by William King
“I heard you and the lads gave some counterfeiters a good seeing-to down in St Giles last year. A regular seven days wonder it was--the police daring to show their face down in the Rookery.”
He smiled and it lit up his ugly face. At that moment you could see why the lads of his division would have followed him into hell. “We did, Jack, we did. It’s moments like that make this job worthwhile.”
A young officer rattled his truncheon on the bars to get attention and said, “The Irishman’s just thrown up in cell 5, Inspector.”
Barker turned his head and shouted, loud enough to make my head hurt and bones rattle. “Kick Paddy in the balls, Hoskins, and then make him clean it up. There's a good lad.”
The youth scuttled off. “It’s what’s wrong with this country, Jack. Too many Micks. The bloody Irish are a scourge on this land. They come here and they take our jobs and then they spend all their money on booze and guzzling and when it’s gone they throw themselves on the Parish and expect the poor bloody rate payer to look after them.”
I groaned. Tom was getting on his old hobbyhorse. “They’re being especially devious if they’re taking jobs and going into the workhouse, Tom.”
“Always the smart answer with you. You were always the bloody same. I’m telling you the main problems of this country have always been the Irish and the bloody French.”
“I don’t see too many Frenchies in London, Tom.”
“That’s because my old man and others like him kept them out- him and the Duke of Wellington. But they’d be here if they could have. And you know why? You know what’s behind both the French and the Irish, the so-called democrats and the so-called Chartists and the so-called socialists and the bloody Jacobins? You know what, Jack?”
“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Papism, Jack. The Pope. It’s all part of his great plan to put old England back under the whore of Rome.” He was off now. He had the bit between his hobbyhorse's teeth and was racing towards the bright sunny uplands of frothing madness. Anybody else you would have suspected drunkenness but Tom Barker was intoxicated by nothing more than his own mad rhetoric. He’s always been the same, even as a young man. There was no sense in trying to interrupt his ranting but I wasn’t feeling too sensible at that moment in time.
“The Pope?”
“The Pope. He is behind it all -- the Antichrist. He can't bear to see men free in thought and deed and religion outside of his influence. The British Empire is the greatest bastion against papacy that ever existed and he wants it ended.”
There was a real sense of personal enmity in the way he said the words, as if he was about to go a hundred rounds with the Pope bareknuckle. His fists were clenched and his face was red.
“And it's getting worse, ever since they passed the bloody Catholic Emancipation Act they've been able to hold public office. We've got Catholic MPs, soon we might have a Catholic Prime Minister. Soon I might have to take orders from a bloody papist. Where will it end, I ask you?”
His whiskers bristled. I feared for a moment that he was about to have an attack of apoplexy but then he turned to face me, thrusting his face right down into mine and said, “Now Jack, I hope, for your sake, that you haven't been up to anything naughty.”
Those sudden swift changes of direction and mood were something that you never quite got used to.
“What exactly do you mean by that, Tom?”
“I mean I hope you haven't been sticking your nose into police business. The Bow Street magistracy is gone -- there's only one force in London now and you're looking at it.”
“You should tell that to the Forester brothers in the City.”
“Always the smart mouth, eh Jack?”
“Just pointing out the facts, Tom.”
“You were always good at that. Always too bloody good at it. I just want to make sure that you not involved in any private business of the old sort on my patch. No freelancing, no private enterprise, none of the old Jonathan Wild larks. They won't stand it anymore, the powers that be. It's not the old days now -- things have changed.”
“You're telling me. I never thought I would hear Tom Barker speaking out against the good old days.”
“It's not just me, Jack. It's the whole system. We have a system now, you’ll be pleased to know. We have a police force and we do what we're told. Nobody is above the law any more.”
“Nobody except the rich and the people who make the laws and the people who get private Acts of Parliament passed.”
“You're starting to sound like a Chartist, Jack.”
“You'll be accusing me of being a Papist next.”
“No. I'm pretty sure you're not- you being a dour Scottish Calvinist and all.”
“I might just be pretending.” He laughed.
“I'm not joking, Jack. I've been hearing stories -- you've been looking for people, the wrong sort of people. This Brighton House business.”
Of course a man like Tom Barker would have heard something. The Metropolitan police might not have had a detective force but if it had Tom would have been a good candidate for it. The same sort of people who talked to me would talk to him and with more reason, for he was in a position to make their lives miserable if he wanted to, and he was the sort of man who would want to unless given a good reason otherwise.
“What have you been hearing?”
“Same old Jack Brodie. Still answering questions with a question.”
“It's one way of getting answers.”
“I've always preferred beating them out of people myself.” He said it as if it were a joke, but the frightening thing was that he meant it, and he knew that you knew that.
“A man's got to get his amusement somehow. But you still haven't answered my question.”
“I hear you been looking for Ginger Jim Matthews. I hear Old Nick Nicholson has been asking questions on your behalf. That's the sort of thing that makes me stop and think, and what it makes me stop and think about is that you might be getting yourself into trouble. Now normally, it would be no business of mine, but word has come down from on high, that we’re not supposed to stand for that sort of thing anymore. So do us both a favour -- if you are about this sort of business, do it somewhere else.”
“Thanks for the warning, Tom. I appreciate it.”
“And you'll ignore it, like you always do when these things don't suit you. Not that I give a toss if you get yourself into trouble. Well now I think it was time that you were off home. I'll take the liberty of calling a cab and I'll send one of the boys along just to make sure that you get there all right. I wouldn’t want anybody dancing any more horn pipes on your ribs.”
I nodded and he strutted off to the door and then stopped and turned and said, “Look after yourself, Jack. Don't be going down in the dark alleys late at night -- it's not safe for a man your age.”
“I think I'll take that advice.”
“I doubt it, Jack. I doubt it.” He walked off down the corridor, bellowing orders, shouting abuse, in charge as always. “Hoskins! See that Mr Brodie gets home all right.”
The young police officer had obviously finished overseeing the cleaning of the Irishman's cell, for he was the one who escorted me home in a hansom cab. He walked me to my door too, all the while glancing around warily as if he expected mysterious attackers to emerge from the night and have a go at us.
I did not blame him. I half expected them myself.
Hoskins paused for a moment and I was surprised because he seemed to want to talk. “I'm sorry for what happened to you tonight, Mr Brodie.”
“Not as sorry as I am, lad.”
“Inspector Barker always speaks very well of you, sir. He said he once saw you chase a man across the roof and fight with them on the slippery slates. He said it was the bravest thing he'd ever seen.”
“That's because your Inspector is afraid of heights, Mr Hoskins.”
“Is he, sir? I never knew that.”
It was true though and it was
the strangest thing for Tom Barker was afraid of nothing else. He would have faced the Devil and spat in his eye but he couldn't even lean out a high window.
“They’re the only thing he’s afraid of though. I once saw him run into a burning building, a real inferno, to pull a woman out. You should have heard him curse when he found out she was Irish.”
He laughed. “I’ll bet he did, sir. He’s not very fond of the Micks, our inspector.”
“No, he’s not- but it didn’t stop him from going back for the children though.”
That gave Hoskins pause for thought.
Sunday, April 11th 1841
Donald was waiting up for me when I staggered in. He had a candle in his hand and by its light I could see the worry written on his face. He didn't say anything until I had made my way into the living room, removed the guard and stood warming my hands before the fire. I think at that point he noticed the bruises on my face and the puffiness of my lips and eyes.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I met some highwaymen,” I said. His face fell. I collapsed into my chair. “Go to bed, son, and we'll talk about it in the morning.”
“I was worried about you. You didn't come home.”
I looked at him and shook my head and said, “Well, I'm home now.”
You could see he wanted to ask more questions but didn't dare with me in my present sort of mood. Slowly, not taking his eyes off me, looking at me as if I might vanish at any moment, he backed out of the room and made his way to bed. I slumped in front of the fire. I did not feel too good about myself.
Tom Barker had a point. I was getting old. Ten years ago Billy Tucker and his friends would not have been able to take me off guard like that. And now I had more to lose -- for there were two children to consider and no one to look after them if anything should happen to me.
It was about then that the reaction set in. It was more than just pain; it was fear too, not just for myself but for what could happen to Donald and Rachel if anything happened to me. I was shaking and I ground my teeth and clenched my fists and cursed Billy Tucker and his friends quite comprehensively in a manner that would have quite shocked my own parents.
After half an hour the fire had died down almost to ashes. I knew exactly how it felt. I stared at the embers for a long time and didn't have the energy to pull down my bed so I fell asleep in the chair. Halfway through the night the pain woke me and I wandered through into the kitchen and took a swig of the tincture of opium Dr Davies had left for Rachel. After that I floated off into a sleep filled with strange dreams.
Mrs Marshall woke me when she bustled into the room. “I knocked but you didn't answer so I assumed you were still out -- you can never tell these days.”
Then she got a good look at my face and let out a little scream. “Keep the noise down, Marshall,” I said. “We don't want to upset the neighbours now, do we?”
“What happened to you, sir?”
“You only call me sir when there's something wrong.”
“Well I'd say there was something wrong now, sir. What happened?”
“I had a little accident. I ran into some men's boots.”
“You haven't been fighting again, have you, sir?”
“I wouldn't call it a fight. It was more like a beating.”
“Did someone tried to rob you?” She licked her lips a little, for this might turn out to be the sort of tasty gossip that could be discussed with all the old women in the court. The constant danger of robbery in London town was one of the great joys of their conversation.
“Something like that.” I didn't want to tell her what had really happened for that would only worry her more and she would communicate her worries to the children, and there was enough worry about right then.
“They didn't get all of your money, did they, sir?”
“No, Marshall, they didn't. Some Bobbies came along before they could do it.”
“Well thank God for that, sir. I've always said Sir Robert Peel should be blessed for what he did. Although there's never enough of them, and you can never find one you really need one.”
“Well I managed to find one last night.” She nodded like a woodpecker hitting a tree.
“Just you sit down there sir and I'll get you a nice cup of tea.” As she was bustling out of the room, Donald entered. He looked pale and thoughtful and as if he hoped that he dreamed the change in my appearance last night. One look was enough to convince him that he had not.
“Did you really meet highwaymen last night, father?”
“Your father was attacked by robbers,” said Mrs Marshall. “You see what comes from you reading those books?”
He looked at her half-bemused, trying to work out how he had come to be blamed for what had happened to me.
“Were they real robbers?” He asked, at last. You could tell he was excited now, by the prospect of quizzing me about real criminals.
“I don't think they were pretending to be,” I said, deciding that making a joke of it was probably the best way of dealing with the matter as far as Donald was concerned. Or maybe it was just the tincture of opium making me lightheaded. “Or if they were, they were very convincing.”
“Did they have flintlocks?”
“They did. But they didn't want to waste bullets so they threw boots at me instead which is why I look like I've taken a kicking.”
He paused for a moment, taking the information aboard, and for the first few seconds he obviously took it seriously. Then, you could see the realisation dawning on his face that perhaps I wasn't being entirely truthful.
“They didn't really have guns, did they?”
I shook my head. “For which we can both be profoundly grateful, Donald, for if they'd had I would not be here, and you would not be getting your questions answered.”
As soon as the words had left my mouth I knew they were the wrong thing to say. He looked hurt and it dawned on me that that was because he was thinking about me being shot. If I could have taken my idiot speech back I would have done so on the instant, but of course you can't, not ever.
“It's all right,” I said. “It's not as bad as it looks.”
“It looks pretty bad.”
“I'm sure it does but I've had worse when I was boxing.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe.” It was another stupid joke and I could see that it got him to worrying again and I didn't want that.
“What did you do last night?” I asked.
“I read some of Jack Sheppard to Rachel and then I waited up for you. Mrs Marshall put me to bed but once I heard her snoring I came and waited by the door.”
“Mrs Marshall doesn't snore. She's told me so herself.” That got a smile.
“She does too.”
“Does too what?” Mrs Marshall asked as she re-entered the sitting room carrying a tray full of tea things.
“Ears like an elephant,” I said. “She hears everything you say. Donald was just saying that you snore, Mrs Marshall. I was telling them that it was a damned lie.”
“Such language, Mr Brodie, and on a Sunday too.” She set the tray down on a table and stood there, hands on hips, turning her head slowly so that she could glare at each of us in turn. She looked for all the world like an old turtle poking its head out of its shell and looking around for trouble. “You set that boy a bad example. It's no wonder he reads those books.”
“Do me a favour, Mrs Marshall, and send out for Dr Davies, I think I would like him to take a look at me.” Donald looked worried again so I said, “It's nothing, I just want him to examine me to be on the safe side.”
“Just let me get my shawl, Mr Brodie, and I'll be on my way.”
After she was gone Donald and I sat and looked at each other while the clock ticked and the Sunday bells rang in the distance. They were just about the only cheerful thing that you could hear on a Sunday. It was the dullest of days, with only church to break the monotony, and we would not be going that Sunday with Rachel
sick and me looking like I'd done a hundred rounds with Cribb.
It wasn't long before Mrs Marshall returned half dragging the doctor with her. He looked a bit annoyed at having his Sunday breakfast interrupted but his annoyance vanished when he looked at me. “I can see that your servant wasn't exaggerating,” he said. “You look as if you’ve been trampled by a runaway coach.”
“I might feel better if I'd had been.”
“No doubt.” He turned to Donald and Mrs Marshall and said, “I'd be very obliged if you'd close the curtains and then leave the room. I would like to examine Mr Brodie in private.”
They did as they were told for when he was in this mood Dr Davies had a manner that Tom Barker might have envied. At least he didn't rant about the Irish, which was some consolation, although his hair seemed to bristle in a particularly alarming manner that morning.
“What happened?” he asked. I told him that I had been attacked but I did not tell him why. He stared at me, thin lipped and disapproving as a tee-total magistrate listening to a case of drunk and disorderly. He made me take off my shirt and prodded at my ribs. They were tender but the pain was not unbearable.
“Any blood when you urinate? When you cough?”
“No.” He was quiet for a long time as he poked and examined my bruises and when he finally spoke his voice was calm but it held an underlying anger.
“I am surprised at you, Mr Brodie. Brawling in the street like that.”
“I did not have much choice, doctor. The men attacked me. I did not attack them.”
“How long have we known each other, Mr Brodie?”
“Perhaps 10 years, doctor.”
“And how many times have I treated you for something like this?”
“Too many times.” He prodded me again causing me to draw breath sharply. I am convinced that he did it deliberately too.
“Quite, Mr Brodie. Now when you tell me that those men attacked you like that, I have the suspicion that it wasn't a simple case of drunken assault.”