Sherlock Holmes: Work Capitol (Fight Card Sherlock Holmes Book 1)

by Jack Tunney

  In my observances of the prize ring, I had never witnessed a more efficient counter-puncher than Sherlock Holmes. The aim being to anticipate the blow one's opponent hoped to land. It was uncanny how Holmes, time and again, would lash out before McMurdo could tense a muscle, and so strike a telling blow in the precise spot exposed by McMurdo's posture in throwing his punch. And there was no tell with the left foot as Holmes advanced to deliver the blow. The movement of leg and arm were simultaneous and not the work of a novice.

  McMurdo, despite his size, had swift fists, but they were just a hair slower than Holmes’ ability to side-step and counter as lefts came at him quick as lightning bolts.

  McMurdo's jab would flick out, yet Holmes was moving before the arm extended. Bang! Holmes landed a right cross-hit under McMurdo's chin, twisting the man's jaw somewhat out of straight.

  Again the jab. A feint! And the right was thrown. But Holmes had his left elbow up, his right fist in to the face of McMurdo with steam behind it, and the bigger man staggered back before finding his balance. A quick left from McMurdo was received and, bang, Holmes reached McMurdo's cheek, leaving a mark. The blow put the stouter man back on his heels.

  Holmes stepped in with combinations, most of which reached, and McMurdo, staggered, dropped to one knee. The second scratch was over.

  Holmes returned to his corner for a sponge. Acting as his second, I stepped into the ring, going down to one knee so he could rest on my thigh in lieu of a stool.

  "An excellent display, Holmes," said I. "You had him sure."

  Holmes replied calmly in his lecturing tone. "He caught me with a left that almost did me in. I have his rhythm now, as you have no doubt seen via the counters I employed. He has me so far as experience goes, but his tells are an open book." If not for the noise around us and the rapid rising and falling of my friend's torso we could well have been before a fire at Baker Street.

  "Will you continue to take the fight to him?" asked I. This was an exhibition after all, and I was of the opinion unnecessary punishment should be avoided at all costs.

  "There is no need for that," he replied, standing. "He still has much to teach me."

  Holmes and McMurdo approached the scratch line and brief words were exchanged, which I could not make out, then the fight resumed.

  The third scratch was a fine specimen of stratagem and skill. Face black as a chimney sweep, McMurdo showed the marks of Holmes' handiwork. For all that, he came up gaily, and tried to lead off with his left, but Holmes stopped him prettily and countered. There was little behind the blow, but it drove McMurdo back.

  They turned and sparred. I could plainly see Holmes was working on his defenses. McMurdo's professional eye probed, his fists moving through the air like the heads of cobras, yet the man could find no opening.

  This time it was Holmes who paid for watching instead of battling. McMurdo's right lanced out and reached home on the cheek very heavily. Holmes countered, but his opponent was ready and got his elbow up. Holmes ducked an answering left and caught McMurdo smartly with an uppercut, clicking the man's teeth together. McMurdo broke ground.

  Holmes did not take advantage of McMurdo's momentary discombobulation. The coup de grâce was not the goal here.

  Despite the crowd's roar of blood lust, Holmes held his ground, advancing slowly, his eyes fixed on McMurdo who shook his head and seemed momentarily disinclined for work. Then all could see the cunning that came into his brown eyes.

  What followed was a splendid specimen of milling as McMurdo settled in to the task before him. The absence of battle money would make no difference to a man like Angus McMurdo, a man who had made his living with his fists.

  He set about his business craftily and with workmanlike efficiency. Aware of the advantage of reach held by Holmes, McMurdo kept back, balanced neatly as he probed for an opening. Holmes provided one and McMurdo reached with a stiff jab that landed squarely.

  McMurdo was out of range a second later. He tried again, but Holmes was ready for him and countered with that cross-hit of his. Ineffectual combinations followed and both broke ground. McMurdo tried again and received a mashed nose and a fist under the jaw for his efforts. It seemed this strategic approach would carry the third and final scratch into the dawn hours as the two fighters seemed content to bide their time much to the displeasure of the crowd.

  The fight ended due to misfortune. During a bout of in-fighting several minutes into the final scratch, McMurdo slipped on the sweat-soaked canvas and got his knee down just as Holmes had launched an uppercut. The blow was but a glancing hit, but the rules were clear on the striking of a man who was down. The fight was stopped at that moment and, after some brief discussion amongst the umpires who, more than likely were thinking of a pint of beer and their warm beds, reached the decision to disqualify Holmes and declare McMurdo the victor. However, it was clear to all the challenger had left more marks with his blackened gloves upon the face of the veteran pugilist than he had received.

  The initial displeasure of the crowd was soothed when all recalled the bout was a mere demonstration and there were spirits to drink, wagers to be collected, and general conviviality to be enjoyed. A thunderous round went up for McMurdo followed by a mad dash to the big gambler for a settling of accounts. The fighters shook hands and both headed over to join me.

  "A gamer, more determined fellow never pulled off a shirt," said McMurdo, pure joy radiating from his blackened features. "How's it I've not thrown 'em with you before now? You been boxing abroad?"

  "I've knocked around," replied Holmes.

  "Well, it was strictly Adam's ale before the ring, but now it's said and done and I've a thirst for summit stronger. Lets us grab gatters and we'll klat. You're a brick, sir, and I'll be proud to wet me whistle with you."

  "Gladly, sir," replied Holmes. "And I thank you for participating in my experiment."

  "Was that what it was? Then me twenty years of experimentin' are at an end."

  Blankets were thrown over their bare shoulders, and I stepped aside to let them step down from the ring. Holmes performed the introductions and I took McMurdo's filthy, coarse hand. Spots were opened for us at the bar and we took our seats. No sooner were our drinks before us when the owner of Alison's, a string bean of a man with a shock of red hair, came forth to present McMurdo with the proceeds from the evening. The fighter accept with thanks, and his back was slapped a round three-dozen times by well-wishers sorry to see him go, but eager to see him on his way smartly.

  The talk was loose and pleasant, interrupted constantly by someone coming to pay their respects. At one point, McMurdo exchanged his blanket for a crisp shirt, which he donned right at the bar. This, too, was soon wet with perspiration as the place was hot as an oven. It was soon learned the shirt Holmes had been wearing had been stolen, but we laughed the incident off as we considered how he would make it back to Baker Street in the snow.

  A commotion at our backs made us turn.

  "It's bloody murder!" The shrill cry cut through the din. The source of the cry was a youth speckled with snow about his cap and shoulders. He was a ragged specimen of the street with watery blue eyes and a face round as a full moon.

  In consideration of the state of Holmes' wardrobe, I stepped from the bar and made my way toward the lad as he was not twenty paces away.

  "What are you on about?"

  "Murder, sir!" His eyes goggled out of his head. He repeated his claim for all to hear. "Murder!"

  "Speak plain, boy!" This demand came from Holmes who, still shirtless and dripping with perspiration, was at my side as if by magic.

  "Outside," stammered the youth. " 'Twixt 'ere an' the Stag. Dead as a doornail! Murder!"

  Holmes could not hide his irritation at the halting, emotional recitation of the facts. "Take me there at once. Come, Watson."

  SECOND SCRATCH

  The wind had picked up and the air was all the colder after the closeness of the fighting chamber. Holmes had not so much as a chemise against the
biting cold as he strode out into the storm with but a single goal in mind. His slim torso was flat and hard. Long sinews of muscles twisted across his back and down his arms. No reaction to the cold showed on his face.

  Out trip was not a long one. I perceived the dark shape ahead, sprawled in the virgin snow. It was the body of a man, on his back, sightless eyes fixed on the heavens. The snow covered the majority of his form. Flakes were falling heavily and there was no way to be certain how long the body had lain there.

  "A delaying action is needed I should think," said Holmes, pointing past my shoulder.

  I turned and saw an entourage from Alison's had heeded the boy's cry as well, their curiosity and blood lust winning out against the elements.

  McMurdo, wrapped in blankets, had heard Holmes’ instruction and took charge of the crowd, who reluctantly withdrew at his commands.

  Holmes stood over the corpse. His hot frame steamed in the cold as though he'd stepped from Hades itself. He was oblivious to the weather. On the other hand, I was not. Knowing well the danger from exposure, I whipped off my greatcoat and threw it around his bare shoulders.

  "Observe, Watson," said he, stepping toward the body as my wool touched his frame. "One set of tracks – the dead man's – almost obliterated by the falling snow."

  I had drawn closer and stared down at the dead man's face, which was flat and square beneath a nest of black curls upon the hatless head. We had both approached from the head of the body, so as not to mar the single line of tracks receding into oblivion. The snow had partially filled in those furthest from us.

  "The bruising about the throat," I indicated. "The man appears to have been strangled. How is that possible with only a single line of tracks?"

  Holmes ignored my query as he made a slow, half-circle around the dead man. The wind caught the coat draped around him and it billowed like a sail. Our breathe steamed past our lips.

  "Does anyone here know this man?" asked Holmes of the crowd.

  "Looks like that strut Noddy Mathews," came the reply after a short interval. "Lads! Someone's twisted his gargler."

  "I'll 'elp meself to 'is reader if it's laying about," offered another in the crowd.

  "'Is crabshells'll do me fine," a third piped up.

  "Did this man have a Christian name?" asked Holmes.

  "Nigel," came the reply. "Nigel Mathews."

  The name was unfamiliar to me. "Plain robbery is it?"

  Holmes indicated the dead man's garments. They had been peeled back to allow access to what Mathews carried on his person.

  "The individual coveting Mathews' pocketbook is to be disappointed as it has been lifted," said Holmes. "And the constables will have those shoes off his feet before any of this lot can claim them."

  I bent at the waist to examine the dead man's torso. "His watch has also been taken." I spotted a small lump in one vest pocket. "Is that his snuff box?"

  "You are correct. Note the watch chain. Certainly gold. Severed two or three inches above the watch clasp."

  "Not surprising when one considers the haste of the attack," I offered by way of explanation. "The murderer was interrupted or feared discovery."

  "Perhaps. The problem of the tracks, or lack thereof, complicates the matter. It dominates all."

  I'd had a moment to consider this. "Surely the falling snow has covered the tracks of the murderer to the point where we cannot see them in the black of night."

  Shrill whistles sounded dully, echoing through the brick courtyards. Two constables rounded the far corner, slipping and sliding, as they made all haste in our direction. I had not seen anyone go to summon them.

  "Crush!" spat a harsh voice from the group and the men obeyed, scattering to the shadows before the constables were within fifty yards.

  "Scotland Yard's finest are about to descend upon us," observed Holmes. "As the boxing exhibition I participated in is frowned upon by the law, it's best we retire to that pub on the corner where I might refresh myself. A brandy is in order as I lack the stomach, just now, to explain myself while bandying theories about with the police, though the latter seems inevitable. We'll stoke the fires before the order is given to engage the engines, yes?"

  We turned toward the pub Holmes had indicated, The Bald-faced Stag. We paused under the arched entryway, to knock the snow from our boots, and Holmes opened the door.

  "What the devil?" I exclaimed as we crossed the threshold. The tavern was a scene of utter destruction. The mirrored entryway was a web of cracks and shards. Marble tables had been overturned, plushette chairs tossed about and the floor glittered with shards of glass reflecting the roaring blaze in the hearth. Decorated encaustic panels depicting scenes of Robin Hood and the Cabeiri aiding seamen in distress had been defaced. Polychromatic mirrors had been scored, embossed glass beyond repair with jagged scars across their elaborate surfaces. Holmes took all of this in with his piercing gaze, then seized me by the elbow.

  "We must search!" he hissed. "Quickly!"

  My revolver was in my hand in an instant. We separated and moved about the sawdust floor. The bar was on a corner site with two street facades, featuring a fan shape with a curved bar counter. The establishment was a shambles. Pools of spilled liquor, torn tapestries yanked down and tossed about, fractured candles smouldering dangerously close to the alcohol.

  The overturned furniture, looking like so many gravestones across the floor, made navigating the mess slow going. I sought the far wall of the chamber while Holmes moved toward the bar, his head turning this way and that.

  A door before me yielded possibilities. It was not locked. Through the dimness across the threshold a darkened blacksmith's was just perceptible.

  "Something, Watson?" asked Holmes. "The upstairs door here remains firmly bolted."

  "An abandoned smithy," I replied.

  "I know," said Holmes, joining me. "What about it catches your attention?"

  The lack of any warmth from the narrow chamber told me the shop had not been used for some time. I indicated as much to Holmes, concluding there was nothing further to be deduced from the vacant room. "How the devil did you know it was here?"

  "The odour most plainly brought it to my attention," said Holmes. "At first."

  The smell was evident to me now Holmes had brought it to my attention. I concentrated on the myriad scents assailing our nostrils: beer, coal, the gas lamps, stale tobacco, and a sweeter odour over the coal. This was made prevalent by my having created a draft when I opened the adjoining door. It was somewhat common for pubs to operate a forge as a sideline, which would seemingly trivialize the deduction Holmes had made. However, the mind of Holmes had classified the scents upon our first entering and he explained himself forthwith.

  "Akin to burnt honey," said Holmes, seeing my confusion. He identified it for me. "Beeswax for the last stage of the forging."

  "Yes, I have it now." I began to close the door.

  "A moment." Holmes stayed my hand. He stepped into the room and cast his gaze about. Some light spilled in through the open door and I stepped to one side to allow more in to light my friend's search. This did not prevent Holmes from extending his long arms, moving his bare hands like a blind man across the variety of tools hung about the walls and stacked next to the cold forge. He turned abruptly and exited the room, closing the door with finality behind him.

  "As I indicated earlier, the room is of no consequence," said I. "Did you find anything?"

  Holmes had returned to the bar and was crouched out of sight behind the wooden counter, for what purpose I could not fathom. He straightened and placed his hands on either side of the chipped china bar-engine handles.

  "Indeed," he replied. He inclined his head to indicate a trio of footed rocks to one side in a tight cluster. Two were empty, the third was full and appeared untouched.

  "Three glasses, three vandals?" I offered.

  "You are only off by one," said Holmes.

  "However many, they appear to have flown."

  "In
that you are correct."

  "Do you see a connection between the dead man in the road and what happened here?"

  "That is a discussion for later. It is imperative we disturb nothing. The police will be here in due course and I must not be here when they arrive. Being a medical man, you really ought to assist the dwarf. He has been beaten with a stair rod and is most likely in need of your abilities."

  I was dumbstruck. "Whatever do you mean?"

  The sound of voices reached us above the howl of the wind which had picked up outside. A police whistle shrilled. Holmes removed my coat and laid it on the bar. Another coat of suitable condition and considerable dimensions lay in a heap on the floor beneath a coat stand. Holmes shook it out, then donned the garment and made for the rear of the building.

  "Explaining my state of undress to overzealous constables as being anything other than the result of a fight most likely seen as illegal in their eyes would strain even my abilities," he explained. "With your permission, Watson, I'll take my leave of you now. We will rendezvous back at Baker Street where you can fill me in on what the dwarf tells you."

  Shouts again penetrated the walls of the pub, portending the inevitable contact with the authorities. Holmes took this as his cue and disappeared into the shadowed recesses of the pub. I was alone in the room. Or so I thought.

  A muffled groan sounded from the jumbled mess of the room. I could not pinpoint the source and listened for it again. It repeated, fainter than before. The overturned piano by the rear wall. I was there in an instant, dropping to my hands and knees to see into the recess made by the piano leaning against the wall. The plaster where the two met was chipped and cracked - the instrument must have struck with considerable force.

  A tented carpet within the recess shifted and the sound of someone in pain was brought forth again from directly beneath it. I had found my quarry. The space was too confining for me to reach the injured man - for the voice was unmistakably male - so I took hold of the carpet and gingerly pulled the mass out. This movement elicited another anguished sound and I doubled my efforts to get the man free of his makeshift shroud.