The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  ‘Merri,’ he said softly. ‘Something’s happened.’

  Merriment stepped away and covered her neck up again. A creeping fear seeped through her skin as the daylight dimmed and night approached. She glanced nervously towards the window. A man with a cane looked over from across the street. She closed up the shutters and doubled checked the door was locked. As she stooped over another candle and lit it, she tried to reassure Solomon.

  ‘I feel better,’ she told him. Then, noticing the agitated light in his eyes, her brow crinkled and her head tilted to one side. ‘What has happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Somehow,’ Solomon began, ‘a criminal gang is using the Dolocher to cover their operations.’

  Merriment drew her brows together and looked to the scrolls Solomon was pointing at, listening as he outlined the details he had discovered.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, gleaming with satisfaction as she encouraged Solomon to show her the files. ‘I knew it.’

  *

  Janey Mack and Corker sat furtively in the anteroom, picking at their feast and wondering what Merriment and Solomon were whispering about.

  ‘Do ye think he’s leaving?’ Corker ventured, his huge eyes bulging with terror.

  Janey Mack shook her head. She pushed a potato around her plate, licking the last of the ribs.

  ‘The papers are from Chesterfield’s office. Do ye think Sol’s been sacked?’

  Janey Mack clacked her tongue, affronted. ‘I don’t know why they said we’ve to stay in here. What’s to be spoken about that we can’t listen to?’

  Jumping off her chair and creeping towards the door, she put her index finger to her lips, warning Corker to be quiet. She pressed her ear against the dark wood, the candle throwing a soft pallid light over her face. All she heard was mumbling.

  Solomon and Merriment worked under the glare of five candles and spread a map of Dublin over the counter. Merriment fetched a bottle of green ink and a quill and as Solomon called out addresses she began to draw green x’s all over the map.

  ‘You’re well enough to do this?’ Solomon checked again, his eyes full of concern.

  Merriment smiled. ‘I’m made of sterner stuff, Sol. And you have done a fine evening’s work here.’ She pointed the quill at the map. ‘Now, carry on.’

  Warmed by the fact that Merriment had used the shortened version of his name, Solomon felt a flicker of hope. Full of admiration for her fighting spirit, he paused over an open file, his eyes lingering a moment on her face.

  ‘Go on,’ Merriment encouraged him. ‘What else?’

  ‘This is dated the night I saw the Dolocher, from 4 New Row, the Dutch Billy house. Among the items taken were two candleholders made of beaten silver and a porcelain vase.’

  Merriment marked a green x on the map, then she stood back.

  ‘Look.’ She shook her head, incredulous. ‘There are three here. All in close proximity to sightings of the Dolocher. All in Thomas Street.’

  Solomon stood near her, his arm pressing gently against hers.

  Merriment gazed at the map, her eyes following the tendrils of alleyways drawn in spidery ink, edged by rectangles shaded grey, all representing homesteads. The network of backstreets near Copper Alley and on over to Cornmarket were scored by red dots and green crosses.

  ‘This is extraordinary,’ she said, examining the evidence, animated by the facts spread before her. ‘How are they doing it? How do they know when the Dolocher will strike? Do they know his lair? Is he under their control in some way?’

  Solomon shook his head, ‘I don’t know. That’s where I hoped you would apply your reasoning.’

  Merriment laughed a little, then sucked a short sharp breath through her teeth, quickly holding her side to decrease the darting pain. ‘My reasoning, I see.’

  Solomon leaned towards her, pleased to see a return of Merriment’s spirit, longing to draw her body nearer. ‘Well, it was you who brought about this revelation.’ He slipped his arm around her waist.

  Merriment stepped closer. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘This morning, your conversation got me thinking, made me see things differently.’

  ‘Did it?’

  A sharp, urgent rap came to the shop door, rattling the hinges. Merriment jolted and stepped back. Solomon blinked and caught his breath.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Solomon stroked her arm.

  ‘Wait.’ They both stood frozen, the blaze of white candles flickered as a second rap came to the door, making Janey Mack peek fearfully out from the kitchen.

  ‘Is it the man come to take ye away?’ she asked, her little face floating pale over her dark shoulders.

  Solomon’s features compressed, darkening. He glanced at Merriment’s pinched face, his fingers finding her hand and squeezing lightly as his heart pounded in his chest.

  ‘O’Grady,’ a confident voice called in, ‘it’s me.’

  Merriment let out a sigh, rallied and grabbed a candle, shooing Janey Mack back into the kitchen before unlocking the shop door. Ashenhurst Beresford swept in on a cool Arctic breeze, wearing a dark naval cloak over a jacket trimmed with gleaming brass buttons.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asked, his hand falling protectively on Merriment’s shoulder.

  Merriment nodded, latching the door. ‘You got my note.’

  ‘What note?’

  She looked perplexed. ‘I sent it by messenger yesterday.’

  ‘I got nothing.’ Beresford gazed down at her, his sharp profile handsome and full of power. ‘Is it true you were attacked?’ He undid the shawl at her neck and, seeing the bruises, drew her into his arms. ‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘My God.’

  Merriment shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Sorry, you’re hurt.’ Beresford kept his hands on her upper arms. However, it was not only the wound in her side that made her flinch; rather she was piqued by Beresford’s gush of affection. He thought he still had a claim on her, a claim beyond friendship, and perhaps three months ago she would have enjoyed that distinction, but now . . . Now there was Solomon.

  Solomon looked on, his mind reeling. Merriment had called for Beresford; it was him she needed comfort from, him she turned to, him she wanted. Devastated, Solomon turned away, feeling suddenly like an intruder. He began to gather up the files and scrolls, but Merriment drew Beresford over to the counter.

  She pointed at the map scattered with red dots and green crosses. ‘Solomon has uncovered something extremely bizarre.’

  ‘Not just me,’ Solomon interjected. Then, catching Beresford’s hawkish gaze, he muttered softly, ‘Merri.’

  As they explained, Beresford listened, his hawkish eye examining the statements from the court assizes and carefully inspecting the maps. ‘How are they doing it?’

  Solomon’s brows raised. ‘That’s the question.’

  ‘Unless . . .’ Merriment pressed her bandaged wound, her face darkening. ‘What if the Dolocher is controlling them?’ She waved her hand over the map, two flecks of red popping into her cheeks as she excitedly theorised, ‘It’s human.’

  The reduction of the Dolocher to the position of crime lord threw a unifying light over the map and files as they excitedly assembled the information.

  Beresford inspected the map one more time and, snapping up straight, said, ‘Well, here at least we have some way to start. There must be eight gangs in the city.’ Beresford stroked his jaw. ‘We should strike while the iron’s hot, give them no time to scarper. Maybe with the curfew things are quieter, but a raid on the most notorious dens might kick up something. I’ll get on to the Sheriff.’

  ‘A force to accompany us would be nice,’ Solomon admitted, his face vibrant with purpose. ‘But there’s only one place we need to go. One man we need to question.’

  23

  Torched

  A new moon hung over the spire of Christ Church Cathedral. The empty streets were eerily lit by the freezing snow, which cast a bluish hue that vanished down long, desolate alleyways. The cold night air was strangely silent as
the citizens of Dublin barred their doors and windows half an hour before curfew, calling in their hounds and fixing traps with large iron teeth at the thresholds, keeping rapiers and blades, pistols and tacks and every kind of makeshift weapon close to hand. Over doorways they hung crosses and scapulars and clutching their Bibles and prayer books gathered in one room, everyone fearfully listening to the slightest creak, petrified that creeping down the stairs or up from the cellar was the Dolocher.

  On the slope down past Saint Audoen’s Church, the cool blue glare of the snow-shrouded steps was lit by three flickering lamps, beneath which a tight group of heavily armed military escorted Solomon, Merriment and Beresford. They walked past Cornmarket and turned down Cooke Street. The soldiers moved swiftly, their boots crunching in the frozen snow, their eyes brightly alert as they made their way to the Black Dog Prison. Beresford had quickly galvanised the patrol, using his military connections and meeting up with an army captain he had once fought with aboard his ship, the Livid. Amused to find two children in Merriment’s back room, Beresford arranged for an armed guard to stay at her shop, while she insisted on the satisfaction of finding out where the Dolocher was emerging from. Now, caped and armed, keeping close to Solomon and tightly surrounded by a party of twelve soldiers and Captain Willis, who according to Beresford could shoot the eye out of a snail, she felt a mixture of tingling excitement, undercut by waves of anxious anticipation. Glad to be surrounded by armed guards. Glad to be close to Solomon. She kept step with him, occasionally glancing up at his pale face lit by the cool blue reflection of the snow. He looked ghostly. Handsome. He tapped her hand reassuringly and she slipped her fingers around his for a moment and squeezed, communicating her relief that he was there. She gripped a borrowed pistol in her other hand, starting at every noise, attentive to every crunch and rattle, her eyes gliding up, up at the towering houses past the snowy gables at the hard dark sky where remote constellations glittered. The snow snapped icily under foot, the cobbled streets stretched eerily white far into the distance and this extended vision of a pallid, frozen world filled Merriment with an uncanny sensation, like she was walking in another land filled with a brittle silence and the possibility of another encounter with an interloping malevolent being. Should they meet the Dolocher now . . . She swallowed back her nervousness, quickly looking at Solomon. He gave a reassuring smile, his fingers gently tapping the base of her back as they made their way, curiously quiet, past the high wall of the Black Dog Prison.

  The gaol’s snow-capped walls were heavy and imposing beneath the sickle moon. The braziers at the entrance made the steps glisten silver and orange. As they crowded into the reception room, a stunned coterie of rough-looking turnkeys sitting around a table playing cards froze mid-game. All of the players were too surprised to swipe away the brimming tankards or the three bottles of Burgundy wine, too shocked to close their mouths and scrabble to hide the winnings or knock away the box of imported snuff and grab their weapons and pretend to be working.

  ‘Would be about right.’ Willis winked and Beresford unsheathed his rapier and let the blade glint before snapping out, ‘Hawkins?’

  An ancient guard with a pronounced lower lip pointed slowly at the large green door that led to the cells. He gawped, astounded at the cluster of soldiers, the long-haired woman carrying a pistol and the blond-haired man in oxblood boots, who he thought he recognised.

  ‘Stay put,’ Willis ordered two of his men, ‘and make sure none of them move.’

  The soldiers cocked their weapons at the turnkeys, who grumbled that a spot of card playing on a winter’s evening to while away the long hours was hardly an offence.

  ‘Is if the wine’s stolen,’ one of the soldiers grinned.

  ‘A gift, from Jimmy the Squire, before they hung him,’ the fat-lipped guard countered.

  Solomon flung open the door into the dark corridor expecting a burst of noise and clamour, but all that greeted him was the dank gloom and the muffled sounds of some inmates quietly conferring. On Willis’ command the guards meticulously entered every room, upending furniture and quizzing the prisoners.

  Solomon climbed to the upper storey, pushing open door after door, meeting one miserable inmate after another, some pathetically asking if they had been pardoned, others so petrified that they whimpered into a corner and cried. Merriment stayed close to him, her eyes flitting down the passageways as she watched Solomon’s back, the pistol Beresford had given her primed and ready to cock should she need it.

  ‘The doors are open,’ she whispered, perplexed, as Solomon pulled a torch from the brazier and climbed a further set of stairs.

  ‘I know.’ Then, pausing a moment, he told her, ‘I haven’t been this far,’ pushing open a warped old door with iron-riveted hinges and a circular handle. The door creaked into a narrow sloping passageway filled with clutter and dust and broken furniture.

  ‘Just storage,’ Solomon whispered, drinking in Merriment’s proximity as she leaned against him and peered over his shoulder into the musty gloom, her breath warm against his neck.

  ‘Stacked to one side,’ Merriment remarked, her eyes adjusting to the poor light. ‘Like a path. Is that a door?’ She pointed the glossy black barrel of the pistol to the far distance.

  ‘He’s not here.’ Solomon turned, his face suddenly close to hers, their mouths almost meeting. For a second they were suspended on each other’s breath, their bodies compressed by the confined space, their lips magnetically close. Solomon wanted to kiss her; instead their attention was drawn away by the torch flame searing a large drooping cobweb, making it glow, like gold filigree suspended from the dusty rafters.

  Merriment slipped by and, taking the torch, she crept past the stacks of broken chairs and tables, past old frames, crates and barrels; her eye curiously drawn to the almost imperceptible gleam of the door handle, polished by use rather than attention. She observed the lack of cobwebs over the door frame and was drawn by the tantalising position of the door itself. The feeble rays of the torch fumbled in the gloom, as Merriment crept along the clear path, Solomon close behind, their heads bowed to avoid the sloping rafters. The musty air was suffocating, the dust curiously scented with coal and a bitter overnote that Merriment thought might be cheap brandy. She swallowed back, her heart pounding, her eyes wide, her brain reeling. What if he’s here? she asked herself and recalling the Dolocher’s bristling head she jolted to a halt.

  ‘What is it?’ Solomon asked.

  Merriment shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered, steeling herself. She reached for the handle and turned it. The narrow door opened and an overpowering admixture of squalid smells, brine, chopped liver, brandy and coal slack, issued from the gap.

  ‘There’s a room,’ she whispered, her voice catching on the rancid atmosphere. She peered into the dark windowless interior. ‘It’s empty.’

  They both entered and moved towards a small four-poster bed hung with lush purple curtains. Merriment’s eyes were instantly drawn to the line of strange objects dangling from the carved bedhead. A withered dead bird hung with one eye popped out of its socket, the lustrous iris glittering like a circular gem on the black feathered neck. A bleached sheep’s skull gleamed dully, its bone eerily white against the dark carved post. Below it was a talon tethered by blackened sinew and beneath that a strange appendage that looked curiously like a digit.

  ‘I think this is a finger,’ Merriment whispered, leaning in and instantly recognising a knuckle joint and finger nail. ‘It is,’ she grimaced, retracting her head, her eyes flicking over the dishevelled and filthy bedclothes, where, scattered among the folds, were odd accoutrements: a saddle, a candlestick and a ticking clock. ‘Is it a prisoner’s room?’ she wondered, her eyes landing on a fine lace collar discarded on the mantle next to a small basket of expensive candles. Solomon flicked open the lid of an ornate gold box.

  ‘A brooch,’ he said, stepping off the fender and knocking over a large pair of worn boots that leaned against the carved legs of a fi
ne armchair.

  The grim room had been painted a gloomy ochre and appeared to have been only recently vacated. Solomon was examining a torn scabbard when Merriment turned to say something to him. Staggering slightly, she whimpered, her words catching in her throat. He looked up at her and when he did she was frozen in terror, her eyes fixed over his shoulder, her face blanched. She opened her mouth but her voice was dry, soundless.

  There was something behind him.

  Merriment stumbled backwards, the gun trembling in her hand. Solomon spun around so quickly that the torch made a low muffled whoosh and sent a shower of sparks erupting through the pungent air. He cried out, his body jolting involuntarily, his pupils dilating as the flames flickered over the awful shape lurking in the corner. There was a sudden explosion, a sharp phosphorescent flash accompanied by a loud rupturing bang, sending such a deep vibration through his bones that Solomon was momentarily deafened; his ears rang with a high-pitched squeal, his whole body rippling with the shock of the gun going off. And swaying in the browny gloom was the Dolocher, his pale skin glistening, his tusks a dull white, his body gliding side to side, moving like an otherworldly being, his empty eyes filled with the hollow darkness of the grave.

  Petrified that Merriment’s bullet had done no damage, Solomon yelled and charging forward shoved the torch into the Dolocher’s mouth with such force that the flames momentarily spat from the eyes and singed the fine hairs on its scalp so that black vaporous trails issued from the ears. Solomon pushed with all his might, sending the Dolocher back into the stinking shadows. The fizzle of burning hair and the hiss of charred flesh crackled as the Dolocher resisted, his flaming jaws spitting fire as his teeth bit down on the torch and his whole head began to swivel, turning unnaturally so that Solomon lost his footing and plunged into the wall. He pivoted to face the creature, vaguely aware of the thump of feet climbing in the distance, his mind reeling with confusion. The Dolocher swung violently, turning right to left in a juddering semi-circle, the partially extinguished torch sizzling in his mouth, the black bristles on his jowls bursting into quick-burning flames. But the Dolocher did not lunge at him, giving Solomon time to realise that the beast’s drooping shoulders were draped over an open sternum that showed the empty cavernous hollow of lined ribs. For a fraction of a second he feared the Dolocher had burst from the split belly and slithered away up the chimney, but the gleaming S hook shining from the rafters told a different story.