“And how old were you?”
“Eleven.”
“And what happened?”
“I was thrashed, as I recall.”
“Whereas, Mr. Clay attends the German Gymnasium regularly, from the sound of it.”
“But-” I began, but my employer interrupted.
“He is six inches taller than you, has a longer arm length, and outweighs you by almost two stone.”
“But my training, sir. I’ve been training with you for months.”
“Your training will be useless in the ring. You’ll be fighting under Queensberry rules, with your hands encased in gloves. Yours will feel like pillows, whereas his shall feel more like lead weights when they strike you.”
It finally began to sink in then. It was I who was going to be publicly humiliated. Palmister Clay really was going to get what he wanted. “Blast,” I said.
“And you’ll get no sympathy from me, lad. I warned you. You got yourself into this mess, and you’ll just have to fight your way out. Or take your drubbing like a man.”
11
“Where are we going, sir?” I asked. We were now heading south on his instructions. North, I could see, or west, but not south, unless we were going back to the docks.
“Reverend McClain’s.”
I was under no misapprehension that the Guv was in need of spiritual advice. It was true that the Reverend Andrew McClain was a firebrand in the pulpit of his Mile End Mission, but more people knew him as Handy Andy, former heavyweight bare-knuckle champion of London in the days before Queensberry rules. He could still deliver a walloping right cross and was Barker’s sparring partner. I wondered if he intended for Andy to give me lessons, but the Guv was down to single-word sentences, which was not a good sign. I had used up all his goodwill for the day with my rash actions.
The Mile End Mission is entered by a latched gate covered in peeling brown paint. Inside, there is a pump in the center of a courtyard adjacent to the old church, which caused me to assume this had once been a stable yard. We stopped and washed our hands at the pump, which was as close to a ritual for my employer as I’d ever seen.
The place seemed deserted when we entered. We searched all through the building, until a clanking sound finally drew us down to the cellar. There the reverend sat on the floor in his shirtsleeves, covered in rust, removing a length of pipe. He rubbed a drop of sweat from his nose with the back of his hand, transferring the rust to his face, and glanced at us without interest.
“Plumbing?” Barker asked.
“Boiler,” came the reply. “Pipes are full of scale. Come to lend a hand?”
“I don’t know the first thing about cleaning boiler pipes,” Barker said.
“Nor I, but it hasn’t stopped me.”
“You’ll only break it further. Call someone in. I shall pay for it. I have something else for you to do, something more in your line.”
“Saving souls?”
“Busting heads.”
“Ah,” Andy said with a grin, “the laying on of hands.”
“Something like that. Thomas here has gotten himself in a spot of trouble, thanks to that Celtic temper of his. He’s been challenged to a boxing match.”
“Bare knuckle?”
“No, Qu-that is, the new rules.”
McClain got as sour a look as I’d ever seen on his pious face. Since he had been a champion under the old rules, the marquis was not to be mentioned here. “How long does he have to train?”
“Four days.”
“Four days!” the missionary repeated, shaking his head. “You want me to train him in half a week? What shall I do after that, walk across the Thames? Or shall I part it, perhaps?”
“Such sarcasm is unbecoming in a man of the cloth. I merely need you to train him.”
“I quit that, you know. I don’t box professionally and I don’t train. I’ve been asked several times.”
“Your retirement has been well documented, Andrew, but Thomas needs the training. I understand the odds are against him and that he cannot be properly trained in a week, but there are…mitigating circumstances.”
“Buy me a new boiler, and we’ll call it square,” McClain stated.
“I’ll get someone in. He’ll clean it and replace what needs to be replaced.”
“You don’t trust my recommendation?”
“You would recommend this entire pile be razed and built again at my expense.”
“Nonsense, unless of course, you are offering.” He paused. “Four days. The very idea. Learn piano in four days. Learn Latin, maybe, but not boxing. That takes a lifetime. So, where’s it going to be, this match of the century?”
“The German Gymnasium, next Thursday.”
“Well, at least there’s some reason for hope. Those prigs at the German won’t know the difference. He’ll have to move in, of course.”
“No. I need him. We’re in the middle of an investigation. You can have him now and again, around his work. He’ll have to be satisfied with that, and so will you.”
“You’re a hard man, Cyrus Barker.”
Barker didn’t respond beyond a slight smile.
“Very well,” McClain continued, “but I won’t stand in his corner. I cannot be seen participating in this momentary aberration known as modern boxing, and I won’t back an improperly trained man. You’ll have to coach him yourself.”
“Done.”
“I’m not through yet. One can bring a horse to the track, but he still might not run. You’ve been as silent as the grave this entire time, Tommy boy. Are you up to this? You’ll probably get walloped anyway, but if you’re willing to learn something, I’m willing to teach you.”
“I’m willing,” I replied.
McClain pushed himself up off the floor and smacked his rust-covered hands together.
“Very well,” he said. “Give me a chance to get cleaned up a bit, and I shall meet you at the ring upstairs.”
A mission with a boxing ring under it would have sounded absurd in the West End, but things are not so hard and fast in Mile End Road, and occasionally one found two unrelated ventures knocked together into one. The reverend didn’t make any money from the ring, of course, save from Barker himself, who used it regularly.
I ruminated on the fact that I had displeased my employer with my actions. The training and the fight itself, whatever the outcome, was peripheral to the investigation. It was a waste of time and effort that should have been spent finding Gwendolyn DeVere’s killer. I had tried to convince myself that Clay was a part of it all.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said to him when we walked into the ring. “I didn’t mean for my personal life to intrude into the case. There is no proof that Clay is involved in Miss DeVere’s disappearance. Much as I would like to think he is Mr. Miacca, I doubt even he is capable of such heinous deeds.”
“I would be inclined to agree with you, lad,” Barker said. “I doubt Mr. Clay has even the aplomb to keep his mistress secret from his wife for very long. However, his presence in the district strikes me as a coincidence, and you know I do not believe in coincidence. Follow the line of incidents back far enough, and I’m certain one shall find where the two converge.”
“You actually think there is a connection?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, else I’d have stopped you from making a fool of yourself.”
