The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  “No point trying not to. They’ll only send another and he’ll be just as easy to spot.” He paused and fixed Dan in his grim gaze. “They always are.”

  Broomhall announced, “I shall now give my report from the meeting of the executive committee on Thursday last.”

  This part of the proceedings took some time as several members rose to ask questions as the various items came up. By the time it was over, the room was hot and close, but no one opened the door for fear, Dan assumed, of eavesdroppers lurking on the stairs. The same caution prevented opening the windows, and it was not surprising to see one or two heads lolling during the tything man’s talk. Nor was the heat the only explanation for the slumber that stole over the gathering. Wheeler stayed awake to note down the particulars of the speech, which Dan considered quite an achievement on the spy’s part.

  The meeting ended with a song which had Spy Wheeler’s pencil racing across the page: “But cease ye fleecing senators / Your country to undo / Or know we British Sans Culottes / Hereafter may fleece you.” Dan, who did not take it too seriously, enjoyed the sing-song.

  In the hubbub as the room emptied, Broomhall caught up with him.

  “What did you think of the meeting?” he asked.

  “A lot of talking. Can’t say I understood half of it.”

  Broomhall laughed. “That wasn’t one of our best speakers – no one ever understands a word he says. I hope you will give us another chance and come to the next meeting.”

  “I think I will.”

  “Good…I won’t walk back with you. I have one or two things to clear up here first. Goodnight, Mr Bright.”

  They shook hands and Dan moved towards the door. He hung back in the shadows on the landing while the men in front of him clacked down the stairs and vanished into the dark alley below. When they had all gone, he crept back and, keeping out of sight, looked into the room. Broomhall and Metcalf were in a private confab by the table, Simmons standing sentinel close by. The only way in was the door Dan had just passed through, so there was no chance of sneaking back to listen.

  He put on his hat, moved quietly down the stairs and took up position at the end of the alley. Twenty minutes later the three men came down. When they parted with Simmons, Dan let him go and stayed with Broomhall and Metcalf. They led him to Broomhall’s shop on Borough High Street. Broomhall went inside and Dan heard him slide the bolts across his door. It did not look as if he was going out again that night, so Dan shadowed Metcalf on the off-chance he was up to something of interest.

  It seemed that radicals kept more regular hours than the villains Dan usually had to deal with. He watched Metcalf let himself into a lodging house on Joyners Street, noted the address and made his way back to Tooley Street and his own bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Monday evening Dan went back over the river and headed for his appointment with Sir William Addington. Not that he had much to report. Since the London Corresponding Society meeting in Maze Pond he had kept a close watch on Broomhall. Borough High Street was well provided with inns and eating houses, which had given him a good excuse to dawdle in the vicinity of Broomhall’s shop during the daytime, and after dark there were plenty of shadows in doorways, passages or alleys to hide in.

  He had seen precisely nothing. Broomhall never went to the warehouse on Horsleydown and Dawson never came to the shop, though Metcalf was there every day at different times. Sometimes he stayed an hour or more, sometimes only a few minutes. Dan had so far failed to discover how Broomhall and Dawson were connected. If there was a link, it was possible that Broomhall used a go-between to maintain it. Perhaps Metcalf was running back and forth with messages. Or possibly they sent Simmons. Or someone else.

  Broomhall himself gave no sign of being involved in anything unlawful other than running political meetings that exceeded their legal quota. Perhaps, Dan thought, he should approach the question from another angle. There might be more benefit in watching the warehouse to see if any of Broomhall’s friends went there, linking him to Dawson that way.

  Occasionally ducking into an alley or passageway or stopping to look in a shop window to check that no one was following him – not that he had reason to think anyone was, but it always paid to be careful – Dan walked along Cheapside and turned into Butcher Hall Lane just after entering Newgate Street. Behind the iron gates of Christ’s Hospital the boys in their blue petticoats and yellow stockings filed out of the great hall on their way to their beds. From the opposite side of the road the clatter of dishes and hubbub of conversation floated out of Crish’s Beef Shop on waves of savoury smells. Bright light poured through the steaming windows; Dan crossed the road to avoid it.

  He crossed back to look for number five, which turned out to be the house next to Crish’s. An unlit carriage without any identifying insignia waited outside, the driver and footman standing guard beside it.

  A man in black breeches, boots and jacket, with the lower half of his face covered by a black silk scarf, opened the door of the house. With his hand on the pistol in his pocket, he scrutinised Dan before allowing him inside. Dan followed him into the unlit hall, beyond which he saw a dim light through the half-open door of a cold, disused kitchen. He caught the faint sound of a foot shifting: there was another man on watch at the rear of the house. Dan passed the silent bulk of a third guard on the landing.

  In the first floor room at the front of the house, Sir William Addington stood near the tiny hearth where a feeble fire burned. Another man sat on a rickety chair behind a rough and none too clean wooden table on which were a decanter and a couple of glasses. Dan, who had not expected to find Sir William in company, and certainly not such detested company, halted in surprise. It seemed that when Sir Richard Ford gave his approval to his colleague’s investigation, he had not meant to give him a free hand.

  “Come in, come in, don’t stand there gaping,” Sir William said irritably. “And shut the door behind you. Sir Richard Ford wants to hear your report.”

  “There isn’t much to report yet, sir. I’ve made contact with Broomhall, attended one meeting of Division Fourteen, and told Broomhall I’ll go to the next one. Broomhall comes over as friendly and open, but he’s cautious. He’s got my landlady, who also happens to be his lover, spying on me. That might be just because of his LCS activities; they are careful about who they let in.” Dan thought it best not to mention that he had won Broomhall over by his criticism of fat magistrates.

  “Tell me about the Divisional meeting,” Sir Richard said.

  “It wasn’t very interesting. They swore in a new member. Talked about their committee. Nothing very startling.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. All you have to do is tell me exactly what happened. Can you do that?”

  “I can, but –”

  “Can you do that, Officer?”

  Dan glanced at Sir William, who nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The smell of roast beef saturated the walls, forcing itself on Dan’s attention whenever there was a pause in the proceedings. The pauses were frequent as Sir Richard mulled over each piece of information before signalling that Dan could continue. Sir William preferred intelligence to be delivered rapidly and without straying from the point, but Ford wanted every detail: how many had been at the London Corresponding Society meeting; the substance of the speeches; who said what.

  “But you have your own spies to tell you all this,” Dan ended. “On which point, you should be aware that they know Wheeler is working for you.”

  “The man is an incompetent blunderer,” Sir Richard answered. “However, he will be a useful decoy now you are in place.”

  “I’m not there to spy for the Home Office.”

  “You’re there to gather information,” Ford retorted.

  “About Kean’s murder.”

  “That’s enough, Foster,” Sir William said. “No one’s forgotten
Officer Kean. But indeed, Sir Richard, it was my understanding that you did not want my officer trespassing on your jurisdiction.”

  “The situation has changed now that we can no longer trust Wheeler’s intelligence. At best, they will not talk about anything important in front of him; at worst, they will use him to feed us false information. Luckily, Foster is already well placed to take over from him.”

  “But I was sent to find Kean’s murderer,” Dan said.

  “I assume that it has not escaped even your notice that peace negotiations have broken down and we are still at war with France. The French are once more looking across the Channel, and their Dutch allies have amassed a fleet at the Texel. The threat of invasion is becoming very real again. The corresponding clubs, united societies and friends of liberty are all Frenchie lovers to a man. We can’t afford to leave these traitors unchecked in our midst at such a time.”

  “But you can’t take me off my case.”

  “Can’t I? And I suppose I can’t put you back in the foot patrol either.”

  “That you can’t,” Sir William said. “He’s under my command.”

  “And I have my authority directly from the Home Secretary.”

  “You have made sure we are all aware of it,” Sir William answered.

  He and Ford stared angrily at one another. After a moment, Ford said coldly, “I think you misapprehend me. There is no need to take Foster off the case. Far from it. I want him to stay where he is. But he is to seize on any opportunity to get close to Broomhall and his allies, and he will report on everything that passes while he is there. Unless you think that is beyond his ability.”

  “It’s not a question of ability,” Dan said. “I haven’t so far been able to connect Broomhall to Dawson and the body snatching, and I’m thinking a change of tactics would be worth trying – watching the warehouse instead of Broomhall’s shop. I can’t watch Broomhall and Dawson at the same time.”

  “The resurrectionists are not important,” Sir Richard said. “From now on your focus will be on the London Corresponding Society.”

  “But –”

  Sir William interrupted Dan. “I and my officers will, of course, do all we can to assist the Home Office. Your instructions will be carried out.”

  “Good.”

  Sir Richard Ford rose and without another word strode out of the room. He flung the door wide, the draught all but extinguishing the sickly fire. A few moments later the front door opened and closed and the guards bundled the magistrate into the coach waiting to whisk him back to Whitehall.

  “So now I’m one of Sir Richard Ford’s spies?” Dan demanded.

  “You’re whatever I tell you to be,” Sir William answered. “So just be glad I don’t decide to put you back in the foot patrol myself. And Foster?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Let’s have less argument in future.”

  Towards the end of Tuesday afternoon, Dan bought some savoury pies at a butcher’s stall on Borough High Street. Then he stopped a street trader pushing a barrow of old clothes. The man was black, thin and stooping, old before his time. Probably a servant turned out when he lost the youthful good looks that had made him a fashionable accessory for a lady’s carriage.

  “Have you anything to fit a boy, so big?” Dan asked, holding his hand at chest height.

  The barrowman sorted through the heap of ancient, patched garments. Dan chose some breeches and a shirt and jacket which were none too clean and had been well-worn. Anything better would turn the wearer into a target for robbers. He hesitated over a pair of shoes and decided against them, not being able to judge the size.

  Having completed his purchases, he headed through the busy streets towards London Bridge. A constant stream of goods poured in and out of the warehouses. Crates and barrels swung from pulleys above Dan’s head, nearly rumbled over his toes in over-burdened carts, or trundled across his path on wheelbarrows. The crashing and banging echoed from wall to wall, mingled with the workmen’s foul-mouthed banter and the horses’ ringing hooves and plaintive neighing.

  On the quay by the children’s hideout, Dan dug out an upturned crate and sat down to wait for them to return from a day of scavenging, begging and thieving. The smell of stale urine drifted from the nearby alleyway, mingled with the yeasty gusts borne on the wind from the massive vats of Thrale’s brewery. After a while he did not notice it. He watched the boats sliding up and down the river, the smaller skiffs and wherries dodging back and forth from the ocean-going vessels anchored in the middle of the stream. The wharf men going about their work cast curious glances at him, but no one disturbed him.

  Last evening Sir Richard Ford had decreed that he should shift the focus of his investigation to Broomhall’s political activities and away from Kean’s murder. Striding back to Tooley Street after their meeting, Dan had invented many uncomplimentary names for the magistrate who had thus reduced him to the level of a common informer like Wheeler. Going undercover to catch a murderer or thief was one thing, but he had never agreed to be a government spy. If he was to ensnare his fellow men, let it at least be because they had committed a crime.

  Sir William hadn’t been a lot of use, as usual. One mention of the Home Secretary and he had caved in to Sir Richard’s demands. Not with any good grace either, and he had taken his anger out on Dan. And now Dan was to spend more fruitless hours outside Broomhall’s shop although he thought there might be more to be gained by watching Dawson’s warehouse. It was not until he had crossed London Bridge, looked down at the dark quay and imagined the children sleeping in their den that it had struck him there was a way to do both.

  Dusk fell and the quayside quietened down. Doors banged shut, keys turned in locks, tired men and horses plodded back to bed and stall, boats were secured for the night. A rat ran over Dan’s shoe; he flicked it away. It righted itself and scuttled off, sniffing at the ground as it went, on the lookout for edible spills: grain intended for the flour mills; leather for the tanneries; bones for the glue makers.

  A ragged, barefoot girl emerged from the alleyway, a hunk of dirty bread clutched in her fingers. The lights had not been lit on London Bridge and she did not see him in the gloaming as she crept into the den. A few moments later another girl arrived. After a little while Dan spied the skinny, filthy figure he was waiting for. He stood up. Behind him one of the lamps on the Bridge flared into life.

  “Nick!”

  The boy stopped in his tracks, slewed round on tiptoe, ready for flight.

  “Remember me?”

  The boy stepped forward cautiously. “Mr Bright.”

  “I got you these.”

  Nick glanced at the bundle of clothes over Dan’s arm, sniffed at the meaty smell rising from the bag of pies. Dan held one out. Nick snatched it and tore a bite out of it.

  “I’ve got another job for you, if you want it.”

  “What?” mumbled Nick, pastry cascading out of his mouth.

  “There’s a warehouse next to the cooper’s yard on Horsleydown. I want you to keep an eye on it. There’s a ruined house by it, you should be able to sleep safely there. I’ll show you when you’ve finished eating.”

  Nick looked at the bag; he had not finished yet. Dan handed him another pie. The boy’s hunger was not satisfied until his belly was stretched round and taut beneath his thin rags. Not a healthy way to eat, but when good, clean food rarely passed your lips, the only way. He shoved his last pie into his shirt.

  “It’s for Ann.”

  Dan gave him the bag. “Enough there for all of you. But business first. Come on.”

  It was Nick who led the way, though. The boy had a keen instinct for not being seen, and he knew the dark byways of the district. Amidst the ruins of the tumbledown house, Dan explained what was wanted. Nick was to keep watch at night, when the gang would be active, and report anything he saw.

  “They’re r
esurrection men, Nick. Do you know what that means?”

  The boy shuddered. “Course. Is that your line too?”

  “I’m in lots of lines. Let’s just say they’re in my way. Will you do it?”

  “Can I bring Ann here?”

  “You can bring who you like. Just make sure none of you are seen.”

  “Tain’t very likely.”

  “I know. Meet me on the wharf same time tomorrow. Here.” Dan dumped the clothes over the boy’s arm. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  When he reached the empty doorway, Dan paused and looked back. Nick stood where he had left him, his spoils clutched to his chest, his mottled face a mixture of wonder and yearning. What vistas the interest of a well-dressed and generous man opened up to someone in his situation! Glimpses of another life where there was enough to eat, to wear, somewhere safe to sleep. Then the boy’s habitual mask of pinched cunning descended. He turned, hunched his shoulders and pattered away into the rubble.

  Dan tried to shake the image out of his mind. He could not afford to raise the boy’s expectations. It would make Nick careless, forget to look out for himself on the street. You couldn’t afford to dream or hope, not when you had to survive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dan left Nick and walked towards his lodgings. He had not gone very far along Tooley Street when he saw Chambers’s eldest daughter, Evelyn, in front of him. He almost did not recognise her: she was nothing like the miserable girl who drooped over her work in the back room at the shop. Taking advantage of her freedom, she browsed in brightly-lit shop windows; lingered at smoking braziers spitting roast chestnuts; laughed at the blandishments of the stallholders who wanted her to buy their wares.

  He watched her go into a stationer’s and, curious about the alteration in her, stopped to peer in through the window. She stood at the counter where a young man showed her a box of watercolour tablets. With hardly a glance at them, she sealed the purchase with an impatient nod. The man reached beneath the counter and brought out a sheet of wrapping paper. With a teasing flourish, he produced two letters he had hidden in its folds and slid them along the counter. Evelyn laughed and snatched them up.