“Who is that stuffed dog in the case?” Soames asked. Being indoors and discovering that our neighbours were friendly had restored some of his natural ebullience and the costermongers were not slow in providing him with an answer.
“That's Beauty,” said the man who'd spoken before. “Best dog who ever lived some say. Used to belong to the owner of this here bar. They did a lovely job of stuffing her.”
“I don't think there can be any doubt about that,” said Mr Soames. “I never realised that such things went on. I've never heard of anyone stuffing a dog before.”
“And why not, sir? There's plenty of stuffed birds and tigers and deer, or so I've heard, and most of them are far less deserving of fame and human admiration than Beauty was.”
“I don't doubt that you're right sir. It's just I've never thought of it that way before. I thank you for the information and in return, may I offer you and your friends a drink?”
“You may offer me one, sir, and if I may be so bold as to speak for my friends, I'm sure I can accept one on their behalfs as well.”
Soames proceeded to buy a round of drinks for his new acquaintances who drank his health and the health of Beauty. I didn't try and stop him, for his generosity might prove helpful if there was any trouble. They had returned to admiring their dog, stretching his legs, inspecting his teeth and stroking his hide. You could see, from up close now, that the dog was covered in small bites.
“What are those?” asked Mr Soames, pointing his finger at a sore.
“That's where the rats bit him, me old mate. It's what you might call an occupational hazard for a ratting dog. He's been lucky so far because some rats’ bites is poisonous and the rot can set in very easy.”
Mr Soames grimaced when given this information and ordered another gin and water to steady his nerves. I hoped he was still capable of walking by the end of the evening for I didn't fancy trying to take him home in a costermonger's handcart like Mr Pickwick being taken to the pound in a wheelbarrow.
Thinking it was safe to leave Mr Soames and Jane to their new acquaintances, I got up and took a walk around to see if I could see Ginger Jim but I had no luck. I wondered whether Harry the Dog had lied to me. It wouldn't have been the first time. I tried telling myself that Harry was too scared to do that, and to be fair, this did seem the sort of place where Mr Matthews was likely to spend his evenings.
It wasn't exactly a stamping ground of the criminal fraternity and nobody recognised me for which I was grateful because it made it less likely that someone would slip Ginger Jim a warning.
I took a look outside and he wasn't there and I wondered if this had all been for nothing. It's part of the game when you're an inquiry agent but that didn't make it any less embarrassing that I might have dragged Mr Soames and Jane all this way and not achieved anything.
At nine o'clock the landlord announced that it was time for the business of the night to begin. He told one of the waiters to run upstairs and close the shutters and light the pit so that we could all get to see what we'd come for. There was a murmur of excitement and tension in the room rose. Chairs scraped on the boards as folk rose and got ready for the night's action. The dogs sensed it too, and sent up a great barking and wagging of tails.
As they reached the foot of the stairs every man put a shilling in the landlord's hand, sometimes two if they had a woman with them. I was in two minds as to what to do. There was no sign of Ginger Jim but the night was early yet. There was always the possibility that he might show up later so I gestured for Jane and Mr Soames to join me, put three shillings in the landlord's palm and we all went upstairs.
In the room above was a small pit, a circle about six feet across, and around it was a high wooden rim. Over the exact centre was a gas lamp that lit up the whole circle brilliantly. As if they sensed the presence of the rats, all the dogs began to bark furiously. Their owners and the other spectators arranged themselves around the little arena, trying to get as close to the barrier as they possibly could.
There was still no sign of the man that we'd come to look for. So, taking Jane and Mr Soames by the shoulders, I got them to stand as close to the entrance as possible. Jane seemed happy enough with that but Mr Soames, his curiosity aroused, edged closer to the pit to see if he could get a view of what was going on and to be with his new friends. In order to be able to keep an eye on both, I had to get Jane and follow him.
By now the landlord had produced a huge rusty iron cage inside of which seethed a mass of rats. There were scores of the ugly beasts, packed so tight that they could barely move, frenzied with fear. Some of them poked their snouts through the bars, the pink tails of others drooped from the cage like a lace fringe. The howling and barking of the dogs reached a crescendo, as they sensed the presence of the enemy. The landlord shouted, “I would be obliged to you gentleman if you could muzzle your dogs so that everyone can hear what I have to say. I urge you, gentlemen, to shut your animals up.”
Some men slipped muzzles on their beasts, others held their jaws closed with a hand, and soon the only sound you could hear in a room was the chittering of the rats and the sound of their claws scraping on the bars of the cage.
One of the spectators jumped into the arena and went over to the cage. He pulled a rat out, holding it by the tail, and ran around the edges of the arena, flicking it towards people's faces and goading the dogs to frenzy. People laughed at what a spark he was, and he ended by throwing the rat into a corner and vaulting back out of the ring to great applause.
“I think we are all obliged to Mr Daniels for that great exhibition of rat catching prowess,” said the landlord, “but I would be obliged if in the future you all left such exhibitions to the dogs.”
This too was greeted with much laughter and some offers by those without any dogs to get into the ring themselves if they were paid enough.
“Maybe later we will take you up on that, gentlemen. But now it's time for the sport to begin. As you know, tonight is the night when we've gathered to find out the finest ratting dog in all London and thus, most likely, the world. Each dog will be given 50 rats and a dog that kills his the quickest will be the winner. The dog's owner will get a prize of five guineas and more importantly the knowledge that he owns the champion ratter in whole city.
“First up tonight, we've got a dog that I know you're all fond of, and I'm not talking about Mr Daniels here, I'm talking about the famous, the ferocious, the greatest foe of the ratty race it's been my pleasure and privilege to see in quite some time, gentlemen of the Fancy, I give you Dandy.”
The mention of the name produced a huge cheer from the crowd, and the dog's owner clambered into the ring and walked around holding the dog high so that the crowd could get a good view of him. He was a handsome bull terrier, fur patched brown and white, with a keen ferocious eye. He did his best to struggle free of his owner's grip and get at the rats but the man had a good hold on him.
The crowd started to chant the dog's name in a drunken manner and even Mr Soames joined in. It was easy to get carried away in the enthusiasm and noise, I felt the urge to shout myself but I controlled myself and looked around but there was still no sign of Ginger Jim.
A boy, possibly the landlord's son, entered the ring and went to the cage and plunged his hand in. He pulled forth a rat and threw it onto the floor. The crowd shouted, “One!”
With a showman's flourish the boy pulled out another rat by the tail, swung it gently, and lobbed it so that it landed beside the first.
“Two!” shouted the crowd. Very swiftly the lad pulled out one rat after another. The beasts were large and their eyes gleamed in the gaslight but they did not seem very fierce, scuttling away to mass at the farthest point in the pit that they could get from boy and man and dog. They scrambled one on top of another until they formed a small hairy mound that seethed half way up the barrier like a furry tide at full moon.
The people who were closest to the rats amused themselves by blowing on them which strange to say seemed
to cause the rats some discomfort, whether from the cold or the smell of their breaths, I cannot say, but the rats scuttled away from it in any case. It was not long before the count reached 50.
“Is everything ready?” asked the landlord.
“Yes,” said the boy.
“Yes,” roared the crowd. The landlord raised a stopwatch so that everybody could see it.
“When I say unleash the dog, the owner will release his hound and leave the ring. Is that clear?” The owner nodded.
“Then let the killing commence. Unleash the dog.”
The man un-muzzled his dog, set it on the ground and vaulted the barrier into the crowd. With a furious bark of rage the terrier bounded towards the rats. It sprang on the nearest, picked it up in its jaws, and broke its neck with one fierce shake of its head. In an instant, it had buried its muzzle in the mound and crunched another rat in its teeth. Within moments it had killed another and then another and the white paint of the pit was spotted with blood.
At first the rats fled from it, scurrying around the ring, with the dog in pursuit. But as it killed more and more of them the survivors seemed to realise the fleeing was not doing them any good and a few of the bigger and bolder ones turned to fight.
They turned at bay. One leapt up and caught the dog by its nose while another nipped at its legs. The dog barked in pain and shook its head and sent the rat flying to smash against the barrier and slide down leaving a trail of blood.
Now the side bets began. I heard one man shout, “A shilling that he kills them all in ten minutes.”
“Done,” said his neighbour. Within 30 heartbeats I heard 10 bets made the sum total of which probably exceeded two Guineas. Even Mr Soames seemed caught up in the madness and offered to bet half a crown that the dog would do the full 50 in nine. I looked at Jane who was watching the full spectacle with horrid fascination. She seemed hypnotised by the sight, her lips were slightly parted and her cheeks were flushed.
Dandy chased after the rats, the pain of his wounds seeming only to make him fiercer. Myself, I have no great interest in ratting but at that moment I could understand the fascination of others. There was something about being part of the crowd and shouting and betting and smelling the blood that got inside your head like a species of madness. And perhaps there was something of the same mesmeric attraction that watching a hanging possessed, for before our very eyes we were witnessing death unleashed in a most primal and naked form.
The dog sprang and bit, sprang and bit with an economy of motion that was both deadly and fascinating. The rats seemed to waver between fear and frenzy, alternately fleeing and throwing themselves on their tormentor with a desperate fury. They had done some damage, I think. Dandy was smeared with blood and not all of it belonged to the rats. There were a few cuts on his leg and face, and a rat held on to the stump of his tail by its jaws while Dandy whirled round and round trying to get at it. The crowd screamed in frustration for it was costing the dog valuable time and some of them money. Eventually the rat let go and went flying across the pit. It tried to rise but it seemed too dizzy to get to its feet and in that vulnerable moment Dandy leapt upon it and bit it almost in two.
But something about it had put Dandy off his stride and his killing was slower and I could tell by the response of the crowd that the time the landlord eventually chalked on the scoreboard was not going to be a good one.
I felt Jane Bullock tugging on my arm. I turned around to see what she wanted and I noticed that she was pointing at a tall, well-dressed man carrying a dog who had just entered the room. It didn't take me more than a moment to recognise Ginger Jim Matthews.
He looked somewhat more prosperous than I remembered him, a little fatter, with more luxuriant whiskers and perhaps a touch better dressed but it was the same man I remembered from my days as a Runner. I looked at Jane and her face was twisted with rage. She began to elbow her way through the crowd towards him, her fingers flexed and her hands held like claws, fast and furious as a dog chasing a rat.
All I could do was follow her. Her behaviour was the last thing I had expected. She broke out of the crowd with a scream that was audible even above the crowd's roar and flung herself at Ginger Jim like an avenging fury. I think he had a brief moment when he recognised her, and then he turned and fled down the stairs, carrying his dog with him.
In her long skirt and cloak there was no way Jane could follow him down the stairs at speed and she blocked my way, slowing me down and giving Jim time to scuttle away through the door. I raced across the bar in pursuit but by the time I got out the door, he was gone, vanished into the dark alley mouths of Seven Dials. I looked around just in case there was some indication as to what way he went but found no clues and returned to the bar where Jane lay sprawled over the table, her head resting on her arms, weeping.
I sat down at the table opposite her, clumsily patted her on the shoulder, and said, “Don't cry girl, you'll be all right.”
“It was him, it was him.” There was real anger in her voice and I realised that she was not weeping out of sadness and a sense of betrayal but out of frustrated anger. It was reassuring to realise that she did not need my sympathy.
“That was the man who asked you all the questions about Brighton House?” I asked.
She nodded her head, vigorously. She was still too angry to speak properly and seemed to be having some trouble getting the words out.
“To be absolutely clear, that was the man known to you as Matthew Jamieson? You're certain?”
“I've never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said. “I'm only sorry that I didn't get my hands on him.”
By this time, the barman had come across to see what the trouble was. I could tell he was curious about what had just happened as well as desirous of avoiding any problems in his place of work.
“What just happened? Why is this girl crying? Why did that punter just run away?” There was something suspicious and a little surly in his manner and I realised that he probably suspected that Jane was a prostitute and I was her pimp.
“That man has done my niece a great wrong,” I said. “And I mean to see that he puts it right.”
The barman looked at Jane's belly and then at me and his eyes widened for a second as understanding flooded them. “I see.”
Jane's gaze flicked from him to me and her face reddened as the full import of what I'd said dawned on her. She opened her mouth to protest and I said, “Don't you worry girl, we'll catch that rascal yet and I'll see that he does right by you.”
Jane looked at me outraged and her hands became claws again and I thought for a moment that I might be called upon to defend myself against her. Then she seemed to recollect herself and where we were and what we were doing and her mouth snapped shut like a trap. I nodded approvingly and said, “That's a good girl. Don't you worry! We'll sort this thing out.”
“I hope you do, sir,” said the barman, “and I hope you give that scoundrel a thrashing while you're at it.”
At that moment, Mr Soames came down the stairs, very slowly and very carefully. Fear was written on his face and I could tell that he suspected that we had deserted him from the relief that so obviously washed over his features.
“Mr Brodie! Jane! There you are! You had me worried there for a moment. I got so wrapped up in the excitement upstairs that I didn't notice you were gone until I looked around a few moments ago. I must confess you gave me a nasty turn.”
“Nothing to worry about, sir. I'll explain it all in a moment. Barman, if you please bring over three glasses of gin and hot water.”
“At once, sir.”
Once he was gone, I said to Mr Soames in a low voice, “Jane spotted Matthews, sir, and we went after him.”
“And you lost the scoundrel!” The barman heard Mr Soames's bellow right across the room and nodded approvingly as he poured the drinks.
“Not to worry, sir. Jane has positively identified him as the right man and I shall be able to find him again, don't you fret.??
?
“I'm very glad to hear that, Mr Brodie, very glad indeed.”
“I think we got what we came here for sir. We should go now.”
He looked rather longingly, I thought, back at the stairs. You could still hear the shouting and chanting of the crowd and the barking of the dogs, and I could tell that he was drawn to the excitement and was perhaps about protest so I nodded in the direction of Jane, to let him know that we had other considerations than mere amusement, and to his credit he nodded understandingly and prepared to depart.
We left the Bloody Beast and made our way back through the alleys, and I noticed that this time, Mr Soames's attitude to his surroundings had changed. Perhaps his encounter with the costermongers back in the public house had left him feeling less threatened in the presence of the poor, or perhaps it was simply the alcohol he had consumed, but in any case he now showed less fear and more curiosity.
He stared around him in a kind of appalled wonder and I wondered what he was thinking as he took in the sight of those overcrowded streets and those badly dressed people. The further we walked and the more he saw, the more thoughtful he looked. Sometimes he would pause and slip a small coin to a beggar girl, which of course resulted in a flock of them following us for some time until they were driven off by a roast chestnut seller from whom we stopped to purchase some provisions.
It was attracting the wrong sort of attention, of course, but I was too preoccupied myself for part of the journey to remonstrate with him. I was wondering how Rachel was and how her illness was progressing. I felt guilty at not being with her and I pledged myself to find men who had robbed Mr Soames and get the reward and take her away from the city for as long as was needed for her to get better.
At one point a group of lads stepped menacingly from a side alley and obstructed our passage. The oldest of them could not have been more than six and ten years of age and, to be honest, they looked more hungry than threatening. You could probably have described what they were doing more as aggressive begging than attempted assault.