A bucket was struck repeatedly with an iron spike and the crowd fell silent. A short, bowlegged man who looked as though he should be working with racehorses climbed up on a box someone had placed in the center of the ring.
“The Camden Town Mauler weighs in at fourteen stone ten pounds. The Bermondsey Basher at fifteen stone two pounds.”
There was a buzz of conversation. The Basher had an advantage of six pounds. How significant that was, I had no idea.
“The Basher ’as the choice of corners,” continued the announcer.
The big man in the dirty green drawers took his time walking around the ring. He found a spot where the sunlight—weak as it was—streamed in through a chink in the wall. He moved to the corner where his back would be to the light and held up one huge fist. The Camden Town Mauler, with a muttered curse, shuffled across to the opposite corner.
The announcer resumed. “No butting or gouging, no biting or kicking,” he said. “Down on one knee and wif an ’and on the ground counts as down. Seconds can then ’elp their man back to ’is corner. They stays out of the ring till then. Thirty seconds between rounds. This ’ere’s all as the 1866 London Prize Ring Rules. Any questions?” He didn’t wait to see if there were any but scrambled down off his box, which was retrieved by a young boy who ducked under the rope. From the sidelines the announcer finished, “When I ’ollers, ‘Time,’ both men to the scratch and ’ave at it.”
I had managed to get near to Mr. Arroyo y López and kept close as he took the last bet pushed at him and then retired to the back of the barn. There he climbed up onto one of a number of hay bales placed strategically for the three bookies. As I moved in and waved to Arroyo y López, the announcer called, “Time!”
“Too late, my good man,” Arroyo y López said to me. “Now get out of my way. Let me see the action.”
I had no choice but to wait and hoped it would not be a long contest. I had heard of these things going on for two or three hours but trusted that would not be the case here.
The two men went at each other with incredible energy. The strategy favored by both seemed to be to plant themselves firmly in one spot and punch the opponent with blows and jabs that would fell an ox, receiving and absorbing similar punishment to that meted out. They moved their feet but little and simply rocked backward and forward.
The first down went to the Bermondsey Basher. A punch that seemed to come up from the floor smashed into the other man’s jaw and the Mauler was lifted off his feet and crashed to the ground. The Basher got in a surreptitious kick to the ribs before pulling back and allowing the Mauler’s seconds to drag their man over to his corner. There a bucket of water was dumped over his head and the seconds went into action, slapping his face and rubbing his body. As the time ticked away, the giant of a man, incredulously to my mind, gave his head a shake and clawed his way to his feet. Just in time, he staggered out to the line scratched across the center of the ring. The Bermondsey Basher was there waiting for him.
They again went at it as though nothing had interrupted them. I shook my head and wondered how long this could possibly continue.
The Basher suddenly gave a forceful one-two-three series of jabs into the Mauler’s ribs and forced him to take a step backward. The Basher followed up and swung his great fist around in a wide arc. If it had connected I am sure it could have removed the other man’s head from his shoulders, but the Mauler was ready. I wondered if he had in fact faked his first takedown. As the Basher’s fist came around, the Mauler ducked his head underneath it and came back up with his own fists moving. They beat a tattoo on the other man’s chin, snapping his head back with a crack that was heard throughout the barn. There was a sudden total silence from everyone, and we all watched in disbelief as the Bermondsey Basher’s arms dropped to his side; he stood wavering for a moment and then crashed to the floor, never to stand up again. I learned afterward that he had indeed had his neck snapped.
It was a sobering sight and one I would not care to repeat. How anyone could watch this sort of thing on a regular basis I had no idea. How the crowd could also make bets on the outcome of such a contest I also had difficulty comprehending. It all seemed far removed from the civilized world of the theatre. Fleetingly, I gave thanks that Jenny would never have to witness such a barbaric spectacle.
Near chaos ensued. It seemed that the Bermondsey Basher had been the favorite and no one had expected the Mauler to last more than a few rounds. There were shouts and boos, and hay bales and farm tools were angrily thrown into the ring. I saw the bowlegged announcer making himself scarce, running and jumping down the wooden steps to get out of the building. In all the commotion the three bookmakers made their own way out, clutching their bulging satchels to them. I followed, keeping up with Mr. Arroyo y López.
“I just need a few words,” I said, as we emerged from the barn. “I’m not looking to bet or to cash in. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
He looked at me suspiciously. “Was you bettin’ on this fight?” he asked, belying his claim to Spanish ancestry.
I shook my head. “No. I only came here to find you. I understand you know a man named Ralph Bateman.”
“Bateman? Never ’eard of ’im.”
“Yes, you have,” I persisted. “Think for a minute. He placed a bet about the Lyceum Theatre and the Sadler’s Wells Theatre, a fortnight ago.”
He stopped and his forehead wrinkled as he thought about it. “Theatre bets? Oh yes. I do recall ’im now. Friend of a reg’lar of mine name of Willis.”
“Aha!” I cried. “Now that is actually the person I’m trying to find. Herbert Willis. You do know him, then?”
Arroyo y López’s face grew dark. “What’s this leading to? You connected with the peelers? What’s this all about?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing to do with the police. This is strictly personal. I’m trying to find Mr. Willis. I thought that if he was a regular punter with you, then you might know how to contact him?”
“’E contacts me, if’n he wants to lay a wager.”
“But surely you also have a way of getting in touch with him? What about when he wins?”
“Hah!” His face broke out in a grin and he shook his head. “That ain’t never goin’ to ’appen!”
Chapter Thirteen
“According to Mr. Ernesto Arroyo y López, Willis did place the occasional bet and had been instrumental in introducing Ralph Bateman to the bookie.” I passed on the information to Mr. Stoker as I hurried backstage for the evening performance. “He gave me an idea as to where we might find our Mr. Willis.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll get onto it first thing in the morning,” I continued. Then I remembered something. “Actually, second thing . . . I have to call on Jenny to see if she acquired those letters you want to study.”
Stoker nodded and tugged on his mustache. “I really am of two minds about this, Harry. It doesn’t seem right to pry into the Guv’nor’s personal correspondence, but at the same time if there is some reference there to young Bateman, and if this blackmailing of Richland’s affects the Lyceum, then I do feel it my duty to verify what is contained in the letters.”
“I agree, sir. Wholeheartedly.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
I hurried off to attend to my stage-managing duties.
* * *
As I opened the front door of Mrs. Bell’s establishment on Wednesday morning, eager to be out and on my way to see Jenny, I was surprised to find Sergeant Bellamy on the pavement outside, just stepping down from a hansom.
“Good morning, Sergeant. Not come for breakfast I take it?” I smiled. He did not.
As the cab pulled away behind him, he glanced up and down the street before giving me his full attention. I almost expected him to pull out his inevitable notebook, but all he did was fix me with his stare. I found myself wondering if policemen are
especially trained to make one feel guilty no matter what one may have done or not done.
“We have not been idle, Mr. Rivers,” he said, and laid a finger alongside his nose.
“N-no,” I replied. “No, I never for a moment thought that you had been.”
“No, sir. We have not been idle.” He dipped a hand into his pocket and—almost to my relief—pulled out his notebook. He flicked through a couple of pages to find what he needed then looked at me again and cleared his throat. “One headless corpse,” he said, reading from the book. “Male, indeterminate age, clad only in underclothing.”
I was both surprised and delighted. “You’ve found it! That’s wonderful. Well done, Sergeant. Might I ask where it was?”
“Well you might, sir. Well you might.”
“All right, then . . . ?” I waited, but Sergeant Bellamy was not to be hurried. He obviously savored his success.
“It appears that at approximately ten thirty A.M. this past Saturday, 19 February 1881, one Arthur York, rag-and-bone merchant of 27 Webber Street, Blackfriars Road, was making his usual rounds, accompanied by his assistant William. Somewhere along the way—and he claims he cannot recall exactly where—he acquired a large bag of rags. William, who is age ten, assured us that it had been left at the side of the road somewhere in Southwark. He particularly remembers it for two reasons. One: it was ‘just layin’ there like it ’ad fallen off some other ragger’s cart,’ as he stated. And two: as he also stated, ‘it was bleedin’ ’eavy.’”
“Go on,” I urged.
Bellamy cleared his throat. “They got the bag back to York’s place of business but didn’t get around to emptying it until late yesterday, which is when Mr. York came to us.”
“The body was in the bag?” I couldn’t wait, but the sergeant still insisted on taking his own time.
“It would appear that they empty such bags of rags that they have collected ‘out and about’ as they put it, but don’t do this until they have dealt with the people who bring rags directly into the shop. These they weigh and pay tuppence a pound for.”
“Go on.”
“When they emptied out the big bag they had discovered in Southwark, what should tumble out but a headless corpse. Young William was all for keeping it, while Mr. York admitted that he contemplated dumping it in the Thames. However, he knew that young William would not be able to remain mum on the subject, so he finally informed his local constabulary. And rightly so.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “So this is Peter Richland’s body, then?”
“Preliminary examination would seem to confirm that, Mr. Rivers. Yes.”
“So, now that you have both head and body, I presume you can refill your empty coffin and put it back in the ground?” I asked.
“Not so fast, sir. Not so fast.”
I sighed. I was anxious to see Jenny and I also had to go searching for Willis. Delighted as I was to learn that the body had been discovered, I really wanted to get on. “What is it?” I asked.
“We can’t have people digging up graves, separating heads from bodies, and then leaving bits and pieces in theatres and on curbs for casual pickup by rag-and-bone men.”
“No,” I said. “No, I suppose you can’t.”
“We need to find the person or persons responsible and to bring them to account.”
“Of course.”
“It was your theatre that called us in when the head rolled out of your scenery, was it not?”
“It was,” I agreed.
“So we need to conclude that case, Mr. Rivers. Need to find out who did it and why. That’s all part of our job.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Yes. Thank you. I think that an excellent idea and no less than I would expect of the Metropolitan Police. You will, then, keep us informed as you proceed?”
“Oh, that we will, Mr. Rivers. That we will.”
It would certainly be good to know who was behind it all, I thought. Might this, too, come back to Willis? And what about Ralph Bateman? Yes, it was good that the police were keeping on with their investigating. I watched the detective sergeant walk off down Chancery Lane. As I hailed a cab, I briefly thought of offering to give him a lift wherever he was now proceeding . . . but decided against it.
* * *
I had arranged with Jenny that I would stand on the corner of Grafton Street, opposite the house, at nine of the clock and that if she had acquired the letters, she would signal me from the corner window. She would then send them down to me by the boy, Timmy. If I saw no signal I would return the following day, and so on till the end of the week. I would see her again the following Sunday, but I hoped to be returning the Guv’nor’s property by then.
It was just past nine when I got to the corner of Bond Street and Grafton Street. I prayed that I had not missed Jenny’s signal but felt sure she would keep an eye open for me. Sure enough, I had not been there but a few moments when I saw the corner window open a fraction and a feather duster thrust out and vigorously shaken. I raised my hat in acknowledgment and casually crossed to stand by Asprey’s Jewellers. I had scarcely taken up my position when the black door accessing the upstairs rooms opened and Timmy stuck out his head. He saw me and grinned.
“Sum’at for you from Jenny . . . sir,” he said. He waved a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.
I hurried over and took it, slipping him a silver thrupenny bit. “Thanks, Timmy.”
I dropped off the parcel at the theatre before continuing on my way to track down Herbert Willis. Mr. Stoker was not in his office—Bill said that he was with the Guv’nor—so I left the package and a note in the middle of his desk, where I was certain he couldn’t miss it.
On Thursday morning I took the light green omnibus to Paddington. I paid my tuppence fare and found myself crammed between a corpulent hurdy-gurdy man balancing his instrument on his knees and an emaciated curate. The clergyman appeared alarmed to find himself in the midst of such sweaty, odiferous creatures as filled the vehicle. He tried to keep his eyes downcast but was constantly jerking his head up to gape at some male or female and expressing indignation at somebody’s manners or lack thereof.
There was a brief episode when the curate discovered that the hand of a young lady pickpocket had been slipped surreptitiously into his pocket. He recoiled at touching the young lady’s hand just as she recoiled at being discovered. Both let out a shout before the young lady managed to vault off the slowly moving vehicle to disappear among passing pedestrians. The clergyman was left without his wallet and his fellow travelers had a good laugh.
Mr. Ernesto Arroyo y López had said that he’d heard Willis was currently with a penny gaff in Paddington. Quite a step down from the Lyceum, or from any legitimate theatre if true, I thought. The penny theatres were the bottom of the theatrical scale, catering to the sensation seekers and the illiterate. Although a few of the establishments could hold several hundred persons as their audience, the majority were no more than shop fronts that had been converted into miniature theatres to entertain juveniles and the virtually impecunious. Offerings were melodramas, pantomimes, and comic songs, frequently all on the same bill. What Willis might do at any one of them was beyond my imagining. They used little in the way of scenery, but perhaps he could handle the primitive lighting required. The management was usually so dedicated to providing as many seats as possible that the stage was often a narrow, cramped segment that barely held the actors.
* * *
I extricated myself from my fellow passengers at Paddington and quickly walked north to Bishop’s Road, where I knew there were a few gaffs. It didn’t take me long to check them; all were open and I managed to have a word or two with the managers. No one had heard of Herbert Willis. It passed through my mind that he may have taken an assumed name, but then I thought, why would he do that? It’s not as though he were a fugitive, just a constant tippler who was frequently obfuscated. Even if he was the one
responsible for poisoning the Guv’nor, he probably wasn’t trying to hide but only seeking work.
I turned down Gloucester Street. There were few places of public entertainment there, though it seemed dotted with street singers, each trying to outdo the others. Some sang the latest songs in the hope of getting a penny or two, while some rendered a single song ad nauseam in the hopes of being paid to go away. At the bottom of Gloucester I came to Praed Street and, stepping around two of the singers, remembered that there was a prominent penny gaff on Praed just past London Street. I found it almost immediately and got onto the end of the queue that was forming for the next performance.
I felt a nudge and a push at my back. As I turned, a young boy of about ten ducked his head and ran off, his bare feet slapping the pavement. I instinctively felt for my purse and found it gone. I cursed myself for a fool. Welcome to Paddington, I thought. Now I would have to walk home.
There was now no point in standing in line for the performance—and I didn’t really have the time to sit through one anyway—so I made my way around the corner to where I could see the equivalent of the stage door. This gaff boasted a small stage with the rudiments of scenery. As I looked about me it became obvious who were the actors and who were the stagehands, though the latter were no more than three men. One of them was Herbert Willis. I had struck gold.
“Mr. Bleedin’ Rivers!” His red-rimmed, watery blue eyes locked onto me and he glared. “What you want? Not content wif takin’ m’job, you’re followin’ after me, now?”
Cursed in the Act Page 13
