‘Is he?’ Solomon’s voice was light, mischievous. ‘What about his rank spirit out there hiding in the shadows?’
‘Very funny.’ Merriment smiled.
‘I thought you believed in spirits?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Merriment frowned.
‘Isn’t that what you meant by something tricky operating in Olocher?’
‘No.’ Merriment shifted uncomfortably. Her fingers tapped the book on her lap, reminding herself of the grand world of logic and the intricate multitude of causes, all rationally interconnecting, driving the universe like an elegant machine. Solomon detected the uncertainty in her voice.
‘You don’t think Olocher has come back from the dead to exact revenge on his tormenting guards?’
‘Any decent doctor will tell you that a burst of blood to the brain prior to an apopleptic fit leads to hallucinations and fever. Poor Boxty thought he saw a demon with a pig’s face and some kind of guilt or fear made him think of Olocher.’
Solomon interrupted, ‘And Martin Coffey has just absconded because he knows the authorities want to talk to him, leaving behind his viscera to convince us he’s dead, and Florence, well who knows? My broadsheet is probably responsible for her encounter with the Dolocher apparition.’
‘Exactly.’ Merriment released her breath in a low, soft sigh.
‘So you don’t believe in spirits?’
Solomon searched her face, noticing the faintest twinge, a flutter of her eyelids, an unspoken thought. He saw her chest rise as she took in a deep breath, collecting herself.
‘I’m a scientific woman, Solomon. I believe anything is possible. But . . .’ She paused, her lips partially open. ‘When it comes to matters of the supernatural kind, I think we have to be circumspect. Evidence of the spiritual world is less easy to capture.’
For a moment neither of them spoke. The wood crackled in the fire and spit out little red splinters that burned brightly before fading to ash on the flagstone floor.
‘There’s something damned peculiar going on,’ Solomon said at last.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ Merriment asked.
‘I wish . . . I’d like to think . . . The idea of surviving death, of returning, of seeing loved ones who have passed on.’
His gaze was directed at the floor but he didn’t see the flagstones. He was peering into the past and Merriment wondered what he was pondering. She was intrigued by Solomon’s answer.
‘You’d like to be haunted?’ she asked.
‘Perhaps I am.’
Solomon shifted awkwardly, feeling suddenly exposed.
‘You sound full of remorse, Solomon.’
Solomon pulled back his shoulders and smiled.
‘Yes, I do. And there’s nothing more boring than a man filled with regret, particularly when I should be happy. This story is a gem. I was thinking of titling the broadsheet “The Dolocher Haunts Hell”.’
‘Very appropriate.’
‘I thought so.’
Solomon pulled a chair to the table, drew his equipment out of his bag and began writing. Merriment left him stooped over the table. She took a candle with her and slipped quietly up to her room. Janey Mack was not sleeping before the fire. The little girl had climbed into Merriment’s bed and was lying sideways beneath the covers.
10
The Girl in the Gutter
For three days throngs of people packed into Christchurch market, barging their way to Solomon’s stall. Corker had decorated the backboard with sketches of Florence Wells rushing along Saint John’s Lane, her cloak billowing, her face twisted with terror, being pursued by a tall demon furnished with the monstrous head of a swine. He drew Boxty creeping along the floor of the subterranean dungeon in the Black Dog and Martin Coffey in a grotesque pietà, nakedly draped over the Dolocher’s knees while the beast ate him. The broadsheet print run had expanded to four thousand, with men and women buying three and four copies in one go. The frenzy of excited terror set the crowd talking. The possibility of a supernatural manifestation sent a buzzing thrill through the populace. People laughed and joked that the ‘divil’ himself had popped up on the banks of the Liffey to sample a bit of Dublin. They teased one another about having to watch out because ‘ye’ve more sins notched up on yer black soul, the Dolocher will want a taste of you’.
But shivering beneath their mirth was the unmistakable nervousness of the possibility that the boundary between life and death had been blurred. The very idea of the Dolocher turned people’s thoughts to the phantasmagorical. Now, not only was there the worry of corrupt governance, crime, cesses and poverty, but on top of the everyday anxieties there was the preternatural to consider. And the idea of a demon sent such a frisson of horror through the city that lords and ladies became intrigued by what was happening on the Southside. ‘He’s taken to his prayers,’ Solomon told the crowd buzzing before him. ‘Poor Boxty is only half right after the shock of it. Corker, give that lady five sheets.’
Solomon was paying Corker eight pennies a day to help him out on the stall. The market manager, Jody Maguire, was disgusted he hadn’t charged more for the prime spot. But Solomon knew the story would fizzle out and he would soon be peddling common-or-garden gossip. So he took full advantage of this opportunity to turn a shilling and threw all his energy into the enterprise. He brought Corker back with him to Merriment’s and spent a good portion of his evenings in the anteroom, devising new angles to twist the Dolocher story, giving it a spin to last longer. He got Corker to come up with suitably gothic sketches to illustrate the macabre details. And every morning he bounced into MacCambridge’s Printers to place his hurried order. Now, as he stood on the feet of the statue of Lucifer, shouting out his broadsheet cry, ‘Read all about it: Florence Wells gives a full account of the Dolocher’s rank breath,’ he was so engrossed in pitching and selling that he was oblivious to the tall man in a dark frock coat and purple cravat leaning against one of the buttresses of the cathedral, watching him.
*
For three mornings Merriment opened her shop and watched as the queues lengthened.
‘He’s getting worse,’ the woman with the pinched face complained. ‘What ye gave me isn’t working at all.’
‘There’s no cure for her aul’ fella,’ the stout woman with ginger hair told Merriment. ‘My cure is working big time. I’ve never known me aul’ man to be so happy. Sure, yesterday, ye know . . .’ She winked and chortled loudly and the other customers laughed.
‘Can ye give me something else?’ the woman with the pinched face persisted.
‘Sure, that lad quoted the scriptures ever before ye got wed. Ye knew he had a poker up his fundament long before ye agreed to the bans,’ the ginger-haired woman ribbed her skinny friend. ‘That’s what ye get for marrying a holy Joe, no joy in the bedroom and an earful of Bible quotes to bring ye down on a sunny day.’
‘Ye’re crude as black tar, Molly Jenkins,’ the pinched-faced woman exploded. The morning drifted into the afternoon and the steady stream of customers thinned out after two o’clock.
It was when Anne dropped by to put down an instalment on Stella’s perfume that a frail man of fifty stepped up to the counter and, quietly throwing his eyes to one side, curled his fingers to beckon Merriment to a corner.
‘Everything all right?’ Merriment touched his shoulder. He gave the slightest shake of his head.
‘I was wondering . . .’ He paused, making sure that no one was looking or listening. Anne was chatting to Janey Mack. Two women were over by the glass cabinet deliberating over what to buy as a present for a coachman.
‘Yes?’ Merriment could see a touch of jaundice in his eyes; the man definitely had liver complaints. He patted his tattered periwig and tugged on his starched shirt. Swallowing down his pride, he raised his eyebrows, looking up at Merriment hopefully.
‘Would you have a potion?’
‘Yes?’
‘Or a talisman or an amulet to protect a soul from evil?’
&n
bsp; Merriment laughed softly with surprise and cut the laugh off as soon as she realised that the old man was absolutely serious.
‘No,’ she whispered.
The old man nodded forlornly and gripped his hands squeezing his fingers.
‘You have your faith,’ Merriment tried to console him.
The old man didn’t answer. He looked blankly at the floor; a vein in his neck throbbed, beating out the irregular pattern of his pulse.
‘If I had that,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘I’d be on my knees in the cathedral and not here looking for help from you. God and me . . .’ He shook his head, implying that that relationship was damaged.
‘The devil has other plans for me.’ The man stood wringing his hands, his breath coming in shallow drafts, his jaw clenched tight.
‘You don’t need an amulet,’ Merriment said.
‘I saw him,’ the old man whispered.
And even though he’d spoken the words under his breath, Anne, Janey Mack and the two women by the glass cabinet all responded by becoming completely silent, their ears straining to hear every last word.
Merriment frowned sympathetically and the old man clutched at his sternum like his heart might burst out and abandon him.
‘The Dolocher,’ he hissed.
Janey Mack didn’t blink. She sat frozen to the spot, her eyes fixed on the bristly edges of the old man’s face.
‘And he’s like they say, tall and cloaked, with a man’s body and a pig’s head and breast and a man’s hands. And he had tusks and he looked at me. He stepped out of the shadows and he looked at me.’
The old man suddenly gripped Merriment’s hands, startling her. His touch was cold and clammy and he dug his fingers into her flesh, obviously afraid for his life.
‘I will be next.’
‘What do you mean? Why would you be?’
‘He saw me. He pointed at me.’
‘Jesus, you poor love.’ Anne moved from the counter and called the other women over. ‘He’s seen the Dolocher.’
The women glided closer to hear the story. Janey Mack clenched and released her right fist.
‘I—’ the old man shook his head, flustering under the strain of all the attention. ‘I have to go.’
‘Wait.’ Anne tried to hold him by the elbow, but the man shook free, rushed out the door and fled.
‘Well, now.’ Anne patted her palm over her heart. ‘If that doesn’t beat all.’
*
While the women chatted and buzzed about this latest sighting of the Dolocher, Solomon sold his last sheet and was folding up his stall when the tall man in the dark frock coat approached him and handed him his card.
‘The name is Chesterfield Grierson.’ He had a freshly powdered wig and a silver-headed cane. He pulled a snuffbox from his pocket, took a quick pinch and snapped the lid, waiting for Solomon to be suitably impressed.
‘Solomon Fish.’
Solomon quickly scanned Chesterfield Grierson’s finely tailored clothes and immaculately pressed cravat. Admiring the understated garments, he felt a pang of envy.
‘Corker, run over to Gloria there and grab us four pies before she sells up completely,’ he said.
Corker did as he was told and Chesterfield stepped to one side to let the boy pass.
‘I’ve sold out,’ Solomon told him. ‘Finished up early. What time is it? Two o’clock?’
Chesterfield confirmed the time by nodding his long face and shifting his raised eyebrows higher. His face seemed permanently fixed with an incredulous expression. His grey eyebrows were constantly arched like they were posing a never-ending rhetorical question. His lips were suspended in a half-smile and his eyes were lit with a sardonic intelligence that exposed his shrewdness and encouraged some to call him a ‘conniving bastard’. Truth was he understood economics. He had a strong puritan streak counterbalanced by a rash capacity to fall in love with the wrong women.
‘Do you play cards, Mister Fish?’
The question took Solomon by surprise. This was the first time in years, the first time ever that he had a decent sum of money to throw into the pot and Chesterfield’s attire promised the possibility of a game with high stakes.
‘I do,’ Solomon said, interested.
‘I have a proposition. Call it a gamble if you like.’
He was using the card game as an analogy. Solomon felt let down.
‘Perhaps you know of me?’ he continued.
Solomon shook his head. He still wore the splint – Merriment had fixed it with a ribbon that tied at the back of his skull. Gloria had laughed and joked about how it looked like a snout, ‘And sure ye look half-pig yerself, standing there bawlin’ about the Dolocher. One pig callin’ out about another!’ Then by way of comfort, she had added, ‘It’d make ye weep to see yer good looks ruined.’
Solomon’s bruises were turning yellow now and the swelling of his upper eyelids was reducing. He checked Chesterfield Grierson’s card, looking for a clue.
‘Should I have heard of you?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps you’ve heard of Pue’s Occurrences?’
Solomon shook his head.
‘We’ve a wide circulation.’
Before Chesterfield could continue with his proposition, Corker barged in and shoved two pies into Solomon’s hand.
‘We’ve to go,’ Corker said, his mouth full of food.
Chesterfield turned his astonished look upon the boy, his jaw swinging open to protest.
‘There’s a development.’ Corker wolfed down his pie, crumbs cascading down his filthy waistcoat. ‘Over in the Tholsel.’
‘There appears to be an emergency, sufficient to prevent this young man from chewing his food correctly,’ Chesterfield told Solomon, before turning his attention to Corker. ‘Does it have anything to do with the Dolocher?’
Corker stopped mid-chew and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
‘I don’t report to you, sir,’ Corker replied. ‘This is business between me and Mister Fish here.’
‘Very good.’ Chesterfield lengthened, his tall form unwittingly mirroring the statue of Lucifer glowering down over them. He nodded and smiled; his eyes bright, his face so full of the one expression that he was completely unreadable. Corker couldn’t tell if he was offended or delighted.
‘Mister Fish, do me the honour of calling to my office on Skinner’s Row at your earliest convenience.’
Chesterfield Grierson bowed deeply and set off out of the market towards Werburgh Street.
‘What was that about?’ Corker frowned.
‘I think I’m about to be offered a job,’ Solomon said brightly.
The news struck Corker hard. His chest caved and his heart plummeted into his stomach. It had been less than a week since he had met Solomon but somehow in that short time he had become entangled in what, to him, was a grand enterprise and a storybook adventure. He was drawing and getting hot pies to eat. He had tasted cream pastry and disgusting coffee. He’d sat in a warm room in the evenings drinking milk and kidding with Janey Mack as he and Solomon worked out which parts of the broadsheets needed to be illustrated. Now, in one short sentence – nine little words, ‘I think I’m about to be offered a job’ – all his prospects had evaporated. Somehow, in the space of a few days, he had tethered his future to Solomon Fish and now Solomon was moving on.
‘What’s in the Tholsel?’ Solomon asked.
Corker told him, and they both raced over.
*
Solomon stared up at the mechanical clock housed in a medieval tower, surrounded by saints carrying bolts of material and shears, indicating that the Tholsel had originally been built as a linen merchant’s hall. The clock told him it was half past two. Today the building was being used as a courtroom and a woman named Ester Murphy from Rhys Lane was waiting to be called to the stand. Surrounded by a gaggle of men and women, there to support her in her ordeal, Ester took a quick sup of gin while smoking a clay pipe.
Solomon and Corker squeezed into the public gallery
.
‘Do your best,’ Solomon said, handing Corker three sheaves of paper on a piece of board and two pencils. He looked across at the judge’s bench and immediately recognised an old student friend of his from his days studying law. It was George Sweeny, and George Sweeny looked well. His wig was expensive. He wore the traditional black gown and sober suit. But there was something different about George: he had an accomplished air, he had outgrown his baby face and his nervous tick of tugging at his shirt collar. Qualified, George sat up tall and straight at the bench, looking through files and taking brisk notes. Solomon sank back into his seat, suddenly aware of his own battered face and threadbare jacket. The mace pounded on the floor, three loud raps. Solomon stood with the crowd, all rising for the Right Honourable, an octogenarian with a bad case of gout and a swollen lower lip the size of a fat slug and the colour of port wine. There was the usual palaver of legal ritual, a reciting of the cases, a calling to the stand and a lot of ‘me lords this’ and ‘me lords that’. Corker sketched the Judge, over emphasising his lower lip and deepening his scowl. And everyone waited, as case after case rolled by.
When the mechanical clock chimed four times. Solomon pulled out his notebook and watched Ester Murphy take the stand. She was sworn in, her credentials read and the Judge informed that she was here to give an account of an attack, which happened yesterday evening as she was making her way to Cutpurse Lane to visit her ailing mother.
‘It was almost nine bells, yer honour. I heard the night watch callin’ out the time as I was coming along Copper Alley at the back of Christ Church Cathedral to me mother’s house. I was trottin’, yer honour. And I had me lantern and a short stick with a nail in it, to protect meself. I was afraid, yer honour, not on account of Olocher, ye understand; I was afraid because the city is dangerous at night, full of brigands and thieves. But I had no choice: me poor mother is very ill and I’d a bit of bread and cheese in me basket for to give to her. I was coming along Saint John’s Lane, just by the back wall to Hell. It’s a lonely, quiet road along there, yer honour, all I could hear were me own heels poundin’ on the cobbles, echoing into the pitch-black sky and not a sinner nor livin’ thing close by. I was getting a stitch in me side from marchin’ so quick, but I was too afraid to slow down or stop, for fear of what might jump out at me from the shadows.’
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