Chapter Three
When Bridget arrived at Groby’s slaughterhouse on the outskirts of the small village, the mob, led by Rupert, was already there.
It appeared that Rupert had gathered as many men and women as he could find, obviously spreading the word that Groby had acted on his promise to ‘carve up George.’ What the same crowd might have laughed at the previous night, they now reacted to with horror.
Despite having been his friends and neighbors for years, the enraged mob accosted the butcher in his slaughterhouse—a large shed attached to his cottage—and demanded justice for George.
As Bridget squeezed her way through the throng, she heard Rupert shout, “You slaughtered my friend like a swine, and now you’re going to pay for it.”
“What are you on about?” Mr. Groby scanned the room of familiar faces and laughed. “Is this summat of a joke?”
“It’s no joke,” Rupert cried. “George Otis is dead, and you killed him. We all heard you say you’d carve him to pieces and feed him to your pigs, and now you’ve gone and done it.”
“Aye!” his neighbors chanted angrily. “We all heard it!”
“Gone and done it?” Mr. Groby seemed bewildered. “I’ve done nowt! You can’t take what a man says when he’s full of ale for the truth.” He looked around the shed and laughed, as though he could not quite grasp the fact that his friends and neighbors had turned on him.
“Don’t play innocent,” Rupert spoke again.
“This morning, George Otis was found butchered like an animal, and we all know why. He’d turned you into a cuckold, so you killed him just like you said you would.
” Rupert pointed his finger at Groby and took a threatening step forward.
“You killed my friend, and now you will pay for it.”
The horde moved forward with George, attempting to corner the butcher. Bridget felt the squeeze from the crowd. “Wait!” She cried in desperation as the mob closed around her and pushed her forward. Panic rose in her throat. If she didn’t move with them, she’d likely get trampled.
“Stay back. I’m warning you!” Groby grabbed two butcher knives he’d been using to chop chunks of flesh and pointed them at the crowd.
The sight of the bloody flesh and bits of fat hanging from the blades—one heavy and square and the other long and skinny, culminating in a menacing curve—momentarily stilled everyone.
Bridget clasped her pulsing throat as she stood transfixed by what was unfolding before her.
Mr. Groby’s face looked as red as the bloodstains on his apron, and his expression mimicked that of a thundercloud.
His thick, dark eyebrows came together in a furious frown under his angry black eyes.
The normally genial man had transformed into someone frightfully unrecognizable. Someone capable of murder.
“I’m no cuckold, and anyone who says different will meet the sharp end of my blade!
” He jabbed one of the knives into the air, and a collective gasp emanated across the room.
People instinctively stepped back, and Bridget took the opportunity to move closer to Groby, hoping that a friendly face might calm him.
“Your knives won’t save you now, Groby,” Rupert shouted. “George will have his justice. We’re coming for you.”
“Stand aside!” Magistrate Hunt’s voice thundered, and Bridget breathed a sigh of relief as the people parted.
Then, she saw the magistrate enter the fray with Nate by his side.
So, Nate had gone to alert the magistrate!
He must have realized the same thing she had.
But what had taken him so long? What does it matter?
He’s here now. Her earlier annoyance melted away, and she felt like running up to him and throwing her arms around him.
“Put down the knives, Groby.” Magistrate Hunt stood with Nate in the center of the parted crowd. “You need to come with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere! You’ll have to get past me knives first,” the butcher growled.
“You don’t want to do that, Mr. Groby,” Nate said. “Magistrate Hunt only wishes to talk to you. You’ll have a chance to explain what happened.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Rupert shouted. “We all heard him say he’d carve George up and feed him to his pigs.”
“Aye! That we did!” Hornby cried. “I heard you say you’d take the man’s heart!”
“As did I,” Mr. Morris shouted. “He’s guilty! Arrest him now!”
“Arrest him. Arrest him,” the people jeered.
“Stop!” Mrs. Groby’s voice tore across the room, and Bridget turned to see her standing in the doorway of the slaughterhouse with her babe in her arms and her small son clinging to her skirt. “You can’t take him. He’s innocent. He were here with me all last night. Once he returned from the tavern.”
The crowd jeered again, but this time it was less forceful.
Mr. Groby stared at his family, and his snarl transformed into a look of anguish.
After a minute, he dropped the knives. A mixture of relief and agony tore through Bridget.
She’d been right. Mr. Groby was a good man.
He cared about his wife and children. And such a man wouldn’t butcher someone and leave him for dead. That much she was certain of.
“You can take me away if it pleases you,” Mr. Groby said to the magistrate. “But I didn’t kill that damned poet.” He looked around the room. “I kill swine for you to eat. I don’t butcher men!”
“You deserve to hang!” Rupert shouted, but the people did not cheer him on.
They seemed to have been subdued by the presence of Mrs. Groby and her children.
It was as if they suddenly remembered that Mr. Groby was a family man who had been their trusted neighbor and friend for as long as they’d lived in Westmorland.
Groby untied his bloodied apron and threw it onto his workbench. Then, he walked placidly toward the magistrate. Everyone remained silent as Magistrate Hunt led him through the crowd.
“I won’t rest until I see you hanged!” Rupert shouted as Groby exited his slaughterhouse with the magistrate.
“Get out! All of you!” The butcher’s wife stepped forward and scolded her neighbors. “You’re frightening my children.”
Nate grabbed Rupert by the arm and whispered something to him. Then, he led him toward the door, and the rest followed. He made eye contact with Bridget as he came toward her and frowned. “You shouldn’t have come on your own,” he said, letting go of Rupert. “Things are getting dangerous.”
“That’s exactly why I came,” Bridget said. “And I’m staying to have a word with Mrs. Groby. She’s going to need my support.”
“You’re right,” Nate said. “That’s a good idea. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“No, you should go home. The colonel is on the loose, creating chaos as we speak, and poor Aunt Marianne isn’t too pleased.”
Nate hesitated, pressing his lips together as if contemplating what to do. “I’m sorry about that. I was worried about this exact scenario, that’s why I left in a hurry. I thought a few brandies would be enough to subdue the colonel. He usually falls asleep after a glass or two.”
“But what took you so long to get here?” Bridget asked.
“The magistrate was deep in conversation with Dr. Elias about Otis’s wounds and wasn’t to be rushed. He seemed far less concerned than I about a mob gathering at Groby’s slaughterhouse. Still, the damage at home is already done, and I hesitate to leave you now.”
“Go on,” Bridget said. “I’ve got my mare with me to ride safely home. And you’re needed at the villa. I’ll be there as soon as I’m finished here.”
“Very well,” Nate said reluctantly and went outside. Bridget watched as the rest of the men filed out, their bent heads reassuring her that all was not lost in her little village.
Once they were gone, she approached Mrs. Groby—a young, slim woman of one-and-twenty with chestnut ringlets and large green eyes—and put a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder.
Alice Groby had been a figure of interest in Braithwaite since she’d married Groby a little over three years ago.
People speculated that she’d been forced to marry the gruff butcher, who was much older than she.
But Bridget wasn’t so sure. Mr. Groby had a substantial farm and a solid business.
And, for as long as Bridget had known him, despite his boorish appearance, he’d always been a genial man who was generous to others.
The babe in Mrs. Groby’s arms, a sweet-faced little girl of twelve months with tufts of blond hair, gave Bridget a toothy grin.
Thankfully, she was too young to understand what had just taken place, but unfortunately, the Groby’s three-year-old son would not come out unscathed.
Bridget had always known Edmund to be a cheerful and rambunctious child.
But today, he clung desperately to his mother’s skirt, his large blue eyes filled with fear, and his round face ashen.
Her heart ached for him. She knew what it was like to lose a beloved parent, and she recognized the child’s fear.
More than that, she’d learned the hard way how to stomach slander and shame for an accused family member.
Because her papa had died of self-murder, he’d been branded a sinner and had been buried alongside traitors and murderers.
He’d been denied a Christian burial, and his memory and his good nature had been blighted for eternity.
The pain of such cruelty was overwhelming and frightening.
No one understood that better than she did.
Bridget turned and scanned the now-empty slaughterhouse and shuddered.
She could still hear the shouts and cries for Groby to hang ringing in her ears.
She had to get Mrs. Groby and her children away from here and safely inside their cottage.
She knew that what they needed now more than anything was a bit of kindness and comfort from someone who understood their plight.
*