The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  Solomon and Merriment looked at one another and in an instant they understood, and that understanding came in an ominous surge, rolling in from all sides. What had been centred on one dark principle, the fulcrum upon which the unspeakable evil of the Dolocher pivoted, now dissolved in this tiny hidey-hole in the Black Dog Prison. The macabre and gruesome idea of a demon melted from the dehumanising capacities of man’s imagination. The preternatural disintegrated into the natural. Heaven and hell collapsed into the grotesque nature of the criminal mind and the gothic terror that had gripped the city dispelled in the chilling, cold light of revelation.

  The Dolocher was a demonic disguise. Nothing more than a hollowed-out carcass worn as a hideous mask.

  Stunned, Solomon blinked incredulously at the grisly revelation before him.

  The shot had raised the alarm, but when Beresford and some of the militia burst into the room they were greeted by Merriment waving her hand and telling them to stand down. She pointed at Solomon, who was prising the torch from the Dolocher’s jaws. One of the guards cried out with fright.

  ‘It’s a carcass,’ Merriment reassured him. ‘Hanging from a butcher’s hook. Look.’ She directed their gaze, her face luminous with a mixture of incredulity and relief. ‘We have all been tricked.’

  Captain Willis inspected the disembowelled corpse.

  ‘It’s magnificently fearsome.’ He shook his head. ‘Taken out of situ, I mean. If we saw it in the butcher’s shop, we wouldn’t bat an eyelid. But here . . .’

  He paused, curiously relishing the unusual sight before him, on some level admiring the dark ingenuity that had come up with the plan.

  ‘And by your reckoning, Solomon, we have the man who used it as an engine to terrify us all. Clever really, if it wasn’t so distasteful. Hiding out here, in his own prison. He had us all fooled.’

  Merriment tugged at the dishevelled pile at the foot of the bed. Some objects fell onto the floor with a thud. She saw a glimpse of ornate ivory and recognised the polished Damascus steel of the Answerer. She drew it up between her forefinger and thumb, shaking her head.

  ‘I knew. It was his eyes . . .’ she muttered, but all around her was busy.

  ‘We need to move quickly and stealthily,’ Beresford insisted. ‘Make sure Hawkins doesn’t get wind of the fact that we are onto him. He’s not in the gaol.’ He quickly scanned the room, noticing the chest of stolen objects beneath a pile of robbed clothes, and snapped into action, asking Captain Willis to send two of the guards back to the barracks to get more men.

  ‘We need to search the town for Hawkins. He has to be somewhere local. And two should remain here and make an inventory of the stolen items’ – Beresford pointed to a pair of guards gawping at the dead pig swinging from the ceiling – ‘then bring them to the beadles’ office on Thomas Street.’

  Captain Willis took a pinch of snuff and waved to the soldiers singled out by Beresford. ‘You heard the man. Gather the items, make a note, no filchin’ mind, put them in something.’ Snapping the snuffbox shut, he tossed it to Beresford and winked. ‘There’s no more men over in the Royal,’ he informed his friend. ‘This is it.’

  Merriment was about to stuff the Answerer into her waistband when one of the soldiers held out his hand and said, ‘Sorry, miss, evidence and all.’

  She looked forlornly at her pistol, not wanting to give it up. ‘But I only found it.’

  ‘Ye’ll get it back.’

  She passed her weapon over and stepped out of the way, watching the guards rip down the bed curtains and empty armfuls of stolen objects into the thick velvety material, whispering to one another about hiring a cart to get all the stuff transported.

  She approached the swinging carcass, her fingers reaching out to touch the cold, silky pigskin. It slid beneath her fingertips.

  ‘What the dark imagination can produce,’ she said quietly and Solomon stroked her arm reassuringly.

  ‘Hawkins will swing for it.’

  A hue and cry came up from below. Everyone was swift to react, rushing down the stairs. Hawkins had emerged from the nunnery, where he had been so engrossed in the occupation of roundly beating an inmate that he had heard nothing of the military search over the wails and cries of the prisoner he was torturing. He was confounded to be greeted by two armed guards who insisted he call out his name. What identified the Keeper was a fearful prisoner who peeped through the food slot and hissed, ‘Hawkins, y’er for it now.’ The alarm raised, Solomon and Merriment were last down the stairs to see Hawkins, red-faced and panting, his knuckles raw from his night’s work, crudely shaping up to the circle of soldiers around him.

  ‘What’s this?’ Hawkins rasped, astounded to be cornered in his own gaol.

  ‘We have you now, you reprobate,’ Beresford snarled.

  ‘What?’ Hawkins jolted backwards. ‘The blackguard needed chastising. How else will he reform?’ he spluttered, pointing back down to the nunnery.

  ‘Don’t deny it,’ Beresford growled as Captain Willis ordered his men to make the arrest. Hawkins retreated towards the wall, his eyes exploding with fury, a spray of spittle drenching his chin.

  ‘Arrest me!’ he howled. ‘For what? For doing me job? The inmates have to be cajoled, otherwise there would be no control. They would be lawless, left to their own devices, robbing the eye out of each other’s head, not paying their way. It’d be mayhem.’

  ‘Strap him in irons.’

  ‘Wait, wait.’ Hawkins flattened himself against the wall. ‘What are the charges? You can’t believe what any of them says.’ He pointed at the cells. ‘They’re all born liars.’ Then Hawkins’ jaw dropped, his eyes rolling upwards as he caught sight of Solomon. He recognised his face.

  ‘Him,’ he roared, pointing a bloodstained finger. ‘That pretty boy has a bone to pick with me. He’s a liar. Whatever he told you. He’s a liar.’

  ‘Get the manacles,’ Beresford shouted.

  ‘I asked yez, what are the charges?’ Hawkins bellowed. ‘I only ever did me job. This is a stitch-up. Do ye hear me? A stitch-up.’

  ‘You’re arrested on two counts of murder, including the killing of an unborn child.’ Beresford stuck his blade under Hawkins’ pointy chin. Hawkins’ eyes bulged huge in his head, his mouth dropping open, his tongue wagging black and bulbous in his mouth.

  ‘Murder,’ he sneered.

  ‘And for robbery and for posing as the Dolocher and terrifying—’

  ‘I never,’ Hawkins roared, his face puce with a mixture of fury and incomprehension. ‘Are ye out of yer minds? The Dolocher is the devil’s charge.’

  ‘Your room is being dismantled as we speak and the evidence of your malfeasance is being collated for your trial.’ Beresford stepped back to allow the young guard to handcuff the reluctant keeper. Hawkins put up a vicious fight, taking on five of them, his fists flying, his legs kicking. They had to pin him to the floor and kneel on his back to get his hands chained.

  ‘I don’t have a room upstairs,’ he kept whimpering as he was flung into one of the empty cells and left with two armed guards outside his door. ‘I’m not the Dolocher. It’s not me. Let me out. Let me out. The Dolocher is a demon. If I were him, would I not defy these chains and drag yez all to hell? It’s not me. Are yez mad? Let me out.’

  Hawkins roared and bawled and thumped on the door, kicking at the panels and flinging anything he could against the walls.

  ‘He’s enough strength anyway.’ Beresford scowled, leading the others back into the reception room where the speechless turnkeys who had heard the racket sat gawping at one another, swallowing with disbelief.

  ‘Well now,’ Beresford grumbled, slumping into a fine leather chair and swinging his legs up onto the table, ‘isn’t this a sorry shop. The House of the Sheriff and Commons will tidy this cesspool up, and you’ – he stabbed a finger at the turnkeys in their crumpled uniforms – ‘you degenerates better cough up all you know if you don’t want to march to Gallows Green with the Keeper there.’

&nbs
p; The turnkeys groused and shifted while Captain Willis ordered the two soldiers guarding them to wait for the Ordinaries.

  ‘When they come, get them to take statements.’

  Then, reassuring one spotty young soldier that the streets were now safe since the Dolocher was nothing more than a dead meat mask, he ordered the young lad to rush to the Sheriff’s office at the Castle and ask to speak to a Mister Ward. ‘He’ll send us a bunch of Ordinaries to mop up this lot’s lies.’ He smiled broadly when Beresford bellowed, ‘They’ll swing from the gibbet if an untruth passes their measly lips.’

  Beresford jumped to his feet and circled the table. ‘You leave nothing out,’ he warned. ‘I want everything you have on Hawkins, his methods of extortion, his smuggling . . .’ He picked up the unlabelled bottle of wine and sniffed the dark rich aroma of cherries flush with spicy notes. ‘Damn me, only the best for you rogues,’ he snarled. Then, pulling fresh bottles from the cask under the table, he handed one to Solomon and Merriment and nodded to Captain Willis, indicating he should look after himself.

  ‘Come on,’ Beresford said to Merriment, ‘I’ll escort you home.’

  *

  Solomon looked at his half-full glass. The wine glowed a rich ruby colour and tasted very expensive. He stretched his legs out in front of the warm fire and waited, the drink easing into his being, helping him to unwind. In the distance, he heard the night watch announce it was ten o’clock and all was well. Somehow it felt a lot later. He let his head hang back and listened. Merriment and Beresford were at the shop door saying goodbye. It had taken half an hour to get Janey Mack to bed even though Corker was sick of telling her that Sol and Merri had solved the mystery.

  ‘It’s not that,’ the little girl had protested, wondering who the man with the eyepatch was. ‘It’s . . . I’m in the habit now, of being frightened.’

  Solomon put Janey Mack into Merriment’s bed and told Corker to set up on the cushions before the fire.

  ‘Your mother’ll be worried,’ he remarked, but Corker shrugged.

  ‘She’ll not even notice.’

  While Solomon told Janey Mack the story of finding the carcass one more time, because the little girl wanted to catalogue all the minutia of the grisly revelation, Beresford stood next to Merriment in the anteroom and accepted the glass of wine she offered him.

  ‘Thank you.’ He unfastened his cloak and cast it over the arm of a chair. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Astonished.’ Merriment stood next to him, warming the backs of her legs. ‘I mean, last night, at first, I genuinely thought I had been attacked by a demon. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that my gut instinct . . . I just knew something didn’t feel right.’

  ‘You’re so level-headed,’ Beresford interrupted, resting his glass on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve always admired your capacity to be measured, stay calm under pressure.’ He slipped his fingers onto her outer hip and turned her towards him. ‘Merri,’ he whispered, lowering his mouth towards hers, but before he could kiss her, Merriment stepped away. She let out a short sigh and smiled a little nervously.

  ‘I . . .’ she began, not quite knowing where to start. ‘I am not for you, am I, Ashenhurst? You have your wife, and Peggy Leeson; you have no room for another.’

  Beresford’s eye danced with an amused light. Shifting uncomfortably, he nodded and patted her shoulder.

  ‘You want me to choose? That is no problem.’

  ‘No.’ Merriment raised her hand, stopping him. ‘It’s not that. It’s . . .’ She paused, looking at the gap in the door that led out to the shop and upstairs to the man putting Janey Mack to bed.

  ‘I’ve chosen,’ she said firmly; and the words unchained her, freed her from all her previous romantic tragedies, liberated her from her past. She was in love, it was reciprocated, and all she needed to do was honour the truth of her own desire and stake her claim. She wanted Solomon and no other would do.

  Beresford paused, frozen, searching her face. He heard Solomon walk the floorboards above and fully understood who Merriment referred to. Aware that the woman he had taken for granted for so long was no longer to be called upon when it suited him, Beresford nodded stoically and took in a deep breath.

  ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s a lucky man.’

  ‘So were you.’ Merriment’s eyebrows rose playfully; then, adding what she sincerely hoped would be true, she said, ‘We won’t let romance get in the way of good friendship, will we?’

  Beresford studied her face and with deep affection said, ‘We most certainly will not.’

  When Solomon returned down to the kitchen Merriment and Beresford were drinking wine. They poured him a glass.

  ‘To a good night’s work,’ Beresford toasted. Then, standing by the fire, he looked into the flames and shook his head. ‘You can’t fathom that kind of distorted thinking,’ he said and Solomon watched Merriment sink into her chair, her glass balanced on her thigh.

  ‘You have to admit it was a macabrely ingenious way to clear the streets,’ she agreed. ‘Fooled us all. Ask Solomon, he’ll tell you, last night, I thought I had looked into the devil’s eyes.’

  Beresford shrugged and drained his glass. ‘How do you know you didn’t?’ he asked, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘Because the carcass hanging in the Black Dog would assert otherwise,’ Merriment countered.

  ‘No.’ Beresford sucked on his bottom lip. ‘You being a woman of philosophy, if you push your rationale a little further. Think of it: in a way, a devil did attack you. I don’t know, maybe Olocher poisoned his mind, although . . .’ He paused. ‘I can’t help suspecting that Hawkins was born bad. I’m sure if you dig deep enough you’ll find he’s killed prisoners.’ Beresford left his glass on the mantelpiece. ‘Well, there’ll be an investigation and no doubt you’ll be given the keys to the city.’ He grinned at Solomon. He grabbed his cloak and bowed swiftly. ‘You did a good job, sir, a very good job.’ Beresford’s words rang with a note of loss. Solomon had done more than a good job solving the mystery, he had managed to capture the heart of a fine woman, and as Beresford held Merriment’s gaze, he communicated the full impact of his sorrow. The look was a lingering one of ‘goodbye’ to an old romance.

  Solomon misunderstood it completely and felt cut to the quick. He bowed his head and looked away, embarrassed to be present at such an intimate moment, when it was obvious that they wanted to be alone.

  ‘I should go.’ Solomon shifted.

  ‘Finish your drink.’ Beresford swept towards the door. ‘My night’s work is not over. I’ll report to the Sheriff, but I’ll see you soon,’ he said pointedly to Merriment, and Solomon’s heart jolted, disappointed and confused that he had misread all of Merriment’s tender looks.

  Beresford grinned mischievously. ‘That matter with Mister Shelbourne will be easily resolved.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Merriment grabbed a candle to walk him out.

  ‘Although’ – Beresford’s hand gently touched the hollow of her back, leading her towards the door – ‘you’re sure you’re not a witch, with your potions and enchantments?’

  ‘Very amusing,’ Merriment smirked.

  Solomon smarted as he observed the casual familiarity between them. He dropped down into his chair and sipped his wine, his eyes drifting sadly over the anteroom, memorising the details. The polished copper retorts, the peculiar glass pelicans used to distil oils, the dark glass bottles of tinctures, the jars of pickled roots and paper bags of dried seeds, the boy in the oval frame. He would miss everything. The warmth, the fire, the furniture, Merriment. He settled his glass on the arm of the chair and smiled dejectedly when Merriment returned and sat down opposite him.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ She shook her head, her eyes shining brilliantly. ‘Such a bizarre thing to do, don’t you think?’

  Solomon nodded.

  The snow began to fall outside; a gentle wind drove the flakes into swirling eddies.

  ‘At least we can return to normal
.’ Merriment could feel her heart lightening. ‘For a time there . . .’ She pinched her lower lip between her teeth, almost embarrassed by her belief that her only hope of protecting herself from the Dolocher was to flee to another country and to take to praying. ‘I thought I might have to become a nun,’ she chuckled.

  Solomon smiled gloomily.

  ‘Now that all this is over,’ he said and looked into the fire, turning the stem of the glass in his hand, ‘I thought I might go to London.’

  ‘But, what about your job?’ Merriment craned forward. ‘What about Corker?’

  She looked suddenly stricken. Solomon thought of Beresford embracing her and answered sombrely.

  ‘I can get editorial work elsewhere. I’ll sort Corker out before I go.’ He stood up to leave, unable to bear the weight of having to let everything go.

  ‘Don’t,’ Merriment whispered.

  Solomon stared down at her. She gazed back up at him, her breath coming soft and shallow, her eggshell skin glowing delicately, the candle flame highlighting the earnest expression in her blue eyes as she rose out of the chair and stood near him.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  And Solomon swept his arm around her back and drew her towards him.

  24

  Actus Reus

  The morning light poured through the unshuttered window infusing the room with a mellow glow. Merriment awoke warm in the bed and lay looking up at the ceiling. Solomon wrapped an arm around her and drew her in.

  ‘Morning,’ he whispered. ‘You look serious.’

  Merriment curled towards him. ‘Just hard to believe.’ She cast her eyes to the window where the sky over the rooftops dramatically unfurled in orange and yellow streaks and a line of pink clouds began to dissolve into thin white feathery cirrus. ‘He seemed such a little man,’ she remarked.