‘I most certainly will,’ answered Sir Clovelly, and rubbed his chubby hands together.
There were clearly a great many wagers changing hands for it seemed that McAra was known in the neighbourhood and had a particularly lethal punch. But John, surveying both candidates, felt certain that he had made the right choice and smiled to himself, ready to be entertained.
The fight opened with a flurry of blows to the black man’s head, all of which he seemed to shake off as if a fly was buzzing round him. He stretched out his magnificent long arms and landed several buffets to McAra’s body which, John imagined, must have hurt tremendously. And so it went on. The two men straining and crunching their naked, bony fists into the body of the other, protecting their heads but unable to avoid the hits that were coming towards them.
It seemed to the Apothecary that McAra was getting the worst of it, for though he admittedly had a cruel punch he was getting more and more out of breath and was sweating profusely.
The Black Pyramid glistened with perspiration which he wiped off during the interval between rounds. John, observing him closely, saw that he had a faraway look in his eyes and realized that the black man was in a world of his own, that nothing mattered to him except finishing off his opponent. That, in that sense, he was a born fighter.
The end came swiftly. Gentleman Jack threw a splintering punch, so loud that one could hear his fingers cracking on the Black Pyramid’s head. This clearly hurt the black man for with a roar he turned on his assailant and swung a blow to his jaw which made him drop in his tracks. The man in charge counted Jack out swiftly and raised a long black arm to the public. The Pyramid had won.
John turned to Sir Clovelly Lovell who was looking slightly downcast.
‘I think you owe me a guinea, Sir.’
‘Yes, my boy, I believe I do.’
‘Thank you. Now, would you mind excusing me for a moment? There are some people I must talk to.’
John hurried over to where Mrs Silverwood and Mr Martin were wandering away round the fair. He bowed.
‘An excellent fight, was it not?’
‘It was indeed.’
John addressed himself to the solicitor. ‘My dear sir, if you should recall anything further that the late Mr Gorringe said to you I wonder if you would be good enough to contact me. I am staying at present with Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi.’
‘Oh yes. She lives in the big house above the river Exe, does she not?’
‘Indeed she does.’
Mrs Silverwood’s face looked suddenly pointed. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘What is your interest in the dead man may I ask?’
‘The answer is, madam, that I work occasionally for Sir John Fielding of Bow Street and nowadays I cannot come across a case of murder without investigating a little. Please forgive me.’
Was it his imagination or had the pair of them gone suddenly quiet?
‘I see,’ Mrs Silverwood answered softly. ‘Well, good day to you, Sir.’
‘Good day, Madam,’ John replied, bowed, and went back to join Sir Clovelly Lovell.
Seven
Any hopes the Apothecary might have had of questioning the Black Pyramid after the bout were swiftly dashed. The fighter was instantly surrounded by a large crowd of Exeter rips — who had obviously wagered deep on his winning — and was carried out of the field, shoulder-high. Hurrying behind him was Nathaniel Broome together with various hangers-on and assistants. Scurrying along, John managed to detain the manager just as he was leaving the field. Broome looked at him in some surprise.
‘Hello, Mr Rawlings. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘I saw an advertisement stating that the Black Pyramid was fighting so I came with the express purpose of watching him.’
Nathaniel gestured to the crowd ahead. ‘As you can see he is rather taken up.’ He roared with laughter at his own joke, his small gingery face creasing.
‘So I observe. Tell me, my friend, did you know that William Gorringe was killed during the night we all stayed at The Half Moon?’
‘Yes. Terrible business. The Constable caught up with us at our current hostelry and informed us of same. The Pyramid was quite shaken I can tell you.’
John thought that the Blind Beak could do with this particular Constable as a Runner. As a paid employee of those whose turn it was to act in the hated job, he was turning out to be splendid.
‘I’m sure he was utterly shocked. Was he able to throw any light on the case?’
The pale blue eyes — set too closely, giving Nathaniel a somewhat pathetic air — held his own. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. I just wondered,’ John answered somewhat lamely.
‘Well, he told the man that we never set eyes on Mr Gorringe until that coach ride. And there the matter rests, Mr Rawlings. There the matter rests.’ Nathaniel drew a watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Gracious me. I’m running late. I must be off. I hope we meet again one day.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Adieu.’
And he was gone, scuttling along behind the Black Pyramid who was still shoulder-high and being transported rapidly towards the town.
John stood still for a moment, trying to assemble his thoughts. But the impression he had most strongly was that today several people had stated quite baldly that they had no knowledge of William Gorringe — and that he had believed none of them.
Having deposited Sir Clovelly Lovell back at his home, John Rawlings remounted his horse and set off in search of that remarkable fellow, the Exeter Constable. Having no idea at all where the man lived, the Apothecary decided to make enquiries in a tavern and being near the West Gate entered The Blackamore’s Head, an inn he remembered from his honeymoon.
It was quiet inside, there being only one or two old codgers staring moodily into their pots of ale. They looked up as John entered but, having eyed him, soon lost interest and went back to contemplating their drinks. At the back of the bar a lanky potboy was whistling tunelessly beneath his breath and made his way in a slow and somewhat unwilling way to where John was sitting.
‘What be you drinking then?’
‘I’ll have some ale, please.’ The Apothecary produced a coin which he held between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Can you give me some information?’
‘Depends.’
‘Do you know the local Constable?’
‘Why, you in trouble then?’
Without moving from his seat, John gripped the boy’s ear and twisted it. ‘That will be enough of your backchat. Answer me. Do you know the local officer of the law?’
‘Yes, I knows him,’ the boy answered, rubbing the side of his face and grimacing.
‘Well, can you tell me where I can find him?’
‘All you have to do is go to his house.’
John was getting angry. ‘If I knew where that was I would.’ He gripped the ear again. ‘Do you want this coin or don’t you?’
‘Yessir. I wants it. He lives halfway up the High Street in a two-storey cottage. I don’t know the number — and I swear that’s the truth, Sir.’
‘Very well.’ John let go of the ear and handed over the coin. ‘Now I’ll have the ale if you please.’
He sat consuming it, trying to plan what he should do next. He had seen all the men who had travelled down to Exeter with him — namely the Black Pyramid, Nathaniel Broome, Cuthbert Simms and Martin Meadows — and two of the women. But Paulina Gower and Fraulein Schmitt still eluded him. He vaguely recalled that Paulina had
