The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  He felt the nine guineas earned that morning rattling in his jacket pocket and on a whim bought himself a pair of calf-leather boots buffed and polished the colour of oxblood. Billy Knox could have some money, but not all that was owed him.

  ‘Can you mend these?’ he asked, removing his battered buckled shoes.

  The shopkeeper nodded, giving his assistant the shoes to patch up and stitch. ‘They’ll be good as new,’ the shopkeeper promised.

  ‘I’ll be back in two hours,’ Solomon said, leaving the cobbler’s and heading towards the quays.

  He was mounting the steps to the civic offices, following a line of flustered officials, all cloaked and trimmed and rushing to the emergency meeting called for two o’clock. The meeting was late to accommodate the travel arrangements of one Lord Beresford and the court sessions of one Judge Coveny. A crowd had gathered at the offices to shout abuse at anyone going inside and insisting on justice as they passed by.

  ‘Do yer jobs. What do we pay cesses for? The city is not safe. More street lights. Fix the pavements. More night watches.’

  There were jibes and jokes about the Dolocher.

  ‘He’d choke on yous, yer face would sour milk, curdle his stomach, he’d take one look at ye and scream.’

  Line after line of officials poured into the building, shoving past the irate crowd and pouring into the high chamber at the top of the stairs. They took their seats around a polished deal table, waiting for the more prestigious city elders and the chairmen of the relevant houses to take their places. The bicameral houses responsible for the security of the city created a natural divide. The House of Aldermen, who were dressed in lime green and yellow, sat directly opposite the House of the Sheriff and Commons, who wore powder-blue waistcoats and pink garters. Each side muttered about the ineptitude of the other, both houses shirking full responsibility for the payment of night watches and lighting as they snapped snide remarks, defending their positions across the table.

  Solomon squeezed into the room, hiding behind three cloaked gentlemen and adopting his most officious air when a valet questioned him for identification.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of the Board of the Black Dog,’ he lied, noticing to his horror that Chesterfield Grierson was sitting cross-legged at the table, leaning into his chair with one arm looped over the back, delicately waving a scented hanky and staring intently into Solomon’s face.

  ‘You can’t sit at the table,’ the valet told him.

  Solomon nodded brusquely and, finding a spot by the wall, he drew out his notebook, pretending to be preoccupied to avoid Chesterfield’s gaze. The room filled with every notable representative from all districts, all vying for a spot at the table, or as close to the head of the table as could possibly benefit their career advancement. The room hummed with categorical propositions, everyone emphatic in their own way about what had to be done to staunch the flow of this current crime wave.

  When Lord Beresford was announced with the city chairman and his secretary, Lord Rochford and Judge Coveny, everyone stood up and bowed. Solomon looked at Lord Beresford, remembering him galloping away from the Black Dog the day after Olocher had killed himself. Beresford had a very presupposing manner. He was a tall man in his fifties, handsome with a wiry frame, a sharp angled face and a long mouth. His hair was silver, his wig was white, but his brows were dark. A black leather patch covered his left eye; his right eye was the palest blue and filled with a hawkish expression. The man was sharp and flinty and everything about his movements clearly expressed that he was not one to suffer fools gladly. Even with one eye missing, nothing escaped his notice. Solomon immediately jotted down the word ‘astute’ by Lord Beresford’s name, oddly feeling that he might like the man. Lord Rochford grimaced, his mouth turned down, his eyes flicking disapprovingly from one face to another, disgusted with the very notion of having to sit with such an unaccomplished throng. He waited to have his seat drawn out for him before begrudgingly sitting down, laying his fur-lined hat on the table and resting his hands on his walking stick, while Judge Coveny flustered and guffawed and smacked someone’s back. The chairman lifted a gavel and roundly pounded it three times to officially start the meeting.

  All hell broke loose.

  *

  While Corker roped in two of his sisters to help him sell Solomon’s broadsheets and while Maggie Fines terrified Janey Mack, Merriment cut and measured and crushed one herb after another, dishing out medicine and raking in money to the point where she thought she really would have to bring in a more accomplished assistant.

  Anne called in, dragging Stella after her.

  ‘Look,’ she announced, beaming, while Merriment tried to count out change and package another salve.

  ‘What do you think?’ Anne beamed.

  Merriment was confused.

  ‘Isn’t she greatly altered?’ Anne prompted. Stella looked the same, her long gaunt face staring seriously about her. ‘Your treatment has done the trick.’ Anne carefully removed her gloves and nodded to the waiting customer. ‘She’s dandy with the cures,’ she said. ‘Aren’t ye, Merriment?’ Then waving her gloves at Stella, she said, ‘Tell yer woman how good Merriment is.’

  Merriment smiled, exhausted. ‘There you are.’ She handed the salve to the woman and gave her her change. When the customer left, Merriment sighed and sank onto the high stool.

  ‘My God, it’s been unbelievably busy today.’

  ‘Her dad let her out.’ Anne didn’t care that business was improving.

  Stella wandered over to the perfume stall. ‘He’s been on much better form,’ she told Merriment, turning to sniff the samples. When her back was to them, Anne slipped a further three pennies to Merriment, with a quick wink and a winning smile.

  ‘Where’s Janey Mack?’ she asked.

  ‘Upstairs.’ Merriment didn’t want to mention Maggie Fines, she didn’t want to bring up the Dolocher; she’d had enough of the subject for the day. Anne nodded, tapping her fingers a moment on the counter.

  ‘And Solomon?’

  ‘Over in Hell.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Anne contradicted. ‘That young fella with the funny teeth is there, surrounded by other children with funny teeth. I swear to God there must be ten of them. I bet his mother is Catholic.’

  ‘Anne,’ Stella exclaimed.

  ‘I’m only saying. They breed like rabbits, it’s a known fact. Anyway,’ Anne confided as she patted the lace ruffle at her chest, ‘there’s a brood of ugly children manning Solomon’s stall and Solomon is nowhere to be seen.’

  Merriment shrugged, pretending to be unconcerned, but she did wonder where Solomon was.

  ‘Bought his two broadsheets, though.’ Anne produced the sheets from her pocket and flattened them on the counter. ‘The widow Byrne is fixated on the Dolocher. We frighten the livin’ daylights out of ourselves at night, reading these things over and over. Misses Lennon does pop in. You remember her.’ Anne stared into Merriment’s blank face. ‘Ye gave her a sedative thingy for her husband, made from the bloom of the flowers that look like the thorns around Christ’s head. The old lady, doubled up with arthritis?’

  ‘Yes.’ Merriment was exhausted.

  ‘We do sip milk with a drop of brandy in it and the widow even asked me to sleep beside her, she’s that afraid. Grand for me, though,’ Anne giggled. ‘Her bed’s warm and comfy, and I do have the best night’s sleep, honest to God.’

  The shop door opened and Merriment instantly recognised Dolly Shelbourne, the skinny woman with the holy husband. Dolly looked frantic. She peeked back out the front door and rushed to the counter, her behaviour instantly piquing Anne and Stella’s interest.

  ‘Misses O’Grady,’ Dolly hissed, her pinched face animated with greater than normal anxiety and, ignoring Merriment’s customers, she craned over the counter to announce.

  ‘It’s Thaddeus, he’s it in for ye. He found the drops ye gave me. I’ve come to warn ye.’

  Merriment could feel her heart skipping, ins
tinctively knowing what was coming next.

  ‘On account of his religious convictions.’ Dolly rocked back and forth on her toes, she wrung her hands, her neck craned, her eyes constantly skipped to the window to inspect any passers-by. ‘He has it in his mind y’er a witch.’

  Anne gasped. Stella blanched. Merriment raised her hand: the gesture was a calming one, done to convince Stella that nothing untoward was taking place.

  ‘Of course I’m not a witch,’ Merriment faltered.

  Dolly’s head bobbed anxiously. ‘I know,’ she repeated over and over. ‘I know. But there’s no talking to him, he thought I was trying to poison him. I had to run to my sister’s house. He flung me into the street. Look, he tore my dress. Beat me with birch. Floggin’ me on account of what it says in the Bible.’

  Merriment tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.

  ‘Has he gone to the guild?’ she enquired, her heart racing in her chest.

  ‘The guild?’ Dolly’s eyes rolled. ‘He’s gone to the parson, talks about getting a petition. He means to have you tried.’

  Anne hissed out, ‘Jesus.’

  Merriment sucked in a deep breath, struggling to keep her mind from rushing to the worst conclusions.

  ‘He’s like a terrier cornering a rat when he gets an idea into his head,’ Dolly explained. ‘Nothing will deter him.’ Tears popped in her eyes. She was scared. ‘I’m sorry,’ she blubbered. ‘Only I have to go. I thought it only fair ye should know. He’s determined to chastise ye, have ye chained in the stocks.’

  Dolly tiptoed quickly to the door, where she peered left and right, searching the crowds for her disgruntled husband. She shot a quick glance back at Merriment.

  ‘I blame that Molly Jenkins one for draggin’ me here.’ She pulled open the door, hunkered down beside a passing sedan chair and scurried away, using the chair as a shield to hide her.

  Merriment pressed her fingers to her lips, concerned that she would be called before the apothecary guild to explain what was going on. Anne looked at Stella and shook her head.

  ‘Now, Stella,’ she began. But Stella paced out of the shop, muttering a low goodbye.

  ‘She’s easily affrighted.’ Anne smiled apprehensively. ‘I better follow her.’ Then, realising that Merriment looked very worried, she added, ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, Merriment. Yer man’s probably a craw-thumper, full of mea culpas and is about as Christian as Attila the Hun. I wouldn’t worry about what that lady said. There’s bigger things to be concerned with.’

  Then she frowned nervously as it dawned on her that the city was in the grip of Dolocher fever and, by implication, if a demon could exist why not a witch, and tried to skip over the holes in her reasoning. Anne sniffed and pinched her lips together. ‘I better go after Stella. All I can say is ye did her father the world of good. The world of good.’

  Merriment leaned on the counter wondering what to do.

  As the doorbell tinkled its last chime, Janey Mack came thundering down the stairs and launched into the room, frantically shouting.

  ‘Maggie’s frothing at the mouth. Come quick, she’s thrashin’ about like the devil has her.’

  *

  Over at the meeting of the two houses, men were on their feet, blustering and shouting and slamming the table with their fists.

  ‘Double the night watch.’

  ‘Reform the prisons.’

  ‘Send in the militia.’

  Lord Beresford leaned back into his chair with a faintly amused expression on his face and Lord Rochford scowled and tutted. It took the general secretary pounding on the table with a borrowed cane to bring the room to order.

  ‘A bloody demon,’ one man spluttered in a gap of silence and the room erupted with a mixture of laughter, scorn and genuine concern.

  It took a few hours of negotiations to come up with a plan. There would be a general tidy-up of the city, a sweep to arrest and imprison any ne’er-do-well, but first the prisons would have to be flushed through and that was where the problem lay. All the city’s gaols were bulging at the seams, and siphoning off the least offensive prisoners by either early release or prompt execution was a matter for the courts. Once this was discovered there was another hue and cry about the inefficiency of the legal system. Someone suggested that some of the military barracks could serve as a gaol, but that was immediately abandoned and by the end of the meeting all that had been resolved was to put on a double watch, since the introduction of a curfew was shot down by all of the merchants and businessmen present.

  Solomon tried to bolt quickly from the meeting, but the refined tone of Chesterfield Grierson called his name loud and clear.

  ‘Mister Fish.’

  Solomon had no choice but to turn and bow politely.

  ‘Mister Grierson.’

  ‘Skinner’s Row is not so far from your stall.’ Chesterfield pulled out his little silver snuffbox.

  ‘Events have been unfolding thick and fast,’ Solomon reminded him.

  ‘Indeed.’ Chesterfield tapped a streak of brown powder onto the back of his hand, brought it to his nostril where he took a quick, sharp sniff. ‘My proposition is simple.’

  They stood in the elegant upper landing, surrounded by pale blue walls finely decorated with Italian stucco work. Clerks hovered near their masters, while most of the officials hung about in conspiratorial groups, satisfied or annoyed by the decisions signed off by both houses. The House of Aldermen had insisted that the House of the Sheriff and Commons were trying to muscle in on their area of responsibility, while a major power struggle between both houses seemed to solidify as a result of the decisions passed. Chesterfield Grierson waved regally at one or two people, and bowed solemnly to others, all the time outlining to Solomon why he should come and work for him at Pue’s Occurrences.

  ‘Your style is ornate, baroque. I enjoy your flights of fancy.’ Chesterfield tapped his yellow cravat. ‘You err a little on the side of verbosity. However, you have flair and an understanding of what it is the populace wish to digest.’

  Seeing that Solomon wasn’t interested in his critique, Chesterfield got to the heart of the matter.

  ‘You will be paid twelve shillings a week with a quarterly review of your salary, which will be increased incrementally depending on the distribution figures. Pue’s Occurrences needs updating. I have a certain world view that is currently out of vogue; you, on the other hand, seem to hold no boundaries. Perhaps between us we could aspire to become the definitive news herald?’

  Solomon shook his head. ‘I write what I want, because I know what will sell. You start tampering with me and we will row.’

  Chesterfield Grierson didn’t smile; his deeply arched eyebrows rose towards his hairline in an almost clownish fashion. He glared into Solomon’s face and seemed to read something in the line and contour of his jaw.

  ‘We would discuss, I am sure.’ He tapped his wig and a fine hail of powder puffed into the air. ‘I have no fear of robust discussion, Mister Fish. After all, we are in pursuit of grander principles, aren’t we?’

  Solomon pushed his hands into his breeches pockets.

  ‘Principles are the luxury of the rich; the rest of us mere mortals eke a living in the shadow of the greats and report life as it is, not as we would wish it to be.’

  ‘Quite right, quite right.’

  Chesterfield tilted his head. His immaculately pressed jacket was beautifully tailored and tastefully restrained, with only the barest brocade visible around the buttonholes.

  ‘Twelve shillings is no mean sum.’

  ‘I earned eight pounds in the last two weeks.’ This remark cut, reminding Solomon of his losses to Knox at the card table.

  ‘The Dolocher story will pass; all scandals pass.’

  Solomon smirked. ‘All scandals refresh themselves.’

  ‘Not this one. The Dolocher is a once-in-a-lifetime story. It has captivated people’s imaginations, quite right that you should profit on the grisly details. However, the story will ex
pire and scandals such as love affairs and the antics of the Ormond Street Boys won’t be as lucrative. Then’ – Chesterfield tugged on the cuff of his sleeve – ‘a steady wage in a nice office, warming your toes by the fire and mixing with gentlemen in coffee houses, that surely must be attractive.’

  Solomon nodded. ‘Thank you for your offer, Mister Grierson; however, I don’t think I will be staying in Dublin for much longer.’

  Though he had swung between possibilities all day, at that moment Solomon had settled on leaving.

  Chesterfield didn’t miss a beat. He looked around the room, faintly repelled by the insincere smiles and overt politeness.

  ‘Despite the fact that the young boy that draws your sketches has fastened his hopes on you?’

  Solomon felt the sting and resented the charge.

  ‘Corker is a street lad, he’s resourceful. He knows better than to . . .’ Solomon cut his explanation in half and revised his intention. ‘Once I’ve milked the Dolocher story for all I can get, I will be leaving.’

  ‘Back to London?’ Chesterfield enquired, stunning Solomon into a nervous silence.

  Chesterfield suddenly bowed deeply to Lord Beresford as he approached and shook his hand.

  ‘Ashenhurst,’ he smiled.

  ‘Don’t grin at me, you blackguard,’ Beresford hissed, leaning in. ‘How much are you looking for from me this week?’

  ‘Maybe a naval vessel? What about a clipper?’ asked Chesterfield, the ever-present look of surprise still on his face.

  Lord Beresford laughed and smacked Chesterfield’s back.

  ‘Good to see you, Chesterfield. Still in love with Peggy Leeson?’

  Chesterfield Grierson looked instantly wounded, his face falling in one long movement.

  ‘There now.’ Lord Beresford elbowed him. ‘She’s asking after you.’ Then, turning to Solomon, he said, ‘How do you do.’

  Solomon gave the slightest bow. ‘Do you know,’ he asked, still smarting with the knowledge that Chesterfield had researched him, ‘that the Keeper in the Black Dog Prison, Mister Hawkins, is beating prisoners and robbing them?’