Murder in St. Giles

  “Never thought I’d be rushing toward a hulk,” Brewster muttered behind me. “Can’t be good luck, this.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Pomeroy assured him. “I won’t order you clapped in irons, my good fellow, not until you’re lawfully convicted. No need to jump ahead.”

  “He won’t get his reward if there isn’t an official conviction,” I told Brewster, and Pomeroy laughed.

  “Right you are, Captain. Always hit the nail on the head.”

  “Very comforting,” Brewster said. “I’m sure.”

  The strong wind from the North Sea tried its best to push the stink of the hulks down the river, but all the tempests in all the world would not cleanse this place, I thought.

  The ship called the Atonement rose like a black slab of rock not far from shore. High tide cut off the rudderless ship, anchored forever on a mud flat. A few lights winked on the stern deck, but the rest of the ship was as black as the night.

  The fetor of bodies, urine, and filth clung to the ship like a mist. Men were crammed into these hulks by the hundreds, chained to the wall at night, some without a pallet to lie on. By day they were marched out to dredge channels or break rocks, or other manual labor.

  I’d known men in the army who’d been taken from the hulks and given a second life as cannon fodder for the French, but they’d found the cramped quarters and second-rate food a sight better than they’d been used to. One man told me he’d had nothing but a dirty pair of under breeches to wear because the guards had stolen the clothes he’d been allotted. They also stole all the food and consigned the prisoners to live on rotten biscuits.

  One of the guards on deck, cradling a musket in his arms, peered over the railing as we approached. “What you doing here?”

  “We need to come aboard,” Seaman Jones said nervously.

  “Magistrate’s business,” Pomeroy called from the bow. “Just open up the hatches for me, there’s a good fellow.”

  “Who’re you?” the guard asked. The musket didn’t move, and though, by the way he held it, I did not think it loaded, the man was large and would be tough. He’d have to be, to stand watch in this place.

  Pomeroy rose to his feet, bracing himself on the gunwale. His tall bulk stretched his dark blue coat, and the wind caught its tails. He removed his hat, his fair hair a pale smudge in the moonlight. My former sergeant was a formidable sight, and he’d put the fear of God into better men than the hulk’s guard above him.

  “Pomeroy. Of Bow Street. I have letters if you want to see them. A pistol and a dozen stout naval men behind me if you don’t.”

  I knew bloody well Pomeroy had no letters from his magistrate, or Sir Montague. I doubted the guard could read them even if he had, which I guessed was what Pomeroy counted on. He wasn’t above a bluff, or a blatant lie, as means to an end. The naval men who’d rowed us out did not look pleased to be named as Pomeroy’s rearguard.

  “We can’t have all you up here,” the guard said. “Too dangerous. There’s bad men here, didn’t ye know?” he finished in an attempt at humor.

  “And you’re one of ’em,” Brewster said in a tight whisper. One of the sailors coughed a laugh.

  “Tell you what,” Pomeroy shouted. “You let me up there with a couple of fellows, and we’ll have a quick look about. Ten minutes, and then you’ll be left in peace.”

  Two more guards had joined the first, including one with a pistol in his belt who seemed to be in charge.

  “Let ’em up,” he growled. “Magistrates should leave us to get on. What’s a Runner want to look at convicted villains for anyway? You’re done with ’em.”

  “We have our reasons,” Pomeroy said. “You all right climbing the ladder, Captain?” he asked me. “Or shall I leave you down here all snug?”

  “I’ll manage,” I said grimly.

  The guard lowered a ladder made of ropes and wooden steps that looked cracked and brittle. Pomeroy, without worry, grabbed hold and started scrambling.

  If the ladder took his weight, it ought to take mine, I told myself. I had no intention of letting Pomeroy board this hulk alone, as competent as he was. If they’d already imprisoned one Runner …

  “You don’t have to come,” I told Brewster, who looked as though he’d be sick.

  “The devil I don’t.” Brewster seized the ladder and jerked it from my grasp. “Not risking them shooting you as soon as you’re over the gunwale or knocking you on the head and locking you up too. His Nibs would draw and quarter me and feed me my own entrails, just to teach me a lesson. I’m going up first, and you stick to me like a cocklebur once you’re on.”

  He started up the ladder, moving quickly and competently, the lower rungs banging into the hull as he went.

  Finally I positioned myself to begin the climb, and Seaman Jones kindly gave me a boost. After a few rungs, I learned how to lead with my good leg and not let my bad one hinder me too much.

  The guards had seemed annoyed rather than alarmed that a Bow Street Runner had come to do an inspection. I’d expect them to be a bit more nervous if Quimby were here. Either the man outside the inn was mistaken, or these guards had no idea Quimby was in their hold.

  Brewster caught my arms as I reached the ship’s railing, and he dragged me the last few feet. I steadied myself on the deck, Brewster’s hold assisting. He refused to let go even as we followed Pomeroy to the main hatch. A cocklebur indeed.

  Some of the guards did have loaded guns, which they now primed and cocked while the others loaded their muskets. The head guard drew his pistol, checked and primed the pan, then held it at the ready.

  He nodded at two men who unscrewed the bolts that held the hatch closed and then hauled up the grate.

  The stench that boiled out of the hole made me step back and Brewster curse. Pomeroy remained calmly at the opening, looking down into the dark.

  “If they’re chained, why the worry, gentlemen?” he asked, gesturing at the guards’ weaponry.

  “Some have been known to get free,” the head guard said, his voice like flint. “They charge the hatch. But don’t worry, we’ll close it on them, and they’ll just mob until they drop.”

  He spoke matter-of-factly, as though talking about birds fighting for nesting space.

  Pomeroy peered down into the darkness. “Should throw buckets of water down there once in a while to clean it out. Shine a light on the poor buggers for me.”

  One of the guards brought forth a lantern with a flickering candle inside it and lowered it into the hold.

  No ladder connected the upper deck with the ship’s interior—they must bring a ladder only when they needed to haul the prisoners up for the day or send them back down at night.

  The swinging lantern showed me eyes, both rodent and human, glittering in the feeble light.

  Equally unnerving were the sounds. Men cursed, their voices cracked. Some pled for water; others groaned in pain. Behind this came the rustle of chains, clink of iron, skitter of claws, and movement of bodies against damp wood.

  Brewster, next to me, had gone very quiet. Unlike Pomeroy, who made remarks about men packed in like the rats with them, Brewster remained silent, leaning his hands on his knees, his eyes fixed.

  Pomeroy looked upon the men below with the serenity of one who believed he’d never meet their fate. Brewster, on the other hand, knew that only the grace of God had kept him on this side of the hatch.

  Pomeroy scanned the faces illuminated by the lantern. “Quimby?” he bellowed. “You down there?”

  “There are three levels in the hold,” the head guard said coldly. “If you’re searching for a man, give me his name, and I’ll look up his number.”

  Pomeroy ignored him. “Quimby, lad! Shout out if you’re here!”

  More groans and a few cries came in response.

  “Put out the light, damn you,” one man yelled. “Don’t ye know I need me sleep? Must look me best in the morning.”

  Laughter, tired, came, drowned out by another man telling the f
irst to shut his gob.

  Over this, I heard a thin voice. I held up my hand as Pomeroy drew breath to shout again.

  “Mr. Quimby?” I called. “It’s Captain Lacey. Is that you, sir?”

  “Ah, Captain,” came the weak response. “I must extend my apologies. I am not my best to receive callers at present, I am afraid.”

  Chapter 22

  The guards refused to go down. They’d descend in the morning, they said. Once the men were chained up for the night, they wouldn’t go into the hold even to remove a dead body. It waited until daylight.

  I snarled at them and demanded a ladder and more light.

  “You’ve locked up a Runner,” I told them in a hard voice. “Who brought him in?”

  The head guard stared at me. “What the devil are you on about? I know every single man down there. They’re listed in my book.”

  “I wager this one is not,” Pomeroy said. He stood aside as a ladder was lowered, the guards pointing their guns into the hole.

  “You should wait until the lot is brought up in the morning,” the head guard tried again.

  “I should,” Pomeroy said, swinging himself into the hatch. “But when the captain commands, I obey. Habit of a lifetime.”

  Brewster knew he could not stop me climbing down after Pomeroy, but he said, “You let me go first, guv. And don’t you stray a step from me.”

  I agreed it would be prudent for Brewster to lead me. I waited until he and Pomeroy reached the floor below before I carefully descended, my knee aching.

  I half expected the guards to slam the hatch and lock it as soon as we were below decks, but they remained vigilant, muskets and pistols at the ready.

  The prisoners, at least the ones I could see, were indeed chained to the walls. Pomeroy flashed the lantern around, and the men cringed from the light.

  They wore leg irons, and each had one hand shackled to a chain that ran to the wall. The chain was long enough to at least let each man lie down, but they had no beds, only a thin layer of dirty straw that covered the board floor. I saw no blankets of any kind.

  Men of all description lay before me—large, small, spindly, stout. Their heads were shaved. Most wore shirts and tattered breeches, but they were barefoot and had no coats.

  I took care not to breathe through my nose, but the stench of filth and sweat was overpowering even then. More than one man coughed, clearly ill.

  “Did ye bring the water, guv?” one groaned.

  I had no water, but I stopped and opened my flask of brandy, giving the poor fellow a drink.

  He coughed then swallowed and grinned, showing rotted teeth. “Thank ye kindly, good sir. Better than water, I’m thinking.”

  In this place, that was probably true.

  Brewster glared at me as I stood again. “Not one step, I said,” he growled.

  “I don’t think these fellows are going to rise up and have a go at me,” I told him. “It would serve them no purpose even if they did.”

  I heard one or two chuckles. Brewster let out an aggrieved sigh. “For a man so worldly, ye’re an innocent one, guv.”

  Ahead of us, Pomeroy strode with confidence, lantern high. “Quimby? Sing out again, man.”

  I heard Quimby answer down the row. Brewster and I began to follow.

  “Tommy?” a weak voice sounded at our feet. “Love a duck. It is you, me old china.”

  Brewster halted and peered down into darkness, Pomeroy’s light receding. “Slocombe?” he asked in astonishment. “What the devil are you doing in here?”

  “Broke a bloke’s arm.” A smile gleamed. “Should a’ killed him and run, because next thing I know he brought me up before the beaks. Said I were a dangerous man. Only reason I didn’t swing is judge didn’t like the bastard. Reckon judge wanted to break his other arm before it were over.” He heaved a breathy laugh.

  “Hard luck.” Brewster’s sympathy rang true.

  “Aye, well. Time for a change of scenery, I think. They say a man can make his fortune out in the Antipodes.”

  If he didn’t die from the years of labor before him, it was possible, so I had heard. But more likely he’d expire from disease and exhaustion before he served out his sentence.

  “Did you see our bloke brought in?” Brewster asked him. “Small fellow, blue eyes, looks like a schoolmaster?”

  “He’s who you’re after? Someone threw him down here when we were out doing our day’s digging on shore. Was waiting when we came in, but guards wouldn’t let him out. Chained him up with the rest of us.” Another breathy laugh. “They’re for it, are they?”

  “Seems like.”

  Slocombe’s eyes narrowed. “But what you doing going about with Runners, Tommy? Turned traitor, have you? His Nibs won’t like that.”

  “His Nibs would have already strung out me insides to dry if I had—you know that. I ain’t working for no Runners. I’m helping the captain here prove I didn’t kill a bloke.”

  “What bloke? Did ye kill ’im?”

  “Oh, so you want me to put me hands up when I’m already inside a hulk?” Brewster said with a nervous chortle. “Naw, I didn’t kill him. The bloke was Finch. Jack Finch.”

  The man next to Slocombe stirred. “Finchie?” he asked in bewilderment. “He’s dead?”

  “As a doornail.”

  “Whew,” the man said. “You looking for the cove what did it? Why, so ye can give him a reward? Finchie was one evil bastard.”

  “Did you know him?” I asked the man.

  “Aye, bad luck for me. He was transported a few years back. Good riddance. He returned to England’s shores, did he?”

  “He did,” Brewster said. “How’s that work? Ye arrange with a man here to pick ye up there and sail ye back?”

  Slocombe’s grin returned as his neighbor fell silent. “Not something we’re saying with a Robin Redbreast or two scuttling around.”

  I hadn’t expected an answer. “Did either of you know Finch’s friend?” I asked. “Man by the name of Blackmore.”

  Slocombe shuddered. “A still more evil bastard. A grand day when he went into the dock, but now I’m terrified I’ll catch up to him on Van Diemen’s Land.”

  “Ye won’t,” the other man said, brows lowering.

  “Why not?” Brewster asked him.

  “Cause he be dead,” the man spat. “In’t he?”

  I blinked in amazement. “Sydney Blackmore is dead? Are you certain?”

  “’Course I am. He were part of the gang what went to the posh gent’s to fight. I was there too—nearly got me head bashed in. Twisted bugger, that aristocrat, laughing like a monkey to watch us going at each other. Blackmore got hit so hard, he died.”

  Brewster and Slocombe were as agape as I was. “S’truth,” Slocombe said. “What did the posh gent do then?”

  “Hushed it up, didn’t he? Had his lads haul poor old Blackmore back with us in the boat and dump his body in the sea. End of a villain.”

  “Cor.” Brewster’s voice was hushed.

  My anger tightened. If Lord Mercer had insisted the body be disposed of as the prisoners were taken back to the hulk, it meant the guards were certainly in on it. Probably getting paid by Mercer to bring him the choicest candidates to fight in his matches.

  Was this why Quimby had been locked in the hulk to be mistaken for a convict? Even if Quimby hadn’t received word about Mercer’s fights until after he’d begun his journey, he could have easily found out about them. Rumors about it would be rife, and if Lord Mercer had let Pierce Egan in on the secret, probably to impress the famous writer, he’d have let it slip to others as well.

  Sir Montague had told me to avoid Mercer, but I knew that was so I wouldn’t stir up trouble before Sir Montague was ready for it. Time to get Quimby out.

  “Where did Blackmore live?” I asked Slocombe’s neighbor. “Before this address, I mean?”

  The man’s scowl lessened at my joke. “Seven Dials. I hear the rats would run away when they saw him coming.”


  Seven Dials, within the parish of St. Giles and not far from where Finch had been found dead. Bloody hell.

  “Thank you, good sir. If there is anything I can do for you …”

  “Nip of that flask wouldn’t go amiss.”

  I obliged him, and also Slocombe.

  Pomeroy’s light returned. He carried it in one hand and had his other arm around the waist of a stumbling, heavily breathing Mr. Quimby.

  “Good God.” I caught Quimby, supporting his other side.

  Quimby’s dark brown hair was matted with dirt, sweat, and blood. His face bore many bruises, and his left eye was swollen shut. The neat suit I’d seen him wear had been replaced by a pair of linen breeches and nothing more. Bruises and cuts marred the flesh of his bare torso.

  “Up you go,” Pomeroy said cheerfully, hauling Quimby to the ladder.

  “A moment.” I slid off my greatcoat and wrapped it around Quimby’s shoulders. “Wind’s bitter.”

  Quimby nodded his thanks. He grasped the ladder, hands slipping in his exhaustion, but with Pomeroy’s help, firmed his grip.

  A cheer went up as Quimby climbed to freedom. He clutched the ladder with shaking hands, but managed to nod back down at us. “I thank you for your hospitality, gentlemen.”

  They shouted encouragement—a hulk full of convicts hailing a Runner. Mr. Quimby certainly had a way with him.

  The guards above pulled Mr. Quimby the final yard to the deck. Pomeroy made me go next, and I too was cheered. Then Brewster, and finally Pomeroy. He got curses and jeers, but he waved back good-naturedly.

  The head guard glared at Pomeroy as the big man emerged into the wind and spattering rain. “How the devil did you get him free?” the guard demanded.

  He’d refused to send down the keys, fearing Pomeroy would be mobbed, the keys stolen, a mutiny commencing.

  “Picked the lock,” Pomeroy said cheerfully. “I’m very good at it.”

  Not until Quimby was ensconced at our inn, his wounds tended and bathed, and a hot meal and ale inside him, could he tell his story. I lent him my nightshirt and dressing gown, for which Quimby thanked me cordially.