The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  The Falcon’s fat landlord hurriedly attended to the order. Dan picked up his glass and followed the others to a table against the far wall. The landlord placed a glass, jug and spoon in front of Hardyman and lumbered away.

  Dan took a sip of his ginger beer. “Delicious. Want some, Packer?”

  Packer scowled. “You shit sack.” A look from Hardyman silenced him.

  “What have you got for me?” asked Dan.

  Hardyman splashed a small drop of hot water into his brandy and swigged a mouthful.

  “No one in the business has ever heard of the men you arrested – Reynolds and Wallace. But I was right about a new gang. It’s being run by Tom Dawson out of Southwark. Dawson used to work in the dissecting room at Josh Brookes’s nattomy school in Blenheim Street. He’s been supplying Brookes with cheap Things. Looks like he had some surplus to dispose of.”

  So Reynolds and Wallace were just a couple of flats who had been taken in by a stranger offering them dubious means to make money. A score of such transactions were made every day in the Black Raven; it was a veritable exchange for petty criminals. The so-called porter who had entangled them must be a member of Dawson’s gang.

  Hardyman took another mouthful of spirit. “Reckon we’d better send the good surgeon a little token reminding him of our agreement. Something nice and ripe.”

  “Be better still if it had the smallpox,” Packer said.

  Leaving putrid bodies outside the premises of anatomists who had bought corpses from a competitor was an old trick of the resurrection men. Brookes would get a nasty message, but Dan had no pity to spare for men like him who encouraged the plunder of graves, to the distress of the deceased’s relatives and friends.

  “Did Dawson kill Kean?”

  Hardyman swilled the dregs of his drink around the glass. “Dawson’s not a killer, but he’d know all about how to dispose of – or preserve, if you had a mind to it – a corpse.”

  “So where can I find him?”

  “He has a store house back of St John’s on Horsleydown, next to the cooper’s yard. And that’s all I know and all you’re to know from me. In return, you said you’d get rid of him for me.”

  “I said maybe. If what you’ve given me is useful he won’t be left alone, and that’s as much as I’ll say.” Dan stood up and walked to the door.

  Hardyman called after him, “If you don’t get rid of Dawson, I’ll cross the river and do it myself.”

  Dan turned back. “You’ll keep out of my way, Hardyman.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll see you at the rope’s end.”

  Hardyman met Dan’s eye. The resurrectionist’s gaze slewed away and he laughed.

  “You want to watch your back, Foster. Wouldn’t want any harm to come to you one of these dark nights.”

  “Sentiment’s the same here,” Dan said cheerfully.

  Dan crouched behind one of the headstones in St John’s churchyard on Horsleydown. He felt the reassuring shape of the pistol in his right pocket and the bit of candle and flint in the left. A black shape like an upright coffin stood amidst the graves. The rumbling snores of the dozing sentry came from within the narrow box. It was not much of a deterrent to a determined resurrection man.

  The moon, two nights past the full, hung bright in the sky. It was not a good night for grave robbers, even ones with a warehouse so conveniently close to a graveyard as Dawson’s. Not a good night for a Bow Street officer who did not want to be seen either, and Dan took care to keep to the shadows. Luckily those shadows rarely lifted from Southwark’s filthy streets and alleys.

  The cooper’s yard was opposite the church, identifiable by the stacks of barrels that towered above its wide wooden gates, which had been fastened for the night. A faint red glow marked the presence of the night watchman’s brazier, but no footsteps sounded to suggest that the man was doing his rounds. He was most likely huddled over his fire with a tot of something to keep out the damp.

  Dawson’s warehouse next to it was surrounded by a high wall. When Dan had waited about a quarter of an hour and all remained still, he judged it was safe to go in. Stooping between the headstones, he picked his way across the graveyard and vaulted down into the street. He checked the roadway was empty before he ran across to the warehouse gate. From the cooper’s he heard a dog’s chain clink.

  To avoid disturbing the animal, he followed the brick perimeter round to the side away from the cooper’s. A narrow strip of wasteland that had once been a garden flanked the warehouse. A derelict house stood amongst the weeds. Its roof had collapsed, bringing down the floors and rendering the ruin fit shelter only for rats and prowling cats.

  He found a crate amongst the heaps of litter and used it to give himself a lift up. At the top of the wall he lay flat, listening and looking. Satisfied there was no one inside, he dropped down onto an outhouse roof, and from there into the muddy yard.

  He circled the warehouse building. High and narrow, it had two floors. The main door was wide enough to admit wagons, but it and the wicket door were both secured and there were no windows on the ground floor. Windows at the back were too high to reach and too small to climb through.

  Drawing near to where he had started, he came to a flight of wooden stairs at the side of the building. They led up to a door that opened on to the upstairs offices. This too was securely locked. Dan did not dare kick it in and set the guard dog barking, but he noticed a warped, filthy window beside it which no longer fastened. Presumably Dawson had not bothered to have it repaired, thinking a man would have to fly to be able to get to it. It was not wings Dan needed, but he did have to lean out from the stairs at a perilous angle to reach the window. He hung on to the rail with one hand and struggled to work the rotten sash up with the other. His shoulder ached by the time the window shot open with a squeal of surrender.

  He pulled himself back onto the stairs and knelt by the railing. The unseen dog growled and uttered a half-hearted bark, which was silenced by the night watchman’s curses. Dan waited until the pair had settled down again before leaning over to grab the windowsill and swing himself across. It was hard work to pull himself up and through the window; would have been impossible were it not for the pull-ups he practised on the bar in the gymnasium. Even so, he lay on the floor inside for a few minutes to get his breath back and let his muscles recover from the effort. He pulled the window down in case someone should see it was open, but stopped it short by a couple of inches, wide enough to get his fingers under and quickly pull it up.

  By the time he stood up, his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. Not so his nostrils to the smell. The place smelt like an abattoir, a latrine and a distillery rolled into one. There was nothing in the room but balls of dust. He stepped into the corridor, pushed open doors as he walked along it. The other rooms were empty except for odd bits of furniture: a chair and table in one; an empty chest with a broken lock in another.

  Dan went back to the staircase in the middle of the corridor and looked down into the darkness beneath. A few moonbeams slanted feebly across the warehouse floor, casting pools of darkness around stacks of empty crates. He fished in his pocket for the candle. The flint took a while to strike, but at last he had it going.

  The flame flickered in the draught of his descent. He followed a broad gangway which ran between the crates from the main warehouse door. The floor was scuffed and covered in muddy boot-marks. There were signs that something heavy had been dragged along: the twin trails of what could have been a pair of heels.

  The trail ended at a door fastened by a large wooden bar between staples. Dan slid it back and swung the door open, releasing a concentration of foul smells. He pulled his scarf up around his nose and stepped into a long, windowless room. In the middle stood a butcher’s block over a drain which was the source of the worst of the odours. He crossed to the block and examined its surface by the candlelight. It
was much scored and stained, the wood damp and faintly greasy to the touch.

  He moved away and groped forward a few steps until the faint beam from his candle met bare wall. He followed the wall round, running his hand along the rough brickwork to guide his steps on the uneven stone floor. In one corner he came upon a pile of sacks, shovels and ropes: the tools of the grave digger’s trade. A large wooden box stood upon a nearby table. Inside was a collection of grave goods: small keepsakes such as a locket, a watch, a mould-stained Bible. Dan flipped open the locket, could just make out a miniature of a pale, nondescript youth. There was no ring matching the description of the one taken from Kean.

  He replaced the trinkets and continued his circuit of the room until he felt wood beneath his fingertips. Another door, presumably opening into a closet or storeroom, but this one was locked. He reached into his pocket for his pick locks, but as he did so the outer warehouse door opened and he heard footsteps and voices.

  He scrambled out of the room, closed the door and pushed the bar back into place. He snuffed his candle and dived behind a pile of crates as the first glow of a lantern reached him. Two men approached: a short, bulky one who carried the lantern and lit the way for a swaggering figure in a caped coat. The short man unbarred the door and held it open for his companion. The light shone on his face, revealing a broad, flat nose, little deep-set eyes, and a dark wart above his thick lips.

  Leaving the door ajar, he lit the candles on the table and brought them over to the butcher’s block while the other man stood by, his hat pushed back to reveal carroty hair shining red in the light. He had a narrow face; a thin, almost lipless mouth; pale eyes. He lounged against the block, took a flask from his pocket and swigged the contents.

  The other, meanwhile, unlocked the inner chamber door and disappeared from Dan’s sight. After crashing around for a minute or two, he emerged carrying a bucket which he lifted onto the block. Whatever was inside it rattled like nails. The red-haired man pocketed his flask and drew out a small canvas bag. He dipped his hand into the bucket, examined the objects he brought up on his open palm, and transferred them to the bag. He drew up another handful, picked something out, threw it on the floor and ground it with the heel of his boot.

  “Rotten,” he said. He drew tight the drawstring. “That’ll do. We don’t want to make Broomhall suspicious.”

  “How much do you think they’ll fetch, Mr Dawson?”

  Dawson shrugged. “Half a guinea apiece. Should keep you in cunny for a while, Capper.”

  The other grinned and carried the bucket back into the inner room. He locked the door, extinguished the candles, and after a last look round, the two men left. Dan waited until he heard the distant sound of the warehouse door being locked and bolted before leaving his hiding place. He relit his candle, went back into the room and knelt by the inner door, the candle on the floor beside him. He worked at the lock: a simple old-fashioned one, easy to pick. He opened the door and a gust of foul air streamed out, setting the candle’s flame trembling.

  It was another windowless chamber, but much smaller than the outer room. The air seemed to thicken and swirl as he moved inside. In the faint circle of light, he made out a line of pale shapes on the floor. Six bodies, one a child’s. Beside them stood Capper’s bucket, full of teeth. It was common practice for resurrection men to extract teeth from the corpses they stole and sell them separately to dentists, who turned them into false sets for those rich enough to afford them, and insensitive enough not to mind wearing a dead man’s dentures.

  Dawson and his friend had been dipping into the gang’s profits.

  So, what did it all mean? Dan asked himself later, when he was sitting in one of Covent Garden’s all-night coffee houses, ignoring the well-dressed drunks around him and sipping a surprisingly good coffee. There was not much more peace to be had at home. Caroline had been waiting up for him when he got back from Horsleydown. She had been bitter on the subject of having to play duenna to Ellis and Eleanor when Dan had not turned up at the theatre. It had been no use reminding her that his job often called him away at unsociable hours. He knew he was in the wrong; he could have gone to the warehouse after the play, or tomorrow night, or any other night.

  The truth was that he had forgotten about their theatre outing. All he could do was promise to go with her another evening, and throw in a supper beforehand at some expensive restaurant of her choice. When she eventually stopped crying and went to bed, his guilt drove him out of the house.

  He brought his mind to bear on the problem in hand. Dawson certainly had the facilities to dispose of Kean’s body, and it was likely that the warehouse was where it had been turned into a saleable commodity. But how had Kean fallen foul of the body snatcher and his crew? According to Hardyman, Dawson was no killer. So, he must have been disposing of the body for someone else. It would be a lucrative sideline.

  Or perhaps the killer had been in a position to order him to do it. That Dawson and his crony had been stealing from other members of the gang was not surprising. Such treachery was common enough amongst thieves. But if Dawson was the gang leader, why did he have to sneak around helping himself to his own haul? That was clear enough: there was someone above him. Could it be the Broomhall they had mentioned? Dan had not heard of him and Hardyman had not mentioned him, but someone who could strike fear into the heart of a nasty piece like Dawson must be some sort of criminal bigwig. Had Kean been interested in Broomhall?

  The next step had to be to find out who this mysterious Broomhall was.

  Chapter Eight

  In the morning Dan crossed London Bridge into Southwark again, and continued down Borough High Street. If anything, it was busier than a weekday as apprentices and workers took advantage of their leisure hours to drink, gamble, and torture small animals in the name of sport. Dan made his way through the Sunday crowds and turned right into Union Street, a small spur down to Red Cross Street, at the corner of which stood Union Hall Magistrates’ Office.

  He had already been to Bow Street to check through the files of known or suspected felons and found no mention of anyone called Broomhall. That in itself might not mean anything; it could be an unknown alias. He waylaid Lavender on his way up to Sir William’s room with an armful of papers and asked him if he had ever heard Kean mention Broomhall. The harassed clerk answered that no, he had not, and he was surprised that Dan should think that Kean or any of the officers ever confided important information to him.

  If the man was not known in Bow Street, it might be that someone in Southwark had heard of him. Union Hall lobby was crowded with Saturday night’s arrests waiting to have their details recorded. They were a drink-sodden collection of men and women, many bearing outward signs of their debauchery in red eyes, trembling limbs, and cuts and bruises sustained from fights or falls. They stepped sullenly aside to let Dan through to the desk.

  The constable looked up from his ledger, ready to bawl instructions at another hapless criminal, and recognised Dan.

  “Good day, Officer –”

  Dan interrupted before the constable shouted his name across the room. “I’m looking for Reeves. Do you know where I might find him?”

  “You’re in luck. He’s just come in. Go through.”

  Dan went into the clerks’ room where a couple of patrolmen, their night duties over, sat waiting to summon the energy to go home. Through heavy-lidded eyes they were watching the performance of a short, wiry man with a broad mouth and sharp eyes beneath thick eyebrows and a shock of black hair. He sat on a chair in front of them, flapping an imaginary fan and fluttering his eyelashes.

  “ ‘Oh, sir, I never heard of no Jack O’Shea,’ ” he lisped in a high voice. “And all the time I could see his foot poking out from beneath her petticoats and Bill behind me was nearly bursting with trying not to laugh. So I said, ‘Well, me dear, if you see him, you’ll tell him that Officer Reeves is looking for him.’ And she said, �
��Oh, I’m not likely to see him.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘but you’re feeling him right enough!’ And with that, I lifted her skirt and there was the big booby on his hands and knees, almost suffocating between her thighs, and she falls back in a swoon crying, ‘La, la! Murder! Save me! Save me!’ Aye,” Reeves said philosophically as the laughing patrolmen stood up to take their leave, “that pair are of one mind all right. Shame it’s such a dim one.”

  Dan clapped his hands. “Bravo! You should be on the stage.”

  Reeves twisted round in his chair and grinned up at him. “Dan Foster! Don’t often see you Bow Street boys down in the backwoods.”

  Dan held out his hand. “How are you, Reeves?”

  “Well enough. So what’s the reason for this royal visitation?”

  “I’m looking for information. Just between you and me.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “Have you heard of a man called Broomhall?”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “His name came up in a case I’m working on.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing so far as I know. I’d just like to know who he is.”

  “I do know of a Broomhall, as a matter of fact. Edward Broomhall, one of your parliamentary reformers, though I’ve never known him do more than jaw about it. Runs Division Fourteen of the London Corresponding Society here in Southwark. Calls himself President. They hold their meetings in the Boatswain and Call.”

  “Boatswain and Call?”

  “Have you heard of it?”

  “No. Where does Broomhall live?”

  “Has a watchmaking business on Borough High Street.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “God’s gift. That’s what he thinks, anyway. Do you want me to keep an eye on him?”

  “No.” Dan put on his hat. “Thanks, Reeves.”