The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  ‘Hawkins’ – Solomon kissed her face – ‘had fists like hammers. You saw what he did to me.’

  ‘I keep seeing the Dolocher floating in the corner behind you. Every time I shut my eyes there’s his ghastly form emerging from the shadows.’

  Solomon pulled her tight and stroked her hair. ‘It’s over,’ he said soothingly.

  ‘God knows when I’ll get the Answerer back.’

  ‘Are you planning on shooting somebody?’ Solomon laughed.

  Merriment swept her arm over his chest and for a while they lay silent, listening to the distant gulls complaining and the sound of the traders beginning to negotiate the snowy streets as they made their way into the city.

  ‘I really contemplated,’ Merriment said at last, ‘after what happened to me. I really did begin to think that perhaps there were such things as demons and angels.’ She drew herself away to look in Solomon’s face. ‘The idea of another world infiltrating this one, sending evil . . .’

  ‘Are you disappointed to find that it was Hawkins all along?’ Solomon leaned up on his elbow and brushed his tousled hair away from his eyes.

  Merriment’s expression darkened. ‘No, not at all,’ she said firmly. ‘But,’ she kissed the tips of Solomon’s fingers, ‘this whole experience has upended my thinking completely. Now we have to move to the refined realm of intention. Was Hawkins poisoned by demonic thoughts?’

  ‘I’m poisoned by demonic thoughts.’ Solomon grinned and teased her seriousness, rolling over her. ‘I’ll let you go when you’ve kissed me. We should move to the refined realm of my intention,’ he announced, his hand gliding along the outer edge of her thigh.

  ‘You’ve had enough,’ Merriment laughed. Playfully pushing him away, she warned him, ‘You know what they say, too much of a good thing . . .’

  ‘I think you’ll find the expression is: you can’t have too much of a good thing. And you . . .’ He paused, looking down at her, his face suddenly serious. ‘You are that rarest of all things.’

  Merriment’s eyebrows raised. ‘God almighty,’ she smiled. ‘You’re very poetic in the mornings.’

  Solomon grinned and rolled over. ‘That’s not all I am in the mornings.’

  Merriment dived forward, trying to jump up, but Solomon hauled her back and tickled her, making her laugh.

  ‘What’s for breakfast?’ he said, and Merriment playfully pinched him.

  ‘There’ll be no mollycoddling in this union,’ she scolded him light-heartedly.

  They laughed and chatted, wrapped in a haze of love and comfort while the sun rose up over the city and the noise of the morning traders filled the air. The bells of Christ Church Cathedral chimed over the dark waters of the Liffey.

  When Merriment arrived down into the kitchen she was surprised to find Janey Mack and Corker cooking up sausages, drop scones and griddle bread and making tea.

  ‘He wouldn’t let me rap on the door,’ Janey Mack complained of Corker, ‘even though I could hear yez jabbering away. I kept tellin’ him yez weren’t asleep.’

  Merriment leaned over the griddle and inhaled the aroma rising from the pan. ‘I’m here now.’ She smiled and ruffled Janey Mack’s hair. ‘And we’re having tea,’ she remarked, looking at the unlocked chest.

  ‘There’s a pinch left,’ Janey Mack told her, warning Corker to look after the drop scones and telling him to hurry up and slice the bread.

  ‘Boys are shockin’ single-minded about tasks. They do them in a line instead of all together.’

  ‘I’ll help Corker,’ Solomon said, coming into the kitchen and grabbing a knife, cutting up yesterday’s half-loaf. ‘It’s a bit stale,’ he told them.

  Janey Mack beamed. ‘We’ll fry it, make it tasty.’

  Breakfast was cheerful. They all sat around the table laughing and talking, eating heartily. Corker sipped his first cup of tea and Janey Mack added sugar chunks, the two of them agreeing that sugar made all the difference. They discussed Hawkins, and Janey Mack sat riveted in her chair, her huge eyes blinking incredulously as Solomon described in great detail the discovery of the hanging carcass swinging in the squalid bedchamber high up in the roof of the Black Dog Prison.

  ‘But isn’t it shockin’ wicked,’ she said over and over, and as Solomon went through the night’s events the gaiety of the morning slipped into a more sombre mood.

  ‘We do have quite a bit of work to do.’ Solomon glanced over at Merriment. ‘I’ve to pen an editorial and Corker will have to draw.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Corker chirruped, jumping off his stool and mopping up the last of the oil from the griddle pan with a crust of bread.

  ‘Of course. Me and Janey will have a busy day ahead as well,’ said Merriment.

  Janey Mack nodded. ‘It was black yesterday. There must be ten pounds in the till. At least, I saw a lot of money.’

  ‘Good.’ Merriment smiled. ‘We should start preparing infusions of balm and citrus because as soon as the snow begins to thaw there will be a spate of coughs and colds.’

  In unison they stood and put away their dishes. Solomon ran upstairs to grab his bag and jacket. Merriment unfastened the shop shutters and counted out yesterday’s earnings, surprised that there was really was almost ten whole pounds in takings stuffed into the wooden box. Corker and Janey Mack ran out into the snow and pelted each other with chunks of icy snowballs, oblivious to the city traffic trundling by, unaware of the man with a silver-tipped cane peeping from the alleyway that led to the backyards of the buildings.

  Solomon emerged from the landing, wrapped in his cloak, his face bright with the satisfaction that comes from requited love. He looked his most handsome and exuded a new-found confidence. He swept his arms around Merriment and stole a kiss.

  ‘You make things better.’ He grinned, and with a wink he let her go and jauntily said, ‘See you later.’

  She pulled him back, stopping him in his tracks, and forced him to pause and return her gaze. The moment was full enough for him to expect some kind of declaration: instead a mischievous light filled Merriment’s eyes and she quipped, ‘You are ridiculously pretty.’ Then, teasing his vanity, she added, ‘Try not to trip over yourself on the way out.’

  *

  Solomon Fish and Corker waded through the snow to the office, full of chatter and plans.

  ‘Another Pue’s News, I think. This time I’ll do some small sketches in squares down the side of the pamphlet, a big square at the top with the Dolocher in it swinging from a hook. What are you thinking of for the heading?’ Corker asked.

  Solomon played with titles, his mind dancing light, full of an overwhelming sense of his luck having finally turned.

  ‘I was thinking “The Demonic Dolocher Uncovered” or “The Dolocher Unskinned”, with a subtitle, something like “The Keeper of the Black Dog’s Dark Secret”.’

  They passed lines of workers and traders, charwomen and young servants, chair carriers, footmen on their day off, worshippers heading to Saint Werburgh’s, and as they turned down Castle Street, they joined a throng of clerks all heading to their offices. Already people were beginning to break into knotty groups of twos and threes spreading the word that the Dolocher had been apprehended. A stranger chatting to a well-heeled group of four gentlemen hailed Solomon.

  ‘Mister Fish, from the Occurrences, is it true?’

  And Solomon told them brightly, ‘By God, not only is it true, it is a remarkable tale. Now, gentlemen, it’s urgent that I get to the office and write up an editorial, but the revelation of who and what the Dolocher is will astound you all. Be sure to buy a copy of Pue’s News, it will be available by eleven this morning. Will we send a few copies to your offices, gentlemen?’

  And Solomon took an order for thirty copies, one of the clerks saying that the accounts office employed fifty people alone. Flush with a new-found sense of place, Solomon bounded up the stairs into his office two steps at a time, followed closely by Corker.

  ‘Mister Fish,’ Chesterfield Grierson ca
lled to him.

  ‘Yes?’ Solomon stuck his head around the door grinning. Chesterfield Grierson peered over the files on his desk, a warm coffee steaming in a cup beside a fresh plate of pastries.

  ‘I have heard your news,’ he announced. ‘Could you make this stretch over two editions?’

  Solomon winked, ‘Brevity may be your talent, Grierson. Mine is quite the opposite,’ and he patted the door frame as he left, for the first time in his life feeling he was in the right place at the right time.

  Chesterfield’s surprised brows lifted a fraction as he mournfully sipped, muttering to himself, ‘Why does that sound like a jibe referring to my virility?’

  Time was of the essence, and although Solomon found it hard to sit still, his delight in Merriment constantly distracting him, he managed to hurry off a piece revealing the details of the night before and informing readers that there was so much more to come, tempting them with snippets, including ‘Olocher’s Whispering Evil’ – an outline of the way Olocher inspired Hawkins to come up with the idea of the Dolocher; ‘Hawkins’ Criminal History’ – an in-depth analysis of the nefarious criminal fraternity headed by the Keeper of the Black Dog; ‘The Devil Finds His Own’ – on how evil is transmitted, including interviews with prisoners who each had a tale to tell about Hawkins.

  ‘I’m on fire.’ He grinned at Corker. ‘How are the sketches coming?’

  Corker proudly showed him his drawings and Solomon finished his tantalising snippets with a reminder that readers should purchase a copy of Pue’s Occurrences to follow the extraordinary trial in the court of Oyer and Terminer due to take place. Solomon sat with Chesterfield Grierson, sipping coffee and chatting, as Corker rushed about getting himself ready to go to the printers with the article and the illustrations.

  ‘Just get Pue’s News printed,’ Solomon called and Chesterfield shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘I intend to turn a profit in my business,’ he grumbled, ‘not make myself bankrupt.’

  ‘Ten thousand copies,’ Solomon added, and Corker bolted past Philmont and out into Skinner’s Row.

  ‘The laws of supply and demand,’ Solomon said, stirring sugar into his coffee. ‘We’ll sell ten thousand sheets, mark my words, a lot quicker than three thousand broadsheets.’

  And satisfied with Solomon’s logic, Chesterfield Grierson relaxed, took a line of snuff and listened as Solomon outlined how they were going to extend interest in the Dolocher over several editions. They were still chatting when Corker ran back up the stairs red-faced and panting and burst into the office announcing that the Black Dog had been swarmed.

  ‘There’s mayhem. They want him tried this afternoon. The butchers are swinging hooks, insisting that Hawkins has damaged their reputation. The army are trying to hold everyone back.’

  Solomon jumped to his feet and laughed. ‘This story just keeps giving.’ He tapped Corker’s shoulder. ‘Come on. When will the printer have the sheet ready?’

  ‘Twelve. He’s put other work on hold. I saw him call four lads to set up the frames. He couldn’t believe it when he read your piece, said his wife had collected all our work.’ Corker caught his breath.

  ‘No time to rest.’ Solomon ruffled Corker’s hair. ‘To the Black Dog.’

  *

  The swell of people crushing through the prison gates was too thick to penetrate.

  ‘Round the back.’ Solomon pushed past the pressing crowd. The back entrance was guarded by four armed soldiers.

  ‘Solomon.’ One of them recognised him from last night’s search. He waved Solomon and Corker through. ‘Judge Coveny was in reception having a barney with one of the clerks waiting for Beresford to show up with the Sheriff. Some problem with the statements.’

  Judge Coveny was ensconced in a high-backed chair behind the desk, surrounded by several members of the Board and armed guards. He was an elderly man with folds of skin looping his face and an expression that Corker likened to ‘a disgruntled bulldog sucking a wasp’. He wore a powdered wig and blackened his eyebrows, a fashion he had adopted when he was a young man and had never quite abandoned. He hunched over the desk, nursing a stiff brandy, and banged hard on the table.

  ‘Damn it to hell, the law will not be rushed, fiend or no fiend. There must be a suitable garnering of information. A lawyer needs time to collate all the facts relating to the crimes.’ He pointed a fat hairy finger at the door. ‘That is a lynch mob out there and I will not be chastised by the ignorant masses.’ He coughed and spluttered. ‘No matter how right they are.’

  Beresford had arrived and stood next to a bewildered-looking sheriff. He glared at the brandy glass in the judge’s hand, a nerve dancing in his clenched jaw.

  ‘Your honour, the evidence has been compiled swiftly since this is a matter of urgency. Three Ordinaries took the statements. The city is naturally reeling. The citizens want justice to be served promptly.’

  ‘Bah!’ Judge Coveny swatted away Beresford’s remark. ‘That’s the new way, isn’t it? Speediness matched by sloppiness. Everything is feeling now, feeling and sentiment, no place for logic and rational deliberation. I will not rush a trial to please that lot out there. You succumb to the rabble and you rue the day. They are always at it, always trying to inveigle their way into the nooks and crannies of your sympathy, and before you know it, the law will be undone and the land will be usurped. Mark my words, as soon as you run with the crowd civilisation crumbles to dust. Think of Rome. Think of Rome.’

  Beresford rolled his eye to heaven and spun round to hide his face from the judge. Satisfied, Judge Coveny downed another shot of brandy, leaned back on his chair, folded his hands over his rotund belly and waited for someone else to step forward and counter him.

  ‘Your Honour,’ Solomon began, the few law lectures that he had attended suddenly serving him, ‘we have enough evidence to prove actus reus and mens rea, and plenty of witnesses, myself included, to attest to the Keeper’s character. As you know, under the current laws regarding retribution, those citizens out there’ – Solomon pointed to the large door holding the mob at bay – ‘they obey the law and Hawkins has contravened it. By the related theory that includes the “righting of balance”, he ought to suffer since he has not only inflicted unfair detriment upon others, but he has fully and wilfully intended harm.’ Solomon could feel his heart beating furiously as Judge Coveny’s penetrating eyes bored into his face. ‘As you well know,’ Solomon concluded, ‘one who murders must be executed himself.’

  Judge Coveny snorted. ‘It is not his guilt that bothers me, it is the haste with which a case can be built and a jury convened. That lot would hang the blackguard today, and hang he must, but I detest hurrying through the proper channels. Mark my words’ – he waved his fat finger in the air and sat forward – ‘conduct a trial in haste and repent at leisure.’

  Judge Coveny hauled himself upright and tugged on his fur-lined cloak.

  ‘Find me twelve good men, collect your witness statements and every last shred of evidence, and bring them to my courtroom in two days’ time.’

  He pushed past the guards, allowing his own entourage to lead the way, and grumpily barked his farewell as he flattened a tricorn hat on his round head and limped off. Once the door closed, the whole room seemed to sigh.

  ‘If that old codger had his way the trial would take half a year.’ Beresford shook Solomon’s hand. ‘You seem to have lit a fire under him.’

  ‘Just quoted the procedures of the law. Still doesn’t seem happy, mind.’

  ‘The man’s a consummate humbug.’ Beresford signalled to a clerk. ‘Let the crowd know there’ll be a trial in a couple of days and send them packing.’ He smacked Solomon’s back. ‘How’s Merriment?’

  Corker interjected, ‘She’s pink and dandy. Rosy with—’

  ‘She’s fine.’ Solomon prodded Corker forward. ‘I’m going to stay working, interview some of the prisoners while they still have a tale to tell.’ He bowed a prompt goodbye, and he slipped into the pr
ison corridor winking down at Corker. ‘Come on, you do some quick sketches.’

  *

  They moved from cell to cell, asking the prisoners questions; Corker sketched while Solomon took quick notes.

  ‘I saw a cloaked man going up the stairs,’ one inmate said, his eyes bulging, his fingers draped over his knees like long pallid stalks.

  A fat man wearing a reverend’s collar and a woman’s skirt sat fanning himself on the edge of his bed and whispered coquettishly, ‘Once in the dead of night I heard laughin’ and mutterin’ coming out of that room and I was that scared I ran into me bed and locked the door after meself. I’m sure it was Hawkins, he was rollin’ with the devil. He used to slip into Olocher’s cell, didn’t beat Olocher, no, no, no, used to treat him to cherry brandy and listen to Olocher’s filthy talk. They were birds of a feather.’

  All afternoon, one testimony after another outlined how Hawkins ran a roaring trade in contraband, had a tap-room that served watered-down gin and cheap cherry brandy, had a side business pimping tired old bawds for general usage and mollies for the sodomites. He beat prisoners for the exercise, had a strange fascination with torturing women, extorted money as a matter of course, robbed indiscriminately, took advantage of daughters and wives and had the manners of a pig. His snout was always in the trough, grubbily taking what was not his. Everyone owed him money.

  Solomon closed the door on a pair of prisoners and was about to tell Corker that they should pack it in for the day when an old man with a faltering voice called his name.

  ‘Mister Fish.’

  At the end of the gloomy corridor, shrouded in green-grey shadows and leaning on a gnarled walking stick, was a white-haired man wearing a dark worsted jacket and grubby breeches.

  ‘Mister Fish,’ he drawled hoarsely, waving a hanky for fear that somehow Solomon might not see him.

  ‘Yes?’ Solomon moved cautiously forward.

  ‘Over here, Mister Fish.’