“You pup!” he cried. “Jab at me, will ye?”
The next I knew I was in the midst of a flurry of blows, backing me across the ring. He caught me square in the chest, and that hurt, then he smacked me in the ear, which made me forget about my chest, and then he put another in my stomach that made me forget my ear, and finally he connected with a blow to my chin that knocked me boots over bowler, if I’d been wearing one. The old canvas seemed awfully comforting for the moment. My ear was buzzing and half my teeth felt loose, and this with the gloves to make the sport more civilized. There wasn’t enough money in the Royal Mint to make me get into the ring with the reverend bare knuckled.
He bent over, gloves upon knees and looked down at me. “Are you going to stay there and stargaze all day?” he asked. “Get up. Your employer has hired me to see that you don’t end up flat on the canvas this way.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and pushed my way up to my feet again.
“Your position’s all wrong, like I said. Hold your right hand here and your left one there. You see? You can block a hook punch or a jab like this, and bring it down like an axe, brushing away a straight right to the ribs. There’s a good deal of wrist work in boxing, though you won’t hear it mentioned.”
Barker trained me spontaneously several times a week, and never on a regular schedule. He’d stop me in the hall or garden or up in his garret, and only when it involved heavy groundwork would we go to the mat in his cellar. He’s a good teacher, if a bit irregular, but sometimes I felt the worst of students. I understand what he wants me to do, but translating that message to my limbs had laughable results. I had hoped to impress McClain or at least not disgrace myself.
“Now, step forward with your left foot, Tommy. No, your other left foot.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you need me to paint an ‘R’ and an ‘L’ on your shoes?”
“No, sir. I’ve got the hang of it, I think.”
“We shall see. Now bring the other foot up behind it. Step again. Again. Again.”
“Where is Mr. Barker, Reverend?” I asked suddenly when I realized he was missing.
“Quit breaking your concentration.” He put his hands on his hips. “If I know him, he’ll take a half hour punching on the heavy bag.”
By the time we were done, I was exhausted and dispirited. If I did not train as hard as I possibly could, I was going to lose this match with Palmister Clay.
Afterward, the reverend brewed tea for us in his office.
“You’re very quiet today, Cyrus,” Andrew McClain said, handing him a steaming cup.
“They found a missing girl this morning. She was in the Thames, outraged and strangled. I could do nothing but stand there and watch the Thames Police and Scotland Yard quarrel over the body. It was galling.”
“What do you intend to do?” McClain asked.
“Set up temporary residence in Bethnal Green and thank God I have another chance to catch this fellow.”
“You can move in here, if you wish.”
“Thank you, Andrew, but I would prefer to remain anonymous and right under our man’s nose, if possible. Or rather, over his head.”
“Seems to me you’re keeping me out of this,” McClain said suddenly. “You’re not usually reticent about a case.”
“I didn’t want to burden you with it any more than we have now. You’ve got enough to deal with as it is.”
“No, that won’t work,” the reverend said. “I’m already in it. I live and work here, right up against the Green. I hear what happens there everyday. The mission is part of the warp and woof of the area.”
“Ever hear the name Miacca?” Barker asked.
McClain frowned and shook his head.
“He’s an archfiend. He’s raped and killed a half dozen girls in the past few months and left their bodies in the sewers or floating in the Thames.”
“So why leave me out of it?”
“Because the lad and I are up to our necks in socialists of every description. Young and old, male and female, Christian and otherwise. I knew you were a friend of Bram Booth.”
“Knew his dad, the general, too,” he said. “Tried to turn me into an officer when his Salvation Army first began. But I was still battling the bottle then, and could not trust myself. Missing girls, eh? I’ve heard of them. Had to prop up Danny Rice before he went in to identify his daughter. This madman had cut off her nose. Cruel thing, leaving a pretty girl like that dead for her father to find and then hacking off her nose. Makes me feel downright un-Christian. So, you’re going after him, are you?”
“I’m after him now,” Barker said. “I’ve been after him.”
“Good. Find him. Get your teeth into him. Or the next time we’re in the ring together, I’ll stop going easy on you.”
The two men gave each other a grim smile.
12
“Do you still have the address of the estate agent, Thomas?” Barker asked on the walk back to Bethnal Green.
“Yes, sir,” I said, pulling out my notebook and flipping pages. “His name is Ezra Levitt. It’s on Commercial Street.”
“Excellent. He is Jewish. His offices will be open today. I want to see that property as soon as possible. If it all works out, we shall move in tomorrow.”
We found Mr. Levitt’s office and discussed our need for a short-term rental of the property. The estate agent countered that such a thing was irregular but finally agreed it was best to have some revenue coming in. A possible fee was discussed for a months’ use, the Guv counteroffered, and a price was agreed upon, pending approval. Then the agent took us to the site.
There was not much to recommend it. It was an empty warehouse, dusty from disuse, with three floors and a ladder going up to a roof hatch. The grimy windows offered an excellent view of traffic heading east and west along Green Street, and by moving to the window on the far east side, one could see all the way down Globe Road. We were so close to the charity that had I opened a window and shouted, I would have attracted attention from everyone inside the building. Barker pronounced it satisfactory, and we marched back to the agent’s office to sign the lease.
Someone said to me once that enquiry work was just the sort of work for men who could not handle routine, implying that we lacked stamina for the eight-to-six workaday world, as if we never fully grew up somehow. Sitting in an office all day, filling out endless reams of paper while gradually emptying inkpots, was obviously his idea of being a man. In my defense, I told him that my position required taking dictation, keeping records, and filling out forms as he did, and that the only difference between our positions was that he didn’t have to stop writing every now and then to duck a bullet or receive a fist in the face. I don’t know whether I convinced him or not. In any case, sitting in the estate agent’s office, filling out forms, signing, countersigning, initialing, stamping, and sealing made me glad for once that I had such an unusual occupation. A week shut up in that office and I’d have been moved right into the lunatic asylum.
After shaking hands with the fellow twice over, we finally quitted the establishment. It was just after six. We stopped at the Prospect of Whitby and had our dinner. A hot leg of lamb with plenty of mashed potatoes was just the thing to drive the dust of the warehouse and the more figurative dust of the estate agent’s office from our lungs. The meal, however, was still tempered by the terrible sight we had seen on the dock at Wapping Old Stairs that morning and now that our business was concluded, we naturally fell to talking about it again.
“I expect the funeral shall be in two days,” Barker said, pushing back his plate and taking a sip of his tea.
“I hope the DeVeres have close friends and relatives to help them through this,” I said. “I cannot see either of them in any condition to attend their daughter’s funeral.”