The Devil's Feast

by M. J. Carter

  It was very dark. I made out a curtained window visible only by its blue-lit edges. Percy and the housekeeper walked across the room, and Percy set his hand to another door and opened it. There was a scream and the oddly recognizable sound of sheets and coverlets being fumblingly arranged. Blake and I followed behind. Looking over Percy’s shoulder, I saw Mr. Scott in the middle of the bed, a coverlet drawn up to his nose. On one side of him was a girl in some undress, quite horrified, whom I did not recognize. On the other was a prone figure covered by the sheet, making a vain attempt to hide. Strewn across the floor were various articles of clothing. Not wishing to make the scene any more awkward than it was, I remained in the shadow, with Blake behind me.

  Percy looked resigned. Mrs. Quill, however, palpitated with outrage.

  “Mr. Scott! How could you!”

  “Now look here!” Scott said weakly, pulling the sheet more tightly about his neck. “What on earth is the time? How dare you march in here!”

  “Netty!” said Mrs. Quill, in a voice that would have struck fear into a small military division. The girl, I saw, was very young and frightened. “And who’s the other one?” she said. “There’s no help in hiding. Come on, covers off.” The figure remained prone. The housekeeper seized the sheet. There was a struggle, wax was spattered everywhere and the sheet flew back. Matty’s nemesis, Margaret, lay in the bed, bristling with anger, clutching the ends of the sheet to hide her modesty.

  The housekeeper shook her head. “You foolish, foolish girls. You have destroyed your character and thrown away your position. What will you do now?” Margaret lay in mutinous silence. The younger girl lowered her head and began to cry quietly into her hands. Scott made no attempt to comfort her.

  “Begone!” he demanded. “What a gentleman does in his own time is of no concern to anyone else. They were quite willing.”

  “It makes me choke to hear you, Mr. Scott,” said Mrs. Quill. “And we all know it’s not the first time either. We shall turn our backs, and you two girls will pick up your linen and leave. Take yourselves off and pack your belongings. I want you both gone before breakfast.”

  The sobs of the younger girl, Netty, became noisier. We turned away. There was some awkward shuffling, a crack of palm on skin and a noisy protest from Scott.

  “Get away, you witch!”

  Margaret had slapped him. “Bastard!” she said.

  “Out!” roared the housekeeper.

  In a moment, Margaret had wrapped a blanket about herself and slid past Percy. She gave him a look, and he shook his head and took her arm. She struggled against him. “I’m going!” she said, then turned back to the bed, where Scott lay.

  “You bastard! You promised me!” Without a word, Percy hustled her from the room.

  Once the door was shut, Scott began to wheedle.

  “She’s no better than a whore, that one. Truly, she came to me. Always looking to advance herself—brought the other girl with her. And I am only flesh and blood, a man on my own. A saint’s virtue would have been tried. And I fell, I succumbed to sin. I admit it. But I swear nothing like this will ever happen again. On my life.”

  I had heard such excuses before. What man hasn’t? But never had they sounded quite so unappealingly self-serving.

  “Enough of your blather. You have been the ruin of these two girls,” said the housekeeper fiercely. “I do not know what you said to poor, silly little Netty. I suspect nothing but fear would have put her in your bed.”

  “Can we not come to some agreement?” Scott said to Percy, as if she had not spoken. “Surely we can. I swear that this will never happen again. I can make it worth both your whiles. Percy—cases of spirits, champagne, whatever you want. No more arguments about costs. I swear. Mrs. Quill—whatever you want for housekeeping, it’s yours.”

  “Mr. Scott,” said the housekeeper, “you are a poor excuse for a man.”

  “Please. I beg you.”

  “Captain Avery,” said Percy, “you are witness to Mr. Scott in his embarrassed state, attempting to buy us off.”

  Scott peered past the flickering candles of Percy and the housekeeper and saw me for the first time. I had been reluctant to magnify the shame in the room, but now I came forward. Blake remained in the shadows.

  “Captain Avery!” Scott almost wailed. “It really is not what it seems, I assure you. I have been tricked!”

  I looked away.

  “Mr. Scott,” said Percy, rubbing his forehead wearily, “you will present yourself to the members of the committee after breakfast. I should have your belongings packed, if I were you. We will be watching your rooms in case you should take it into your head to make off with anything that is not yours. It is, you’ll remember, no more than you allowed the butler, when he was let go.”

  Scott rounded on him like a cornered rat. “How dare you, you jumped-up footman! You think I cannot weather this? You’ll see that I shall. And I’ll have you, Percy, make no mistake. I’ll tell them what you have been up to.”

  “Enough, Mr. Scott!” said Mrs. Quill. “We will hear none of your dirty little threats. You have already done more than enough. You should weep with shame.”

  “He hates me, Captain Avery. They all do, but he especially. They want me gone so they can continue with their dirty scams and dishonesties, which I—I honestly exposed. I suppose you think that with me gone you shall snake your way into my shoes, Percy? Well, let me tell you, you’ll never rise to my level. You are a servant born, and a servant you’ll stay.”

  “Mr. Scott, I do not believe there is a single member of staff who will mourn your departure,” said Percy. “And that is because you are lazy and incompetent and would not know a set of accounts if it lay down before you and recited its contents. Mrs. Quill, Captain Avery, shall we?”

  We turned as one, and left Mr. Scott to contemplate his fate.

  • • •

  MR. SCOTT NEVER had his audience with Lord Marcus and the committee. Sometime before eight, he managed to disappear from the club, with several sets of silver cutlery and a sheaf of banknotes that were not his, to the order of a hundred pounds.

  Margaret and little Netty, who was a housemaid, had also both left by the time I returned to the club. I had pointed out that there was good reason to believe that at least one of them may well have been coerced by Mr. Scott, and that, now that Matty was being detained, the kitchen could ill afford the loss of more of its staff. Mrs. Quill said it was regrettable, but that they had to be made an example of. Since the club was a keen employer of females, its conduct and the conduct of the females within it must be above reproach.

  • • •

  I ROSE AT FOUR in order to reach Smithfield before light.

  The banquet was to begin at seven in the evening.

  Blake appeared with a rough black coat, a worn topper and his sack of possessions. He was too thin, his shoulder blades visible through his shirt—I should have liked to have sat him down to a decent meal, or three.

  “You’re a sight too smart,” he said. “Where are your country clothes and boots?”

  “In the country.”

  And that top hat . . .” He shook his head.

  “But I cannot go out hatless!”

  “On your head be it, then.”

  “Good lord, a bad joke from Mr. Blake.” I was touched; he was trying to cheer me. He opened the wardrobe and flicked through my togs.

  “Here—you need something you won’t mind not wearing again,” he said. He took out my traveling get-up and my second-best boots.

  “But I shall be wanting them to go home in,” I protested.

  “Where’s the dandy I first knew? I miss him.”

  We took a cab as far as Clerkenwell, then walked through the odorous mire stirred up by a hundred carts, feet and hooves. The roads about were so absurdly narrow and so clogged with carts and wagons packed wi
th livestock there was no other way. The scale and the press were extraordinary: wagons, livestock, hard-faced drovers, whooping boys and excitable dogs all surged toward the one destination. I lost Blake almost at once. I should have worried, but I became quickly caught up in the ghastly spectacle. The squares stretched out into a sea of pens in which livestock—cattle, sheep and pigs—were packed impossibly tightly. Around the sides of the squares were rows of slaughterhouses, tallow makers, butchers and sausage makers, from which a frothing stream of blood and warm effluvium issued, clogging the gutters and feeding the mud.

  The air was alive with bellows and bleating. The drovers screamed and swore and beat the animals with cudgels, twisting tails and spearing the tender parts of hooves in order to force them into ever tighter spaces. In the half-light, one could see steam rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, penned nose to nose and haunch to haunch. Bullocks were tethered so tightly their tongues hung swollen from their mouths, and cows were pierced with prongs and goads until their sides ran. Everywhere was a smell of violence and pain.

  As a countryman, I was well familiar with animal husbandry and cattle markets. But I had never seen anything on this scale, and the crushing conditions and casual cruelty it produced were hateful. The animals were frightened, and the place seemed to bring the worst out in the men, who argued and bellowed as loudly as the beasts.

  Eventually, Blake hove into sight. Such was my horror of the place, I forgot to chide him for disappearing.

  “This is no way to treat livestock,” I said.

  “The city has grown out of all passing,” said Blake. “It needs more meat. The City Corporation makes more and more each year from the sellers’ fees and is in no hurry to see its little gold mine move beyond its boundaries. So, three times a week, the streets become impassable and run with blood and guts.”

  He reached into his shirt and pulled out a greasy piece of paper.

  “Seen this?”

  It was a handbill entitled “The Double-dealing of Alexis Soyer, the ‘Famous’ French Chef.” Underneath was a rough sketch of Soyer, making much of his askew cap and his voluminous jackets, and below this the following words:

  Many are familiar with the ridiculous figure of Frenchman Alexis Soyer, self-styled “great chef” and “genius,” with his absurd dress and his boastful excesses, which have brought him great attention. In truth, he is nothing more than a common charlatan, a cheat and a fraudster, hungry only to enrich himself at the world’s expense. He claims to be the high priest of French cooking, and to serve only the best. He fills the bellies of his rich customers with poor dishes and bad meat purchased from the paunch cookers, gut spinners and bone boilers of Smithfield. We should not be surprised to discover he has poisoned at least one or two in his haste to enrich himself at his customers’ expense.

  “Someone else who really dislikes him. Where did you find it?” I said.

  “Over there.” He pointed to a wall plastered with bills. “There are a few posted round the market.”

  “It mentions poisoning.”

  “If you were going to slander a chef, that is what you would say.”

  “Any notion of where it came from?”

  “None. I asked about it.”

  We walked on in search of Hastings Bland’s premises, which was one of the larger slaughterhouses. “Butcher and Slaughterer” read its sign, in white and red. Within the shop, the air was thick, warm and rank.

  At the farthest end a broad, swarthy man with curling whiskers, an apron and bloodied arms like great hams was dispensing orders to his subordinates. We approached a young boy and told him we wanted to speak to Bland. The boy went and muttered in the man’s ear. He looked up and nodded: a dismissal.

  “He will see you in a minute if you’ll wait outside,” said the boy.

  “What will I say?” I asked Blake, having no idea how we might broach the matter.

  “We’ll ask him straight out about it, I reckon,” said Blake. “I’ll do it.”

  Hastings Bland emerged a few moments later. He was in his shirtsleeves, his cuffs rolled to his elbows. He wore an old top hat and fisherman’s boots which came up to his thighs, and was rubbing the blood off his hands onto his already bloody apron.

  He addressed me. “I am Bland, and I sell the best beef in England. ’Tis market day, and I do a deal of the slaughtering myself and must keep my boys up to the mark, so you’ll appreciate we aren’t accustomed to receiving gentlemen like yourself at this hour of the morning. What may I do for you?”

  The words were courteous enough, but the manner in which they were spoken was abrupt.

  “You supply Soyer and the Reform with a good deal of meat?” said Blake.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I am Maguire, and this is my master, Captain Avery.”

  “That tells me nothing. But yes, we supply the Reform, and plenty of reputable establishments, too.”

  “You don’t consider the Reform reputable?”

  “I’ll be honest—doan like ’em, doan trust ’em. Go round like they’re kings, jumped-up buggers—begging your pardon, sir.” He looked at me as if begging my pardon was the last thing he’d ever do. “As I say, we’re not used to gentlemen here at this time of the morning. But them at the Reform might not be so high and mighty for much longer.”

  “Why’s that, then?” said Blake. Hastings Bland looked at Blake as if he were trying to catch him out. “I thought Soyer was venerated all over town.”

  “‘Venerated’?” choked Bland. “‘Venerated’? Not from what I hear.”

  “And what do you hear?”

  “Poisoning club members, that’s what. Killing them off dead. Frenchie’s in trouble.”

  “Surely not!” I said. And then, “If it is true, what is causing it?”

  Hastings Bland shrugged. “Who cares? Maybe that Frenchie can’t keep his kitchen in order. Dirty furrin habits.” Which was quite something to say in the midst of the stench and carcasses of Smithfield. “I’ll tell you what, he doan pay his bills on time. And he buys bad meat cheap.”

  “Why d’you say that, Mr. Bland?” said Blake.

  “I’ve me reasons.”

  “Who’s he buying it from?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “If you know, why not tell us?”

  Bland tilted his head as if to gesture the whole of Smithfield.

  “Mr. Bland, you can do better than that,” said Blake.

  “Any bloody hole in the wall you like. They ain’t fussed.”

  Blake stared at him. “Seen this?” He brought out the crumpled handbill. Bland glanced at it.

  “No.” He smiled. “Seems to me it proves my point, though.”

  “I think mayhap you’re the one who started these stories. Slander’s a crime, you know. Could take you to prison.” Blake came up close to Bland and stared directly into his eyes. Hastings Bland was taller and a good deal broader. “Is it because they sent your meat back? Because your meat wasn’t good enough? Because they’re buying from Robinson’s instead now? I know every printer in the city—wouldn’t be hard to discover who’d had them made.”

  Hastings Bland looked from side to side. A few men had stopped and were now idly watching the altercation. I believe that if we had been alone he would have come at Blake with his fists.

  “Who are you? Rozzers?” he said. “Call your man off, Captain Whatever-your-name-is, or I’ll have to teach him a lesson about behaving hisself.”

  He took one of his hands and wiped it on Blake’s lapel. Blake smiled his infuriating smile and stepped back, making a little bow.

  “I tell you,” Hastings Bland said between gritted teeth, “the Reform kitchen owes me money, and not just a few pennies here or there. I know what I know. Now, you’ll waste no more of my time.” He stamped his booted foot and kicked a lump of mud in my direction.
Some of it landed on my hat, which I had been holding out of courtesy. Satisfied, he turned and marched back into his bloody domain.

  We returned to St. James’s on foot: no cab would have carried us. My boots were encrusted in a noxious stew of mud, blood, dung and detritus, and my trousers were sodden to my knees. I smelled appalling. Blake’s jacket was soiled. We took the back streets to avoid being noticed.

  “Well, he was easy to dislike,” I said at last.

  “Yes,” said Blake, and offered no more.

  “Do you think he may be our man? He hates Soyer and the Reform enough.”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out. He’s not supplying meat for tonight, so we have time to consider.” We walked on in silence. From time to time, Blake gave a nasty, rattling cough. At length, we came to a small, insalubrious market where butchers’ meat sat next to tripe, cat’s meat and shriveled vegetables.

  “What is this place?”

  “Clare Market,” he said. “We’re hard by St. Giles Rookery. There were six slaughterhouses up there.” He pointed to a dank, narrow lane. “Along with a tallow melter and a tripe boiler.”

  “You were here as a child.” I was always avid for details of his past, as keen as he was to avoid revealing them.

  “On Saturdays, the blood from the slaughterhouses gathered in pools in the road. Didn’t seem wrong to us. We were used to the stench. We used to collect dead rats. Threw them at costermongers or sold them to the cat’s-meat men.”

  “You must know someone who could discover if the Reform is purchasing meat from less respectable suppliers.”

  “I could if I were Jeremiah Blake and free to go about as I pleased.”

  We could not avoid the great thoroughfares in the end and, halfway down the Strand, among the early morning coffee sellers, we came upon a hawker selling a very particular broadside.

  “Poisonings in Pall Mall! Foul Murders in Club!” The title was writ large, and there was a sketch of men in frock coats slumped around a dining table, their eyes staring. I purchased all thirty copies for a penny each. The sheet described in lurid detail a series of poisonings “at a Certain Grand Club for Gentlemen in the Heart of Pall Mall,” and the deaths that had resulted from them: