“Thank you,” I said a trifle bitterly.
“Describe the building for me, lad, the one where Mr. Clay keeps his mistress,” Barker said, changing the subject.
“It was a mews converted over to flats, rather well kept up. It had two small evergreens in pots flanking the door, as I recall.”
“Aye. Now tell me, who can afford such nice, well-maintained flats in Bethnal Green.”
I thought about that. The answer became obvious. “No one.”
“Precisely.”
“So, you’re saying the other flats…”
“Are possibly kept by other married men for their paramours. Who knows but that Cambridge Road might be honeycombed with them.”
“I thought Bethnal Green had a reputation for being poor but respectable,” I said.
“During the day, perhaps.”
Brother Andrew came into the room. He was stripped to the waist and a sight to behold. Though past forty, his chest was heavily muscled and his biceps the size of melons. His neck was connected to each shoulder by a mass of hard muscle; and his stomach, which is usually the first to go as a man grows older, was chiseled. McClain was a little under six foot and weighed about as much as Barker. I could see why the Guv might have chosen him as a sparring partner.
“Don’t just stand there gawking, Tommy,” the reverend said. “Take your shirt off.”
As I removed my jacket and tie, Barker tied the brown leather gloves around McClain’s wrists. The look of distaste was writ large across the ex-pugilist’s features.
“I hate these things,” he complained. “Gone are the days when you could twist your wrists at the last minute and cut open a man’s brow with your knuckles. I can hardly feel anything in these mitts. Takes all the enjoyment out of it.”
“My singlet, too?” I asked.
“Singlet,” McClain muttered, shaking his head.
“Aye, lad, the singlet, too,” Barker said. I took it off and walked over to my employer to be laced into the gloves.
I had to admit I didn’t like them myself. They didn’t feel as if they were designed for humans, too tight in some places, too loose in others. I stood while the Guv tied the laces tightly, then reluctantly I climbed into the ring.
“All right, Tommy,” McClain said. “Let’s see what you are made of.”
I’d done a number of illogical things at my employer’s behest but none as obvious as stepping into the ring with a heavyweight champion, gloves or no. I extended my left arm and made a fist, while pulling my right back to guard my chin.
“Pull your left back a bit, boy,” the reverend counseled. “You’re not in here to have your photograph taken. You need the distance to gain some power behind the blow, being a lightweight.”
The next I knew, McClain’s glove swiped across my right cheek. It felt hot, then cold; and I wondered if I would start bleeding, but the feeling faded quickly.
“Raise your guard.”
I did and took a blow to the stomach. That was enough, I thought. I pictured the organ smashed into my kidneys and all of that wrapped around my spine.
“Ow!” I finally got out.
“‘Ow,’ is it? There’s no ‘ow’ anymore, Tommy. You’re not in the village green. You’re part of the Fancy, now, and the code says you take your punishment in silence.”
McClain threw a hook to my ear, and miraculously, I was able to brush it away; but then I left myself open for an uppercut to the chin, which knocked my head back. I heard the vertebrae in my neck pop, followed by a slight ringing in my ear, but after I shook my head, I was fine.
“He’s got a good jaw, Cyrus. That’s a blessing I did not expect.”
Just then I took my first tentative jab, which, since he was looking over at Barker, he didn’t see until it caught him square upon the nose. He looked over at me and broke into a big grin.
“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
