Nevertheless, they were a powerful draw. Their ballyhoo seemed to attract even the most decent citizens where, by logic, one would expect it to deter. Brazen, crude, and primal, their showmanship appealed to the primitive in all. Exhibitions of natural curiosities stood side by side with novelty acts. Largest of all, and brashest among the sideshows, stood a boxing booth.
It was a big tent of dirty canvas, before which a painted proscenium had been raised on a scaffold with a platform that set the pitchman above the heads of the crowd. He had no megaphone, but intoned his message with a nasal cadence that was unlike natural speech but which fell on the ear like a ship’s fog warning.
“Three rounds!” he was saying. “Go three rounds with the Masked Champion and win five dollars and compel him to reveal his face to all.”
The so-called Masked Champion stood behind him in a dirty robe, his face concealed by a device no more elaborate than three holes poked in a knitted cap. He was tall and heavyset and badly out of condition. He was scanning the mostly male crowd, making a show of seeking out challengers.
“Never unmasked and never defeated,” the barker went on. “Will you be the man to do it? Have we got any men out there? All I see is a bunch of ladies.”
Some of the people booed and the barker continued to scan the gathering, working them with an expression of superiority and contempt.
“You!” called out the Masked Champion, pointing at someone in the crowd and shouting in a whiskeyed voice that barely carried over their heads. “I’ll fight you!” And when his first random target held up his hands and shook his head, he chose another and pointed and shouted again. “I’ll fight you!”
Elisabeth nudged Sebastian playfully.
“Go on, Sebastian,” she said. “He says he’ll fight you.”
And for a moment it did, indeed, seem that the moth-eaten Masked Champion had picked Sebastian out of the mob to issue him a personal challenge. Sebastian avoided any meeting of eyes and told Elisabeth, “I somehow don’t think so,” but already the Champion had moved on and was pointing to provoke another.
“I have never seen a boxing match,” said Elisabeth.
Sebastian turned to her in surprise. “Would you want to?”
She did not reply. But there was a sparkle in her eyes as she returned his look, as if daring him to respond to some hint that she’d just thrown out and he’d failed to notice. It was a look that he’d seen from her before. It usually marked the start of a path that would lead, in the end, to a private act. But he’d never seen it quite like this, and never before in a public place.
Before Sebastian could say anything more, there was a roar of approval from those all around them.
“We have a challenger!” the barker announced. “What’s your name, boy?”
Sebastian immediately assumed a stooge, but the young man pushing his way to the front of the crowd was surrounded by friends of a similar age and seemed to be a legitimate member of the local public. “Henry Keenan,” the young man shouted back, handing his hat to somebody and beginning to struggle out of his jacket as he moved.
“Come on up, then, Henry Keenan,” the barker called. At the first sign of a contender, the Masked Champion had lowered his head and disappeared back through the flaps of the tent. “Take your seats inside, folks. No spitting, no gambling, no climbing into the ring. No children, sonny.”
Elisabeth was still looking at Sebastian, still daring him. All around them people were starting to push their way toward the entrance to the booth, buffeting them like a passing flood.
Sebastian had seen something of life. He was fairly certain that the experience would not be as she imagined it. But how to explain that to her, without seeming to treat her like a child?
So he inclined his head slightly as if to say, Why not? And they gave in and went with the flow.
On the inside, the boxing booth was like a grimy circus tent over a cattle auction ring. There were shaky-looking wooden bleachers on all sides around the fight area. The place had almost filled up as Sebastian and Elisabeth found seats in the middle of a row. Sebastian had worried that his wife might be the only woman to join the audience, but she was far from alone.
The young challenger, now in shirtsleeves, had been given a well-used pair of gloves and was being laced into them by his companions. In the opposite corner of the ring, the Masked Champion was alone and taking off his robe. He had no second; all available hands were out among the crowd, moving along the rows and taking money.
As the robe came off it revealed high boots, long johns, and a woolen undershirt, with baggy trunks over. This closer look confirmed Sebastian’s first impression. The man’s body was powerful looking, but neglected and past its prime. There was something touchingly domestic about the way that he clumsily straightened the creases out of the robe before hanging it outside the ring, as if he had no other and it needed care. Sebastian wondered if he had just the one knitted mask, as well. It covered his entire head, showing only his eyes and his mouth.
In the middle of the arena the showman paced and swung around, favoring every corner of the tent with a commentary. He was there to keep the sense of a show alive for as long as the necessary business took.
“The man in the mask has fought before presidents and the crowned heads of Europe,” he declaimed. “He has traveled the world and he has never been beaten. He has a special contempt for the males of Pennsylvania, who he says are the weakest-looking bunch of old women that he’s ever come upon.”
The males of Pennsylvania responded exactly as they were meant to, loudly and angrily, and the atmosphere became even more charged. It was a strange sight, the Philadelphia middle classes hooting and hollering like farmhands at a cockfight. Sebastian looked at his wife. She was slightly flushed, and he could sense the tension in her; she was glancing all around and missing nothing.
He reckoned he had a fair idea of how it would go. The professional went through this every day of his life, several times a day. A young blood in gloves was unlikely to trouble him much, however full of vim. He’d keep it going, giving the crowd their money’s worth, making it look as if there was a real chance of an outcome, and then probably put the boy down midway through the third. The boy would be carried off with honor, bearing some manly damage and a tale to be told, and the Masked Champion would go back out front to the platform and do it all over again.
That was unless the boy showed some skill, or presented a genuine danger to the professional. Then it would be in the professional’s best interest to floor the challenger quickly, and terminate the boy’s luck. The crowd wouldn’t like it. But there would be other crowds.
All was ready. “Three rounds,” the barker cried out over the racket. “London rules.” He then said something in a low voice that the two opponents had to lean in to hear. The masked man nodded, and the boy started to skip impatiently on the spot.
Then the barker raised his voice again. “Gentlemen, go to.”
He stepped from the ring as the two men squared off.
The noise in the tent was now deafening. The fighters circled. The friends of Henry Keenan were right up against the ringside and making the most noise of all. The boy feinted a few times, and the fighter did nothing in response. Not even a flinch. When the boy suddenly put in a blow, the seasoned fighter blocked it without seeming to alter his stance by more than an inch or two.
Keenan’s supporters grew even more vocal. Sebastian glanced again at Elisabeth. She seemed to be holding her breath.
They continued to circle, the masked fighter lumbering like an ox and the challenger becoming ever more bold. The champion’s action wasn’t impressive, although personally Sebastian wouldn’t have cared to attempt to bring such an ox to the ground. That thought didn’t seem to occur to Keenan; the fighter’s stolidity and lack of speed were tempting the young man into a display of overconfidence.
Keenan was showing off, wasting his energies, playing to his friends. He got in a couple of body blows that did
n’t trouble the professional at all, and then a lucky one to the head that did. The masked man didn’t stagger; but he took a step back and he closed up his guard, putting himself beyond the boy’s reach for a moment. He drew his head back into his shoulders as if to protect it better, as if the punch had jarred him.
At the ringside, the Keenan faction roared even louder. Grinning, Keenan acknowledged his supporters and then turned back to press his imagined advantage.
He turned into the masked fighter’s right glove, coming out of nowhere like a rock on a rope and snapping his head around. The left hit him a fraction of a second later, and snapped him around the other way.
One of the two blows broke his nose, but it was impossible to say which. Spit flew, blood flowed. Keenan reeled back, only keeping his balance by a fluke. Flailing his arms, rocking on his heels, he seemed ready to fall. The pro moved around with him, not lowering his guard, ready to give out more of the same.
Glancing at Elisabeth, Sebastian saw the color draining from her face. This was not as she’d imagined. He felt concern, but he also felt relief. Relief that she was still the woman he knew.
Over in the ring, the Masked Champion slammed in another cruel blow with calm accuracy. Henry Keenan wove, staggered, and fell to one knee. The barker was in the ring within moments, stepping between the two fighters with his hand upraised.
“Round One!” he declared. The professional ambled back to his corner, and the young man was lifted back to his own by a couple of his friends. All around Sebastian and Elisabeth, the crowd were getting to their feet in a near frenzy. Only that morning, most of them had been Christians in church; now, with the temporary permission of the sporting ritual, all were pagans in a pit.
She looked back at him and managed a weak smile. He guessed that she’d probably seen enough. Sebastian glanced around them, but between them and the exit was a noisy, heaving mass of passionate spectators. All in Sunday best. All baying like dogs at the scent of a kill.
Elisabeth touched her gloved hand to her lips briefly, as if in need of air.
“Gentlemen,” the barker said, “go to.”
Henry Keenan, partly recovered, came out of his corner with an angry shout. There was blood down his shirt and madness in his eyes. His opponent stood ready to block any punch he might throw. But Keenan now abandoned London rules. He swung no punch, but hurled himself on and headbutted the pro.
The masked fighter staggered. The barker jumped into the ring and tried to intervene, but Keenan shoved him away and pressed his advantage. The fighter’s guard was down. Keenan kicked him a couple of times and then started to beat him about the head, while his friends roared encouragement. The barker seized Keenan from behind, pinning his arms and dragging him back. The masked man had dropped to one knee and stayed there, making a few feeble movements but not rising.
Elisabeth covered her eyes with one hand. Sebastian touched her on the shoulder. Impossible though the crush seemed, he had to get her out of there.
“Let’s go,” he said, and she nodded. They rose, and with Sebastian leading they started to push their way toward the exit.
Back in the ring, the masked fighter had managed to get to his feet. He stood grasping the rope with both gloves, panting and in pain, while the barker blocked Keenan’s attempts to reach him again. Keenan’s friends were climbing into the ring to back him up. The crowd was howling, and from all corners of the tent the carnies and bottle men who’d taken the money were pushing their way through to get to the trouble.
Nobody paid any attention to Sebastian and Elisabeth. He gave up on politeness because no one was listening, and started forcing a way.
As they reached the aisle, Elisabeth fell against his side and said, “It was not as I’d thought.”
“I know,” Sebastian said, putting an arm around her to protect her from further shoving. “But compared to some of the things I’ve seen people do to each other, I can assure you this is nothing.”
It was getting worse. Keenan’s friends had their hands on the barker and were restraining him as Keenan crossed the ring to where the masked fighter stood. For a moment it was looking as if he’d attack him again; but instead he put one hand on the man’s shoulder. With the other, he grabbed the mask and pulled it off the fighter’s head in a single motion.
The crowd gave a whoop as it came off. With the mask went any mystery that it had helped to generate. The man who stood revealed was a battered nonentity. Keenan held up the knitted rag and paraded it around the ring as if it was his enemy’s head. Masked or unmasked, the fighter seemed not to care.
There had been no rare beauty hidden under there, that much was for sure. Hair cropped and mousy, a face like something pickled in gin. It was beginning to swell around the eye and cheekbone where Keenan’s forehead had made contact. The fighter remained passive, his gloves holding the rope, his chest rising and falling, waiting for the noise to end or for his senses to return.
Out in the aisle, where he should have been helping Elisabeth, Sebastian found himself staring. It could not be. And yet…
“Sayers!” he breathed.
THREE
The man was like a train wreck on legs. But the more Sebastian stared, the more certain he became. Only when Elisabeth spoke his name did he remember his duty to her, and returned his attention to her safety.
They reached the outside air just as the park’s own security force was arriving. Willow Grove employed a staff of twenty to patrol the grounds and keep order. Standards were set high. Where a man might be escorted to the gates for strolling without a jacket or a necktie, such a near riot in the house of the Noble Art was certain to result in stern measures. Sebastian and Elisabeth were not the only audience members to be leaving; and all, as they stepped out into daylight on the midway, blinked as if emerging from a nightmare.
They did not linger, but moved on toward the lakeside. Frances and the boy would be waiting there by now. Elisabeth seemed dazed, and said nothing about the spectacle they’d left behind them—indeed, she said nothing at all for ten minutes or more. And when she did, it was a weak “Ah. There they are.”
Sebastian’s thoughts tumbled and spun, but outwardly he stayed calm. He expected Robert to protest when told that the day was to be cut short, but the boy said nothing. Frances was puzzled, while Elisabeth seemed relieved.
He walked his party out toward Easton Road and saw them onto the departing trolley, where it became apparent that he did not intend to travel back with them. He stayed out on the platform and spoke through the open window.
“I can’t explain it now,” he said to Elisabeth. “I’ll tell you everything when I get home.”
“Sebastian?” she said. “Is this something to do with…”
“No,” he said quickly, “it’s not the Irish brothers. It’s a very old and a very long story.”
Her sister said, “I don’t understand.”
“I saw someone I know, Frances,” Sebastian told her, looking over Elisabeth’s shoulder. “I have to go back and find him.”
“Who was it?” said Elisabeth. “Where?”
“It was someone I knew back in England. Please, just…” He made a helpless gesture, stepping back as the conductor signaled for the trolley’s departure. “I’ll see you at home.”
When he got back to the boxing booth, it was to find that the tent had been emptied and the attraction closed down. A pole across a couple of chairs made a temporary barrier for the entranceway. Sebastian stepped over it and went inside, leaving the life of the midway behind him.
Nobody was within. The bleachers were empty and the ring was down, its ropes lying on the floor. He’d hoped to find someone who might direct him. But instead he spied an exit on the far side of the tent, and made his way over to it.
Beyond the exit was a canvas passageway, a square tunnel linking the big tent to a smaller. Rush matting had been laid down to walk on. At the end of the tunnel, the entrance flap had been tied back. From outside the canvas, Sebastia
n could hear the sounds of dogs and people in the little private Carnytown behind the midway.
The smaller tent had been set up as some kind of a dressing area or green room. A table had been made out of a plank and two barrels, and a mirror with a frame of faded gilt had been set up on it. Once, perhaps, the mirror had been magnificent. Now it was rescued junk, rubbish with half of its silver gone and pieces of its frame broken away.
Fitting enough for the man who sat before it.
He was on a bentwood chair that, like the mirror, looked as if it had been rescued from a bonfire after a long life in some better place. He sat there in his dirty robe leaning forward over an enamel bowl, folding a damp cloth that he then placed against the swelling and pressed on hard. He’d thrown off the gloves, but his hands were still bandaged for combat.
The woolen mask hung on a corner of the mirror. It, too, looked as if it had been rescued after being thrown around and trampled underfoot. Sebastian could see that his approach had gone unheard.
He cleared his throat and said, “Mister Sayers.”
For a moment he thought that his attempt at self-introduction had passed unheard, as well. But then the figure at the mirror laid down the compress and slowly turned in his chair.
It took a moment for recognition to take hold, and even then there was little change in the man’s expression. Certainly nothing as expressive as surprise. Good God. The last time he’d seen Tom Sayers, the man had been straight-backed and as handsome as they came. This man looked like any beaten old drunk.
“Inspector Becker,” he said, in the same boozed-out voice that had challenged him from the platform.
“Not an inspector anymore,” Sebastian said. “I’m an American now. A Pinkerton man.”
Tom Sayers responded with a polite nod of deference and respect. On such a bruiser, it looked strange. He said, “Congratulations on finding success in your new career.” His tone was still that of an educated man, which seemed strange coming out of the fairground fighter.
The Kingdom of Bones Page 2
