Avon Street Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  What Really Happened in Bath in 1850?

  Copyright

  ‘It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament – he might there be important at comparatively little cost.’

  Jane Austen, Persuasion

  (referring to Bath)

  Prologue

  Thomas Hunt left his home in the early hours of that February morning in 1850 and made his way through the maze of Avon Street alleyways. Nestled in his arms was his three-year-old daughter, still drowsy from the beer that he had fed her earlier. As he walked, he rocked her gently and sang a lullaby; the same song over and over again.

  Memory led him without thought through gaps and passageways half-hidden in the dark rookery of huddled buildings. He strode, unthinking, through the filth-filled gutters that ran beside rank after rank of windowless hovels. His senses were oblivious to the stench; his bare feet numb to the cold, his mind conscious only of the small, warm body in his arms, and the words of the song that bound them together. Still he walked on, stopping for nothing, his eyes registering nothing, until he reached the muddy banks of the River Avon. Only then did he pause for a moment to kiss his daughter’s forehead, before wading out into the river.

  When the ice-cold waters began lapping at her body, she struggled against the imprisoning cradle of his arms. He held her tightly then and whispered softly until she was submerged. Her body arched and fought against him. Still he held her under the water, resisting her struggle for life, until he could feel no more movement.

  Only when her body was still and limp did the reality of what he had done explode in his mind. He had wanted to protect her from his life, from the struggle to survive in Avon Street, from the inevitable loss of hope and faith. Now he understood that he had robbed her of her chance to be.

  Holding her tight, he willed her back to life, willed the warmth of his body to pass to her. He held her tighter still, kissing her forehead time and again, holding her cold hand in his, and trying to call out for help and forgiveness. No prayer-words came. Instead he screamed, like an animal in the night, and buried deep within the formless sound he cursed the name of ‘Nathaniel Caine’, the only man he hated more than himself. Then, in the sudden peace of the silence that followed, he surrendered his life to the water.

  Thomas Hunt was found later that morning, fifty yards downstream. The river carried his daughter’s body almost twenty miles away from him and through five battering weirs.

  Map of central Bath circa 1850 by Cotterill.

  (Bath and North East Somerset Records Department)

  Chapter 1

  Eyes were watching him. James Daunton could sense them, probing and picking at his spine, like a surgeon’s scalpel. He turned and looked back down the deserted road that ran alongside the River Avon, but all he could see were the dark shapes of people moving to and fro across North Parade Bridge; faceless ghosts in the night, too far away to pose any threat. He turned back again, scrutinising every window and shadowy recess in the nearby Institute Building, but still he could see no one. Pulling his coat tighter, he walked on.

  James dismissed his sense of foreboding as best he could, put it down to tiredness. The moon was full and low and bright; much brighter than the gaslights that glowed at intervals along the road. Its shifting white light was playing shadow-tricks with his mind, he told himself; conjuring ghosts where none existed. On instinct he reached inside his coat, checking that his money was safe. The back of his hand brushed against the letter. Searching for a distraction, he took the pages from his pocket. He already knew the letter’s contents by heart. Just holding it between his fingers was enough to send its sentences spilling again through his mind. It would be so easy to let it go, he thought; let the wind take it from his hand and carry it away, but that would solve nothing. He struggled to decide who had betrayed whom, and yet was left wondering if it even mattered?

  Shivering, he returned it to his pocket and quickened his pace, anxious now for the company of friends. He turned before reaching the row of ugly factories and warehouses that blocked his view of Pulteney Bridge beyond and crossed through the shadow of the Abbey church. As the sounds of people drew louder, so his mind became easier. He smiled to himself, surveying the bustle of ramshackle, makeshift shops that hugged the Abbey’s side. Each stall looked as if a good shove would bring it tumbling down, and yet they survived.

  In front of the shops, the air was rich with the scent of potatoes baking on smoking braziers. James struggled through the usual throng of beggars and street-sellers, with their trays of combs and pins, nutmeg graters and cutlery. He tried to avoid their eyes and outstretched hands. Then he noticed the girl, hidden at first in the crowd; a pale girl of seven or eight years. There was nothing unusual in her appearance. She wore a sacking dress and was playing on one of the penny whistles from the tray that hung around her neck. He saw that she wore no shoes, but then many of the children of the poor went shoeless. Everyone said it was to appeal to the sympathy of those they begged from, but he knew in his heart that it was more often from necessity. She shivered as she played, and yet she seemed oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the people around her; perhaps that was what made her seem so vulnerable. He found himself reaching into his pocket, shuffling coins. ‘This is for you,’ he said, pushing his way past the others and giving the girl a shilling.

  She smiled at him, her eyes shining bright. ‘Are you buying them all?’

  ‘No,’ James replied. ‘You must keep them. You can sell them tomorrow. The money is a gift, a payment for your beautiful playing.’

  She grinned and took a whistle from the tray, polishing it on her dress. ‘This one sings sweet as any bird,’ she said, holding it out towards him with a broad smile.

  He accepted it and returned her smile. ‘Run home now, and get out of this cold night air.’ As he turned to walk away, he reached inside his pocket, grasping another coin, but when he turned back she had already disappeared from sight, lost in the crowd.

  When he reached the Abbey churchyard it was busy and flooded with light from the tall windows of the Pump Rooms. He could see the people inside, taking their seats for the concert. The musicians were tuning their instruments, the discordant notes doing battle as they filled the air. Slowing occasionally, he acknowledged various acquaintances in the square with a nod of the head. He even exchanged greetings with one or two, but did not break his stride until he saw the person he was looking for.

  Frank Harcourt was standing beneath the honey stone colonnades which formed an entrance to the churchyard from Union Street. A tall man of about thirty wi
th a wiry, angular body, he stood head and shoulders above most of those around him. His face was striking, in both its strength and warmth; the always ready smile, displaying perfect white teeth, offsetting the harder aspects of his features. He was of course impeccably dressed, as usual, everything tailored to his own precise requirements, everything perfectly matched.

  ‘You’re late, James,’ Frank said. ‘It seems to have become your custom of late.’

  James held out his hand. Frank was never late of course, though he never seemed to hurry anywhere; always composed and at his ease, always so sure of what he wanted from life. James envied him that certainty of purpose and resolute optimism. ‘My apologies Frank, I needed to walk for a while and clear my mind.’

  Frank laughed. ‘Don’t look so concerned. I arrived only a few moments ago myself.’ He reached out and shook James’ offered hand. ‘And what do you have there, hidden in your coat?’

  James brought out the whistle with a smile and placed the tips of his fingers, with elaborate precision, on its finger holes. He pursed his lips several times, in preparation, his face overly serious, as though he was readying himself for a solo concert performance. ‘I would like to play, for your enjoyment, a lesser known piece by Mr Mozart.’ He put the mouth-piece to his lips and produced a short cacophony of random, tuneless notes to the obvious displeasure of several passers-by.

  Frank laughed. ‘Mr Mozart would never recognise his composition.’ He turned, smiling, and made to leave. ‘You are a gentleman of many talents, James, but playing the tin whistle is not one of them.’

  ‘We are not due to meet your friends for hours yet,’ James said, putting the instrument in his pocket. ‘Why did you wish to meet so early? Where are we going?’

  ‘If I told you our destination you would probably provide a hundred reasons not to go there. Trust me and I will show you where some excitement can be had in this tedious city.’

  ‘I take it we are going to Avon Street?’

  Frank laughed. ‘You know me too well James. Avon Street has so much to offer, provided one knows where to seek it out.’ He paused, his expression questioning for a moment. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that you had enjoyed our recent forays to the place?’

  ‘They were entertaining, yet not without a certain amount of guilt.’

  Frank smiled. ‘Ah yes, guilt – a much wasted use of a man’s time in my opinion. Something best kept for old age, when one has little else to do. Besides we’re only going as far as Westgate Buildings. You can barely smell Avon Street from there.’

  With Frank leading the way they soon reached a busy Kingsmead Square. Two constables stood beneath the bare trees at its centre, chatting and nodding occasionally to passers-by. The tops of their tall stovepipe hats and the silver buttons on their long tunic coats glistened in the light of the nearby street lamp. James noticed that they kept their gaze resolutely diverted from the open doors of the nearby warehouse, in Westgate Buildings; the doorway to which the crowd was so obviously drawn.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  James shielded his eyes in the light from the doorway of the massive warehouse and, like all the others, handed over a shilling to one of the burly men guarding the entrance. The smell that greeted him as he entered the building was as pungent as a dose of smelling-salts. The sweat of the crowd mingled with the reek of stale beer, and did battle with an overpowering stench of sewage.

  James hesitated for a moment, and held his hand up by reflex to his nose. At the side of the door, crowds jostled to get near to a table loaded with barrels, though the place could hardly have had a liquor licence. He considered buying a drink, but thought better of it and followed Frank, who was already making a path for them through the mass of bodies.

  In his desperation to keep up, James pushed by a man standing, drinking in the crowd. The push caught the man off balance, sending him stumbling forward. When he turned, the effects of his shove were all too apparent; the man’s waistcoat and trousers were stained with dark patches of spilt beer. James tried to smile, stumbling over words of apology, but half suspecting that it was pointless before the words were spoken. He watched as the man passed his now largely empty mug to one of his friends. The man was grinning, but it was a cold grin. He reached out suddenly and James felt the man’s fingers around his throat, pushing him backwards into the crowd. It took him by surprise. He could smell the beer on the man’s hand as he tried to pull his hand away, but his hold was too strong and the more he struggled the tighter became the grip. ‘I apologised,’ James said, struggling for breath.

  ‘Did you now?’ The man laughed and drew back his other fist to strike, just as Frank stepped out of the crowd to the man’s side.

  ‘Enough of this!’ Frank said. ‘My friend meant you no harm. It was a simple accident.’

  ‘Wait your turn,’ the man replied, half-looking in Frank’s direction, his cold hand retaining its grip on James’ throat. ‘I’ll sort you out later.’ Then he looked towards his friends. ‘Or do you want him, lads?’ They moved forward in response.

  Frank moved to James’ side. Using the diversion, James brought his arm up with force and broke the man’s hold on his neck and stepped back. He knew now that there was no escape.

  ‘We want none of this,’ Frank said. ‘Reconsider!’

  The man took a step forward, laughing. Then his expression changed. James followed the frightened stare of his eyes and saw the man who had pushed his way through the crowd, behind Frank. He was a bewhiskered giant of a man with an ugly scar running across the width of his cheek. Everyone around them seemed suddenly quiet in his presence.

  His opponent took a step backwards, pushing his friends to one side, a strained smile on his now ashen face. ‘Just a misunderstanding,’ he said, looking at the man with the scar. ‘I meant no offence Mr Caine.’ His words trailed off as he lowered his gaze and then turned, trying to smile in Frank’s direction. ‘I was just larking about. I wouldn’t have hurt him.’

  Frank stared back at the man. ‘You should apologise to my friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man said, turning to James.

  James nodded and then turned away, looking around him for the scar-faced man, but his vast frame was already some distance away and he was fast disappearing into the crowd. Frank threw an arm around James’ shoulder. ‘Follow me, James,’ he said, ushering him through the crowd. ‘There’s money to be won.’

  ‘Did you know that man?’ James asked.

  ‘No more than you did. Let’s be grateful that he saw reason before something came of it. They might have beaten us senseless, or had us ejected before we had a chance to lay a bet.’

  ‘No, you misunderstand,’ James said, ‘I was referring to the large man standing behind you, the man with the scar. The one he called Caine.’

  Frank brushed the sleeve of his coat with the back of his hand. ‘Perhaps he was one of the organisers, or one of the thugs they employ to keep the peace. Now let’s find a bookmaker and relieve him of some money.’ He tidied his collar and walked on.

  Robbed of the promised fight, the crowd surged forward and James felt himself propelled ever closer to the rough wooden amphitheatre in the centre of the warehouse. All around him men were standing on benches and tables, all looking in the direction of the arena. James could now see into the circular wooden pit. It must have been twelve feet in diameter, he estimated. Within seconds he found himself pushed up against the stout, rough wooden fence, felt it digging into the bottom of his ribcage.

  At the far side of the arena was a small mound of hard-packed red earth where twenty or so rats were gathered, scrabbling at the wooden walls. The rest of the circular floor was littered with the bodies of dead rats. The stench was appalling. Above the pit, lanterns were suspended, lighting every inch of the bloodied ground below, and every crevice in the fence surrounding it.

  He watched as a young boy with a broom walked up to the arena, through a wide gap between the benches at the far side of the room, and
unbolted a gate in the fence. Entering, he took the stave, hooked to a cord around his trousers, and began, with incredible accuracy and dexterity, to dispatch any rats that showed signs of wounds. Then, taking up his broom, he swept the torn bodies into a pile, before picking them up in bunches, by their tails, and flinging them into the corner of the room, counting the corpses out loud as he threw them. On the corner walls, behind the growing heap of bodies, James could make out rows of collars and several stuffed heads of dogs, with staring glass eyes and torn fur.

  When the arena was clear the Master of Ceremonies, a squat man with a pockmarked face and a booming voice, stepped to the gate. ‘Let’s have some quiet now,’ he roared, ‘and all of you who has dogs, keep they quiet too.’ Men scrabbled to get a view, fighting to get to the tiered platforms at the sides of the room; standing on tables and benches in the centre. ‘The next dog is the third of the six we have before you tonight,’ the fat man continued. ‘You’ve all seen him before. His name is Captain. His owner is Caleb Brown and he hails from Wiltshire. The bookmakers will be pleased to take bets on first and second for the night, and on the individual kill for each dog. Please place your bets, gentlemen. The rules be the same for every match, fifty rats in the arena, and as many rats as he can kill stone dead, not wounded, in fifteen minutes, is what the dog scores. The winner tonight will take away a silver collar and three gold sovereigns. Now, let’s have the rats and only the girt big uns mind.’ The crowd cheered.

  James grabbed hold of the nearest bookmaker. ‘How did the first two dogs fare?’ he asked.

  ‘They was just to make up numbers; novice dogs getting their first blooding,’ the man said. ‘The first had twelve and the second twenty-three.’

  ‘What odds will you give me on Captain to take the night?’

  ‘Captain’s the favourite. You won’t get better than evens anywhere in the house.’

  James held out four notes to the man. ‘Twenty pounds on Captain to win then.’

  ‘I can’t take that,’ the bookmaker said. He muttered under his breath, ‘Bloody gentry … All the same … throwing their sodding money about.’