“I can’t stay,” Bridget said. “I must get to town before…”
“Before what?” Cook eyed her.
“Something important. Trust me when I tell you that if I don’t leave this minute, there will be dire consequences.”
“Dire consequences?” Cook’s forehead creased into a frown. “For who?”
“For a potentially innocent man,” Bridget said.
Chapter Three
When Bridget arrivedat 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 toalert 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!”
