The glow from the ones he’d just lit cast meagre shadows on the walls and Shanklin got a better look at the snoring drunk flopped on the sofa.
‘Well, you can never be too short of candles,’ he said. ‘But, as you guessed, that’s not why we’re here. Which one of you is Abraham Grave?’
The man extinguished the match with a flick of his thin wrist. ‘That would be me.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Shanklin said. ‘I didn’t fancy trying to wake up your friend.’
‘Oh, you could try,’ said Grave. ‘But I’m not sure he would know his own name even if you asked him.’
‘Which is?’
Grave watched the pair with caution, hesitating while he appeared to consider if he should answer. It seemed he rightly felt he had no choice. ‘Mr. Wormley,’ he said. ‘A dear friend. But I did not catch yours?’
‘Correct,’ Shanklin said. ‘Well, Mr. Grave, we’re not here to rob you but we are here to take what’s owed to our client, Mr. Ditchwater. Namely three months unpaid rent on a bootmaker’s shop you lease from him on Sun Street.’
‘Ah,’ Grave said, relaxing somewhat, his forefinger resting gently on his lips. ‘I have been meaning to speak with Mr. Ditchwater on this matter but—’
‘But you haven’t responded to his letters,’ said Shanklin. ‘And you don’t appear to be at the shop whenever he passes by, which is why he’s had to take the unfortunate step of sending us here, to ask you, in very simple terms, for full payment. Today.’
Grave’s finger hovered at his mouth. ‘Full payment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Or else?’
It was now Randall’s turn to introduce himself. ‘Or we remove items to the value of what’s owed,’ he said.
Grave frowned. ‘And if, as I have already stated, there are no valuable items kept in this house?’
Shanklin’s stare remained firmly fixed on his man. Now he’d found him, he wasn’t letting him out of sight. ‘Then we will remove other things, Mr Grave. Though I’m sure that a bootmaker needs all his fingers to continue making such fine boots. Y’see, I need to prove to my employer that I was actually here and if I go back to him all humble apologies and claiming that I did my very best but my best just ain’t good enough, then … well, what are the chances of him employing me again? Can you now understand my predicament?’
The bootmaker’s hand slowly disappeared behind his back where it joined the other. Yet despite the threat of chopping off fingers, Grave had developed the trace of a smile.
Now, contrary to what others might think of him, Shanklin considered himself a reasonable man, someone who would often give the benefit to certain people in certain situations. On extremely rare occasions he’d even left a premises empty-handed, on the good word of the debtor that they’d present everything they owed the following day. And, given his masterful powers of persuasion, he’d not yet had anyone go back on their word. But those jobs were few and far between and you had to catch him on a very good day for that to happen. Two minutes into this conversation and he was already seeing where it would lead for this unfortunate payee.
Grave slowly began unbuttoning his coat. ‘As I have already said, apart from a good supply of tallow, which I use to make candles, you will find little of value here and I am afraid that I simply do not keep that kind of money lying around. So it appears you have had a wasted journey, sir, and I can only apologise for that. Please tell Mr. Ditchwater that I’m sorry for the delay in paying him his rent, but business has not been so kind lately and my stock has … temporarily dwindled. Hence it has been a challenging time for me but you can assure our mutual friend that I am doing all I can to rectify the—’
Shanklin took a step forward and the look in his eye caused the bootmaker to swiftly fall silent. ‘I’m afraid your sob story ain’t gonna wash with Mr. Ditchwater,’ he said. ‘And it doesn’t wash with me either. So I’m going to ask you once more for the money that you owe. I won’t be leaving here without some form of payment and if that means strapping your incoherent fat friend to my horse and taking him back to London with me until you can cough up the full amount, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.’
Grave’s expressionless eyes flicked across to Randall who’d also edged in closer. Shanklin could tell that this was a man who understood what violence looked like. A man who’d seen the lows to which some can stoop in order to achieve their goals. If he’d stepped off of a slave ship then he was clearly accustomed to the kind of people who inflicted pain. He may have a moderate manner but he was no fool. The same couldn’t be said for his friend, asleep and oblivious to the danger all around him.
‘In that case, gentlemen,’ Grave said at last, ‘I am sure that we can come to an arrangement. I confess that I have been … hazy with the truth. Indeed this house does not contain anything that would approach the value of the rent I owe, but … my tannery does.’
‘Your tannery?’ Randall said. ‘Well, now we’re getting somewhere.’
‘Yes, I have several pairs of boots from my latest batch stored in the barn. I like to keep some in reserve, away from the shop. They are finished to an extremely high standard and, if you are amenable, then I can offer these as payment on the arrears, at least until I can scrape the money together?’
‘How many pairs?’ asked Shanklin.
‘I can assure you that just one pair of boots would cover the rent I owe,’ Grave said. ‘The leather itself is of the finest grain. Mr. Ditchwater shan’t be disappointed.’
‘You don’t speak for Mr. Ditchwater,’ Shanklin said. ‘I do. And I don’t have to ride all the way out here to take what you have sitting in your shop already. Ditchwater’s shop, might I remind you?’
Grave’s eyes glistened in the candlelight. ‘Sir, the finish on these boots is far superior to those which I have currently on sale in London.’
Shanklin looked sideways at Randall. Randall shrugged.
Acknowledging a level of risk came with each and every job, and Shanklin prided himself on being a good judge of character. He’d spent enough years looking men in the eye to know the difference between one who talked and one who’d shoot you in the face the first chance he could. Grave was no shooter, nor much of anything in regards to violence, though he may have been all too familiar with it. His manner was that of a respectable man. A life spent amongst people of quality.
‘Show us these boots then,’ Shanklin said, carefully releasing the hammer on his pistol.
‘Certainly,’ Grave said, making for the hallway.
‘Hang on,’ said Shanklin, raising a hand. ‘You’re not going down there alone.’
Grave smiled. ‘Sir, the smell is rather … overpowering for one unaccustomed to it.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Shanklin said. ‘But what’s a little piss between friends?’ His eyes were as narrow as needles. ‘I hunted high and low for you earlier, Mr. Grave, I won’t lose you again.’
‘Then by all means do follow, gentlemen,’ Grave said. ‘It would be a privilege to show you where I conduct most of my work.’
Randall’s shoulders sagged. ‘What about him?’ he asked, pointing to the unconscious Wormley.
Behind his spectacles, Grave’s eyes remained blank though his wan smile remained. ‘Oh, I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere,’ he said before leading them out towards the back door.
Shanklin glanced at Randall. ‘You can stay and keep an eye on the fat prick if you’re so concerned?’ he whispered. ‘Sing him a lullaby. Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own sick.’
‘I’d sooner sniff piss,’ said Randall as they made their way to the barn for the second time.
Amid the rain, Grave heaved the barn doors open, allowing insipid light to flood the tannery. The stench from within swept out towards the men like a wave.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Shanklin as he recoiled, burying his face in the crook of his arm.
‘A glorious smell!
’ Grave said, leading the reluctant pair inside.
Shafts of light spilled in, coming from a couple of small windows. Thin, white beams pierced the gloom through cracks and holes in the bricks and the roof and Shanklin felt like he was in a very big barrel that had been riddled with bullet holes. Barrels there were too: a dozen or so scattered about and clustered in black corners, full of ground oak bark used for tanning the leather. Sharp blades hung glinting on hooks. Hairless skins were strewn from timber struts high above them. A bit on the small side for cow hide, thought Shanklin, and trusted that their man used something a little lighter and less tough for his reputable footwear.
‘I’m surprised you’ve got any friends at all,’ said Randall, coughing from the stench. ‘Mr. Wormley must be dear to you indeed.’
Grave struck a match, lighting a lamp he’d picked from a shelf. ‘Be careful where you tread,’ he said over the clanking drone of the wheel fastened to the outside wall. ‘Tanneries can be dangerous places. The boots are at the other end of the barn, I’m afraid. It’s a little darker down there. I like to keep my stock out of sight from prying eyes. We may be miles from anyone out here but thieves are thieves wherever they may lurk.’
Shanklin considered that he knew a thing or two about thieving, grimacing as he stepped over a lump of rotting gristle.
‘Down here is where I also happen to store my best liquor,’ said Grave, ‘if you would care to join me for a drink before you head back? I like to keep a drop close to hand considering I spend so much of my time here. It saves the walk up to the house. Besides, it would be foolish to locate it in such close proximity to the likes of Mr. Wormley when he comes to visit me once in a while!’
Shanklin licked his dry lips despite the thick stench in the air. He was thirsty all right. Hadn’t had a drop since he’d left London and although his gut told him to take the boots and promptly leave his throat was telling him different. He also knew that Randall wasn’t one for knocking back a glass of something unless he was knocking it down his neck.
‘Aye, we’ll have a drink,’ Shanklin said. ‘One for the road home.’
‘Oh, you mean like the one they give you on the way to the gallows?’ mocked Randall as he weaved between two more drying frames, pale skins pulled tight across ’em.
‘Excellent,’ Grave said, navigating their path deeper into the barn. ‘I’m afraid I do not have anything quite as quenching as small beer, but—’
‘Whatever ya got will do,’ Shanklin said.
The droning of the water wheel grew louder the further they went into the cloaking darkness, Grave’s lamp guiding the way.
‘Are you familiar with the tanning process, gentlemen?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘As familiar as I want to be right now,’ Shanklin said, stepping past a strip of dark flesh lying on the blood-stained ground.
‘Well, it’s hardly changed since its beginnings,’ Grave said. ‘The wheel outside drives a machine which grinds up the oak bark and is then mixed with water to form a solution that acts as the tanning agent. The mixture should be kept agitated at all times, but it can prove difficult to do this. Until I have such funds to purchase an automated system, I employ someone to use an oar.’
Grave seemed a touch cheerful being as they were about to claim some of his stock, but Shanklin put that down to the passion the bootmaker clearly had for his work. That or the fumes messing with his mind.
‘Beware of the pits though,’ Grave said, stating the damn obvious. ‘There is another down here that is particularly deep. It contains the stronger bark solution. The skins spend nine months soaking in that, having first been in a weaker mixture for three months. If one of you was to fall in then, well … it could prove somewhat difficult to get you out. Not to mention the reception you would receive from your loved ones! If you made it out alive of course.’
‘Fucking place,’ muttered Randall, wiping his sleeve across his nose.
‘A lengthy and labour intensive process,’ added Grave. ‘But when performed correctly the result is an exquisitely soft and buttery hide.’
‘Like my Alice’s?’ Randall chuckled.
Shanklin ignored him. ‘Well I’ll give you my verdict on these fine boots of yours if we ever fucking get there!’
Grave suddenly stopped. ‘Do judge for yourself,’ he said, holding the lamp high.
Near a wall, several rows of polished boots neatly adorned the dusty floor. They were quality all right, and the thought struck Shanklin that he may have to return unannounced again in the near future, except he’d be wearing a peg on his nose next time. More tools of the tanning trade hung from the same wall. Pincers, pliers, hooks and other sharp instruments that he didn’t have names for. Blades for scraping away flesh, dull in comparison to the buckles on the boots which shone like mirrors and the sheen on the leather so bright it seemed untouched by the filth in this place.
Randall whistled. ‘That’s some fine footwear,’ he said. ‘I think you may have just bought yourself some time.’
‘I shall take that as a compliment,’ the bootmaker said as he carefully moved past a big, deep pit of stagnant, brown water scattered with fragments of bark. Oily-slick skins were floating in the stinking solution, no doubt more of them somewhere beneath the surface.
Grave placed the lantern down on a workbench upon which stood several bottles of alcohol and some glass tumblers.
‘So what would someone have to pay for a pair of these then?’ asked Shanklin, taking a closer look at the boots.
‘Let’s just say that one pair will easily cover the cost of the unpaid rent thus far,’ said Grave. ‘And you can assure Mr. Ditchwater that I shall be punctual with his money from now on.’
Shanklin nodded. ‘We’ll take two pairs then, just to be certain.’
Behind his spectacles, the bootmaker’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do not trust me, sir?’
‘Trust is something earned,’ Shanklin said. ‘It’s why, like you, Mr. Grave, I don’t have many friends. So how about that drink, now?’
There was a brief pause while their host seemed to calculate the loss. ‘Of course!’ he said, finally. ‘Whiskey? Gin? Or rum, perhaps?’
‘Whiskey,’ Shanklin replied. He reckoned on Randall being none too fussy either as he saw him gazing down at the soaking skins with an almost childlike curiosity. ‘Same for him.’
The bootmaker chose a bottle, glistening amber in the lamplight, popped the cork, turned his back and began pouring three glasses.
‘So your friend back there likes a drink too, eh?’ asked Shanklin.
Grave rejoined the men and handed them their drinks. ‘He enjoys himself a little too hard at times.’
‘Don’t we all?’ said Randall.
‘Whereas you prefer to drink in the comfort of your own surroundings?’ asked Shanklin, swirling the whiskey.
‘When enjoying the delights that London has to offer, sir,’ said Grave, ‘I prefer to remain sober and see that my friends are safe. When one is blind drunk, two eyes are better than none at all. And if you are referring to the somewhat untidy aspect of the house then I make no apology for that.’ The bootmaker raised his glass as though to toast. ‘If I had known you were coming then I’d have cleaned up,’ he said before sipping.
Shanklin watched him drink then consumed his own, savouring the burn that would momentarily fix his thirst. Randall followed suit, wasting no time in finishing his whiskey.
‘So, you do the whole lot yourself?’ asked Shanklin, glancing around. ‘From the shitty start to the fine finish.’
‘Indeed,’ Grave said. ‘I soak the skins. I do the fleshing, the scraping and the thinning. The braining and the smoking and the drying, and so forth. The British leather industry is extremely important for our Kingdom and I like to pride myself in setting an example. I am a man of … control, sir. Quality control, from the start of the process right through to the very end.’
It was then that Shanklin realised something was missing. ‘Where’s yo
ur lime pit?’ he asked. ‘I don’t see one. You got another barn hiding somewhere around here?’
The bootmaker’s smile became a wince as though he had something to be mildly ashamed of. ‘I find that lime is not needed to remove the hair from the hides. Soaking them in urine and faeces is quite adequate.’
Shanklin felt a little woozy then but it wasn’t the alcohol. His vision had blurred and his head swam and the bootmaker became two bootmakers. Then three, spinning before his watery eyes.
‘You see,’ Grave added, his voice sounding somewhat deeper now, ‘once left to soak for a few days, human hair is rather easy to scrape from the skin.’
A heavy thump to his left caused Shanklin to turn, wobbling, only to find that Randall was lying face down, dangerously close to the tanning pit, his empty glass rolling away and dropping into the solution with a plop. A pool of blood was forming around his head, leaking from a gash to his eye socket, while the eyeball itself rested on the ground, still attached and caked in grit.
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Mr. Grave. ‘That is most unfortunate! Your friend seems to have caught himself on one of the hooks as he fell. His eye has come clean out of his skull!’ He smiled. ‘What are the chances of that?’
Shanklin’s legs buckled and he dropped to his knees, the glass slipping from his hand and smashing. ‘Whaaa …?’
‘Laudanum,’ answered Grave. ‘Nothing fancy but it does the job. A marvellous substance with the power to incapacitate whilst keeping the subject semi-conscious.’
Shanklin reached inside his coat for his pistol, clumsily pulling it free of his belt and attempting to aim at his insane host. Except that now there were three crazy bastards swirling around in front of him.
He fired. A loud phoosh-crack! and a flash illuminating the barn but doing little more than adding another harmless hole somewhere in a wall.
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