Chapter 20
Alderman James arrived at the Black Dog to a vociferous throng of people surrounding the entrance. They were shouting things like “Bring him out!” and “Just hang him now!” It had all the hallmarks of the riot he had so feared these last weeks. Before even leaving his carriage, he called an officer over and ordered him to get more soldiers to police the streets adjacent to the prison.
As he stepped down from his carriage, he saw Edwards standing across the street, leaning against a building and watching him. As they made eye contact, Edwards shook his head from side to side with pursed lips. James wasn’t sure what he meant, but he had the terrible feeling that Edwards was saying that the man James had come to see, the man who had been caught in the act of trying to kill a woman by tearing at her flesh with meat hooks, was not the elusive Dolocher everyone here wanted him to be. The woman had since died of her injuries.
This did not bode well. The crowd here was clearly seeking a release from their nightly terrors, and he could see now why sometimes it was better to have summary justice and have an innocent man condemned to assuage the public unrest and paranoia erupting as a result of their fears. If he came out here and told this baying crowd that they had not, in fact, captured the Dolocher, there would be uproar, and the consequences would be unpredictable.
He didn’t make any reaction to Edwards’s grave nodding, and he ignored the people who jostled about him and asked him for the hangman’s rope as he made his way inside the soldiers’ cordon at the gates and then into the prison.
When he got inside, he was met by the gaoler, Brick, who straightaway began badgering him about the man held there.
“You have to get him out of here, Alderman James! This is a debtor’s prison; the last time we had someone in here for murder, there was uproar, and there was rioting in the street outside. This place has not been the same since then!”
“Just bring me to him, and we will get this all sorted as soon as we can.”
“He needs to go to the barracks,” Brick said, but he started off up the stairs to where the new prisoner was under heavy guard. He was not going to let another man commit suicide in his prison.
When James came to the door, he was surprised by the man he saw there in chains. It was a small, thin, emaciated man with a wild look in his eyes and a body that seemed ready to pounce at any time despite his upright standing position. In his heart, James already knew that Edwards was right, but this man was still a killer nonetheless.
“What’s your name?” he asked the man.
“Mick Carolan,” he answered in an almost-sweet country brogue from somewhere in the west of Ireland, but as to where, James couldn’t place.
“Who was the woman you killed?”
At this, the man looked at the ground and seemed ashamed suddenly. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know! Then why did you kill her?”
“She was making fun of me.”
“About what?”
“She was disparaging about my manhood.” All the regret in the world seemed to be flooding into this man. Every word he uttered seemed to tame the wildness that was in him, and he grew more contrite in appearance by the second. Most probably, he had been roaring drunk when he did this and was sobering up fully only now and aware of what he had done for no good reason.
James felt a slight kinship with this man in light of his own regret for acts committed in heat. “Have you killed anyone else before?”
“No, sir.”
“Why were you carrying those meat hooks?”
“I carry them when I’m out at night, you know, because of the Dolocher.”
James didn’t believe this; the man was not a good liar. “You are in a lot of trouble for murder, so I don’t think you admitting to being in a gang is going to do you any more harm. Lying to me might, however,” James said firmly.
“Sorry, sir. I am in a gang.”
“Is there a fight coming up?” James thought he might as well glean a little more information if he could.
“One is coming, sir, but I don’t know when or where.” This was the truth.
“When I leave, get that street cleared out and bring him to the barracks,” James said to the officer at the door.
When he got out to the street, the first thing he noticed was that Edwards was no longer in the place he had been. James stayed behind the soldiers and raised his hands to quiet the crowd so he could speak. It took a while, but in the end, there was a general calming
He stood silent for a moment. What was the best way to say this? He decided on the direct approach.
“The man inside here is not what you are all calling the Dolocher.” There was unrest in the crowd as some railed against this news and others groaned in disappointment. James went on: “He did commit the murder of one woman last night, but he is a member of a vicious gang, and this is his only murder to date.”
“How do you know?” someone shouted.
“Because he was in custody during the time of the other murders,” James lied. This seemed to placate the crowd a little. There didn’t seem any obvious comeback to this news; disappointment deepened in the gathered crowd, and they lost the violence that had been simmering.
Some of the people looked at the alderman with sad and disappointed eyes, and he felt the shame of not being able to protect them from their fears. They hated him, and he was doing nothing to try and change their minds! If only they knew how he yearned to make peace with them all and take away this Dolocher from their lives. He was doing his best to save them, but all they saw was Level Low and failure. He wanted to call out to them that there was no Dolocher, but he knew this would only rile them up, and there would be further trouble.
He went back to his carriage, unharried this time. He scanned the crowd one more time for Edwards, and the thought suddenly occurred to him that the Dolocher could be among this very gathering. He could have been watching on with glee as someone else was arrested for his crimes. Now he looked at the faces—for what, exactly? Was this man going to display evil in his face, in his eyes? He looked at the taller men; Alderman James was convinced that it was a large man who was doing the killing, someone who had massive power. He hadn’t realised up to now, but he always pictured the murderer to have the build and frame of the blacksmith, Mullins. He looked for this man now, but with no luck.
As he made his way back to the courts, he wondered where Edwards was going to spring from and what information he was going to surprise him with this time. The thought that Edwards was responsible for the crimes had passed his mind many times, but he just couldn’t make it stick as a suspicion, and he didn’t know why. If he was involved, it likely was in the capacity as part of a conspiracy to cover up the crimes of a member of that menacing Hellfire Club he was part of.
James couldn’t get around how powerful these men were and why they would choose to use their power and wealth for such debauchery and so much sinning. They burnt buildings and destroyed property without a moment’s hesitation, all in the name of fun and wagers. The dead horse and smashed carriage in Hell came to mind. A night in their company must be more terrifying than a night spent anywhere else in Dublin. They spent most of their time drunk, as far as he could see, and their money seemed to come from bottomless pits. The grim fact was that if it was indeed one of their number who was this strange and feted Dolocher, there was nothing he was going to be able to do about it.
In the end, there was no materialization of Edwards that day at all. Just as James was about to retire that evening, he heard a knock on the door. He listened at the window; it was a letter being hand delivered to himself. He went out to the landing and called for the servant to bring it to him. He wasn’t expecting anything, but he felt it must be important to come at this late hour rather than wait until the morning.
It was unsealed, and there were no markings on the outside. When he opened it, the single page inside read only two words in writing so neat, it could never be attribu
ted to anyone’s hand: This Saturday.
What could this be referring to, he wondered. He checked the envelope for more paper; finding none, he sought any marks on the paper that give away its origin, but again, nothing. Though the words were innocuous and harmless, they struck a nervous tension through him that he could not explain at first.
It took a few moments for it to dawn on him that he feared he was holding a letter from the Dolocher himself, who was saying that he was going to kill again this Saturday! He ran back out to the landing and called out for his servant.
“Who delivered this letter?” he demanded.
“It was a young man, sir. Not someone I have seen before.”
“Did he say who it was from?”
“No, sir. He said simply, ‘Letter for the alderman,’ and then he left, ran away.”
“Would you know him if you saw him again?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Tomorrow morning, get someone to cover your duties here, and you walk the streets until you find him!” James shouted.
“Sir?” The servant was at a loss as to what to say.
“Check the markets at Temple Bar and then the Liberties. Do a circuit there a few times and then come back if you can’t find him.”
“And if I do find him, sir?”
“Bring him to me, by force if you have to.” At this, the servant’s face paled a little, but he nodded assent, and his master went back to his room.
This was not a game he wanted to get involved in. He couldn’t think of anything worse than knowing in advance that the Dolocher was going to strike and then not being able to do anything about it. He put on his coat and went out, bringing his servant with him to have a quick look around the local streets for the boy who had delivered the letter. It was a long shot, but he had to do something or else he knew he would never sleep tonight.
What if a killing did indeed take place and people were to find out about this letter after Saturday? That would be the riot spark, for sure. He did not want to play this game. As he thought of this being a game, he couldn’t help but picture Mr. Edwards.