“Now, Oscar, run!” The two men took to their heels, surprise momentarily stealing them a few yards, but then the mob took off in pursuit.
Up ahead, all the shouting had alerted the toughs guarding the barricade and they stepped forward to block any escape, cudgels at the ready. Conan Doyle noticed the dark opening of a ginnel to their right: a tight passage between buildings too narrow to be considered an alleyway. He pointed and veered toward it. “Quickly, Oscar. Perhaps we can lose them in there.”
They ducked into a passage so narrow their shoulders scraped along the bricks on either side as they ran. The ginnel wound downward and emptied out on the lower street. They ran along the terrace and then ducked down a side alley and pressed themselves against the wall where they paused, sucking wind, straining to listen.
“I think we’re safe,” Conan Doyle panted.
“S-s-safe?” Wild gasped. “If they don’t murder us first, you’re going to kill us with all this running. You know my views on exercise and the dangers of healthy living.”
“I told you we were going to a dodgy area, Oscar. Perhaps you could have dressed a bit more aggressively.”
Wilde stiffened his posture. “What do you mean, aggressively? Silk stockings, a bottle-green coat and velvet knickers — if this is not an outfit that rings the shop bell, bangs its fist upon the counter, and demands in a brusque voice ‘look at me.’ I don’t know what aggressive means.”
“Shush!” Conan Doyle gestured for silence. From a nearby street came the scuffle of running feet, but it soon fell from hearing. “Quietly, then, let’s go.”
The two men crept farther down the alleyway, and had only gone fifty feet when a half-dozen bone-bruisers marched from a side alley and tromped toward them with a swaggering walk freighted with menace.
Conan Doyle looked about. The brick alley walls were ten feet high and topped with rusty nails and daggers of broken glass to discourage climbing.
“Much as I hate to criticize, Arthur, your escape plan leaves much to be desired.”
“Is that all of you?” Conan Doyle called out to the looming figures. “Hardly seems a fair fight. If you like, we’ll wait while you fetch more help.”
A cackle of laughter. They turned to see four more figures advancing from behind.
Trapped.
“Now there’s ten of us,” one leered. “Is them odds more to yer likin’?”
“What now?” Wilde asked. “There’s far too many to fight.”
“I’m afraid we have no choice in the matter. My father always told me: if a gang confronts you, pick out the biggest and loudest. Knock him down first and the rest will scatter and run.”
“My father’s advice on such situations was to retain the services of a good doctor.”
Conan Doyle shrugged the coat from his shoulders, dropping it to the alley, freeing his arms to fight. “I suggest you shed your coat, Oscar.”
“Surely you jest. The alley is filthy. I shall take my beating with my coat on.”
“You there,” Conan Doyle said, nodding to the tallest figure. “Step forward and let’s see what you’re made of.”
But the man who stepped forward wasn’t just the tallest, he was also the widest. He barked a laugh and peeled off his overcoat to reveal the physique of a circus strongman. Although going to fat, the man possessed a barrel chest and arms bigger than most men’s legs. Atop the hulking shoulders sat a head like a battle-scarred cannonball with cauliflowered ears and a nose that had been broken and rebroken to a twisted snaggle of cartilage.
“Oh dear,” Wilde said quietly. “It appears you have challenged Hercules himself to a bare knuckle fight.”
Conan Doyle stepped forward and dropped into a boxing stance, fists up and ready. It was clear the strongman could weather a blow to the face, so the Scottish author let him throw the first punch — a wild full-out haymaker easily dodged by jerking his head back at the last moment. Even so, the giant fist came so close he felt the breeze. In response, he feinted a left jab, and as the man’s hands instinctively came up to protect his face, Conan Doyle danced forward and swung a right hook into his solar plexus that sank to the elbow. It proved a crippling blow. The strongman buckled in two around the punch, expelling air with a grunt, and sagged to his knees. He teetered for a moment, arms hugging his belly, and then the light went out of his eyes and he toppled face-first to the cobbles.
Out cold.
Stunned by the loss of their champion, the gang took a collective step backward.
Wilde threw his friend an inquiring glance. “Arthur, at the risk of being pedantic, shouldn’t they be running away just about now?”
“Um, it doesn’t always work.”
The ferret-faced man in the broken top hat had been hanging back in the shadows and now he hollered: “Get ’em, lads! Scrag ’em!”
Howling like beasts, the pack fell upon the two friends and a wild, fist-flailing melee ensued. Conan Doyle fought off three and four attackers at a time, sometimes taking two blows to deliver one of his own. A number of the thugs set upon Wilde, thinking his prissy attire made him the easier target. They soon found out, however, that although his hands were soft, his knuckles were hard and the six-foot-one Irishman’s height, weight, and superior reach allowed him knock senseless anyone foolish enough to come within range of his long arms.
Suddenly the gang found many of their toughest fighters sprawled unconscious on the ground as the apparently helpless toffs proved to be skilled fighters. Conan Doyle dropped another man with a one-two uppercut and advanced upon the rest, fists windmilling, eyes blazing with fight. Like jackals confronted by lions, the pack broke and took to their heels at a flat-out run, no man wanting to be the last one out of the alleyway.
Conan Doyle and Wilde suddenly found themselves alone, with five burly men knocked flat and groaning on the cobblestones. Though battered and bruised, both friends had emerged from the battle triumphant, and were charged with adrenaline and euphoria.
“Extraordinary!” Wilde said, indicating the fallen prizefighter. “How did you drop that behemoth with one punch?”
“I learned how to box at boarding school and was quite good. As a doctor, I learned about anatomy. The solar plexus is a point at which a great number of blood vessels come together. A hard, swift blow placed at a precise location causes the vessels to spasm, depriving the brain of blood. As you saw, unconsciousness quickly follows. But what about you, Oscar? I knew you had boxed some at Oxford, but you handled yourself exceptionally well. That last uppercut was brilliantly executed. Nearly took the blighter’s head off!”
Wilde smiled modestly. “I was a passing fair boxer, but soon decided my face was far too large and pretty to be used as a punching bag. Thereafter I concentrated my martial efforts on the debating club, preferring repartee to fisticuffs.”
Conan Doyle paused in pulling on his coat to give his snout an experimental tweak to ascertain that it was merely sore, and not broken. “Those louts were seasoned toughs. We are lucky to have escaped with a few cuts and bruises.” He examined his friend. “Stand still, Oscar, while I look at you.” Wilde’s chestnut curls were severely tousled. Someone’s knuckles had left a red scrape across his cheekbone.
Wilde saw his look of concern and said, “Tell me the truth. I’m horribly disfigured, aren’t I? It’s not me I worry about, it’s the loss to the world.”
“Just a slight abrasion on one cheek. A bit of rubbing alcohol and you’ll be fine.”
The Irishman fixed him with an abject look. “You may rub your alcohol so where you like, Arthur. I intend to drink mine.”
Conan Doyle laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You’re a Viking, Oscar! An absolute Viking.”