Blood Is Blood

by Will Thomas

  “We do,” Hobson said. “And if I lose?”

  “You’ll set some up for Snuff and me. Win or lose, we shall decide about a possible business arrangement. Of course, the choice is yours.”

  There was some clapping and whistles from the back of the room. The crew was looking forward to seeing this rube from the West get the punishment he deserved. Hobson outweighed Caleb, but only by about two stone, and some of it damaged by heavy drinking and whatever other weaknesses in which he indulged.

  Jack Hobson nodded. Caleb unbuckled his gun belt and handed his pistols to me.

  “Hold this for me, Snuff. Try not to shoot anybody. Especially not yourself.”

  Both men stripped to their singlets and trousers. Caleb was around fifty, but he appeared to be in fine sharp: hard, tanned, and wiry. Like his brother, he had various souvenirs of a hard life. There was a poorly executed eagle tattooed on one forearm, a brand mark burned into the other bicep, and what appeared to be an old rope burn around his throat. Hobson was ten years his junior, but much of his physique had gone to seed.

  Hobson’s gang was excited by the diversion and the chance for a good drink afterward. Some cleared the area around the scuffed spot on the floor, while others ran outside to inform everyone about the impromptu event. In the West End, there are plays, concerts, balls, and dinner parties. Here in the hardscrabble East End one cobbles together whatever entertainment one can find.

  Both men came forward and faced each other. Each put out his right hand, hooked their thumbs together, and seized the fleshy part of the hand below the thumb. They stepped forward with one foot and placed it inside the other’s space so that the left ankles rested against each other. I noticed no judge had been chosen.

  “Go!” I cried.

  I had never attended a standing arm-wrestling match before, so I was unprepared for the sound as every muscle of both their bodies strained at once. I can compare it to a half-dozen ropes being suddenly pulled and twisted. Each muscle engaged with or against its neighbor. The tendons that held each to its corresponding bone were drawn taut. Each was nearly twice my weight, so to me they were like bulls locking horns. If I were so unwise as to step between them and try to stop the match I would have been trodden underfoot. Not that I intended to. In any case, it was preferable to the two of us fighting several dozen of them, even if they understood the Marquis of Queensbury Rules, and were willing to put down the knives, knuckle dusters, life preservers, and cudgels they carried. Which they did and were not.

  They grasped each other’s hand so tightly that I thought it possible bones would be broken. Both strained in a way I could not even comprehend. Their hearts must have been pounding in their chests. The only part of their bodies holding them to the ground were their booted feet, locked ankle to ankle. Cyrus Barker had pointed out the marks to me in various East End public houses, but I had never actually witnessed a match before.

  “Take him down!” a man beside me called, but I wasn’t sure for which combatant he was rooting.

  Caleb Barker began to overtake his opponent and might have won handily, but then Hobson’s bulk came into play and we lost whatever ground we had gained. Both were perspiring freely and the fronts of their singlets were sodden.

  Just when I thought Caleb’s arm would give out, he dug his back foot into the floor and began to press forward again. Both men were closer matched than I had realized. The men in the room began to chant a word. One single word.

  “Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack!”

  Men, women, and even a few children hurried into the Clove Hitch, having heard of the fight and the chance of a free drink. The room, if possible, began to stink even worse, a combination of bad beer, unwashed humanity, too many people, and the duo in the center of the room, struggling like titans. The atmosphere was heavy and I wanted to be outside breathing the cool air, or better yet, standing in Hampstead Heath, inhaling fresh air untainted by factories and sewage.

  “Come on, Caleb!” someone yelled, and then I realized it was me.

  He had taken command, and Hobson’s idle ways were getting the best of him. It would not be long now, I told myself. Caleb Barker was definitely in control of the match. And then he wasn’t.

  I thought the match all over, but there was a sudden movement and the next I knew, Barker’s brother was falling, his feet in the air. He thumped hard against the sawdust-covered floor, and the entire room burst into cheering. Men were jumping up and down and low women were looking about for companionship. Dirty children danced on tables or stole watches and handkerchiefs. I could not hide my disappointment. Standing, I crossed over to Caleb and helped him up. He was soaked and his newly cut hair was spiked about his head. He was totally spent. I would have to help him home.

  “Publican!” he called. “Whiskeys all around!”

  Another cheer went up. Everyone pounded Jack Hobson on the shoulders. Someone had draped a towel around his neck. Awkwardly, he made his way over to the table I had seated Caleb in and gave him a flaccid hug. Then each man was given a full pewter mug of Irish whiskey.

  A tumbler was put in my hands.

  “How are you?” I asked in a low voice.

  “A bit rough,” he said.

  “I was afraid you were going to win.”

  “I had to make it interesting.”

  “Here’s your gun belt. I’m going to find a pigeon.”

  It took me no more than a moment to find the weak link, a young gang member not celebrating with the others. I took a tumbler from the bar and set it down beside him. He smiled and nodded, anxious for the company as well as the drink.

  “Your boss looks in solid shape. I hear he got out of prison recently.”

  “Three months ago,” he answered. He was a slope-shouldered adenoidal youth, of little use to the gang.

  “What was the name of that detective who got him convicted?”

  “Barker,” he replied, his voice brimming with disgust. “Cyrus Barker.”

  “That’s the bastard. So, is your boss going to go after him now that he’s free?”

  “Believe it, Mr. Snuff. I’ve heard him say he’ll take the man apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left of him.”

  “He should!” I insisted.

  I looked up. The harridan was standing over me, grinning at me through a picket fence of dirty teeth.

  “Mr. Driscoll says you is the one to pay,” she stated.

  She set a dirty slip of paper on the table, where it began to soak up spilled beer and spirits. I leaned forward and read the billet.

  “As much as that?” I asked.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  There was an unusual sight awaiting me when I reached the Priory of St. John the following day just after noon. Cyrus Barker was seated in a bath chair with a sort of plank attached to it for his injured limb. He was in a respectable shirt and tie, collar and cuffs, over which he wore his favorite black-and-gold Asian dressing gown. His lower limbs were covered in a discreet heavy blanket; his dark hair had been combed and his chin freshly shaven. He was in a foul mood, still weighed down with the gall caused by not anticipating a move from an unannounced opponent. He was not accustomed to being taken unaware.

  Philippa Ashleigh stood beside him in a dress the color of pale butter, with embroidered roses. She patted his shoulder, trying to soothe him, and looked at me expectantly.

  “Is everything well?” I asked.

  “Of course everything is well,” the Guv replied. “Why shouldn’t it be? We are awaiting word as to whether I can leave today. It’s infuriating having one’s fate in the hands of a physician.”

  “Is it too soon to be leaving?” I asked.

  It had only been a few days and he was barely sitting up on his own.

  “No,” he growled. “On the contrary. It is nearly too late.”

  This was obviously not the convalescent patient speaking. This was Cyrus Barker, the protean Cyrus Barker. One mentioned weakness at one’s peril.

  Barker frowned a
s I explained what had occurred both at Newgate Prison and Burberry Asylum. He leaned forward as far as he could when I talked of the fight in the alleyway, then spat questions at me like bullets from a Gatling gun, trying to place all the people and events in his mind.

  I expected most of the questions, of course. Part of my occupation is to anticipate such things. So I contrived to answer them, but as I did, I observed my employer closely, making mental observations of my own.

  The first thing I noticed was a muscle in his neck as taut as a violin string. His forehead was shiny as well, and it wasn’t the treatment of brilliantine Mrs. Ashleigh had put in his hair. His left hand was clenched in a tight fist.

  I glanced at Mrs. Ashleigh again. Was she conspiring to free him? I assumed she would be the first to insist he stay until he was well enough to go home. Perhaps being in this room, dealing with his stoic silence, had worn down her resolve. The only way to deal with Cyrus Barker is to give him what he wants.

  There was that look again. I had no idea what it meant. Perhaps she was less worn down than I believed.

  “Are you well today, Mrs. Ashleigh?” I asked.

  “Never better, Thomas. Thank you for asking.”

  I glanced at Barker. Something was happening, but I didn’t know what it was, and by the look on my employer’s face, he was unaware of it, as well.

  She’s up to some mischief, I thought. Perhaps even now two burly orderlies were coming down the hall with restraints, to tie Barker to his bed. If so, they’d need four of them. Possibly even six.

  “Thomas?”

  I turned when I heard a mellifluous voice at the door. My heart skipped a beat as it did whenever I saw her.

  “Rebecca?” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  She lifted her veil and folded it back from her face. She was in widow’s black but it somehow became her, the kind of simple black dress that made Lily Langtry famous, or infamous, if you prefer.

  “Mrs. Ashleigh was kind enough to invite me here to meet Mr. Barker,” she replied, looking at me warmly. “I understand he is to be released today. Mrs. Ashleigh, it was so kind of you.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Cowan. And I insist you call me Philippa. What a beauty you are. Thomas claimed you were, but we assumed it was bias on his part.”

  My fiancée stepped forward, toward my employer. “Mr. Barker, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She raised her gloved hand to him, much in the way a circus performer would put theirs into a lion’s maw. The lion, in this case my employer, took her petite hand in his oversize one and nodded his head.

  “Mrs. Cowan, I don’t know what you see in this rascal, but you’re free to have him. Certainly, I can’t teach him. I suspect he is untrainable. I fear your decision was rash and not fully considered.”

  Philippa Ashleigh laughed and shook her head. “I can’t believe it. You and Thomas come from two completely different backgrounds, yet you appear a matched set: curly hair, dark eyes. A matched pair.”

  “Thank you,” Rebecca said, breaking into one of those smiles that will illuminate a room. It was her. She was here. She and Barker had finally met. And I had Mrs. Ashleigh to thank for it.

  “Mr. Barker, my father still sings your praises,” Rebecca continued. “He claims you saved the East End from a pogrom entirely by yourself.”

  “He gives me too much credit. The citizens protected the community themselves. I merely found myself in the thick of it.”

  Something was wrong with Barker. He was being brusque. I have seen him charm women when he wanted to, so it was not that. I wondered if his concerns about our marriage had overcome his civility.

  “Tell me,” Philippa asked, “would you care to dine with us in a few days’ time, after Mr. Barker has been installed in the house once more?”

  “My dear Philippa,” Rebecca said, “I would be delighted to dine with you whichever day is convenient.”

  “I will let you know when things are settled.”

  Barker gave a quiet grunt. Dining with guests meant that he would have to eat later than he preferred and he would spend an evening entertaining a guest when he would rather be reading. He’s not what one might call a bon vivant.

  “Do you have any dietary restrictions?” Philippa asked.

  “No pork, if I may ask.”

  “Certainly not.”

  There was an awkward silence. Barker brooded, Rebecca stood awkwardly, and Philippa looked for anything that might lighten the conversation.

  “I’m sorry about your injuries, sir,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ve had many before and doubtless there will be more to come. Thomas here was set upon just yesterday.”

  “What?” she asked, turning to look at me. “I heard nothing about it.”

  “I have not had the chance to speak with you,” I answered. “It was a trifling matter. A couple of men with sticks.”

  “Two men?” she repeated, clutching her throat.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her.

  I noted Philippa giving the Guv a sharp look, which he ignored. He was also ignoring mine. This was not the time to discuss the dangers of being an enquiry agent. I was hoping to gloss over that particular subject for some time to come.

  “Cyrus is anxious to get home,” Philippa said, trying to apologize for his behavior. “It’s been very trying here since the accident.”

  “It was not an accident, my dear,” he said.

  I watched a trickle of sweat roll down his temple. Only Philippa and I knew him well enough to read him. He was in pain and finding it difficult to be gracious. The man was not himself. I knew that, and yet I was becoming angrier by the minute.

  “It’s been a difficult case, Rebecca, but it is nearly over,” I assured her.

  There was a tear gleaming at the corner of Rebecca’s eye. She had not anticipated that there would be parts of my life that I might not want to share with her, for fear of burdening her or causing her alarm.

  Philippa smiled at Rebecca. “You and I must have tea after the two of you return.”

  “I’d like that.”

  There was another moment of silence, save for a shift in the bath chair and a groan.

  Rebecca’s face brightened. “You must be proud of Bok Fu Ying’s baby. She brought her to Camomile Street just the other day. Such a little beauty.”

  “Oh, you’re so fortunate!” Philippa cried. “I wanted to have them to my home in Sussex, but they are not yet traveling.”

  “It has been a sore trial for her this year,” my employer remarked. “Her husband has been weaning himself off of opium.”

  Rebecca sputtered and I bristled. I didn’t care how much pain he was in. He must be polite to my fiancée. Philippa saw how angry I was becoming, but the Guv was oblivious.

  “Mr. Barker has a dog,” I said, hoping to turn the conversation to a safe channel.

  “Oh,” she said. “What kind is it?”

  “A Pekingese.”

  “One of those little Chinese dogs? They’re so delightful.”

  Barker said nothing. I even wondered if he had fainted from the pain.

  Rebecca took matters into her own hands. “It was so nice to meet you both. Thomas has spoken so warmly about you. Mrs. Ashleigh, I hope we shall have tea very soon.”

  She took Philippa’s hand briefly and curtsied to my employer. Then she turned and left. I followed her, taking a moment to look back at the two of them and shake my head. Then I hurried to Rebecca’s side. She had her handkerchief to her face.

  “He hates me!” she murmured in the hall. “The man is terrifying. How can you work for such a horrible person? Tell me he won’t be your best man. Tell me he will not come to our wedding!”

  “Cyrus!” I heard Philippa bellow through the halls as we stepped out into the morning sunshine.

  Outside, I dared take Rebecca into my arms. She shook as she cried against my chest.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “I’ve never seen him be so
rude. He’s usually very kind to women.”

  “Are you defending him?” she asked.

  “Certainly not. His behavior was unconscionable.”

  “Take me home. I want to go home!”

  I hailed a cab and helped her up when one pulled to the curb. Then I climbed in beside her.

  “The City,” I told the cabman.

  “Am I so unsuitable?” she continued, once the carriage had begun to move. “Does he not want you to marry? Are you to be his servant forever?”

  “No, dear, no,” I murmured.

  “Resign! Take the offer of a position in the City. We’ll find a nice home. It doesn’t have to be the one I live in now. I’d live anywhere with you!”

  “And I with you. My head is in a whirl. I can’t believe his behavior.”

  “He is even more frightening than Israel said. But Mrs. Ashleigh was so kind. It doesn’t make sense!”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied.

  The truth was, I didn’t know what to say. I may have understood some of the reasons he was in such a foul mood, but I could not defend him to her. She was distraught, and rightfully so. If it became a choice between my position and the woman I loved, there was no contest.

  I tried to touch her gloved hand, but she pulled away, as if for that moment she feared all men. She retreated to the farthest corner of the cab and grew silent.

  After an interminable journey, we reached Camomile Street. She hurried to the house and by the time I had paid the cabman and returned, she had gone inside. Through the window, I saw the maid’s face giving me a stern look. I reached for the knob and found it locked.

  That was how it was. I lifted the gold knocker and lowered it again.

  “Bad luck,” James Briggs said at my elbow. I hadn’t seen him when we’d arrived. “Should I leave off guarding the house?”

  “No,” I answered. “Her safety is my only concern. It is not based on how she might feel about me at any given moment.”

  I returned to the office and sat to think. Jenkins knew something was wrong, but did not know what precisely. He kept looking at me, asking me a question by not asking it.