Murder in St. Giles Read online

  “If any harm comes to her …” I began.

  Brewster gave me an understanding nod. “You can take it out of me hide, guv. I’d deserve no less. But ye won’t have to, I promise ye that.”

  I forced myself to return to the question of what had happened to Mr. Finch, hiring a hackney for our journey to St. Giles so I could speak to Mrs. Brewster. I did not want to use Hagen, Donata’s coachman, who was incensed she hadn’t woken him, because I did not want to take a fine coach with the viscount’s emblem on its doors into the rookeries.

  Rain had begun this morning, and St. Giles was a dank and muddy place.

  In a warren off Charlotte Street, men were fighting. Not in violent rage, I saw as Brewster and I neared the crowd on foot. The men were sparring, stripped to the waist, bare skin ruddy in the cool rain.

  The men and women who’d gathered encouraged them. They’d chosen a favorite, a man with a black beard, who seemed to be the darling of the crowd.

  “Go to, Jem!” a man shouted. “Teach ’im a fing or two.”

  Jem’s opponent was a young man, but I saw a wiry strength in him. He had sandy blond hair and light-colored eyes, and he circled Jem, fists raised, with a patient wariness.

  They went around and around each other, watching for weakness or a predictability, any telltale sign that the other man was about to strike.

  Jem was adept in footwork, shifting his weight one way then the other, difficult to follow. His younger opponent moved less but watched more.

  They circled, the crowd encouraging. Jem feinted a punch left, but the young man didn’t take the bait and blocked Jem’s true right-fisted punch instead. The spectators cried their dismay.

  A portly man in a long greatcoat, his tall hat too small for his head, stepped next to us. “A wager, Tommy? How much for Jem to fell him?”

  “Two bob,” Brewster returned.

  The bookmaker looked displeased. “That all? What about you, Captain?”

  That he knew who I was did not surprise me—everyone recognized Brewster and his injured cavalryman. The man gave me a look from glittering eyes that said he thought I’d be too prudish to wager on a backstreet match.

  “I’ll put my stake on the other fellow,” I said, indicating the younger man with my walking stick. “What odds?”

  “Seven to two against. I warn you, Captain, he’s not had much experience.”

  I studied the young man’s form. He didn’t have the bulk that Jem did, but weight could be used against one in such a match. He was also careful, watching Jem quietly for an opening, but showed no trepidation about fighting a larger man.

  “I’ll place a cautious wager of tuppence,” I said.

  The bookmaker gave me a weary look but nodded. I was certain my fellow would win, but if I made a large bet on him, and he did win, these spectators would not be happy with me. The denizens of St. Giles could not afford to lose much, and I didn’t need them tackling me for my winnings.

  “The captain wagers tuppence on Mr. Oliver.”

  I heard laughter. The bookmaker scribbled on a scrap of paper with the stub of a charcoal pencil and handed me the slip.

  The men continued to circle. The crowd had moved back to give them space, enjoying the best spectacle of the weekday morning.

  Jem threw a punch straight at Mr. Oliver’s jaw. It should have sent Oliver to his knees, but Oliver caught the arm coming at him and propelled Jem past him, then spun to knock Jem’s feet out from under him.

  Jem stumbled, but managed to remain standing. With a snarl of fury, he launched himself back into the fight.

  A mistake, I knew. A pugilist should have determination but not anger. Anger made one careless, which was how I’d lost most of my matches when I’d sparred for amusement in my army days.

  Jem lunged at Oliver, throwing punch after punch. Oliver blocked most and jabbed back. He couldn’t withstand all of Jem’s blows, however, and took a few on his shoulder, his jaw, his chest. I saw him move with each hit, lessening the impact by giving with the strike.

  Noise surged as the crowd flowed forward, yelling for Jem. The bookmaker and men I took to be his bullies blocked them, giving the two pugilists the chance to finish the match.

  Jem sent a massive punch at Oliver’s face. Oliver deflected the fist and seized Jem’s arm. He quickly stepped behind Jem’s leg, bending the unfortunate Jem nearly double with a grappling hold.

  The watchers roared their rage, but the bullies held them back. Oliver, with his arm locked around Jem’s neck, punched and punched Jem’s face. Jem struggled, trying to throw Oliver off, but Oliver stood solidly, planted on legs with plenty of muscle.

  The match would only be over if one of the men surrendered or fell upon the ground and could not rise, even with the assistance of the crowd. Otherwise the fight could go on, with grappling holds, eye gouging, biting, or any other means with which a man could disable his opponent.

  Jem was not about to surrender. His face was bloody, but his eyes blazed. His teeth came down on Oliver’s arm, but Oliver held on, blood running freely on his pale skin.

  The two men moved like one creature together, the crowd shifting around them.

  Jem clawed at Oliver’s arm and finally loosened it. His admirers yelled encouragement.

  The next moment, Oliver seized Jem by his beard. Jem howled. Oliver took advantage of this distraction to drive his elbow into Jem’s gut.

  Jem flailed, struggling to keep to his feet, but he slid on a muddy patch and fell heavily to his knees.

  Oliver was upon him, one arm around Jem’s throat, a knee between his shoulder blades. They both went down, Oliver on top, while Jem flopped about like a bug. Oliver thunked Jem’s head a few times into the pavement, and then Jem went limp, groaning.

  Mr. Oliver scrambled to his feet and stood breathing heavily, hands on hips. The bookmaker, who apparently was also the referee, lifted one of Oliver’s hands.

  “Fight to Mr. Oliver!”

  The victor did not gloat. He only nodded and took a linen shirt from one of the bullies, wiping blood from his face before slipping the shirt over his shoulders.

  One large man started for Oliver, fists balled. “To hell with you!”

  Brewster stepped in front of him. “Now, Mackie, ’e won fair. I was watching. It were an even fight.”

  Mackie halted, but his face reddened until it was purple. “He ain’t one of us.”

  “Don’t mean he don’t know how to fight, ye daft beggar. Jem has bad days now and then. This might teach him to use a razor.”

  Mackie’s eyes were round with fury, but he did step back from Brewster’s placid stance. I recognized Mackie as one of the men who’d tried to pummel me earlier this year, not far from here. Brewster had run off the assailants.

  “Ah, Captain,” the bookmaker said next to me. “Your winnings.” He slowly and deliberately dropped a few copper coins into my palm. “I believe that is a grand sum of—ninepence.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The bookmaker shook his head. “I imagine the gentlemen at White’s are terrified to see you coming.”

  “They are indeed,” I answered without a smile.

  “Another match,” Mackie called. “Mr. Oliver against Tommy.”

  The crowd, which had not disbursed, liked the idea. They hefted Jem aside and sat him against a wall, where he was tended by two men who looked disappointed in him.

  Brewster lifted his hands. “Naw, I leave that to the younger blokes these days.”

  Cries of, “Come on, Tommy!” “Teach ’im a lesson,” and “You owe it to us,” rumbled through the crowd.

  The bookmaker placed a strong hand on my shoulder, and the bullies hemmed us in. Mackie wore a snarl, showing his blackened and crooked teeth.

  Brewster gave the crowd an assessing glance, sighed, and slid off his coat. “Just know, Mackie, that if Mr. Oliver pummels me to death, it’s you what has to answer to Em.”

  I was pleased to see a flicker of uneasiness in Macki
e’s eyes. “Ye better win then,” he muttered.

  Chapter 8

  As Brewster stripped down, Mr. Oliver removed his bloodstained shirt, shook it out calmly, and glanced about for someplace to put it. I offered to hold it for him, and he handed it to me with a look of gratitude.

  The bookmaker hovered next to me. “Now then, Captain, what’s your wager? Are you going to back the interloper or stay true to your friends?”

  I looked to Brewster who peeled off his shirt. Brewster’s fighting days might have been long ago, but his arms were tight with muscle, his stomach barely showing a paunch. He didn’t posture or stretch, only shook himself, folded his arms and waited for the match to start.

  Oliver moved to face him in the ring that formed around them.

  “What odds on Tommy?” I asked the bookmaker.

  “Ooh,” the man said softly, breath hot in my ear. “Let’s say four to one against?”

  My brows rose. “You have that much faith in him, have you?”

  The bookmaker shrugged. “It’s me job to calculate odds, not to have faith. He’s twice the young man’s age, wouldn’t you say? And I haven’t seen your man fight, while I’ve watched Mr. Oliver take on far bigger toughs than him, and win.”

  I shrugged. “I must be loyal to my friends. A guinea on Brewster.”

  The bookmaker’s smile flashed. “Done, sir.”

  I handed over a pound and a shilling and got another scrap of paper in return. I noted when I glanced at it, that it was a piece of a book, and I caught sight of a tattered, bound tome in the bookmaker’s pocket. Paper was expensive, but a book could be bought third or fourth hand—or stolen. I wondered what writer of old had had his tome turned into betting slips.

  A roar went up from the crowd. Brewster and Oliver circled each other in quick moves, fists at the ready. As before, Mr. Oliver’s footwork was simple but careful, his shuffles to the side or backward steps precisely calculated.

  The young man had trained under a professional, I could see. Did the bookmaker take him about, proclaiming he was inexperienced, to goad the toughs of each parish into betting against him? No doubt the toughs thought they’d take down the youthful Mr. Oliver in a trice.

  Meanwhile, the bookmaker accepted plenty of bets and collected his money. A nice game.

  Brewster was not as quick-moving as Oliver, but he placed his feet deliberately, his fists loose as he watched the other man.

  Mr. Oliver struck first. He came in with a series of brisk swings which Brewster competently blocked, but in the end, Brewster had to give way, and they circled again.

  Brewster’s expression remained placid as he watched Oliver with a skilled eye. Oliver was as impassive as Brewster.

  At times I accompanied Grenville to Jackson’s boxing rooms in Bond Street, where “Gentleman” John Jackson, a former prize fighter famous for winning against the great Daniel Mendoza, taught the upper classes the art of pugilism for a fee. Our matches in Jackson’s salon ended when an opponent touched the floor with his knee or hand.

  The street matches were far less civilized. Sometimes a man died when his followers threw him back into the fight, no matter that he was clearly unfit to continue.

  Jackson’s style was similar to Brewster’s—calm, watching, waiting for the best opportunity to strike. Oliver did the same. He never lost his composure.

  Watching them was akin to observing two very cool-eyed bankers come together to discuss bond exchange rates. The crowd began to howl their displeasure.

  Oliver attacked once more while Brewster defended, Brewster sidestepping to deflect blows.

  I did not note the exact moment when Brewster ceased his defensive stance. One moment he was using arms and shoulders to keep Oliver from landing blows, the next, he had a strong leg locked around Oliver’s, Oliver floundering while Brewster drove a rapid succession of punches into his face and chest.

  The crowd’s shouts echoed from the narrow canyon of the street.

  Oliver managed to defend himself and regain his balance, but Brewster thrust a strong foot behind Oliver’s boot. Oliver teetered but caught Brewster a good punch on the jaw.

  Brewster’s head rocked back, then he quickly recovered, shoved his shoulder and elbow into Oliver’s side, and dropped the man onto his back. He stood astride him, resting one giant boot on Oliver’s shoulder.

  “Ye done, lad?” Brewster asked him.

  I saw Oliver note the spectators closing around them, and he nodded.

  I knew the young man could have fought on—he was barely winded. He was deciding that surrender was the better part of valor today.

  Brewster removed his foot from Oliver’s shoulder and gave him a hand up. “Good fight, lad. Clean yourself up, and I’ll stand you a pint.”

  Oliver, breathless, assented. I handed Oliver his shirt, which he again used as a towel.

  “I will join you,” I told them. “As soon as I collect my winnings.”

  I turned to the bookmaker, expecting him to snarl at having to pay out at four to one. That meant five guineas to me, a princely sum.

  I found, to my annoyance, and to the fury of the rest of the pack who’d wagered on Brewster, that the bookmaker and his bullies had vanished.

  We adjourned to a pub in the Tottenham Court Road, Mr. Oliver with a coat he’d retrieved from a corner to hide his bloody and sweat-stained shirt.

  Mr. Oliver’s Christian name was Geoffrey, and he’d met the bookmaker, Mr. White, a few months ago, he said, agreeing to fight for a cut of the betting money.

  “Not astonished he fled,” Oliver remarked after taking a long draught of bitter, wincing as he moved his bruised face. “I’ve never lost, ye see.” He had a London accent, but I wasn’t familiar enough with every dialect in the metropolis to place it. “I suppose I’d better make myself scarce, in case your pals try to take their winnings from me.”

  “I’ll keep ’em off ye,” Brewster said. “You’re a bonny fighter, no mistake. Course, the bookmaker might turn up in the river one morning if he’s that much of a trickster. Dangerous game.”

  “I’d have refused the challenge if I’d known I was fighting Tommy Brewster,” Oliver said, admiration in his voice. “Serves me right.”

  Brewster regarded him with modesty. “I haven’t fought in years, lad. Why should you know me? Who trained you?”

  “Mr. Hayden Shaddock,” Oliver said.

  “Really?” Brewster’s eyes widened. “Old Shaddock.” He took a thoughtful sip of ale. “Bugger me. I thought him long gone.”

  “He’s seventy, I think.” A smile crossed Oliver’s bruised features. “And still knows his business.”

  “Thought I recognized some of his moves. The sidestep and off-center punch.” Brewster demonstrated as best he could sitting down. “Good tactic. Bad for you, though—I saw it coming.”

  “Caught me unawares. Well fought, Mr. Brewster.”

  “Naw, call me Tommy. No one calls me mister, except for the captain’s wife.”

  Oliver had been studying me when he wasn’t ogling Brewster as I sat at the end of the table, letting the two professionals relive the fight.

  “How did you know to wager on me, sir?” Oliver asked me. “Against Bearded Jem?”

  I shrugged. “I could see you had form, nerve, and equanimity. Jem was overly confident and a hothead. Odds were good on you.”

  “Changed your mind on the next fight, though,” Brewster said. “Why’d ye wager on me?”

  “Because I know you to be an excellent pugilist,” I answered. “With much experience. Youth is an advantage, but experience, in my … experience … usually trumps good but unseasoned training.”

  Oliver found my explanation reasonable. “Shaddock speaks highly of you, sir—er, Tommy. Was sad when you retired.”

  Brewster waved a negligent hand. “Grew weary of having me face scraped up all the time, and waking up sore. Needed a softer billet. The fighting ring loses its charm after a time.”

  Oliver nodded, not quite
believing.

  “How is old Shaddock?” Brewster asked him. “And why the devil has he let you wander the streets of London to take up with a disreputable bookmaker?”

  “He’s been poorly.” Oliver looked uncomfortable and took another long swallow of ale. “Truth to tell, he turned us all out a few months ago. Said he was ill, but he’s right as rain if you ask me. Scared of something, or someone. But he closed his school and shut up his house.”

  Brewster listened, troubled. “Maybe I ought to pay him a visit. Friendly like. I know powerful people now, lad. Might be able to help.”

  Oliver shrugged as though he didn’t care one way or another, but I saw relief in his eyes.

  “Well, I might have known,” came a female voice full of irritation.

  I rose to my feet, and Oliver, after a startled look at me, did as well. Brewster remained seated. “Em,” he said in a faint voice. “Love.”

  Ladies didn’t enter a taproom, but Mrs. Brewster let no such thing worry her. The others in the pub didn’t pay her much mind, except to look amused, from which I concluded she must often storm in here after Brewster.

  “Asked you to bring the captain ’round, didn’t I?” she said to him. “I walk into the street to see if you’re coming, and I’m told you got yourself into a brawling match and then went to a pub, sweet as you please.”

  “Least I could do,” Brewster said without concern. “I knocked the poor lad on his arse, so I had to give him a drink. This is Mr. Oliver—me wife, Mrs. Brewster.”

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” Mrs. Brewster said, barely giving him a glance. “Sit down, Captain. Waiting on you lot has left me dry, so I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”

  Mrs. Brewster had no intention of talking about her deceased brother with Mr. Oliver present. She bade the passing barmaid bring her a half pint of ale and sipped it while Brewster and Oliver continued to converse about their fight, pugilism in general, and about Mr. Shaddock in particular. Brewster was worried about him.

  “Suppose I’ll look him up,” he said once our tankards and Mrs. Brewster’s glass were drained. “He still in Wapping?”