They’d thought, when Walter Howells’s letter had arrived before Christmas, that it would be a simple matter. They would intercept this Aymer Smith outside the Soap Works after dusk. It wouldn’t be hard to identify him. They merely had to ask one of the workers. And then there were a hundred alleyways and dark corners thereabouts where they might lay hold of him. They’d waited three evenings running at the works, but their quarry had already left, mid-afternoon. On the fourth day Bagsy Bagnall went alone early in the morning and, for a ha’penny, discovered from the works caretaker that Aymer Smith observed no timetable these days but could be recognized from his thin figure, his tarpaulin coat and his walking boots. He lived alone, Bagsy was informed, in rooms above the assay house in Whittock’s Court.
‘Don’t sink into a conversation with Mr Smith, unless you must,’ the caretaker warned. ‘He has such words, your head’ll spin.’ Bagsy Bagnall was amused by this. He knew whose head would spin. It wouldn’t be his.
Bagsy waited at the entrance to the court that afternoon. He was cold, but he was happy to be idle. He’d burned two pipes of best Virginia and helped himself to a purse from an unattended carriage before Aymer returned home, and no mistaking him. If ever there was a man deserved a beating, he was it. Look at the clothes he wore. Look at that bony, educated face, those soft and fussy hands, that self-esteem. Bagsy, hidden in the gateway, waited to see which door in Whittock’s Court led to Aymer’s rooms. When Aymer was about to step into the hallway, Bagsy shouted, ‘Mr Smith!’ Aymer turned around and peered into the empty court. No one. He had half expected to see Otto standing there.
The Bagnalls had left Aymer in peace over Christmas and the New Year. There was other work to do. Will Bagnall had obtained a list of which local gentlemen and wives would be attending the major balls and concerts of the season. ‘They’re out, we’re in,’ he told his brother, choosing to burgle the houses of the younger people who might be expected to stay late. They’d made a decent haul of jewellery, some silverware, some gold, a cavalry sword, and had only been discovered once, by a housekeeper who, at midnight, should have been asleep. Bagsy had to knock her down and gag her with a curtain sash. But by the middle of January Will Bagnall was keen to settle his accounts with Walter Howells. So on that Friday of the boxing bout, they’d followed Aymer from his rooms, and gone with him down to King’s Avenue. They’d endured the marching band, and waited while he inspected the musicians on the steps of King’s Hall. There’d been an opportunity, when Aymer was returning to his rooms, for Will and Bagsy to finish their business. Whittock’s Court was both dark and deserted. They could give him a good dextering, leave him and his bruises on the steps of his front door and be away within two minutes. What could be more pleasing and efficient? But they’d been too slow with their decision and Aymer had been too speedy with his key.
They’d followed him that Friday evening too, though there was little opportunity to confront him, with so many people walking in the same direction for the fight, and so many carriages and conveyances about. If the streets had been full of ladies or children, then no matter. But to give Aymer a beating in the presence of men distinguished only by their shared regard for pugilism wouldn’t be sensible. Nor was it sensible to set about him in the marshy alleyways around the warehouse. The people there would be quick to lend a hand to Aymer. Two men on one? They wouldn’t tolerate it in their slums. So the Bagnalls waited for the quieter streets of the upper town before they went to work. They were certain that Aymer hadn’t known that he was being followed. They’d walked quietly in the muddy lanes. But surely now, with their stolen leather shoes resounding on the paving stones, he would notice them a few yards to his rear and try to get away.
They didn’t give him the chance. They ran at him and swept him off his feet into a stable yard. They banged him up against a wooden door. The horse inside backed away and snorted in the darkness. ‘Your name? Your name?’ they said to him. If he had answered Robert Norris, say, or Ralph Parkiss, would they have hesitated and held their punches, fearful of making a mistake? Will Bagnall might. He only had his brother’s word that this tarpaulin was their man. His brother’s word wasn’t worth much. But nothing would stop Bagsy now. It didn’t matter whom they’d got inside the stable yard, or what his name was. Bagsy wanted to express himself. He’d missed the boxing for this. He’d squandered half a crown.
‘What do you want?’ said Aymer. He was winded and could hardly speak.
‘Shut up!’ said Bagsy. He took a short length of solid, six-ply rope out of his pocket, gripped both ends and pressed the middle tightly across Aymer’s throat. ‘Just say your name. Say it. Say it.’
Aymer gave his name as best he could, but couldn’t say it clearly.
‘Give us something with your name on it,’ said Will Bagnall.
‘Hurry up.’
‘Haven’t anything.’
‘Do what he says!’ Bagsy, who wasn’t the tallest of men, pressed his rope more firmly on Aymer’s throat. He brought his head down sharply on Aymer’s chest and at the same time brought a knee up into his groin. Aymer’s legs gave way. He was as tall as Bagsy Bagnall for a moment. Then shorter. Then on the ground.
Will searched the pockets of Aymer’s coat. All he found was a half-sovereign and some pennies. He knelt down on the cobbles and the straw, put his hand on Aymer’s head and said, almost gently, ‘Aymer Smith? Is that your name?’ Aymer nodded. ‘Have you been recently in Wherrytown?’ A groaning Yes. ‘It’s him,’ Will told his brother.
‘I know it’s him.’
‘Go on, then. Get it done.’
Bagsy kicked Aymer once, on the shoulder. His ankle twisted with the force of it.
‘We hear you’re a thief and not a gentleman,’ said Will Bagnall, while his brother shook his foot in pain. ‘We hear you don’t settle your accounts. So we’re settling them for you. Speak one word of this and we’ll visit you again. We know your rooms in Whittock’s Court … and we might call on you at any time. And you’ll get a whipping.’
Bagsy was more careful with his second set of kicks. He aimed for Aymer’s softer parts, his chest and stomach, then his buttocks, then his legs. He stopped and stepped back. ‘That’s it,’ he said. Aymer wasn’t badly hurt, just bruised and terrified. He groaned and stretched out on the ground.
‘Good boots,’ said Bagsy.
‘Get ’em then.’
Bagsy pulled up Aymer’s legs and tugged off his walking boots and his hose. He let the legs drop back onto the ground. Then, as a final flourish, he stamped on Aymer’s ankles and his feet. The tarsi cracked. Walter Howells had asked for broken bones. The Bagnalls had obliged. He’d asked for broken teeth as well. Bagsy found a cobblestone and brought it down on Aymer’s mouth. Aymer had never known pain so fierce and concentrated. His mouth was wet and red and stony. The Bagnalls collected two of his teeth as evidence for Walter Howells that they’d made a decent job of it. They covered Aymer in straw, then left the yard. If they hurried they might get back to the warehouse before the boxing finished. If King Swing had won, there’d be some winnings to pick up. Easy money, easy times.
Aymer Smith had wet himself. His bladder had been kicked and bruised. When he regained consciousness and found enough strength to limp, barefoot, for help, his trousers were soaked and icy cold. He didn’t look the least like a gentleman who’d encountered some misfortune. He looked more like a beggar in a dirty wagoner’s coat, lame and urinous, and with a black hole for a mouth. He leant against the outer wall of the stable yard. He couldn’t stand without the wall. He tried to call for help, but couldn’t make the words.