Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  Abe laughed. “Bloodie Bones killed him.”

  “And three cheers for Bloodie Bones!” Walter added fervently.

  Dunnage silenced the youngsters with a look. “I’ve no idea who else was in the wood the night Castle got done, but we were nowhere near him. Take the gun.”

  Dan shrugged and did as he was told. If they did nothing else in the woods that night, they had already committed a capital offence. Under the Black Act, anyone who went armed and disguised into the forests could be hanged, even if he had not fired a shot or taken so much as a rabbit. Another instance of a law that was so harsh it defeated its own purpose, for many juries were unwilling to convict under such a blood-thirsty act.

  They refilled and drained their glasses. Dan had managed to keep his full from the first round, and Walter only drank half of his. They muffled their faces. Dunnage and Abe each shouldered a bundle. The dogs leapt to their feet as if they had never known what sleep was, quivering and keen to be out. Dunnage banked the fire and extinguished the candles. They set off, but not by moonlight as in the oath. It was a dark night, friendlier to thieves of any stamp, in city or country. The wind rose and clouds ran across the sky, bringing the promise of rain. They travelled in single file, keeping in the shadows, dodging from tree to tree, crouching low alongside walls and hedges.

  So it was done, Dan thought. He had identified the poachers, and all that remained for him to do was arrange the arrests. Everyone would be pleased: Sir William, Lord Oldfield, even Garvey would have to admit the thing had been carried off efficiently. It would be smiles and handshakes all round, and then he could go back to London, and Eleanor – except that when Dunnage denied they’d had anything to do with Castle’s murder it had sounded like the truth. It would have been easier and safer to say they were not in the forest at all the night Castle died. Hard to be sure, though. Dunnage might be a skilful liar. Or perhaps he thought it was true. One of the gang could have slipped away and killed Castle without the others knowing, or sneaked back into the woods after they had finished.

  They had reached the ruins of Budd’s cottage. There was a man with a grievance. Then there were the Tolleys, unlikely though they seemed. And Caleb Witt, who wanted what Castle had had: the job, the cottage, the pay.

  Dan would not be going home just yet. He hitched his collar higher. Too late. The rain had already dripped from the leaves and down his neck.

  They stopped to listen and, hearing nothing but the steady whisper of light rainfall, nocturnal animals, rustling leaves and creaking trees, hopped over the fence into the wood. Abe, who knew where there was a covey of partridges, took the lead. They stayed close to the fence, the dogs circling ahead. Dan thought they would move like the Red Indians in the American forests, but no one took any particular care to avoid treading on twigs or blundering into trees, though if they spoke they did keep their voices low.

  They stopped on the edge of a field. Dunnage hissed a command and the dogs lay down, taut and ready to spring.

  “Wide or narrow net?” Dunnage whispered to Abe.

  “Narrow. I know the exact spot they are roosting.”

  Dunnage pulled a net from his pack. “Walter, you take the rear.”

  “What do I do?” Walter asked.

  Abe sneered. “Don’t you know that?”

  “Everyone’s got to learn,” Dunnage said. “Walter will do it…You just have to make sure the net doesn’t catch on anything.”

  Dan waited with Travell and Singleton while the other three crept out onto the grass. Abe and Dunnage pulled the net after them, keeping it three or four feet above ground. Walter walked behind, twitching it now and again if it looked like snagging anywhere. One minute there was nothing but grass, the next there was a whirr and scuttle and the ground was alive with brown feathers. They let go of the net over the startled birds. All that remained was to wring their necks and drop them into their bags, which was quickly done. This was a part of the business Dan did not much like. There was nothing sporting in it, for the panicked fowl were helpless.

  “A good haul,” Travell said. “Should fetch fifteen shillings a brace.”

  Walter’s teeth flashed in a white grin. “And give His Lordship a nice shock when he finds his covey gone.”

  The rain was falling harder when they set off for home, the pattering covering any noise they made. The conditions were ideal for creeping about the woods – and not only for them. They had been walking for about twenty minutes when a beam of light shot across their path. It was extinguished immediately, but not before the lantern-bearer had seen them. There was the unmistakable sound of flintlocks being cocked.

  “Drop your guns!”

  Chapter Seven

  The voice came from a short, bulky silhouette which Dan guessed was Caleb Witt’s. He was flanked by the underkeepers, Dick Ford and George Potter. Their white cravats gleamed faintly in the dark, the marks distinguishing them from the raiders’ chalked stars.

  The first thing Dan did was throw his gun aside. Dunnage flicked his hand at his dogs, and the well-trained animals flung themselves at the keepers. One raced between Ford’s legs and knocked him flying. His gun fell out of his hand without going off, and Singleton jumped in on top of him.

  The other dog fastened its jaws around Potter’s arm. It was lucky for the keeper that he wore a thick coat. His gun fired harmlessly into the sky, the dog’s fangs gleaming in the flash. He shook the animal off, but it came snarling back. Abe dropped the sacks of poultry, and he and Dunnage closed in on Potter as he struggled to kick the dog away. Travell snatched up the haul and retreated to the edge of the clearing.

  That left Witt for Dan and Walter, but it was not Witt Dan went for. It was Walter, who had his gun pointed at Witt’s chest. Dan lunged at him and knocked the weapon out of his grasp. It went off, and for a few seconds Dan was blind and deaf. When he could see again Walter’s enraged face loomed in front of him, and Witt was charging towards them. Dan shoved the boy out of the way, ducked, and met the big man with a head butt. He hit Witt square in the chest, feeling rather than hearing the ‘oof’ as the air rushed from the keeper’s lungs. They crashed to the ground. Dan straddled Witt and did the only thing possible. He knocked him out cold.

  He looked round to see how the others were doing. Dunnage and Abe were running, leaving Potter on his hands and knees with blood streaming from his nose. Ford lay motionless on his back while Singleton pounded him with fist and boot. Dan got up and dragged Singleton off, the blacksmith aiming a last, needless kick at the unconscious man. Dan picked up Walter’s gun, grabbed his own, and hustled the lad out of the clearing. Travell was already well away.

  They stopped to draw breath at a lonely spot on the heath. They stood doubled up, panting, listening for the sounds of pursuit. Either no one had heard the shots, or those who had were not the sort to trouble themselves about it.

  Abe wiped the sweat from his face. “That was a good do!”

  Then they were all laughing, back-slapping, boasting about the battle in the wood. Not to seem odd man out, Dan crowed about knocking out Witt. He flung back his head and guffawed, but he still saw Walter coming. He sidestepped the youth, twisted him round, and pinned his arms to his sides.

  “What’s all this?” Dunnage demanded.

  Walter struggled in Dan’s grip. “I had a clear shot at Witt and he stopped me. Whose side is he on?”

  “I’m on ours, you bloody young fool,” Dan said. “Or do you want us all to swing for murder?”

  “We’d hang anyway,” Walter retorted.

  “You shoot a man at point-blank range when there’s no need for it and it’s a certainty.” Dan let him go.

  “Bastards deserve it.” Walter went for Dan again, but Dunnage hauled him back.

  “That’s enough,” the farmer said.

  “Hold on,” Abe said. “Walt has a point. Why should he care what happens
to a gamekeeper? And who is he anyway? No one in Barcombe had met him until a few days ago.”

  Travell twitched nervously. “That’s right, isn’t it? No one had met him.”

  Dunnage looked at Singleton. It was Singleton who had introduced Dan to Warneford and got him into the gang, but it was Dunnage’s lead the others would follow. If Singleton could not reassure the farmer, Dan was in trouble. Singleton was the key to getting out of this in one piece.

  He rounded on the blacksmith. “What is this? You told me these men were all right, and the next thing I know they’re accusing me of Christ knows what. If you think I’m going to put my head in a noose because of some stupid boy, you can think again. Damn the lot of you. I’m off.”

  He thrust the gun into Singleton’s startled grasp, spun on his heel, and strode away. One step, two, three…how many guns on his back? No one moved. No one called him back.

  “Dan!” Singleton’s voice.

  He must not give in too easily. He raised his hand in a dismissive gesture and kept going.

  “No, wait!” Singleton cried. Dan stopped and turned. “Dan’s right. Walter had no right to put the rest of us in danger. We’re not here to settle scores.” It sounded odd coming from the man who had just given Ford such a pounding.

  Dunnage nodded. “They were outnumbered. There was no need to fire and make a bad case worse.”

  Dan walked back and said huffily, “That’s what I said.”

  “There’s no need to take stupid risks,” said Travell who, true to his own advice, had kept clear of the fight.

  “All right,” said Dunnage, “let’s get a move on. We got a good haul and that’s what we came for. And no one’s going to hang, not if you remember what we agreed.”

  “But – ”

  “Stow it, Walter,” Singleton said.

  Abe jabbed his finger at Dan. “I say we can’t trust him.”

  “He’s taken the oath, hasn’t he?” Dunnage said. “So let’s have no more of it.” He gave his orders. “Walter, you cut off home. You’re sure your mother doesn’t know you’re out?”

  “Course,” the youth muttered sullenly.

  Abe, seeing that Walter had given up the attack on Dan, vented his anger with a contemptuous “Your mother!”

  Walter shot a furious glance at him, but before another quarrel could get going, Dunnage told him, “Dust off your hat and wipe that stuff off your face. Now go…Dan and Singleton, you were leaving the Fox and Badger when Jem Cox discovered his horse had thrown a shoe. You did a temporary fix so he could get home. Buller heard you at work, and Jem will be back in the morning when the forge is up and running to have a permanent shoe fitted. Travell…”

  “I went to Bath on business and spent the night at a friend’s house. He’ll back me up.”

  “And me and Abe were over at Farmer Hippisley’s wetting his grandson’s head. Singleton?”

  Singleton stepped up, and Abe and Travell handed him the sacks in what was obviously their usual routine, except that this time the blacksmith had Dan to share the load. Abe and Dunnage collected up the guns and the group separated.

  “Friendly lot,” Dan said, still acting the aggrieved part.

  “Just careful,” Singleton answered. “No harm meant.” After a moment, he added, “No one has ever broken the oath, but if he did…it’s not just words.”

  Dan stopped dead and flung out his arms, palms open. Singleton skidded to a halt. They stood facing one another.

  “Say what you mean, Singleton. If you want me out, I’m out. It’s no skin off my nose whether I stay in Barcombe or not.”

  An owl hooted. Something flitted in the dark above their heads. Singleton shifted the load on his back and started walking again. “You coming?”

  When they had gone a few paces, Dan said conversationally, to show all was forgiven, “Where are we taking the birds?”

  “Fox and Badger.”

  “What happens to them then?”

  “Sam Bryer, the Bristol carrier, delivers them to Warneford tomorrow.”

  “Does he know what he’s carrying?”

  “Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. We never speak of it in so many words.”

  They were close to the church now, and continued in silence until they reached the forge gate. Singleton took the sacks from Dan and told him to go in. Dan climbed over the gate and paused, one hand resting on the top bar. He heard a soft rap on an un-shuttered window. It opened immediately; Buller was waiting up. If he and Singleton spoke it was in whispers, and Dan did not hear their voices. After a moment the window closed with a soft snick. Dan sprinted across the yard and got into the forge before Singleton appeared.

  Dan was tired when he lay down, but he could not sleep. He was still tense from the confrontation. He wondered what Walter was doing with the gang. Abe belonged there, but not a lad like Walter: steady at his trade, not used to drinking, filling his spare time with something other than the Fox and Badger. Yet he had been the only one desperate enough to point a gun, and while the others were not men of peace, they had baulked at murder – which lent more credibility to Dunnage’s claim that Castle’s death was nothing to do with their poaching activities.

  “We’re not here to settle scores,” Singleton had said. Did Walter have a score to settle with the keepers, and if so, had Josh Castle died for it?

  Whatever was eating at Walter, Dan needed to find out what it was and if it was enough to drive him to murder.

  *

  Dan was filling the bucket at the pump in the morning when he saw Sam Bryer loading his wagon outside the Fox and Badger. Sam was a whistling, open-faced young man with blue eyes and curling golden hair. A girl sat next to the driver’s seat, fiddling with her hair ribbons. When he had loaded the baskets, crates and boxes – a score of Lord Oldfield’s birds among them – he climbed up beside her and put his hand around her waist. She wriggled up close to him.

  “Cottom’s girl,” said Mrs Singleton, stopping halfway across the yard with a basket of washing in her arms. “Her father’s the rat-catcher, when he’s sober. Who can blame her for going with Sam, with such a wastrel for a father and no mother or sisters to care for her? She was sweet on Abe once, but he’s always up at the Hall now, sniffing around Sal.”

  Before long, Dan had the girl’s life history. Her future he could guess. He hoped for her sake Sam was the marrying kind.

  Singleton appeared in the forge doorway. “Stop your maundering, woman. And where’s that water?”

  She sniffed and went into the house. Dan hurried back with the pail. He had been promoted to striker, which meant that while Singleton cut a heavy bar with a hammer, he pounded it with a sledge. The strength in his shoulders made him good at the task.

  Jem Cox turned up to have his horse shod, replacing a perfectly good shoe with a new one. Dan did not see any money exchange hands, though no doubt Cox and others like him got some reward for providing the poachers’ alibis – probably something with fur or feathers. Perhaps keeping the silence itself was its own reward. Lord Oldfield had said every countryman was a poacher if he got the chance. Why would he peach on his own kind?

  And as Dan discovered at the Fox and Badger that evening, the bolder the poacher, the more esteemed he was. Sam Ayres and Drake stayed away. Whether this was deliberate or not, Dan did not know. He had only seen Ayres there on the day of the fight, and Drake did not come in every night. But he did not imagine either man wished to be in the Fox and Badger the night after a poaching raid.

  Dunnage was not there either. He preferred to drink at home in the gloom of his kitchen. Nor was Walter. But Dan, Singleton, Abe and Travell were treated as if they had performed some marvellous feat fighting six against three (counting the shopkeeper, which Dan did since he’d had a gun), and leaving one man so badly beaten he might be lame for the rest of his life. The man’s suffering did not soften th
e people of Barcombe. As they saw it, it might easily be one of them lying injured, and there would be no comfortable bed, no physician, no pension from Lord Oldfield for their families.

  In between pouring jugs of ale, tapping barrels, and slamming tankards on tables, Buller reported that he had seen Dr Russell earlier in the day and learned that Dick Ford had two broken ribs and a smashed kneecap, and there was no way of knowing what damage had been done to his insides.

  “That’s proud Ford – now peg-leg Ford!” yelled some wag, to gusts of laughter.

  Travell called it striking a blow for English liberties. Everyone cheered and Jem Cox started to sing. Though an ugly, dirty man, he had a surprisingly fine voice and he did not forget a word.

  When I was bound apprentice

  In famous Somersetshire

  I served my master truly

  For nearly seven year,

  Till I took up to poaching

  As you shall quickly hear

  For ’twas my delight of a shiny night

  In the season of the year.

  They all took up the chorus, and had belted out several more verses when the door opened and in stepped Caleb Witt.

  Dan had seen the same thing in a score of London taverns. He would walk into a room, and for a couple of heartbeats there would be dead silence. Then it would break with a noise that almost blew him back into the street, everyone talking and laughing, the smokers puffing on their pipes, the drinkers quaffing their ale, the whores wriggling in men’s laps. They all knew who he was, though they all pretended not to. And either none of them had heard of the man he was after or his crimes, or they could all swear he was somewhere else at the time.

  By the time Witt had fastened the door, the villagers were engrossed in their cards and dominoes, their beer and baccy, their chat about dogs and horses. There was even a smattering of “Good evening, Caleb” as Witt pushed his way to the bar and placed one large, red fist on the counter. Dan doubted the gamekeeper had missed the momentary pause, or that he was fooled by the innocent bustle.