The Butcher's Block

by Lucienne Boyce

  Broomhall pushed the gun along the table. “Bright is going to do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dan willed himself to return Broomhall’s stare, keep the flicker of dismay out of his own eyes. He was aware of Metcalf’s face beyond Broomhall’s shoulder, the lips in a mocking curve gleaming red against his dark chin. Dawson sucked in his cheeks, giving his face a haggard, skeletal look. Simmons was watching Capper.

  “You are sworn to defend the people from the enemies of their rights and liberties,” Broomhall said softly.

  Dan reached out for the gun. “Only one way to deal with enemies.”

  He cocked the pistol, turned it slowly on Capper. The man stared back at him, transfixed with terror. There was no tremor in Dan’s arm, no pity in his face. He took careful aim at the man’s heart. He would drop his arm at the last second, send the ball through the man’s thigh. He hoped that his agony would be enough to satisfy Broomhall’s need for revenge.

  Capper found his voice, managed to croak, “Dawson! It was –” before he hit the floor.

  Dan had not fired. The shot was Dawson’s. Dan, Broomhall, Simmons and Metcalf stared at the resurrectionist in shocked silence. Dawson let out a long sigh of relief. As well he might, Dan thought. If Capper had lived a few seconds longer, he would have revealed Dawson’s part in the theft.

  Dawson shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “The man was one of mine. Least I could do was kill him.”

  There was a long, tense silence. Broomhall’s expression was unfathomable. His features kept slipping in the candlelight, looking now angry, now surprised, now amused. Metcalf was like a cat about to spring, ready to dole out whatever punishment Broomhall commanded, be it beating or death.

  Broomhall clapped his hands together, the sound bouncing from the stone walls. “Well, that’s that. Get the carcass out of the way and let’s get on.”

  He beckoned to Dan, Metcalf and Simmons to follow him out of the room. Behind them, Dawson grabbed Capper’s legs and dragged him across the stones. He did not complain or ask for help. He knew he had had enough luck for one day.

  Outside in the yard, Broomhall said, “It didn’t go exactly as I’d planned, but you were up to the job, Bright, and that’s the important thing. I shall need men like you about me over the next few days.”

  On Tuesday morning Dan, letter in hand, looked into the parlour where the girls were at work around the table while their parents were in the shop.

  “Miss Chambers, I wonder if you would be so kind as to sew a button on to my jacket for me?”

  Evelyn’s head jerked up, an indignant refusal forming on her lips. Dan tapped the letter with his forefinger. Understanding dawned. She put down her pencil and said, “Of course, Mr Bright.”

  She followed him out of the room into the passageway by the kitchen.

  “I’ve had a reply from my friend about the Harrises in Liverpool,” he said. “It’s good news. They’re a respectable merchant family, though it seems that Mrs Harris is an invalid with something of an ill temper. That probably accounts for the salary they’re offering: they’re hoping to get someone to stay. Here. You can read it.”

  Captain Ellis had been careful not to address his letter to Dan, or to sign his own name. Dan had taken delivery of it last evening at Butcher Hall Lane, when he went to report progress to Sir William Addington and Sir Richard Ford. Sir Richard had been pleased to hear that he had won Broomhall’s trust, though Dan had not kept back any details of the Capper murder. It had been Sir William who told him when they were alone that he was authorised to take any steps necessary to protect himself. There would be no questions asked. As if that would make it any easier to kill a man on the orders of a cold-blooded murderer.

  Evelyn read the brief report with increasing excitement.

  “Mr Bright, thank you so much. I shall write back today to accept the post.”

  “You’ll be on your own, a long way from home. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “So much for your promises. You said you’d book my coach.”

  “And I will. I just want you to understand what it means.”

  “It means getting away from here.”

  “Then let me know when you want me to book the place.”

  “Thank you!” Before he could stop her, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

  The parlour door opened and a gasp of surprise came from the doorway. Evelyn whirled round to face her sister, Sarah.

  “What are you doing there?” she snapped.

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Nothing. I was sent to find Mr Bright. Mr Broomhall’s here for him.”

  “Then you’ve found him, so go and get on with your work. And not a word about this to anyone, do you hear? Or I’ll pull your ears off.”

  Sarah’s mouth fell open and she fled back into the parlour.

  “I wasn’t expecting him,” Dan said in answer to Evelyn’s unspoken question.

  She returned the letter to him and they went back to the parlour where her little sisters were whispering and giggling. They fell silent at her frown. Dan continued to the shop. Mrs Chambers stood at one of the bookshelves, making a show of tidying the books, her back turned to Broomhall and her husband.

  “Oh, Mr Bright,” Chambers said. “I hadn’t realised you were going away today.”

  Broomhall smiled. “Don’t say you forgot to tell your landlord about our little jaunt to Canterbury, Bright?”

  “I think I must have,” Dan answered. Which was hardly surprising, as this was the first he had heard of it.

  “Well, no harm done. Go and get your things, there’s a good fellow. Our coach leaves within the hour.”

  Dan hurried up to his room and threw a few overnight things into his bag. He wondered if he dared risk scribbling a note to Sir William and asking Evelyn to get it to Butcher Hall Lane. He decided it was too dangerous an errand to burden the girl with, resourceful though she was. There was no knowing what Broomhall would do if he found out.

  “We aren’t going to Canterbury, are we?” Dan asked once they were in the street.

  “No, but explanations can wait. Our post-chaise will be ready.”

  Metcalf was waiting for them in the busy yard of the White Horse.

  “What’s he doing here?” he asked when he saw Dan.

  “I’ve asked Simmons to stay and keep an eye on things here. Bright is coming in his place.”

  “I can manage without him.”

  “I do not doubt your efficiency, Metcalf, but an extra pair of hands is always welcome, is it not? Now, let’s get going.”

  Dan stood aside to let Broomhall climb into the coach. When he was settled, Metcalf shouldered Dan out of the way and got in next to him. Dan shrugged, stuffed his bag under the seat and took his place opposite them. Metcalf folded his arms and stared stonily at Dan as the post boy mounted and the stable boy let go of the horses’ heads.

  “Will you be wanting anything else?” the landlord asked, putting the last of the dishes on the table.

  “Only to be left alone,” Broomhall answered.

  The landlord pursed his lips and shuffled out of the room.

  Broomhall shivered. “Why the hell does anyone choose to live in the middle of a marsh? Isn’t that fire going yet, Metcalf?”

  Metcalf, busy building up the blaze, did not answer. Dan stood at the window looking out at the darkness. When they had arrived there had been enough light to see across the flat, swampy ground to the flat, grey sea. Now the leaping red flames of the fire and the flickering yellow flames of the candles were reflected on the black glass and cast a faint glow on the ground beneath the window. Dan pulled the musty-smelling curtains together and turned back into the room.

  They were in the George in Queenborough, a mile or two out of Sheerness. The parlour, off a stone-flagged passageway leading to the ta
p room and kitchen, had the air of not having been used for some time. The wooden walls and furniture felt damp and clammy. Moisture trickled down the small, deep-set windows. Yet the copy of The Times left by the previous occupant on the round table in the window bay was only two days old.

  There was a perpetual gloom in the room which neither the firelight nor candles did anything to disperse. The dark heavy furniture, the age-blackened walls, and the smoke-stained ceiling seemed to suck the energy from the flames.

  “Sit down and eat,” Broomhall said.

  Dan did so. Metcalf ignored the chair next to him and moved as far away as the table allowed. Dan took no notice. He was hungry. Maybe it was the sea air. He piled food on his plate and Metcalf followed his example. Broomhall only picked at his meal, though he kept his glass full.

  They had not long finished eating when there was a knock on the door. Metcalf beckoned to Dan to take up position on one side of it. When Dan was in place, he opened it. Three men stood in the passageway, the smell of marsh hanging about them.

  “Old things have passed away,” hissed one of the newcomers. He wore a shabby, salt-stained coat, unbuttoned to reveal a pair of pistols in his belt.

  “Stand fast therefore in liberty,” Metcalf answered, opening the door wide.

  The man looked about the room, one hand on the butt of his pistol.

  “All well,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Very good, Captain.”

  The faintly-accented voice was closely followed into the parlour by the speaker. A tall man with an athletic figure, he was muffled up in a cloak weighted with seawater and mud. He took it off and removed his wide-brimmed hat and scarf to reveal plain but elegant clothes: high boots, dark breeches, dark blue jacket, and linen that looked as fresh as if he had just finished dressing. He was in his forties, his hair tinged with grey, clean shaven, with a long scar down the right side of his face and a cold glint in his blue eyes.

  Broomhall rose. “Welcome, monsieur!”

  The two shook hands while the captain took off his coat and hat. His dark hair was tied back with an old ribbon. He was thin and ferret-faced, deeply tanned, the skin around his pale eyes crinkled, his mouth a narrow, humourless line. The man bringing up the rear was a common sailor, huge and well-built with massive arms ending in fists like hammers. His head was shaved and half of one ear had been sliced off in some old fight. There was a skull and crossbones tattooed beneath it, a dripping dagger under the gold ring in his good ear.

  “Perhaps you could send for some clean plates and fresh food?” the Frenchman asked.

  At mention of food the seaman’s mouth split into a happy grimace. Dan would not have been surprised to see that his teeth had been filed. They had not, but that did not make him look any less menacing.

  “Of course,” Broomhall answered. “Bright. More wine as well.”

  Dan hurried out to find the landlord. He ordered more food, another bottle of wine, soda water for himself. When he got back the men had settled themselves around the table and Broomhall was making introductions.

  “This is Citizen Metcalf, and here is Citizen Bright, both good, trustworthy fellows.”

  “Captain Lewis,” said the captain. “And this is Seaman Glutton. At least that’s what we call him. Glutton for punishment, see? Giving it, that is.”

  Glutton smirked. “Ain’t never taken none.”

  Broomhall said, “And Monsieur – ?”

  “You can call me Citoyen,” the Frenchman answered.

  There was a short pause while the landlord brought in pies and roasts and took away the dirty plates and glasses. Broomhall poured wine. The Citoyen helped himself to some slices of pie. When he had done, his companions dived in less daintily.

  “Well,” said the Citoyen, “you have a proposition for me?”

  “It’s simple enough,” Broomhall answered. “We overthrow Pitt’s corrupt ministry and with your help install a government fit to rule over free-born British men.”

  “I shall need more detail than that.”

  “On the appointed day, we will set off explosions around London. This will provoke the London mob into action, leading to widespread confusion and disorder which my agents will be careful to encourage. We’ll add to the effect by storming Newgate and releasing the prisoners. This will lead to attacks on other prisons, which are always favourite targets when the ire of the people is aroused. The resulting lawlessness will divert a substantial portion of the armed forces.”

  “London has survived riots before, has it not?”

  “Yes. But that’s just the beginning. The crux of the plan will take place outside the city. The Secretary of State for War, Dundas, has a house in Wimbledon. The King and Pitt often join him there for a weekend of guzzling and card playing. Though, of course, the King travels with a guard, Warren House is vulnerable to attack. With one stroke, a company of bold, determined patriots will rid England of the German hog-butcher and his key ministers. And that will bring the Government down.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A man who had lived through the French Revolution was unlikely to be moved by Broomhall’s bloodthirsty plans, and the Citoyen accepted the announcement without any display of emotion. Captain Lewis swore and laughed; Glutton gnawed at a chicken bone; Metcalf sat with arms folded, a satisfied look on his face.

  “And you have support around the country?” the Frenchman asked.

  Broomhall’s eyes flickered. “Yes. We are in contact with many other units throughout Britain.”

  The Citoyen gave no sign that he saw through this braggadocio. “Weapons?”

  “We have amassed significant arms depots in London and elsewhere. However, if France could provide us with guns, a few more would not be unwelcome.”

  “How many men do you calculate you can muster?”

  “The British people are ready to cast off the yoke. Once the first step has been taken, the nation will follow our lead.”

  “Do you have any military on your side?”

  “There are many disaffected soldiers in His Majesty’s Army who will join us. As for the Navy, you know of course about the recent mutinies at Spithead and the Nore. Although the Government made some concessions to the sailors such as improving victuals and paying overdue wages, there are many who feel they did not go far enough. There have been further outbreaks across the fleet.”

  The Citoyen drew out a snuff box and took a pinch of the dark brown powder. The box was solid gold, Dan noticed, engraved with what looked like a coat of arms. The Frenchman, noticing his curiosity, smiled as he slipped it back into his pocket.

  “The spoils of revolution.” To Broomhall, he said, “It does seem that you have thought of everything. However, you must understand that my government cannot commit itself too lightly. The answer, therefore, is this: you do your part, and as soon as we have intelligence that the coup is underway, we will come to your assistance.”

  “But we’re taking a big risk,” Broomhall said. “We need a better assurance than that.”

  “We will be waiting for your signal. What more can I promise? You cannot expect us to launch our fleet until events are favourable. You provide the favourable events and we will come.”

  “How do we know you’ll be ready?”

  “The fleet is as ready now as it will ever be. Of course, if you can settle the date on which you plan to start your coup, I can take the information back to France with me.”

  Broomhall took a large gulp of wine. Now the moment had come to set things in motion, he hesitated. He swigged another large mouthful of courage then gabbled, “Ten days from today. Will that give you time?”

  “With a fair wind, yes,” the Frenchman answered.

  “Then, Citoyen, Vive la Révolution!” Broomhall cried, raising his glass.

  The others joined in the toast.

  Metcalf jabbed a
finger at Dan’s glass. “Can’t be right to call that a toast.”

  “What’s that?” Captain Lewis asked. “Not water?”

  Broomhall slapped Metcalf’s arm. “Bright doesn’t like wine, Metcalf. It’s not a crime.”

  He drained his glass and sent Dan for another bottle. When Dan brought it back, the captain had got his pipe going, Glutton was dozing with his hands on his bulging belly, Metcalf was stoking the fire and the Citoyen, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts, was sitting with his arms folded on the table, listening to Broomhall’s maundering.

  Broomhall, waving his glass for emphasis, sloshed wine over the table. “And then, Citoyen, with your backing, we restore order and set up a new government. Of course, there’ll be some dead wood to clear away. You had similar in France.”

  “Aristos’ heads on spikes, do you mean?” cackled Captain Lewis. “Throw in a few revenue men while you’re at it.”

  “Aristocrats, the corresponding societies, chattering intellectuals. And as you are present at this historic meeting, you will all have your part to play in the new order. Captain Lewis, I’m putting you in charge of the Navy. Glutton.”

  The big man snorted and started awake.

  “Collector of taxes. Don’t worry, I’ll find someone to do the counting for you.”

  They all laughed at this, Glutton louder than anyone.

  “Citoyen, you will be our Ambassador for France. And Bright, I think you are capable of high office. My deputy, perhaps.”

  “Ready to stand at your side,” Dan said smartly.

  “What about me?” Metcalf demanded.

  “Metcalf, Metcalf, Metcalf. What am I to do with you? A steady man, a plodding man, an unimaginative man. What say you to spy master?”

  “Spy master?”

  Broomhall was too drunk to notice that Metcalf had taken offence. They drained the last bottle in a storm of self-congratulatory toasts.

  The Citoyen stood up. “I wish you luck with your plans, Citizen Broomhall.”

  The two men shook hands. The Citoyen, Glutton and Captain Lewis gathered up their things ready for the walk back across the dark marshes to the inlet where they had hidden their boat.