The English Killer (An Ennin Mystery) (The Ennin Mysteries Book 31)

by Ben Stevens

  SERIES 7

  The English Killer

  The following account of the case concerning the ‘English Killer’ is taken from the journal of Charles Bradley, the physician resident on Leaving Island. It was later translated into Japanese for my master and me, who were in any case present for much of the proceedings. (Indeed, my master’s powers of deduction saved an innocent man from possibly being hanged.)

  But in describing the habits and language of the gaijin, the foreigners who inhabit Leaving Island, the English doctor Bradley is obviously at an advantage to me…

  Bad feeling had existed between the two men for several months. Ever since James Plummer had arrived upon Leaving Island, in fact, he and Robert Figg (the so-called ‘English Killer’) thus clapping eyes upon one another.

  Was it merely a case of two men taking an instant dislike to each other, with no other obvious reason or cause? Although we would eventually find out exactly what the reason for this animosity was, at the time it seemed a mystery. For a good while the two men would stare hard at one another when they passed, but otherwise they made apparent efforts to stay apart. They would sit at opposite ends of the dinner-hall, for example, and had no reason to consort with one another either at work or during their leisure-time.

  But ‘Leaving Island’ (a loose translation of the Chinese characters the Japanese use to describe this island, created by digging a canal through a small peninsula and covering an area of barely one hectare) is hardly the largest of places. Thus the ‘powderkeg’, as it were, of Plummer and Figg’s mysterious but still-obvious resentment was certain to explode, sooner or later…

  On the day that it did, we happened to have the famous Japanese detective ‘Ennin’ (the Japanese seem to favor using only the one name) as a visitor upon Leaving Island. He’d been invited here by the Chief Official, Captain Harold Spillard, as a sort of honored guest, being fed a quintessentially English meal of thick cuts of various roast meats, before being given a guided tour of the island.

  This tour could hardly have been of the greatest interest to the detective, given that Leaving Island consists primarily of drab warehouses, above which are the living quarters of the traders, sailors and so on who comprise the island’s inhabitants.

  Most of these men (there are no women, save for those yujo, or Japanese ‘pleasure women’, who frequently steal across the bridge and onto the island at night, knowing that they will always find ‘business’ here) are English. There are also a few Portuguese and Dutchmen, although they tend to stay for a shorter period of time.

  Ennin was accompanied by his manservant, a sturdy-looking fellow who, I believe, writes up his master’s adventures from time-to-time. There was also a Japanese tsuji, or translator, on-hand to facilitate conversation between Ennin and Captain Spillard. This translator, a young man named Nakayama, is often employed here on Leaving Island, for along with English he also speaks fluent Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, French and German, together of course with his mother-tongue of Japanese and what he describes as ‘passable’ Chinese and Indonesian. It is no exaggeration to say that we on the island would be quite lost without this Nakayama; for while English is certainly the island’s lingua franca, still trading and other business often takes place in a variety of tongues, and a skilled translator or interpreter is thus essential. To show that we commonly require only the one translator, Nakayama, is to give ample evidence of his near-genius for quickly and effectively acquiring various tongues. Really, it is quite incredible.

  But I digress. I intended to describe the altercation which suddenly erupted one afternoon, between the ‘English Killer’ Robert Figg and James Plummer. The two men appeared to have encountered each other, by chance, outside one of the stone-built warehouses; and finally their long-standing animosity bubbled over.

  ‘… think I’ve forgotten?’ Plummer was heard to say, as the loud altercation quickly attracted attention and thus brought men hurrying over.

  ‘Well – what do you intend to do about it, anyway?’ returned Figg, a sneer upon his hard face.

  ‘Thrash the hide off you – that’ll do, for a start!’ exclaimed Plummer, with an oath which does not bear repeating.

  ‘I’d like to see you try,’ returned Figg, still wearing that sneer.

  It is here that I should explain the reason for Figg’s nickname – although many may be familiar with it already. It related, quite simply, to his ‘talent’ (for want of a better word) for bare-knuckle boxing. Throughout the course of his long career as both a sailor and trader, he had fought any number of men of various nationalities bare-knuckle and, it is claimed, had always emerged from such matches the victor. From his defeated foreign opponents, then, had come his hard-earned but well-deserved nickname.

  Indeed, it would have been hard to conceive of a more splendid example of masculinity than the ‘English Killer’. His black, slightly graying hair was cropped short, and he had a large moustache above thin lips and a perfectly square chin. His eyes were close-set and narrow, and contained a definite challenge to any man who dared ‘try’ him. His hands were possibly the largest pair I’ve ever seen on a man, with thick veins and huge knuckles like knots in a ship’s ropes. I have some knowledge of the pugilistic arts, and have fought a number of bare-knuckle matches myself. Yet, I fully concede, I would have lasted barely seconds against the English Killer.

  And as for the man who seemed certain to become his latest opponent – this James Plummer? It’s a little curious, but only now do I remark upon the fact that Plummer and Figg actually shared a similar accent. That is, one which you might expect to hear around the English county of Devonshire. Otherwise, while still a tough-looking individual, with a sailor’s skin burnt brown by the sun and a broad, swarthy-looking face, I doubted that Plummer would fare any better against Figg than I would have done myself.

  Still, while Figg retained that arrogant sneer, Plummer’s face was suffused with hatred, his hands bunched into fists at his side. Clearly, whatever self-control he’d been exercising these past few months (whatever had previously prevented him from launching himself at Figg, due to this mysterious grievance there undoubtedly was between them) had exhausted itself.

  Captain Spillard now appeared, accompanied by Ennin, his servant and the translator Nakayama. Captain Spillard sized up the situation with a glance and then calmly walked over to the two men.

  ‘If you wish to fight, then you will do so in a gentlemanly fashion,’ he declared. ‘I’ll stand for no foul play.’

  I saw that some of the other men watching were surprised by the captain’s words; but not I. The Captain was a remarkably intelligent man, capable of ‘reading’ both an individual and a situation at a glance. He knew that this affair between Plummer and Figg needed to be resolved immediately, and in a manner which many an Englishman finds the simplest, and most effective.

  ‘There’ll be no scratching, biting, gouging or anything of that kind,’ continued Captain Spillard, whose broken nose spoke of the fact that he’d often boxed as a younger man. ‘No hitting a man when he’s down, and no showing the toe.’

  This last utterance caused both Plummer and Figg to look at him in some confusion, and I to give a slight smile. Like Captain Spillard a Lancastrian man, born and bred, I knew that ‘showing the toe’ meant kicking; something strictly anathema in the world of bare-knuckle, of course.

  Once they’d realized the meaning of this last phrase, Plummer and Figg nodded, and faced off. They were both wearing the usual attire of white shirts, breeches and black shoes with silver buckles. The white shirts they removed, so that
they fought bare-chested, as is the custom. They raised their fists, and the Captain stepped between them. He had no need to announce that he would referee this fight; it was obvious.

  ‘The fight ends when a man can’t get up off the floor and come up to scratch, having been knocked down, upon the count of ten,’ declared Captain Spillard, while scratching a line into the dusty ground with the toe of his shoe. ‘Or when I judge that a man is too badly injured to continue – and go against my ruling, and you’ll find some real punishment awaiting you.’

  Such was the grey-haired Captain’s general air of authority, that even the formidable Figg nodded his understanding of this threat. As it is upon a ship, sailing with no land in sight for weeks or sometimes even months upon end, strict discipline is essential upon this small island. Anyone found stealing from the warehouses full of merchandise from silks to spices is liable to find themselves whipped, heavily fined and possibly just placed on the next ship sailing away from Leaving Island, while it was common knowledge that a set of gallows – which had as yet not been used – was stored in a basement area beneath the Captain’s private residence, which is located near the bridge which connects the island to land.

  ‘Let’s get this done and finished, then,’ said the Captain; and, at his nod, Plummer and Figg momentarily ‘touched’ knuckles before beginning to circle around each other.

  Plummer was the first to throw a punch, which Figg easily evaded by moving his head sharply backwards. His own fist lashed out, a right as heavy as a mallet yet fast as a colt, and there was a sickening sound as it connected with Plummer’s right ear. Plummer staggered backwards, his face registering shock as he put his hand to the struck part. It was already bleeding, and no doubt exceedingly painful.

  The sneer was back on the English Killer’s face; and though he could certainly have pressed home his advantage that moment, while Plummer was stunned by the blow to his ear, he instead waited for his opponent to recover himself. It was clear that Figg was enjoying this fight, and had no desire for it to end too quickly.

  In any case, Plummer quickly recovered and moved in with a series of hard body shots – often greatly more effective than punches to the head and face, for ribs can cave in with far less force than is required to cause similar damage to a man’s skull (thus sparing a fighter’s hands), and the pain is something to make even a hardened fighter whimper for mercy.

  It will not surprise the reader to learn that there was no such whimpering from Figg, however. He took the blows almost entirely on his muscled arms, which he kept close by his sides, and then dealt Plummer a cracking left blow to the jaw, followed by a straight right shot to the heart. Plummer staggered backwards, shaking his head in a desperate attempt to remain conscious. Again, Figg could easily have finished this fight with just one more good blow; and, again, he instead waited for his opponent to recover himself.

  ‘Looks like I win – again,’ said the English Killer. I wondered what he meant by this – had the two men fought each other already, at some point in the past? Yet they had never claimed to have known each other, before Plummer’s arrival upon this island...

  These words caused Plummer to give a shrill cry of rage, and he moved forwards, his fists lashing out. Figg brought his forearms up to shield his face, thus easily absorbing the wild blows. Then he ducked down, bringing his right fist down even lower… And at once exploding upwards he put all his weight into a brutal uppercut which impacted on the point of Plummer’s jaw, lifting that man off his feet and depositing him upon the dusty ground, where he twitched a couple of times before lying quite still.

  As physician of this island, I moved quickly towards the stricken man, fearing that he was badly hurt or even worse. As I knelt down beside him, I was vaguely aware of Captain Spillard saying to the victorious fighter –

  ‘That’s enough now, Figg – that’s enough…’

  But, really, my attentions were fully upon the man lying on the ground. He was tougher than I thought. His eyelids fluttered open, and after a moment he attempted to rise, mumbling something about wanting to resume the fight.

  ‘You’ve been beaten, man,’ I told him sternly, so that he understood there was no point in trying to continue. ‘Now be still.’

  He obeyed me – I think he realized his legs wouldn’t even support him, if he attempted to stand – and I performed a brief examination of him. He was fortunate: he’d not even a broken jaw, which I was certain he’d sustained from the English Killer’s final blow. Otherwise there was some superficial bruising already beginning to show itself on the face, but nothing of any real importance.

  ‘Such a shame, seeing two fellow Englishmen brawling like this,’ I told Plummer, as I helped him to sit upright. He was breathing heavily, his eyes narrowed with pain.

  ‘I’ll see that bastard in hell yet,’ he murmured.

  ‘Look,’ I said in a fierce whisper, so that only he could hear. ‘What is the matter here? Heaven knows there’s been bad blood between you and Figg ever since you arrived on this island – and for what reason, eh? You two knew each other somewhere before, I’m guessing? In Devonshire, would seem to be the smart guess, since you both have the accent of that region!’

  But Plummer only stubbornly shook his head, refusing to say anything more. Before I could persist in my questioning (for I can be quite tenacious, when the mood takes me), I became aware of a commotion coming from behind me.

  I turned my head, and there was Figg pointing at the Japanese detective named Ennin, who’d had no choice but to observe the altercation which had just taken place.

  ‘So that’s him, is it? The one there’re those stories about? Well, I’ve not read ‘em, but still I’ve heard he’s quite a fighter. So if he’s half the man they say he is, let him meet me now – bare-knuckle!’

  ‘That’s enough, Figg!’ said the Captain harshly; but the translator named Nakayama had already informed Ennin of what had just been said.

  The effect upon the tall, lithe man with the completely bald and strangely elongated skull was electric. In a moment, he’d shrugged off the top of that garment the Japanese commonly wear – the one they call kimono. He thus exposed a lean, sinewy body that was obviously exceptionally strong.

  ‘Good, good; let’s fight, man!’ called out the English Killer, his blood doubtless still ‘up’ from his previous fight.

  I glanced at the Captain, and as he moved to stop these proceedings, his expression suddenly changed. I realized that he – a fighting man when he’d been in his youth, after all – indeed wished to see this fight. And as his guest had just accepted the challenge…

  ‘Mr. Nakayama,’ said Captain Spillard to the interpreter then. ‘Kindly explain to Mr. Ennin the rules which govern such an altercation as this one.’

  (Captain Spillard makes a stubborn point of refusing to learn absolutely any Japanese. Thus, while I at least know a few basic greetings and other words, and also know that people are addressed by such titles as san, sama and sensei, according to their social status, the Captain insists on referring to Japanese guests, business contacts and the like by English titles.)

  Nakayama said a few more words to the detective, whose gaze never left the English Killer as he nodded his understanding. While the tall Japanese man’s body would have done justice to a twenty-five year old prizefighter, I actually judged him to be somewhere in his early forties – approximately the English Killer’s own age. (James Plummer, meanwhile, is still only twenty-nine.)

  Ennin advanced, coming up to scratch, and the two men who were about to fight touched knuckles before again stepping back, briefly sizing each other up. Ennin was – slightly – the taller man, while Figg certainly had the advantage in weight and general size. The mocking sneer was quite gone from Figg’s face, while the Japanese man’s face was customarily expressionless. (Customary, I mean, for many Japanese, who seldom like to display their emotions.)

  In Ennin’s eyes, however, there seemed to lie a dislike for the English Killer, based u
pon what he had just seen – the quick, brutal and indeed almost callous defeat of James Plummer. I thought that Ennin (by all accounts an honorable man) considered Figg to be little more than a bully – although it is possible that I am merely indulging in supposition here.

  And then the fight began…

  This time, Figg took the offensive, marching forwards while throwing a series of fast, hard blows. Ennin took these on his arms – in the manner favored by the English Killer himself – and then shot a hard left straight through Figg’s guard and onto that square chin.

  Figg staggered slightly; as square as his chin was, seemingly capable of taking most blows, I had no doubt that Ennin’s fist had struck with the force of a small mallet. But still the English Killer did not go down. With a roar, he again stepped forwards, his massive fists flying in their desire to punch, pound and pulverize.

  This time, Ennin merely circled out of range. The men watching stayed several prudent feet away from the two fighters, so there was space enough. This was not one of those altercations where the audience presses forwards in their shared desire to see blood.

  Again Ennin’s left shot forwards, but the English Killer was wise to this by now, and neatly slipped his well-muscled body sideways, dodging the blow. At the same moment, his right fist smacked into Ennin’s side, just below where there is the so-called ‘floating rib’. With a grunt, Ennin stepped back, again moving out of range. His face remained a mask, yet I knew that the last blow had caused him considerable pain. I’d heard just what a formidable fighter he was supposed to be, with some saying that he’d once even fought a bull – but ‘shackled’ by the rules of bare-knuckle boxing, as it were, and so unable to utilize these mysterious ‘martial arts’ of the Orient, he and the English Killer seemed extremely well-matched.

  And then it happened. The English Killer’s massive hands at once grabbed the Japanese man, and Figg twisted his body so to throw his opponent ‘cross-buttock’. This is the only throw allowed in bare-knuckle, although usually this has to be agreed upon by both fighters before a match commences. It is an extremely dangerous move, which has left any number of fighters crippled, and so many men simply agree not to try and perform it.