter or two. Gloves, a handkerchief marked with fancy blue initials. A pocketbook, similarly stamped in gold. He opened it. More papers and postage stamps and, tucked into the back, a five shilling note. You'd find more on a sailor. No snuffbox, neither, nor any of the trinkets you might've hoped for. Tom felt a prickle of vexation.

  The tide licked at his hips. He had to get a shift on. He rubbed the cloth of the coat between his fingers. Worth taking. The man's arms had stiffened which made the job trickier than it might've been and he was lying with all his weight on the back of it, but it wasn't like Tom hadn't done it before. When he'd got the coat off he inspected it in the light of the lantern. It wasn't in bad nick, all things considered, the damage no more than a rip in the pocket and a button missing. He slipped his fingers into the man's trouser pockets. A leather purse, no markings. Tom opened it. A few more coins, none more than a shilling. Tom cursed to himself. If the tide hadn't gone and done the job for him he'd have reckoned himself properly out of pocket. As it was it was hardly worth the candle. Still, the trousers were decent, not as good as the coat, but decent. Cleaned up they'd fetch a bit of something from the Jew down Rosemary-lane. Hurriedly he fumbled the buttons open and lifted Lady into his arms so he could pull them off. With the dog in his arms it was awkward. The cloth was sodden and bulky with blood and sewer water and the dead man's doings and the legs were set stiff as posts.

  At last he wrenched the trousers free and, shaking out the worst of it into the stream, he rolled them into the coat and bundled them around his waist. The stripped body lolled in the faint light of the lantern, the legs oddly hairless and white as sewer-eels. The gashed neck leered at Tom with its sticky black grin. He was done. Now it was time for the tide to do its part. A week or two an
d not even the gent's own mother'd be able to put a name to the body. Another week for luck and Tom'd come back for it. Between them he and the dredgermen would manage for it to be pulled out the water quite unexpected-like up Rotherhithe way. They was paying a crown and sixpence inquest money over at Rotherhithe these days, more than twice as much as any other place along the river, and, what with it being him what found it, Tom'd be sure of half of that at the least. The Captain'd never know the difference. Checking that the body was still firmly wedged in the tunnel and dampening his light, Tom took Lady in his arms and hurried away, against the tide, towards the main sewer.

  It was late by the time he pulled himself up into the cellar, later than he'd imagined. The hollering and whatnot that seeped of an evening out of the padding-kens in the alley had settled into the flatter rustle of night. Tom took down one of the rat crates from the recess in the wall and stowed the man's clothes inside it. The cuff-links he slipped into the finger of a glove, tying the dead man's handkerchief around it in a bundle. There was a place he had in the tunnels no one knew about but him. They'd be safe there, at least until things had a chance to settle. You never quite knew. Traps was sharper these days, and they wasn't so unwilling to take a poke around the rookeries the way they had been at the start.

  He pulled the papers from his pocket and opened them up. There was what looked like a letter written on sheets of paper as stiff as a fingernail and, tucked into its leaves, a couple of very official-looking documents, bristling with signatures and stamps and all the rest of it. The Captain'd asked for the papers back. As proof, was what he'd said. So as he could be sure Tom'd done what he'd been asked. Tom'd agreed, at the time. Now he considered the papers for a moment, feeling the heft of them between his fingers. There was initials on the pocketbook. That'd give the Captain his proof. The papers, well, Tom had lived a lifetime on the streets and his nose was sharp. If you was looking to do business with men like the Captain it was as well to have a little something set aside by way of insurance. He tucked them into the hem of his coat with the gloves and the handkerchief. He'd take them down soon as he could. The postage stamps and the change-purse he'd hawk to the Jew in the morning.

  Lady lay quietly at his side as he worked, her nose resting on her paws. When he was finished Tom clicked his fingers and she rose, slipping the cold tip of her nose into his hand. Her whiskers twitched against his palm as she lifted her chin to look at him. He tugged at her ear, the lamby one that stood to attention; his other hand was clenched tight in his pocket, the knuckles sharp against his thigh. He stood like that for a moment, his fingers searching out the familiar shape and sense of her ear, the bump of the veins, the faint bristle of hairs along its edge, the curve of it neat as a lady's slipper. It was always unnatural hot, Lady's upright ear, even on a wicked night like this one. Tom shivered and then, clearing his throat, he banged his fist briskly against his leg. It was late and he was almost falling asleep on his feet. The pocket rattled. It was a moment before he remembered he still had them studs in there, the ones he'd skimmed off of the lunatic two nights earlier. What with all the palaver he'd forgotten clean about them.

  Squatting beside Lady, he set them out on his palm. They weren't particularly fancy, no more than mother-of-pearl set into what looked like tin, but in the light of the lantern the shell glowed pink and orange, pretty as a sunset. Lady nudged them gently with her nose.

  'You like 'em, lassie?' Tom murmured, watching her face.

  Lady's pink tongue lolled out and her stump of a tail worried the cellar floor. Tom smiled at her and, lifting her chin gently, he touched his nose to hers. Her whiskers quivered against his upper lip.

  'They're all yours,' he whispered.

  Very gently, soft as a warm breath, Lady licked his cheek. Tom's fingers sought out the sensitive spot on her belly and scratched. Lady tilted her head back, stretching into his caress until the back of her head rested on his shoulder. Dropping the studs back into his pocket Tom wrapped his arms around her and drew her to him.

  'We should get home,' he murmured but he didn't move. Neither did Lady. He held her close, memorizing the pattern of the hair along her skull, the black ripples of her gums, the bump of her shoulders and her spine as they pressed awkwardly against his belly. It wasn't long before the pain in his stiff knees was nagging at him, fearsome as a fishwife, but Tom paid it no heed. There was a dark hole inside his chest that had already started to open. He knew it would make him dizzy when he stood up. So he stayed where he was, his knees ablaze with the cramp, his arms wrapped around the dog. His hundred-guinea girl. The tears dropped on to the black velvet of her broken ear and quivered there, bright as diamonds.

  XVI

  The downstairs parlour at the Badger was fuller than Tom'd ever seen it. The din filled the place close as fog, so as you couldn't make out any particular sound until you was right up against it and even then you only had it a moment before you lost it again. Every last thought in your head was drowned out by the shouts and stamping of boots and the banging of pots and dogs whimpering and snarling and rattling their chains against the wooden forms, and the whole commotion all thickened up together by the smoke from the lamps and the candles and the fire and a hundred stubby pipes.

  It was almost Christmas. Only a brace of streets away the grand shops draped themselves like a duchess's necklace around the great curve of Regent-street, their enormous windows aflame with gaslight and stuffed with silks of every colour under the sun. The pavements were crammed with elegantly dressed people, strolling and pointing and not paying proper attention to their belongings. It weren't no surprise that the mood in the small smoky room was high and rising, not to mention the racket. Tom bent down as Lady pressed herself against his legs, taking her into his arms. She rested her chin on his shoulder as the rumness of it all tugged at his belly and the stringy sinews of his thighs. That he was standing here, on the night he was to make himself a proper fortune, and wanting with all his heart to be somewhere else.

  All of a sudden Brassey was at his side.

  'Tom,' he said, peering at Lady with his toady little eyes. 'You better be ready. If you go and make me look a fool —'

  He left it there, smiling his toad smile. Tom'd have liked to thump him but there'd've been no purpose in it. With the crush in the parlour the proprietor would've been kept upright even if Tom'd succeeded in knocking him clean off his feet.

  'We're ready,' Tom muttered instead.

  'Fancy collar the creature's got herself,' Brassey observed, his little eyes glinting. 'Hers, is it?'

  Tom frowned. It rubbed his bristles up the wrong way, the way Brassey looked at him as though he was always on the dodge and it was only out of the kindness of his heart that he, Brassey, wasn't headed direct to the beak to see justice done. Every man in this parlour knew Brassey to be the slippiest man alive. Tom, on the other hand, had made a point of getting Lady's collar made up on the level. Somehow it had seemed right to have things done proper. So he'd paid a coiner he knew in Drury-lane the best part of a crown to have the madman's studs set into handsome links of melted Britannia spoon. His coins were always slummed with lampblack and oil to take the gleam of newness off of them but the coiner's daughter had taken time to polish up the collar to a fine shine. It twinkled and glinted in the parlour's dirty light, bright as a beadle's chain.

  'Course it's hers,' Tom replied tersely. 'Who's else'd it be?'

  Brassey fluttered his eyelids, bowing slightly from the waist.

  'Who else's indeed?' he agreed. 'Still, you must fancy your chances, a cautious man like yourself, parting with your winnings afore they're safe in your pocket.'

  Tom glanced down at Lady. She peered at him through half-closed eyes and set her nose closer to his neck. He swallowed, loosening the knot in his throat.

  'She'll win.'

  'She'd better.' Brassey rocked backwards on his slippered feet and rubbed his hands together. 'She'd better.'

  Tom looked around the room.

 
; 'Where's the Captain?'

  Brassey licked his lips.

  'He'll be here. Plenty of time yet. But he'll be here.'

  There were to be several dogs brought up ahead of Lady with the intention of getting the Fancy's appetite whetted before the main dish was served. At nine o'clock on the nose Brassey had the men brought upstairs. The Captain was not yet arrived but Brassey was impatient to keep the tension rising, experience having shown him that excitable men were martyrs to thirst. Tom sat downstairs in the near-deserted front parlour, Lady upon his lap. The only other drinker was an old man with whiskers like sheep's wool snagged on a thorn bush and a sheep's doleful expression who stared into his dirty glass and occasionally expelled a snorting burst of air by way of conversation. Otherwise the room was silent but for the odd thump and scrabble of claws from the pit upstairs. Lady cocked her upright ear to catch it, her pink tongue quivering. It occurred to Tom with a sharp twist of his gut that she was excited.

  They'd been waiting a good while when a dark-faced coster-boy staggered down the stairs, a bloodied bulldog in his arms. Dressed slap-up flash, his hair teased into six curls beneath a plush skullcap of the type the costers called a King's-man, he stood in the centre of the parlour and thrust the dog out in front of him, as if offering the animal to Tom for inspection. Lady lifted her head to oblige him, her pink eyes alert.

  'Go well?' Tom asked, since the lad looked set on staying put till he did.