It was while he was researching for a special edition of Pue’s Occurrences, called ‘The Dolocher Unmasked’, that Solomon hit a snag. He was cross-referencing Florence Wells’ sighting of the Dolocher with Hawkins’ file when he stumbled across a statement from a woman claiming to have been violated by the Keeper on the same night. When Florence Wells saw the Dolocher, ‘Miss S’ was trying to reduce her brother’s misery by bargaining with Hawkins, letting the Keeper do whatever he wanted to her.
Solomon stared at the dates and the times and the doubt that had been niggling at the back of his mind suddenly reappeared.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Merriment.
‘Well,’ Merriment said, resting her head against Solomon’s shoulder as they lay on the bed. ‘ “Miss S” must have got the date wrong. These things can happen.’
Satisfied, Solomon wrote his editorial and all the other articles in the special Dolocher edition and drank a port with Chesterfield Grierson on the afternoon the third print run sold out.
Dublin emerged from the stranglehold of the Dolocher’s reign of terror by announcing a new season right before Christmas. All the theatres opened late. The Italian Opera ran matinees, and the streets, until recently cleared by half past six, were still busy after midnight with revellers and brawlers and every sort of traveller, all intoxicated by the liberating knowledge that the devil did not own Dublin town.
The city had been emancipated from the preternatural grip of demonic forces and for a few days its citizens were high-spirited and relieved. The rituals of locking up at night became less manic. The frenzy of praying and the renunciation of fun was abandoned to be replaced by good-humoured pranks and celebrations. There were tea parties held among the genteel, and visiting, no longer limited to sober afternoons, increased enormously. Now, people lingered at twilight and admired the sunset and did not shiver at the approaching dark. For that first week after Hawkins’ execution, a kind of feverish release took hold of the city; everyone it seemed was in a wonderful mood.
Business at the shop thrived. As Merriment had predicted, the melting snow had presaged an epidemic of coughs and colds and sniffles, and her reputation as an apothecary grew. She carried bottles of citrus balm into the crowded shop and announced that anyone with intermittent fever should firstly change their bed linen. ‘Before any of you take any balm you must wash thoroughly with warm soapy water and wear only clean clothes.’
The customers laughed and groaned respectively, while Janey Mack sprang to Merriment’s defence.
‘Hoppy John lost his leg because he didn’t wash his knees.’
A corpulent man guffawed so hard, he choked into his hanky.
‘I’m telling ye.’ Janey Mack’s huge eyes scanned the room. ‘Maggots took up residence in the dirt of his wound and invited in flies and spiders and between the lot of them they turned his leg black and gave him ulcers on top of ulcers.’
‘Ah, now listen,’ one woman protested, ‘I didn’t come in here to feel more sick.’
‘Then wash yer knees,’ one man piped up.
The room chuckled and people split into chatty groups, waiting their turn to list their ailments and purchase a suitable cure. Over near the glass case containing silver and enamelled snuffboxes, a dark-complexioned man with vicious eyes calculated the worth of the merchandise and licked his tongue across his teeth when he spotted Merriment’s trousered legs. He rubbed his thumb over the top of his silver-headed cane and slipped quietly out into the street as a tall, narrow-faced man lobbed three rocks through the shop window. The glass shattered with a loud splintered ringing, and the room surged away from the tumbling glass and cracking mullions, everyone crying out, the rocks hitting different customers. Over the tumult someone hollered, ‘Witch,’ and Merriment rushed through the crowd, flinging the door open in time to see three men dashing towards the quays.
*
At the same time as three men thundered down Fishamble Street, Chesterfield Grierson ordered a juicy chop for lunch and Corker bought twelve pies from Gloria to bring home to his starving siblings.
‘Not much news since the Dolocher.’ He grinned broadly, showing all his crooked teeth. ‘Sol’s let me off early and given me me wages and here I am givin’ me earnings to you.’
‘For the best pies in Dublin,’ Gloria chuckled. ‘Here,’ she tossed in some extra pies, ‘’cause we go way back.’
‘You’re a cracker, Gloria, with the best kettledrums this side of the Liffey.’
‘Cheeky,’ Gloria laughed, and she wrapped Corker’s pies in brown paper.
Down the road, Philmont tapped on the door to Solomon’s office and in a low tone began, ‘There’s a . . .’ He paused, his brows dipping as he searched for the words. ‘There’s a gentleman here to see you. Says he has a story you might be interested in.’
Solomon put down his quill, flung a log onto the fire and blandly said, ‘Show him in.’
He heard Philmont coolly announce, ‘Mister Fish will see you now,’ and turned to greet his visitor. His heart sank instantly as the edges of a blue nipped jacket filled the door frame. Pearly was grinning broadly.
‘Mister Fish,’ he smirked, jumping theatrically into the chair opposite Solomon’s desk. He drew out the blade from his sleeve and began spinning it on the desk before Solomon.
‘I’m here with a message from Billy Knox.’
*
When Solomon returned home he found the windows boarded up and Beresford sitting in the anteroom drinking wine and laughing.
‘You’ve missed an exciting day,’ Beresford grinned, rising from his chair and leaving his empty glass on the table. ‘Merriment’s been arresting zealots.’
Beresford grabbed his cloak and flung a whole pound note down near his empty glass.
‘For the windows,’ he explained.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Merriment objected. ‘They won’t cost the colour of that.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find craftsmen expensive and if your reputation as a witch continues you might discover you’ve to pay to have yourself exorcised before the glaziers will replace the panes.’
‘Very droll.’ Merriment pinched back a smile and Solomon watched her fold the bank note and pass it back to Beresford. ‘I owe you enough already,’ she smiled.
Beresford took the money and Solomon watched him slip it into his waistcoat pocket, wondering at how for some people money was just paper to be flicked away or crumpled up. Some had so much currency that their word alone could purchase buildings, while for others, he mused, thinking mostly of himself, money was as difficult to catch as a moonbeam on water.
While Merriment let Beresford out, Solomon rattled the coal in the fire and sent a flurry of sparks up the chimney. He stood gazing down at the flames thinking about Hawkins’ execution. It had satiated the populace: most were very satisfied that the Dolocher had been annihilated. Although the criminal fraternity had slinked into the shadows and were keeping a low profile, they still went about their business unperturbed. The bicameral House of Aldermen and House of the Sheriff and Commons had mustered up enough force to keep the Dublin gangs visibly off the streets, but there were not enough resources, not enough room in the gaols to arrest every thief and murderer in the city. So Billy Knox and the Cut ate in polite coffee houses, sending their henchmen out at twilight, giving them enough gin and coin to bribe the night watch, and their respective gangs curtailed their crimes to low-key extortion and the quiet subterfuge of moonlight smuggling. Pearly had very politely managed to rob Solomon of ten more shillings. Solomon knew there was nothing for it. He was going to have to pay Billy Knox, somehow.
Merriment paused at the threshold. ‘You look despondent.’
Solomon reached for his bag and pinched it open.
‘Thought you might like this,’ he smiled, handing her an object wrapped in cloth.
Merriment immediately recognised the weight and beamed. ‘The Answerer. Ah, my old friend.’ She turned the pistol over in her hand.
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‘Merri.’ Solomon swept a strand of hair away from his face. ‘I’ve got myself into a bit of trouble.’
*
Solomon slipped into the Cock and Hen, his heart pounding in his chest as he scanned the tables and benches looking for Billy Knox and Pearly. The air was thick with pipe smoke and the choking fumes of turf that billowed from the smoking chimney. Jenny was draped over the bar chatting to two sailors and some builders were kicking cement off their boots and grinding it into the straw strewn over the floor. There was no music tonight, no high jinks or festivities. Merriment squeezed Solomon’s hand and whispered, ‘Is he here?’
Solomon shook his head and nodded to Badger, who was drunk and waving from a far corner.
‘Here, Solomon Fish, Harry wants to lighten yer pockets. Bring the half-wench with ye.’
And Solomon made his way over to the card table, casting Jenny a quick glance as he passed.
‘Did ye ever see Bombay?’ Harry grinned at Merriment.
‘I did,’ she said, wrapping her wet cloak tight and nodding to the barmaid to get her attention.
Solomon swept a hand over his damp brow. ‘Where’s Billy tonight?’ He looked across at the corner where Billy Knox usually sat.
‘Eating crumpets with the strumpets,’ Badger chortled, flinging a handful of coins onto the table. He grinned up at Solomon. ‘Now, are ye in or out?’
It took a pitcher of gin for Badger to reveal that Billy Knox would be holding court in the Cock and Hen on Friday after nine o’clock. Once they got that information Merriment and Solomon stood up to go.
‘Ah, here,’ Badger slurred, but he was too drunk to object and in the process of complaining became distracted by Harry, who was making up some rhyme about Badger’s lack of manhood.
Jenny sneered a goodbye as they were leaving. Merriment paused at the door when she spotted one of her customers, a portly woman with gout, weeping in the corner and being comforted by a thin woman with an inflamed boil above her left eyebrow.
‘Misses Jessop?’ Merriment ventured over. ‘Everything all right?’
The thin woman glared at Merriment’s breeches and spied the pistol strapped to her side.
‘It’s our husbands,’ the thin woman sniffed. ‘She likes hers.’ Then taking a swig of gin, she bawled over to Jenny, ‘Jen, another round of kill-grief, if ye please.’
Solomon gently placed his hand on Merriment’s lower back, letting her know he was with her.
‘Is your husband sick?’ Merriment asked Misses Jessop.
‘He’s missing,’ the thin woman sniffed. ‘And my Fred’s gone gallivantin’ too.’
Misses Jessop paused between her tears to knock back a finger of gin before resuming weeping again. ‘I’m that distressed,’ she blurted.
‘She’s that distressed,’ the thin woman continued, her boil glowing in the candlelight. ‘It’s the new boss. Everyone’s mad to have Hawkins back. Someone wanted to snick him in the jugular to see if that’d revive him from the hanging. I ask ye. I’ve seen toddlers fighting over a rattle with more brains.’
‘My Jessop.’ Misses Jessop’s fleshy face folded towards her nose as she squeezed out her tears.
‘Her Jessop’s quiet.’ The thin woman clacked her tongue. ‘But my Fred, he dances that much ye could put him in a barrel of grapes and he’d make wine.’ Then, hailing Jenny for more drink, she patted her fat friend’s large knee and said, ‘Come on, Assumpta, Jessop will fetch home with a story, and sad to say my Fred will turn up and all, worse luck.’
Merriment nodded and said she was sorry for Misses Jessop’s trouble and gave Jenny a shilling to buy the two women another round.
‘Used to work for Hawkins,’ Solomon whispered close to her ear, drinking in the scent of her skin as he squeezed her hand. ‘Hightailed it as soon as we arrested the man. They’re lying low.’
They stepped out into the blustering night. It was lashing rain and the wind was gusting from the south-west, pushing fierce squalls before it. Torrents spilled from the oppressively dark sky, making the pitch in the torch at the end of the lane spit and smoke. Merriment and Solomon ran laughing as the heavens washed down over them. They piled into a doorway desperate for shelter and Solomon wrapped his arms under Merriment’s cloak and pulled her towards him, both of them soaked, their eyelashes and hair jewelled with raindrops, their breath warm and fragrant as they kissed.
The wind whistled down along eaves, rattling old doorways and sending an abandoned bottle rolling and clinking over the cobbles. Water gushed along the gutters, dragging all kinds of litter with it. On the river the tethered ships bobbed. The rigging snapped against the masts like whips and the bells chimed, sending a flurry of notes tinkling over the choppy waters. Loose slates whistled out of the sky and smashed on the street below, while theatre-goers bolted from their reveries into awaiting carriages and chair carriers grumbled as they heaved into the wind and rain, their cloaks blowing open useless in such bad weather.
Once the squall had passed and the rain was pushed northwards a chink in the tattered clouds revealed a half moon. It hung in the stormy sky washing the wet city with an eerie blue light. Torn clouds scudded in wraiths before it. Merriment looked up at the chimney stacks illuminated in bright relief, able to distinguish the ochre colour of the clay chimney pots. Her eyes followed the line of gleaming roofs washed with pools of pale moonlight. She shivered a little at the empty windows, filled with a sombre and foreboding darkness, and felt grateful to be in Solomon’s arms. For the first time in many years she was glad not to be at sea.
Solomon kissed Merriment’s cheek. ‘Billy Knox will want protection money,’ he told her. ‘No matter how much we pay him off.’
Merriment looked at his handsome face, admiring his features picked out in the pallid light, his good looks chiselled by shadows and bright planes, his eyes vivid blue and full of intelligence.
‘We’ll threaten him with Beresford. Anyway there’s talk that the two houses are to be joined and formed into a new cooperation. The guilds are demanding that the city be cleaned up. All these felons are bad for business.’
‘You’re bad for business.’ Solomon squeezed her tight.
‘What does that even mean?’ Merriment asked, but they were too happy to care about making sense.
27
The Pits
On the Thursday evening following the hanging Janey Mack sat at the table in the anteroom learning her letters, while Merriment mixed up recipes.
‘This is a C, Janey.’ Solomon dipped his quill and carefully drew the letter C for Janey Mack to copy.
‘It’s shockin’ hard to make ciphers.’ Janey Mack wiped her face with a tea towel and squeezed and stretched her fingers. ‘Ye do have to pinch the feather tight and ye have to be very quick or the ink will run off on ye.’
‘But you’re very good.’ Solomon patted her shoulder reassuringly and glanced up at Merriment as she spooned seeds into a mortar and began to grind out the unguent oils locked inside the flecked shell. She smiled back at him, her heart full of the new delight of being in love and having a family. Lost in the soft perfection of the moment, they were all startled to hear an urgent rapping on the front door. Solomon heard his name being called.
‘It’s Corker!’ He dashed for the door.
‘Sol.’ Corker fell into the shop breathless and wet. ‘Ye have to come.’ He grabbed Solomon’s arm. ‘Get a lantern and yer notebook.’
‘What is it?’ Janey Mack squeezed her hand.
‘There’s murder, over in the tannery.’
*
The tannery on Tannery Lane was a dark, unremarkable building fronted by a wide forecourt and surrounded by a high wall. The gates were open and the yard was buzzing with activity. Three horses and carts had pulled up near the archway that led into the back courtyard where the pits were. Clumps of cloaked men swinging lanterns stood in sundry groups talking and laughing and waiting for someone official to crack an order. Solomon and Corker made their way th
rough the spitting rain past the sundry groups and cut into the archway, unhindered by questions from the beadles or the night watch. The air was so thick and noxious that Solomon was forced to cover his nose and mouth with his cloak. He held his lantern before him, the candlelight throwing faint shadows up along the glistening walls and over the wet ground as he stepped into the back courtyard.
Before him were four large, foul-smelling pits, all filled with urine and excrement mixed with water, and soaking in the repugnant pools, floating like strange lotus flowers, were various cow hides. Solomon’s eyes smarted as the offensive blast of the pits’ odour assaulted his system.
‘Jesus,’ he hissed, burying his nose deep in the folds of his dark worsted cloak. Corker covered his face with a scarf and pointed at three men across the way who were peering into one pit in particular, their lanterns glittering on the poisonous liquid, picking out swirls of floating turds and mottled hides. They stared into the dark pool, where, bobbing face down among the excrement and skins, was a man.
Solomon skirted the pits, making his way forward just as one of the men slapped a grappling hook into the toxic water and hauled the body to the side. The other two heaved the bloated corpse up, letting the dead man flop onto his back and gaze at the cloudy night.
Solomon stooped in beside them and stared down at the dead man’s face. The left side of his skull had been hammered in and the corrosive agencies in the pit water had already begun to eat away at the dead man’s scalp. But despite the condition of the corpse, Solomon immediately recognised the dead man’s face.
‘It’s Jessop,’ he said, his heart racing in his chest.
The three men with him were astounded. ‘Ye know him? I never seen him before. Who’s he to ye?’
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