by L M Jackson
‘Where?’
‘He’s a betting man. He likes to brag about it – at least, if he wins. But I know the type; he can’t stop himself. I reckon that’s where his money’s gone. Now, from what I hear, he always goes to matches down the Turnspit.’
‘I know the place,’ replied Sarah Tanner, ‘I’m sorry to say.’
‘Well, then, that’s where you’ll find him, my dear. Now, there’s a match tonight, if you’re so inclined.’
As he spoke, the pawnbroker surreptitiously retrieved a ticket, slightly larger than one of his duplicates, from his waistcoat pocket, and passed it across the counter.
‘I like a young woman with a head for business, my dear. Tell ’em Reeves sent you.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Mrs. Tanner, as she scrutinised the ticket.
RATS! RATS! RATS!
On Thursday, the 8th of April, the Canine Fancy may make sure of a treat by dropping in at Billy Bilcher’s,
THE TURNSPIT, TOWER COURT, ST. GILES.
Rats in the pit at Half-past Eight precisely.
Previous to the above entertainment, Mr. Roxton will sing his best finch Battler against Beetle Black’s celebrated bird, for a pound a side. Cages uncovered at Eight. Plenty of rats on this occasion, with squeakers for youngsters and shy ’uns. After the sports a harmonic meeting, with
THE RENOWNED BILLY HIMSELF IN THE CHAIR.
‘Looks like a good night out,’ said Ralph Grundy, mordantly, looking over Mrs. Tanner’s shoulder.
‘Not for the rats,’ replied Sarah Tanner, as she turned and left the shop.
It was nightfall, a few hours after her visit to the pawnbroker, when Mrs. Tanner descended from her bedroom into the Dining and Coffee Rooms. The air downstairs was heavy with pipe-smoke, and the rich aroma of burnt – or, in deference to Mrs. Hinchley, well-cooked – pork sausages. Upon each table was a solitary candle and the shop’s brass oil-lamp cast its warm, muted glow over Ralph Grundy’s naturally glum face, as he stood, wiping down the counter with his cloth.
As she walked by the booths, one of the shop’s customers, a certain coster, a young man by the name of Harry Drummond, seated by himself, looked up and caught Sarah Tanner’s eye.
‘Evening, missus.’
She smiled, recognising the young man – little more than a boy, in truth – as the individual whom Ralph Grundy had pointed out to her earlier in the day.
‘Good evening. Harry, isn’t it, Joe Drummond’s boy? I trust you’re well.’
‘Thank’ee, ma’am,’ said the young coster. ‘I bob along all right.’
‘I hope you’ll take good care of my cousin tonight?’
‘We’ll make a jolly trot of it, missus, mark my words.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. She’ll be down in a moment.’
The boy nodded, and confirmed that he was much obliged. Sarah Tanner, for her part, went behind the counter and took her shawl from the hook upon which it hung.
‘Going out, then, missus?’ said Ralph Grundy. ‘Anywhere particular?’
‘I expect you can guess, Ralph,’ replied Mrs. Tanner as she wrapped the shawl about her shoulders.
‘I’ll be with you in two shakes, missus. Just you hold up.’
‘No, Ralph. You stay here. I need someone to run the shop.’
‘Well, I don’t like leavin’ a certain party on her own, missus. I’m glad you’re seeing the sense in that. But I reckon you’ll have to lump it, on this particular occasion.’
‘No, Ralph, you’re not listening,’ replied Sarah Tanner, in a low voice. ‘You stay here. I’ll be safe enough. Besides,’ she went on, nodding towards Harry Drummond, ‘I changed my mind. I told Norah she could go out. So I do need someone here. I can’t keep closing the shop; it’s bad for business.’
‘So that girl’s free to come and go, as she pleases?’ said Ralph Grundy, instantly indignant. ‘She ain’t been here a week! Not a week! And here’s me, an old man, who’s slaving his fingers to the bone, and never asks for nothing—’
‘Hush, Ralph, please. Remember what we agreed. Besides, if you want a night’s leisure, you only have to ask. You know full well.’
‘It’s you I’m worried about, missus. Sometimes I wonder what’s going on in your head.’
‘Believe me, Ralph, you’re better off not knowing.’
‘But St. Giles – it ain’t safe at night for a woman! Why, it ain’t precious safe for a man! None of it – least of all some blasted yard in Tower Court!’
‘Please, Ralph, I’ve told you before, I can look after myself. I have my reasons. Now, please, just keep an eye on things here for me, eh?’
Ralph Grundy fell quiet. Sarah Tanner, for her part, chose to take his sullen silence as acquiescence. Consequently, she turned her back on her waiter, and quit the Dining and Coffee Rooms, walking out into the street.
It was only when she was clear out of sight of her own establishment that she carefully felt inside the pocket of her dress, and nervously ran her fingers over the wooden stock of her pistol.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was no sign to mark the location of Tower Court: for the ragged population of St. Giles knew the place well enough, and the wider world was, by and large, perfectly content to be ignorant. Admittedly, a few outsiders did occasionally seek out the Turnspit, but they came, by and large, by invitation of those-in-the-know, members of the fancy, dedicated gamblers to a man. Indeed, the public-house, despite the squalor of its surroundings, was a particular resort for a certain class of sporting gentleman, young men from a respectable background, for whom a night at the ’Spit, as they were wont to call it, was something of a rite of passage. Perhaps it was in honour of those individuals that the ’Spit did, at least, have a small signboard, pinned by its narrow wooden door, bearing a rough picture of a tethered, mangy-looking cur, the house’s eponymous, rather doleful-looking, guardian spirit.
Sarah Tanner glanced at the mournful creature as she tentatively opened the door and stepped into the parlour.
The interior had the familiar scent of stale tobacco and beer-soaked sawdust that permeated many an establishment in the Seven Dials. Sarah Tanner knew the place of old; for it was an occasional haunt of George Phelps and seemed quite unchanged from her memory of it, except perhaps for a thicker layer of dust that had settled upon the bottles behind the bar. There were only a couple of solitary drinkers in the little parlour, but already the noise of the assembled gamesters could be heard, towards the rear of the building. She made her way, therefore, quite familiar with the territory, through an open door and into the muddy skittle-ground that occupied the back yard. There, walking cautiously along the narrow track, she approached a separate timber building that resembled an old stable. And, with every step, the hubbub of men’s voices grew louder; the complaints of several barking dogs grew more abrupt, and the distinct high-pitched chirrup of a solitary chaffinch could be heard above the chatter of the crowd.
Sarah Tanner advanced her ticket to the pot-boy who stood by the stable door. She could see the first bout of the night was under way: the celebrated Battler, perched in a wicker cage, pitted against a far less vocal opponent, held tight in the hands of his master, wrapped in a parti-coloured silk handker-chief. But amongst the general gathering of shabby sportsmen – and they were men in most part, with only a handful of women in the room – there seemed little interest in the match. Possibly the mighty lungs of the famous Battler were odds-on to sustain his claim to pre-eminence; and certainly little money seemed to change hands as the two birds competed in song. More likely, however, most had come for a different sport altogether.
‘You here for the match, darlin’?’ said the pot-boy, a relatively handsome youth, with sleek brown hair and square jaw.
‘I like a good scrap,’ replied Mrs. Tanner, resolutely avoiding his appraising glance.
‘Is that right?’ replied the young man, only a little daunted. ‘I’ll bet you do an’ all.’
Sarah Tanner surveyed the room; t
he man she had seen at the inquest was not present, as far as she could tell. There was a faint cheer from some of the crowd, and several of the dogs present joined in chorus; the Battler had already been declared winner.
‘No sport in that,’ murmured the young man. ‘Just you wait ’til they brings on the basket. Billy B. never stints, I’ll give him that. Here, how’d you like to step round the old yard, take a little stroll with us?’
‘And see the sights?’
‘Maybe. I could show you a thing or two.’
‘I doubt that.’
The young man stood quite dumb-struck at the rejection; but whatever curse followed, it fell too late from his lips. For Mrs. Tanner had already pushed her way forwards through the gamblers. There was still no sign of her quarry. She tried an older man who loitered by the stable wall, beneath one of the half-dozen paraffin lamps that hung from the rafters.
‘Beg your pardon, I’m looking for a friend of mine. Do you know him? Name of Smith? He has a beard, he’s about so high; dark. He comes here regular.’
‘Smith! A friend, is he?’ replied the old man, chuckling to himself. ‘How much does he owe you, eh? Cop a free ride, did he?’
‘Something like that,’ replied Sarah Tanner, but her voice was suddenly drowned out by a roar from the assembled audience.
‘I ain’t got time for you, darlin’,’ said the old man. ‘Too old for that lark. Now let me pass – I’ve tebbed two bob on Old Charlie to take two dozen straight, and I’m damned if I don’t want to see him do it.’
The old man was gone before Sarah Tanner could say another word. For Billy Bilcher, the proprietor of the ’Spit, had arrived. A broad, red-haired man, with extravagant side-whiskers and a voice that commanded the room, he magnetised his customers, drawing them to a circular enclosure in the corner of the building, made up of upright planks of timber, like a giant barrel sawn in half and embedded into the ground.
‘Good evening, ladies’ – a loud ironic cheer at this – ‘and gentlemen. Tonight, for one night only, the game laws, they is suspended’ – another cheer – ‘and we have a fine bit of sport. Draw up close now, don’t be afeard – they don’t bite!’
There was another collective guffaw from the crowd, as they pressed towards the enclosure. Bilcher, meanwhile, dramatically pulled away a cloth which had hung over a large box by his side. It was a wooden crate, with a carefully constructed hinged lid; and, although its contents could hardly be seen through the gaps in the slats, there was little doubt on the matter. For the rats inside sensed their fate. The spectators closest to the front of the little arena could just make out the occasional glimpse of dark fathomless eyes, as each rodent scrabbled for an illusory position of safety; and all could hear the awful incessant, desperate sound of their claws scratching the wood.
‘Step up, Mr. Cripps,’ exclaimed Billy Bilcher. ‘Show us that mongrel of yours, won’t you?’
A man in the crowd wearing a rather crushed-looking low-crowned glazed hat, stepped forward and raised the dog in question above his head. It was no mongrel, but a black battle-scarred bull terrier, which struggled in its owner’s grip, growling, its eyes firmly upon the lively crate that lay only a few feet away.
‘How many, Mr. Cripps?’ inquired the host, in the blandest of tones, as if taking an order for oysters or penny ices.
‘A dozen,’ replied the dog’s owner.
‘Are you sure, sir? These are biters, sir. No teeth drawed at Bilcher’s; not unless requested.’
‘Certain.’
Billy Bilcher grinned and, with a perverse dexterity, lifted the cage’s trap and reached inside. In a blur of movement, the rats were flung into the pit. Only one was quick enough to sink its teeth into Bilcher’s wrist; and, for its pains, its head was dashed in pieces upon the wooden boards that enclosed the makeshift arena. The bull terrier, in turn, caught the scent of blood, and barked for all its might.
‘Drop him in, Mr. Cripps. Drop him in!’
The dog was lowered into the pit. For a moment, it stood stock-still, its eyes darting this way and that, as if unable to decide which way to turn. Then it began.
The terrier was quite up to its task; the crowd roared its encouragement. But Sarah Tanner did not watch the slaughter. The scraps of bloody fur and scuffles in the soaking red sawdust held no fascination. Moreover, something else caught her attention, causing her to stand back from the rest of the gamblers and withdraw into the shadows.
It was the man she had come to find.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He crept silently into the stable, wearing the same shabby great-coat which Sarah Tanner had seen at the inquest. He seemed restrained and nervous in his movements, unlike many of the men present, who mostly affected a confident strutting bonhomie, and whose jollity was doubtless fuelled by liberal consumption of beer and porter. To Mrs. Tanner’s surprise, however, the man did not hang back, even as Mr. Cripps’s dog disposed of its last victim, accompanied by raucous applause. Rather, he went over to the individual who stood by the ring holding the wicker bird-cage containing the champion Battler, and exchanged a few words. Then, after some form of agreement between the two of them – for Mrs. Tanner could only make out their faces and little else – he proceeded to Mr. Bilcher himself.
Sarah Tanner manoeuvred herself through the crowd to observe the exchange. Although unfamiliar with Billy Bilcher, and quite unable to hear the conversation above the excited chatter of her neighbours, she could tell it was an argument of sorts. Bilcher’s ruddy complexion turned redder still, his chubby finger pointing aggressively at his interlocutor to punctuate his speech. The newcomer, on the other hand, seemed conciliatory, pleading, a look of grim desperation upon his rather unkempt features. Then at last something was decided, the two men shook hands, and the proprietor of the Turnspit returned to the fray.
‘Weren’t that a match!’ proclaimed Bilcher, with a glance at the bloodied bull terrier, being carefully removed from the ring by its owner. ‘I’d never have said a dozen, Mr. Cripps – never! Now, as it happens, at this here interval in proceedings, we have a late arrival. A challenge to Mr. Roxton’s Battler! A fresh country bird courtesy of our friend Smith!’
Sarah Tanner frowned; she was certain she heard a few of the men snigger at the name. She wondered if his fellow gamesters shared the pawnbroker’s low opinion of Mr. Smith.
‘A prime little beauty, bran’ new to competition, will sing its heart out! Heard him myself only this morning; thought it were a feathery little angel. Come on, don’t be shy. I’ll give any man here ten to one; you never know, do you, gentlemen? Try your luck against the Battler! Hold him up, Smith – hold him up!’
Mr. Smith followed instruction, and reached inside his coat pocket, retrieving a handkerchief, from which poked the grey-crowned head of a chaffinch. Whether prompted or unrehearsed, the bird gave out a loud trilling call, to which the caged Battler instantly responded.
‘A fighting bird!’ exclaimed Bilcher. ‘Is no-one giving him a chance?’
There was a hint of movement towards the front of the crowd; two or three men approached their host, others exchanged sly glances; money changed hands.
‘Step up, then, Smith, bring him here,’ demanded Bilcher. ‘Look lively! Make a match of it!’
Smith obliged. But Sarah Tanner observed the same nervous posture, a peculiar shy reluctance. And, as he stepped forward, Mr. Smith stumbled upon the trailing hem of his over-sized great-coat. The handkerchief he clutched in his outstretched hands dropped to the floor. For a moment, Mrs. Tanner expected the little bird to fly away into the stable’s rafters; but the bird’s wings were clipped. It fell, wrapped in the cloth, on to the straw-filled floor, beneath the nose of an inquisitive, jowly grey bull-dog, which waited its turn in the ring. Before either the dog or the bird’s master could prevail, a wave of laughter rippled across the drunken audience. For the unlucky little bird had been torn in two, and the look of despair on its master’s countenance was somehow quite comical.
Smith’s face seemed stuck in disbelief at his ill fortune. However, it was the look upon Billy Bilcher’s face that struck Sarah Tanner most forcefully – for the proprietor of the Turnspit was not laughing at all, and glared at the unfortunate Smith with unconcealed malice. Smith himself, meanwhile, finally gathering his thoughts, turned on his heels and ran, pursued by the laughter of the gamblers.
Mrs. Tanner was ready to follow as best she could. But before she could negotiate a path through the crowd, there was already a man ahead of her – the lumbering form of Billy Bilcher.
‘He’s for it, now,’ muttered a man beside her. ‘Billy’ll have his guts.’
Sarah Tanner, as it happened, found herself rather grateful for Billy Bilcher’s pursuit. For he was a substantial, thick-set individual whose breathing was somewhat laboured. Thus, as he ran out of the ’Spit, through the narrow streets and dark lanes of St. Giles, thanks to his heavy footsteps and the wheezing sound of his chest, even a blind man might have followed his progress. In truth, she was not convinced that Bilcher was quick enough to catch the fugitive, and felt sure his bulk would tell against him. But, upon turning a corner, not far from the pawnbroker’s on Little White Lion Street, she could make Bilcher out, some fifty yards distant, standing over the huddled body of his prey. Smith himself seemed to have slipped and fallen on the muddy cobbles, and was clutching his leg. Smith’s pursuer, meanwhile, grabbed him by the arm, and, despite his protests, dragged him bodily into the nearest alley.
She crept close enough to the corner to hear what passed between the two men.
‘So here we are again,’ said Billy Bilcher, in a low menacing voice, quite different from his blustering public-house persona.
‘I’ll find the money, my dear Bilcher,’ said Smith, pathetically. ‘You have my word, as a man of honour.’