As for his opponent, I’ve seen one like him in every village: big-chested, bigger bellied, spindle-shanked, and past his prime. He was the sort that had shown promise once, but it had all been brawn, and he’d never developed the brain to go with it.
The publican showed a flair for sportsmanship and an ability to ape his betters in the boxing fancy. He announced the fight as if it were a national title event, and to his way of thinking, it was. The sport of bare-knuckle or old rule boxing had been declared illegal and could not now bring together champions from all over England as it once had. Campbell-Ffinch, the Hammersmith Hammer, was called the champion. The contender’s name was not worth remembering, but his moniker was the Titan of Tunbridge Wells.
Our host was kind enough to point out the bookies whose takings would provide him his fee, no matter who won that evening. We were one of the few in the crowd who did not partake, but we were not conspicuous about it. The attention went back to the center of the ring, where the boxers were given the rules. A man at the side of the room rang a bell and the fight commenced.
I had boxed a little when I was in school, and I had seen a few matches as well. This wasn’t like those fights at all. It was more like fighting against a bully when I was a lad. The fists slamming into jaws and stomachs were mostly bone with a thin layer of tissue over it. It hurt to see it. The skin of both men began to turn an angry red. Surely it wouldn’t last long. The old boxer was game, I’ll give him that, but he was no match for Campbell-Ffinch. It was give-and-take for a while, and then there was a bell.
In the second round, the Foreign Office man’s opponent came out, determined to even the odds, but Campbell-Ffinch got him up under the jaw with a juicy one that made him stumble and shake his head. He would have been downed if the bell had not rung again.
The Titan was slow off his stool for the third round, and it became obvious that the Hammer was toying with him. The Titan tried a final desperate ploy and shot out a jab. Campbell-Ffinch’s left arm came up, hooked ’round the fellow’s wrist, and pushed it down. He stepped in so close, their chests almost touched, and as his left countered any move the Titan might try, his right delivered a vicious hook punch to the Titan’s temple and down he went, like a bullock at Leadenhall market. There was no shaking of the head or straining to get up. The man would be lucky if he awoke before mid-morning.
A number of audience members voiced their displeasure, but there was nothing they could do about so short a match. One couldn’t exactly complain to the village constable, and if sometimes a match was short, the next might be overlong. So are the vagaries of boxing between two human engines without gloves.
Campbell-Ffinch was pronounced the winner, someone threw a towel over his shoulders, and the Titan’s trainer attempted to revive him. Campbell-Ffinch finally saw us and his eyes narrowed.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Watching a bit of sport,” Barker stated. “Good match.”
“I do this merely to keep in shape, you know,” he said. “Strictly amateur.”
Amateur, my eye, I told myself. If I knew my man, he’d wagered heavily on himself and had somebody there to pick up his winnings. He was trying to convince us, because he didn’t want us to tell the Foreign Office what illegal activity he was up to. If I knew Barker, he’d keep it to himself. Campbell-Ffinch would be in his debt, and that kind of debt is always harder to work off than money.
“I thought your doctor forbade your getting out of bed,” Campbell-Ffinch said.
“I could not resist the opportunity to see you fight. By the way, I apologize for wasting the time of all those good constables this morning, hunting for the text. I assume they never found it.”
“I’ll find it, Barker, make no mistake about it. I hope you realize you are blackening your name irreparably with the Foreign Office.”
“We shall see whose name shall be blackened, sir.”
“Wait!” Campbell-Ffinch called, daring to put a hand on Barker’s shoulder. “How are you coming along on the case?”
“I should be able to lay my hands upon the man,” the Guv said, looking pointedly at the hand on his shoulder, “within a week, if matters unfold as I plan.”
“You are certain?”
“Ask for no certainties on earth, sir. I shall do my best and am optimistic.” He turned to go.
“What did you think of the fight?” he called out as we left.
“It was unevenly matched. I would like to see you against a better opponent.”
“What about yourself, sir? I’ve heard you are rather good. Perhaps we can set up a match!”
“Ah,” Barker rumbled, “but there again, it would be too unevenly matched.”
We made our way back to the train station and into a compartment on a train.
“What o’clock is it?” he asked.
I consulted my repeater. “Half past one, sir. That move, sir, that last move Campbell-Ffinch made, that knocked out the Titan-”
“What about it?” Barker asked.
“It was Chinese boxing, wasn’t it?”
“Very good, lad. Yes, it was. A hook of the wrist, followed by a simultaneous block and punch. He did it well, too.”
“How do you suppose he learned it?”
“No Chinese instructor would teach a foreigner, but the man has eyes and a brain. Perhaps he saw it in a fight and copied the move or learned it from someone unscrupulous, such as a dismissed student. I am certain he would pay well for that information.”
“It’s far too coincidental, sir. He has to be our killer. He is awfully desperate to lay his hands on the book.”
“Perhaps,” Barker stated diplomatically.
“Will you speak to Inspector Poole about Campbell-Ffinch’s late night activities?”
“No, I want to give Poole a chance to solve this one if he can. Setting Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office at each other’s throats will only tie up both agencies.”
“More room for you, then,” I said.
“I don’t need them hampered to find Quong’s killer.”
“Do you know who it is?” I asked, leaning forward.
“It is still early, lad. One cannot build a house until all the materials are assembled. I counsel patience.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “but while we are being patient, we have a houseful of servants and stable fees and other expenses to pay.”
“Spoken like an assistant. I thank you for your concern,” he said, “but there is no amount I could pay that would equal the sacrifice Quong himself made in my service.”
Of course, I had no rejoinder to make to that. After we pulled into Victoria Station, Barker moved forward to get out and I saw him wince, striations in the skin below his black spectacles.
“How are you feeling?” I dared ask.
“The ride has done nothing good for my lower back. My kidneys are still sore, but I take that as a good sign. Things must hurt before they can heal. They must get worse before they can get better.”
I stepped out of the station doors and raised my good arm to hail a hansom. I always hate it when Barker sounds prophetic.
22
Barker rested most of the next day. He had been pushing himself since he’d first awakened from his injuries. When I got back from the office, Mac informed me that the Guv hadn’t even been down to lunch. We were talking sotto voce but we should have known the Guv would have heard me enter the house. He called down from the top floor. I set my stick in the hall stand and went upstairs.
My employer was still in bed, clad in his dressing gown. Upon my entrance, he reached into the table by his bed and removed a small daguerreotype, no larger than a playing card. I scrutinized it. It showed a young Oriental with a serious expression on his face against a backdrop painted to look like a Hellenic grove.