“When did he acquire the office in Whitehall?”
“Shortly after he bought the house. I don’t know where he got the money for it or Dummolard for his training or Ho for the tearoom he would shortly purchase. I assumed, like many gentlemen, they had acquired their fortunes in the East.”
“I suppose Quong and Jenkins came along next,” I said.
Barker suddenly stepped onto the roof, and Mac snapped to attention. I realized that was all of the secrets I was to learn that day.
17
“Lift your guard, Tommy.”
Barker had sent me on to McClain’s as soon as breakfast was over. The time grew short until the match.
“What, so you can batter my liver again?” I asked the reverend, bobbing and weaving.
“Liver, kidneys-makes no difference, boyo.”
I ducked and lashed out but caught Handy Andy only on one of his stony shoulders.
“Don’t you have anyone my size?” I asked.
“All the kiddies are still abed.”
“You should be in the music hall. Boxing and comedy in one act.”
“And anyway,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard, “your opponent isn’t your size, as I understand it.”
“Is there any chance-Ow!”
McClain had got one over my flimsy guard and caught me across the brow. “Quit jawing while I’m smiting you.”
I hopped ’round the ring, sweating like a horse after a mile run. This was no way to win a match against anybody. Twenty-two, and I was to be cut down in the prime of life. I tried to get by; and suddenly I was against the ropes, Andrew McClain hammering me in the stomach and ribs, with an occasional smack to the jaw and nose. I couldn’t take much more of this. In fact, I didn’t. My opponent hooked me with a right to the ear, and the next I knew I was down on one knee, shaking my head. McClain lifted me by the shoulders and dropped me down on the wooden stool in the corner.
“It’s a good thing your boss isn’t here. He’s not overjoyed about this challenge you’ve gotten yourself into and wouldn’t have gone as easy on you as I have.”
“You call this easy?”
“Aye. Break’s over,” he said, kicking the stool out from under me. “Time for another round.”
“This isn’t doing me any good!”
“This will be just a walk in the park compared to what your opponent will give you. I’ve been asking about a little. Nice jab.”
I’d managed to tap him on the jaw. It was the first clean hit I’d made since the sparring had started.
“And?”
“General opinion is that Clay is good. Drinks too much and has an eye for female flesh, but so far it hasn’t affected his skills. Strictly amateur, of course. I don’t want to scare you, but you’ll have to do better than this.”
“Teach me how to fight, then. I already know how to get hit.”
“Just reminding you. Barker’s been teaching you that Chinese wrestling, and it’s good, don’t get me wrong; but if you are gonna wear these pillows on your mitts, you’d better learn you some good, old-fashioned John Bull boxing.”
He caught me square on the nose then, and that was the end of the match. I began to bleed like a faucet. The reverend moved me to the stool and held my head back so the blood could flow down my throat, although how that was an improvement, I couldn’t see.
“Let me get out of these mitts and I’ll mop your face proper, Tommy boy. You know, your right’s not bad, but your left is all over the place. You need to learn control, control and follow through.”
McClain performed surgery upon me. That is, he ripped the corner from a towel and screwed it into my nostril. Then he sent me in to bathe in a cold tub and get changed. Once outside, I got rid of it. The bleeding had stopped.
When I got back, Barker was pacing and smoking his pipe. Ribbons of smoke hung in the still air.
“Ah,” he said, catching sight of me. “Come, we must leave immediately.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“One of Soho Vic’s lads has located Major DeVere. He’s in Camden Town. We’ve got precious time to collect him and sober him up. The funeral is tomorrow.”
Barker hailed another cab and ordered the driver north to Camden. I noted the expense in the back of my notebook. Costs were adding up.
“What happened to your nose?” the Guv asked.
“I got too close to one of the reverend’s jabs.”
“He’s got a good one, doesn’t he? Someday when you’re in your dotage, you’ll be able to say Handy Andy McClain once bloodied your nose, but I doubt anyone will believe you. The man’s a legend.”
Camden Town was a pleasant surprise. It had a Dickensian feel about it, with old, swaybacked buildings, narrow streets, and a genteel poverty, like a maiden aunt living on a pension. There was one building with the name Fagin on it and another that said Marley.
Barker hired an open carriage at the station and told the driver where to go. He seemed to know this area, as well. Just how far did his knowledge of the streets go? I wondered. Had he memorized Tunbridge Wells or Brighton, too?
We pulled up in front of a pub with an open front door spilling light like lager onto the paving stones. It was unremarkable, as public houses go. It might have been a template for every other pub in London.
The publican was a fat, prosperous-looking man, like most I’ve met. He had a face like a bulldog’s, with jowls and rolls of excess flesh, and a stub of a cigar was permanently affixed to the corner of his mouth.
“Is Major DeVere here?” Barker asked.
“Oh, thank God,” the owner exclaimed. “He’s been doing his best to drink up my cellar these past two days. I’ve never seen anyone put down so much wine in my life. Thought he’d quit sometime, but every time we thought he’d passed out, here he come down the stair again, askin’ for ’nother bottle. Crikey, that man can throw down the liquor.”
“His daughter was found murdered, and his wife killed herself,” Barker answered, hoping perhaps to shock him into silence, but it didn’t work.
“Thought it hadda be something like that,” the man said, wiping a glass with a grimy towel. “It was like he was trying to drown hisself, one bottle at a time.”
“Where is he?”
He pointed over our heads with his thumb. “Ain’t got but the one room.”
Barker led me up the stairs, and when he came to the door, opened it without knocking. In the shambles of the inn room, Trevor DeVere sat in a chair with his feet extended and his arms hanging limp. His eyes were glazed, his mustache disordered, and the front of his open shirt stained with wine. He caught sight of us and raised a half-full goblet in the air.
“To your health, gentlemen,” he said, draining it in a gulp.
“We have come to retrieve you, sir,” Barker said stonily. I don’t believe he was as sympathetic to Mr. DeVere’s condition as I.
“I’m where I wish to be,” came the reply. “Push off, gentlemen.”
“No, sir. I’m afraid you’re coming with us. We need to make you presentable for your family’s funeral.”
DeVere came up out of his chair and started to back away, pointing at Barker with one trembling finger while the others wrapped around the neck of a bottle.
“Oh, blazes! Now you’ve gone and done it! I was trying to forget all about that, and you’ve reminded me. A fat lot of good you gents have been to me since I walked into your chambers four days ago. I’ve got a cat left, you know, a nice, fat tom. You can kill him too, if you wish.”
“You may complain at the time of the reckoning, when I present your bill. Until then, I am in charge and I’m saying you must come with me.”
DeVere splashed more wine into his goblet and drank it. Then he was back to the finger pointing. This time, he pointed at me.
“You,” he said, looking at me with bleary red eyes. “You look like an educated chappy. How many circles of Hell are there?”
I glanced at my employer nervously. “I believe there were nine, according to Dante.”