Solomon shrugged. ‘I think perhaps it does exist, but the best part of me wants to believe we are safe from angels and demons and sprites of every kind. We have enough trouble in the world without spectres and ghosts creeping in.’
Buoyed by the drink, by the garnet-coloured light and the compelling attraction of Merriment’s company, Solomon felt emboldened. Strength emerged from an unknown quarter. A stray thought suddenly filled his mind: perhaps he could outwit Knox, perhaps he could change, perhaps he could stay.
He watched Merriment drink, her eyelids an opalescent white beneath her dark brows, her lips sensually parting over the glass, closing sweetly as she sipped.
How many men has she lain with? he wondered. How could they have left her? Maybe they didn’t leave her, maybe she left them. He remembered Jenny the barmaid’s remark, ‘Probably whored her way around the Bay of Biscay.’
Sitting here beside the fire talking to the woman who wore breeches and carried a pistol, Solomon understood implicitly that Merriment possessed the most intriguing attribute of all. She was mysterious. And intoxicated by fortified wine and the heady combination of a bright, sensual woman and gentle light, Solomon found his eyes drifting from Merriment’s mouth to the base of her neck and down to her breasts, his whole being filled with longing.
He could stay.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Solomon enquired. ‘Did your luck change after they hanged the deformed sailor off Port Royal?’
Merriment blushed suddenly; a rosy flare crept up her neck and fanned out into a blaze on her cheeks. She smiled, showing the gap in her front teeth, her whole being illuminated. Her fine spirit glittered in her blue eyes.
‘Well then, you have found me out.’ She laughed a peppery laugh full of spice and bite. ‘Strangely enough, our luck completely changed.’
Solomon found himself laughing too. How had that happened? How had a gentle mirth emerged from the obliterating events of the day?
They both sat back in their chairs, their amusement ebbing away, softening into contentment, a long silence opening up between them, filled with the sound of the fire crackling, the wind blustering and the rain pounding a rapport on the side of the house. And cocooned in warmth and comfort Solomon began to contemplate how he might outwit Billy Knox. He still had two pounds and another instalment of the Dolocher tale. It pierced his heart to think he could use poor Gertie’s murder to pay off his gambling debts, but his back was to the wall. He could not forsake his chances in Dublin and, horrific as the truth was, he would rather stay and try and make good than run and leave all this behind. This? his conscience enquired as his mind sloped away from the one thing that truly made him want to stay.
Merriment.
He ran his fingers through his hair and thought of Pearly’s suggestion: Ask a friend for a loan. And looking at the glowing cinders collapsing in the hearth, he took in a deep breath, deciding to take his chances.
‘I should work,’ he said to Merriment.
He would invest his two pounds in broadsheets and start again.
‘There’s Gertie’s murder to report, Maggie’s condition, Ester Murphy’s testimony.’ He put his glass down on the floor. ‘Bloody distasteful,’ he growled, more to himself than to Merriment, ‘but I have to do it.’ He wanted to add, ‘Don’t judge me.’ Instead he turned his face away, afraid to see disapproval in her eyes.
‘Of course.’ Merriment felt curiously self-conscious. For a moment she wondered about staying in the room and reading her book, but the atmosphere had been disturbed between them, the balance of intimacy tipped a little off-kilter. She intuited that Solomon wanted to be alone and, taking the cue, rose from her chair and put the glasses on the sideboard. She pointed at the large ceramic jar near the door. ‘There’s bread and cheese there, and some butter under that dish.’
‘Thank you.’ Solomon smiled sadly. Then he stood up and, digging into his jacket pocket, opened his wallet and said, ‘Here.’ He took out three shillings.
Merriment frowned, confused.
‘For Maggie,’ he said, and counting out two more shillings, all he had left, asked her to do him a favour.
‘His name is Charlie. I think his arm was broken the night the Keeper did this to my face. He’s in the Black Dog. Will you look in on him and let me know how he is?’
‘Good lord,’ Merriment couldn’t help but tease. ‘Is the Dolocher chastising you to do good deeds?’
‘No,’ Solomon said flatly. ‘You are.’
Merriment crumpled, completely disarmed. She wanted to swat away her feelings with a quip, wanted to say something clever to diffuse the intensity of the emotions suddenly boiling in her heart. But she could think of nothing. She looked into his face, surprised, her fingertips touching his as he gave her the money.
‘I will,’ she promised.
Solomon wanted to kiss her. Instead he gazed at her steadily, watching her eyelids lower. Her thick auburn hair, richly burnished by the firelight, shivered a little as she turned, her long curls flowing beyond her waist.
‘Night,’ she said softly.
And he watched her leave, the scent of her perfume delicately mingled with the longing in his heart. If only he could make good.
12
Two Houses
When Corker called early the next morning, the sun hadn’t come up yet. By instinct he came to the back door and tapped. Solomon was slumped over his work, the fire had died down, and when the raps roused him, he thought for a brief moment he was a young boy again and had dozed off while reading by candlelight after a hard day’s work. The darkness was familiar, warm, full of the past and who he used to be.
‘Yes,’ he whispered hoarsely, expecting his mother’s voice to say, ‘Sol, you stayed up the night long, come on like a good lad, have a bit of soda bread and butter, ye’ll be late.’
‘Sol, is that you?’ Corker responded; he had been expecting Janey Mack or Merriment.
The latch to the back door drew back with a clank and Solomon, wrapped in a blanket, leaned against it sleepily, letting Corker in. The candle guttered in the wind and settled once the door was shut.
‘Met the night watch.’ Corker rubbed his hands together and made for the dead fire. He rattled the ashes, uncovering the barest glow. ‘Bloody cold out there.’ He hunkered down, desperate to soak up the last dregs of the heat.
Solomon lit another candle and looked for kindling. ‘Is it the middle of the night?’ He gazed bemused at his surroundings.
‘It’s six thirty. I was up. Me mam—’ Corker cut off, not bothering to explain what he was doing up so early. ‘I thought we’d get started soon as possible seein’ as we have to be over at the civic offices for one or so. Heard about the young one being strangled and cut. Heard about the chunk of flesh found with her. I found the night watch hiding. He’s the one who told me. I fell upon him. He’s terrified out of his wits, the poor old man. Says he’s going to the Aldermen’s to give in his resignation. He must be seventy if he’s a day.’
Corker shovelled the ash into a bucket and grabbed a handful of kindling, taking Solomon’s candle to light a fresh fire.
‘Cut us a slice of bread, Sol, would ya?’
Then, glancing at the pile of damp clothes on the floor, he grinned, his crooked teeth on full display.
‘What’d you and Merriment get up to last night?’
‘Nothing.’ Solomon scowled. ‘I got half drowned looking for that poor Gertie girl. Here.’ He handed Corker a thick slice of bread. ‘I’ve to go up and get changed and look in on Maggie.’ He was about to open the door into the shop when he paused and turned, tilting his head. ‘Why do we have to go to the civic offices?’
‘After what happened last night.’ Corker wolfed down the bread, barely chewing on the crust. ‘The two houses are meeting, the Aldermen and the Sheriff’s, one will want to blame the other for the Dolocher business. They’ll have to explain themselves to the head buck cats, the city elders, beadles and night watches. All the bigwigs will
want to know what’s going on. There’ll be a crackdown on criminal gangs, watches doubled. Something will come out in the mix, ye’ll see.’
‘Right.’ Solomon scratched the side of his face. His eyes were itchy. The idea of a crackdown on criminal gangs set off a chain of thoughts. Maybe Pearly and Billy Knox would go to ground, keep a low profile, get off his back. He pointed to the table. ‘You grab a sheet of paper and do a quick sketch of a girl dead in a gutter. I’ll go up and get dressed. Give me my wet clothes, will you?’
Corker did as he was bid, admiring Solomon’s worn shoes.
‘If ye ever want to chuck these, I know a set of feet would welcome their comfort.’
‘They leak,’ Solomon said, before blindly making his way upstairs.
Maggie was sleeping deeply, her breath catching in her throat with a slight rattle. He tip-toed past her, unaware that slumped at her feet, sitting on the chest she had purchased in India, was Merriment. He quietly opened his bag, drew out a shirt and was slipping into dry breeches when a voice softly whispered.
‘Is it morning?’
‘Jesus,’ Solomon hissed, spinning, his chest gleaming in the dim light of the shuttered room. His arms waved palely as he instinctively clutched his shirt and staggered upright. It took him a moment to realise it was Merriment.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
‘No, I just . . .’ Solomon wiped his brow; he was shattered. ‘I need to get dressed.’
Merriment unhinged the shutters and drew them back, letting a damp grey light into the room. Maggie Fines was sitting propped up, her face haggard. The patch of injured scalp had risen and blotches of dried blood were caught in her wispy grey hair. She was surrounded by pillows and covered by a pale quilt. Wrapped in her fingers were a set of rosary beads, and visible beneath the white shift Merriment had loaned her were the tight pink bandages of a comfrey plaster that squeezed and nourished her fractured ribs.
‘She looks awful.’ Solomon crept close.
Maggie stirred, her face wincing, her whole being aching as she slowly opened her eyes.
‘Solomon Fish,’ she smiled painfully. ‘What happened to yer face, Sol?’
‘Hey, Maggie, how are you this morning?’
Maggie turned to Merriment and nodded politely, despite the pain shooting up from her side.
‘This yer wife, Sol?’
Solomon looked at Merriment.
‘I . . .’ he began to say.
‘Poor Eliza, she’ll be disappointed.’ Maggie rested her head back onto the pillow. ‘I feel sore all over. True as God, I feel like I’ve been put through the mill.’
Merriment sat on the bed beside her, checking her face and inspecting the side of her head.
‘Don’t touch that, dear.’ Maggie retracted, her head slowly turning to watch the door creak open. Janey Mack stepped in, her night shift dragging along the floor. She was wrapped in the tattered shawl she’d taken from Hoppy John’s, her large eyes blinking with fearful expectation as she stepped towards Maggie.
‘There ye are, Misses. I thought we’d find ye dead in the bed.’
‘Janey,’ Merriment tried to signal to the little girl to say no more, ‘will you fetch Maggie a sup of warm milk?’
Merriment patted Maggie’s hand. ‘Would you like that, Maggie, some warm milk for breakfast?’
‘Thank you, dear.’
Maggie rubbed the rosary beads with her left thumb and wagged a finger at Solomon.
‘What did ye do with Sally Loftus, Solomon?’
Solomon looked away in a panic.
‘I’m late,’ he grumbled, tugging on his shirt and grabbing a pair of stockings.
Merriment watched him scurry from the room, taking Janey Mack with him.
‘Breaks everyone’s heart,’ Maggie whispered. ‘He’ll break yours too no doubt.’
Maggie let her head sink into the pillows. She gave a little moan as she shifted, clutching at her painful ribs.
‘You need to rest,’ Merriment told her. ‘Janey Mack and I will look after you today.’
The door slammed downstairs. Merriment got up to look out the window. Across the way a skinny man hopped up and down off the kerb, his hands in his pockets, his wizened face peering left and right, amusing himself with idle skipping. He appeared to be waiting for someone. A dairymaid dawdled up the road, tugging a reluctant cow towards the market. A huge man wearing a blue nipped jacket, a neatly pressed shirt, cream breeches and polished boots idly leaned on a windowsill and hailed the dairymaid over to buy a quart of milk. Merriment watched him gulp it down, interested in his particular manner as he carefully sipped from the quart jug. He glanced up at her and their eyes momentarily met. Merriment thought he might have smiled at her. Unnerved, she stepped a little back, watching him as he sauntered away into the crowd while the shambles began to thicken with fishwives arriving with the morning’s catch.
‘Is Sol gone to get my Jack?’ Maggie tried to lift herself up.
‘Yes,’ Merriment lied as she gazed down into the street below. The man in the blue jacket had vanished. She saw Solomon run towards the printers with Corker hot on his heels and wondered why the name Sally Loftus had scalded him so much.
*
All that day, the shop was phenomenally busy. The news of Gertie Baker’s murder had shot through the community. The city buzzed with the startling report that a supernatural force was strangling and attacking women, cutting them open. Strangers commented with strangers, stopping in their tracks to throw their tuppence-worth into overheard conversations, trading titbits of information.
‘Olocher used to stalk them when he was alive. I know one girl so maltreated by him that she’s been confined to the lunatic asylum ever since.’
‘Olocher’s predilection was to slice off slivers of flesh and eat them before his victims’ eyes.’
The populace worked itself into a tumult. That a man so heinous as Olocher could extend his wrath beyond the grave sent several quarters running for the safety and succour of the Church. People flung themselves onto their knees, renouncing their sins, gathering up bottles of holy water and buying scapulars as a meagre protection from the hideous grasp of Satan himself. The attacks were considered awful, the fact that they were carried out by a ‘fiend from hell’ was believed to be some form of dreadful retribution that may very well be a precursor to Gabriel’s trumpet announcing the cracking open of the earth and the arrival of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. No one could understand why Dublin had been chosen to be the starting ground for the end of times, but several wagged their heads and told anyone who would listen that the city was awash with every imaginable vice and only by banishing whores and lowlifes could the Dolocher be driven away.
All day Merriment had to make up potions, the majority for anxiety and fear, others for ailing, unloving or bad-tempered spouses; a small few were for sadness and despair. She was so busy in the shop that she barely had time to eat. Janey Mack crept downstairs and fetched some bread and cheese for herself and another cup of milk for Maggie late in the afternoon.
‘You all right?’ Merriment asked her, noticing the little girl was very quiet.
‘Yes,’ Janey Mack blurted, startled by the question. ‘Just getting bread.’
‘How’s Maggie?’
Merriment was crushing the dried corpses of two imported spiders, Latrodectus mactans, black widow, to extract the benefits from their bulbous bodies for the whimpering woman trembling with trepidation over by the doorway.
‘Maggie’s talking,’ Janey Mack said, her face clouded and preoccupied. Merriment knew something wasn’t quite right; she simply hadn’t the time to address the matter.
‘Don’t give her anything to eat,’ she warned.
Janey Mack nodded, slipping into the anteroom and coming out five minutes later with a plate of bread and cheese which she intended to eat herself, and a large mug of milk. The bell over the door to the shop kept ringing as customer after customer entered, all of them eagerly discussin
g the dreadful events that were unfolding in the area called Hell.
*
Solomon gave Corker an extra shilling to mind the stall and keep selling.
‘What about the meeting?’ Corker asked him.
‘I’ve something to do first.’
Solomon made his way through the throng, barging past Jody Maguire, who snatched his elbow and dragged him back.
‘Funny how the Dolocher turns up the minute you show yer face to this plot.’
Solomon tugged his arm free.
‘Let me go,’ he scowled. Jody Maguire grinned grotesquely, his skin rough and purple, his mean eyes glinting viciously.
‘What happened to yer face?’ He tapped his walking stick against his thigh.
‘Fuck off,’ Solomon countered. That made Jody Maguire laugh.
‘Nasty little tongue in yer head, haven’t ye? For such a pretty boy.’
Solomon marched away making for the undertaker’s on Purcell’s Court. In the fresh light of day, he was full of conflict, last night’s surety slipping into doubt. He knew the mechanics of criminal gangs all too well. The idea that he could just pay off his debt and walk away was overly optimistic; however, he also knew that a weekly stipend paid to Knox might keep the bully off his back. Despite last night’s resolve, the idea of moving on appealed to him once again: pay the two pounds’ balance and scarper. But the snagging tug of Merriment’s power kept bringing him back to the same centre: perhaps he could change his stars. And there was Corker. His emotions swung unevenly from dejection to hope, back and forth, between all possibilities. Preoccupied and uncertain, he weaved his way through the busy streets, not seeing the world around him. When he got to the undertaker’s, he made arrangements to have Gertie Baker’s body taken from the Lying-In Hospital and carried to Saggart by a single dray. He paid a messenger to bring the carefully worded note he had composed to the Baker family, warning them of their coming sorrow. On his way down Skinner’s Row he tripped and, looking at his shoes, noticed one sole was loose and flapping and in bad need of repair.
The Dolocher Page 20