The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  This bodes ill, Dan thought. A clandestine love affair, and with what manner of man? The sort who could not or would not openly declare his love, who separated a girl from her parents, who taught her deception. Like white roses on a midden heap, Broomhall had called the Chambers girls. Evelyn was probably no better able to handle the situation than the most sheltered girl in the highest social circles.

  While the assistant wrapped her purchase, his eyes straying constantly to her face, she opened the first letter and scanned it quickly. Her shoulders sagged; she folded it and put it in her pocket. The young man frowned in earnest sympathy. Generous in his love for her, Dan thought, for love it clearly was, yet he was willing to play postman for her and her lover.

  Less eagerly, expecting only further disappointment, she opened the second letter. She read it once, twice, a third time, then threw her arms around the young man’s neck – he had to lean over the counter to facilitate the manoeuvre. Carefully, she put it in her pocket and turned to leave. The young man called her back and handed her the parcel. She laughed at her forgetfulness, and danced out of the shop.

  Dan raised his hat. “Good news, Miss Chambers?”

  She gasped. “News? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you following me?”

  “I wasn’t. I saw you go into the shop.”

  “I’ve been buying watercolours. If you don’t mind, I must get home. Mother is waiting for them.”

  She tried to push past him but he blocked her path. “How do you know you can trust him?”

  “Trust who?”

  “Your lover.”

  “I haven’t got a lover.”

  He smiled. “Come, Miss Chambers, I’ve just seen you jump for joy over a love letter.”

  “A love letter? Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

  “If it’s not a lover, what then?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “It might be your father’s business.”

  He had hit a soft spot. “It’s to help Father,” she protested.

  “A man he does not know secretly carrying on with his daughter will help him?”

  “There is no man, I tell you!”

  “So if your father finds out about those letters, there’s nothing for him to worry about?”

  “I’ve been offered a situation as a governess and I’m going to accept and I’m going to save all my money and when I have enough I’ll find a home for us far away from her. Satisfied now?” She brushed away an angry tear. “Let me go. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

  “They’ll have more to wonder about when you run off to your new employers. When are you going to tell them?”

  “I can’t tell them. They won’t let me go if I do.”

  “So it’s to be a note on the mantelpiece and a midnight flit?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “I don’t know unless you tell me. But look, Miss Chambers, we can’t talk here. There’s a pastry shop over the road. Why don’t we go in there for some tea?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I want to help you.”

  “Does that mean you won’t say anything to Father?”

  “If you can convince me you know what you’re doing, I won’t say anything.”

  He held out his arm. She gave in, put her hand on his sleeve and let him lead her across the busy street. It was not one of London’s finest establishments, but it was cheerfully lit by candles and wall sconces. The tea was not bad and it came with a plate of little cakes. Evelyn cheered up at the novelty of being out with a male companion, even if he was only the lodger, and was soon nibbling at the sweets.

  “So,” he said, “tell me why you want to go and work for strangers when there’s a place for you in the family business.”

  “Family business! We had a family business once. Everyone came to our bookshop. Mr Godwin, Mr Thelwall, Mrs Wollstonecraft. She had to find work as a governess too, you know. And when I’ve got some experience and saved enough money, I’m going to follow her example and open a school for girls. I’m going to employ someone to teach them Latin and Greek, and they’ll do mathematics and history, and German and French, and no sewing or shell work or paper flowers. And I’ll make sure they all read A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”

  “I hope you get your school one day…Broomhall said your father lost the business when he went to prison.”

  “Yes, but he could have started again. It was her. She said he had to make more money. The print shop was her idea, and the books and pictures. And now instead of the greatest minds in the world, we have to bow and scrape to the grubbiest.”

  “No doubt your mother was thinking about your financial security.”

  “Security! What security is there for us? What decent man will consider marrying us while we live in that place? And now I know what’s in the minds of the other sort when they look at me. It’s like poison. And it’s all her fault. She can’t even stand by Father now she’s brought him to this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you seen them? Her and Broomhall? She thinks I don’t know, that I’m as blind to her faults as Father.”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  “No, and I dread him finding out. And as if Broomhall’s not bad enough, there’s his horrible friends. Metcalf, who just stares, and Simmons whose breath smells like a cesspit, and that ugly beast Scott. I’m sure he’s a highwayman. He’s so mean looking.”

  “How so?”

  “His eyes are always red from drink. And he has a scar on his face, here.” She pointed to her left eye.

  That was definitely Kean. Dan wondered how he had managed to get so friendly with Broomhall.

  “Broomhall brought him to the shop?”

  “Only once. But he came back on his own two or three times after that.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I don’t know. A little over two weeks, I think. But you do see now why I have to get away?”

  “It’s not an ideal situation, I grant you that. But things could be worse. And that’s not just a meaningless expression. How did you get the job?”

  “I put an advertisement in the London Chronicle.”

  “That’s resourceful, but you need to be very careful about accepting situations from people you know nothing about.”

  “But Mrs Harris has told me everything.”

  She passed the letter over to Dan.

  He looked at the address. “Liverpool. Quite a distance.”

  “She said they’d send money for the coach and someone will meet me at the other end.”

  Dan read the letter. “Her husband is a merchant and she has three children all under ten. You will have your own apartments, dine with the family, be in sole charge of the nursery. Sounds like a dream job. And a high salary, for a first post…Before you write back to accept, will you let me make a few enquiries first? Check that the Harrises are who they say they are? And if it all works out, I’ll book your place on the coach myself.”

  “But how can you find out about them?”

  “I know a man who can help me.” He was thinking of Captain Ellis. He would send him the letter with a note asking him to make some postal enquiries about the Liverpool family. “Is it a deal?”

  “Very well.”

  “Good. And now you’ve eaten all the cakes, we’d better be getting back.”

  Evelyn reddened. “Oh dear, didn’t you have any?”

  “Not much of a sweet tooth,” Dan said, as they stepped outside.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On his way to his second London Corresponding Society meeting the next evening, Dan went down to the wharf to look for Nick. He leaned against a warehouse wall, a conspicuous figure on the deserted quayside. He knew that Nick was already there, looking out fo
r him from some hiding place. It was what Dan would have done if he had been in the boy’s position and about to meet a man he knew little about, in case he turned up with a constable or beadle in tow. Or worse: a receiver or pimp like Weaver.

  After a few moments the boy’s quick figure appeared from the shadows. He wore the breeches and jacket Dan had given him. They made him look almost civilised.

  “So did you see anything last night?” Dan asked.

  “Four men brung in some bodies. All wrapped up in sacks, they was.”

  “How many bodies?”

  “One apiece. Except the tall carroty-head. He just ordered the others around.”

  “Did they leave the bodies there?”

  “Didn’t see ’em come out again.”

  “How long were the men in the warehouse?”

  “Not long. Half an hour. I heard St John’s clock.”

  “Did you get a good look at any of them?”

  “Not very. They was wrapped up. One of ’em was very short.”

  That would be Capper who had helped Dawson steal the teeth. “Did you see the man whose pocket you picked?”

  “Nah. I’d a known him. He’s a reg’lar cove.”

  “How close did you go?”

  “Climbed onto the wall.”

  “No one saw you?”

  Nick snorted.

  Dan handed him some coins. “Good work. See you same time tomorrow.”

  Nick jauntily touched his forelock and pattered off, his bare feet slapping along the dark alley. Should have got him some shoes, Dan thought.

  At the Boatswain and Call, Dan paid his entrance fee and found a seat in the crowded room. Broomhall sat at the top table with the Division Secretary. Dan spotted Spy Wheeler, but the meeting began without Metcalf and Simmons. It followed the same pattern as last week except that there were no new members.

  Before moving on to the important business of the day, Broomhall asked the Secretary to read out a letter they had lately received. The spindly man unfolded the paper and read it in a harsh voice as rapidly as would any man impatient to have done with a task that offended his dignity.

  From The Female Patriots at No 3 New Lane Gainsford Street Horsleydown to their brothers and friends in liberty, greetings.

  Since forming our group six months ago we have been at pains to educate ourselves as to the state and condition of our nation and the means of remedying the great evils which arise from the abuse of the Rights of Election and Representation and the Force and Fraud which withholds the right of all men and women

  (here there was an outburst of groans and guffaws)

  to share in the government of the country and we do solemnly declare our belief that the aims of the London Corresponding Society, being the securing of a fair, equal and impartial representation of the people in Parliament, being the only redress for such a calamitous state of affairs, we do request of our brothers that we be granted membership of the Society. Signed –

  Here the Secretary broke off, unable to make himself heard above the protests.

  “What is this, a joke?”

  “An she was my wife, I’d soon teach her what her rights are!”

  “Have we come here to listen to this taradiddle?”

  “Move to the business in hand, Chairman!”

  “I haven’t had my supper yet. Why are we wasting time on this?”

  “Citizens, citizens!” Broomhall shouted. “Order, please! Have the goodness to allow our Secretary to finish reading.”

  “I have done,” his colleague said. He put the paper on the table in front of him and regarded it with distaste.

  “It is my duty as President,” Broomhall said, “to lay before you all correspondence sent to the branch. I have done so. Am I to take it that the answer you wish me to convey to the female patriots is no?”

  The audience loudly and passionately signalled that was their wish. The Secretary made a note for the minutes and Broomhall moved on to report the business from last Thursday’s committee meeting. The main topic had been the discussion of a proposed open-air meeting to protest about the Government’s heavy-handed response to the meeting held at the end of July in a field at St Pancras.

  Dan remembered how the ministry had reacted. Sir Richard Ford had declared the meeting illegal, but the London Corresponding Society had gone ahead anyway. Like every other police officer, Dan had been on duty that day, along with two thousand constables and two thousand soldiers, with another six thousand soldiers ready to be called up at a moment’s notice. From where he had been standing, close to the veterinary college, he had seen no disorder. He had nabbed half a dozen pickpockets, but once stolen goods had been restored to their owners, had had to let them go. Bow Street was too crowded with arrested radicals to accommodate thieves as well.

  Now the LCS plan was to gather again to protest against the illegality of the arrests of their speakers and the breaking up of that meeting. Dan could not decide if it was the persistence of courage or delusion. Whichever it was, they insisted on their right to hold a peaceable demonstration. The question before the Divisions was whether or not they should also send another address to the King to replace the one left unanswered on 31 July.

  Upton stood up. He held on to the back of the chair in front of him. His voice was weak and he trembled as he spoke, but his message was uncompromising.

  “What good have petitions ever done us? They’ve always been ignored in the past. Parliament is never going to reform itself and all the asking in the world won’t make it.”

  The cries of “Hear! Hear!” and “Sit down!” were about equal in volume.

  Broomhall called for silence. “Let us conduct the debate according to the rules of the Society,” he said. “As for Citizen Upton’s remark, it is beside the point. We are not going to petition the King, but present him with a remonstrance. We will ask him to restore universal suffrage as it existed in King Alfred’s time.”

  “Petition, remonstrance, what difference does that make?” returned Upton.

  This provoked a renewed tussle between applause and jeers. Broomhall called the meeting to order, but it ignored him and disintegrated into little groups shouting at one another. The hubbub was at its height when the door opened. Metcalf stood in the doorway, with Simmons behind him. The President sprang to his feet, drew his watch out of his pocket and made a show of consulting it.

  “Citizens, we have run out of time and will have to continue this discussion next week. Thank you all for coming!”

  Taken aback by the abrupt ending, the audience turned their anger on their President but Broomhall had already snapped the watch shut and left his seat. There was nothing else to do but shuffle away, some to replenish their glasses in the downstairs bar and others to go home. Dan darted out of the room and waited in the dark alley. When the rest of the company had dispersed, Broomhall, Metcalf and Simmons emerged. Broomhall pulled the door to and wordlessly the party headed for the street. Dan pulled up his collar and hurried after them.

  They headed east, avoiding the main roads, and before long were following a winding course roughly parallel with Tooley Street and the river bank. In the dark, Dan did not recognise anything until the bulk of a church rose up before him opposite a roofless house, a cooper’s yard, a pair of gates fastened with chains. They were on Horsleydown outside Dawson’s corpse repository.

  Broomhall unlocked the wicket and they stepped into the warehouse yard.

  Dan took the route he had identified on his last visit: over the wall. He dropped down, crouched in the shadows for a few moments to see if there were any sentinels. No one appeared so he ran across the yard. He pressed his ear to the warehouse door but could not hear anything through the thick boards. Gripping the latch, he cautiously opened the door and slipped inside.

  A line of light lay under the door to the room with the butcher’
s block in it. He crept closer, tried to make out individual voices in the murmur of conversation within. The door stood slightly ajar and he could see Broomhall standing by the butcher’s block, Simmons behind him. The resurrectionist Dawson lounged at the side of the block. There was no sign of Metcalf.

  Behind Dan the warehouse door banged, the echo reverberating around the building. He jumped out of sight behind the crates. Two sets of footsteps drew near. There was no mistaking Metcalf’s bulk. Dan had not seen the man beside him before, but his silhouette with its short jacket, wide trousers and round, narrow-brimmed hat – so different from Metcalf’s coat, boots and breeches – was enough to tell him that he was a sailor. The gang must be shipping corpses to other parts of the country, possibly to Scotland and Ireland too.

  “The United Patriots welcome you, citizen,” Broomhall said to the traveller. “You must be in need of refreshment after your journey. Simmons, will you do the honours?”

  Who, Dan wondered, were the United Patriots and how did they fit in with the London Corresponding Society? Presumably they were a breakaway group, one that was clandestine where the LCS was cautious. They hadn’t gathered in this blood-stained place for a cosy debate either.

  Simmons’s lanky figure passed out of sight, heading towards the side table. He reappeared and handed the sailor a glass of spirits.

  “You are right about that, citizen mate,” the sailor said, snatching the glass and taking a large, grateful gulp. “Been freezing me bollocks off on that damned coach roof all the way from Dover.”

  “You have a letter for us from Calais?” Broomhall asked.

  With a knowing wink, the sailor reached inside his jacket and brought out a packet sealed with red wax. He complacently sipped his rum while Broomhall examined the seal before opening it and taking out the sheet of paper folded inside.

  “Pass me that candle,” Broomhall said, handing the empty packet to Simmons.

  Metcalf handed a light to Broomhall, who held it up to the paper. When he had finished reading he folded the note and put it in his pocket, his expression unchanged.