Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I dunno why I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. You told me as much. Oh, well, never mind. Now, look, would your manager agree to my taking you in my car to a stretch where there aren’t any woods?”

  “’E don’t rule me. Run where I like. Where you mean?”

  “Here’s the map. This hill is called Horsa Castle. It’s quite a climb until you get to the top, but then it’s fairly flat. The grass is rough, but there are no trees there. What do you say? It wouldn’t take more than half an hour or so to get to it.”

  “O.K., Tobe, I’m agreeable.”

  “Those fellows who were at the pub yesterday, what’s their game, Dave? Why do they want you to sweat off so much weight? I had a bit of a yarn with them in the bar after we left you yesterday. They’ve no real interest in your career, you know. They’re in show business. Do you really have to go along with them?”

  “Takin’ me to America. Vat’s where the big money is.”

  “And you think you’re going to get fights there? What if they only wanted you to make a film?—and only one film, at that? Would you still want to go?”

  “I dunno. Come on, Tobe. Let’s get crackin’.”

  They got into the car and Toby drove gently across the bumpy level crossing and saluted the man with the green flag who waved him on to the road to Morchester. Two miles on the seaward side of that ancient town he turned on to a by-road and, ahead of them and to their left, rose the shadowed bulk, the carved escarpment, the mighty ramparts and ditches, of a vast Iron Age fort.

  “Don’t see no castle,” said Dave.

  “It’s called a castle, but it’s really an old hill-fort,” said Toby. “Pre-Roman, actually, until nearly two thousand years ago, when the Romans took it. It gave them some trouble, at that, as you can imagine.”

  There were no other cars in the space which had been cleared out at the foot of the hill. It was too early in the morning and too early in the year for Horsa Castle to attract visitors. It seemed, in that age-old landscape, that the two young men had the world to themselves as they began to climb the hill. Their feet were soon soaked and their rubber-soled, smooth-worn sneakers slipped on the damp grass and, in any case, they could not run, as the slope was long and steep. When they reached the entrance to the primitive fortress they paused to take breath before they followed the path which wound in and out of a complex of ditches and mounds.

  The turf on the top was rough, but the surface was comparatively flat. They jogged around the perimeter, keeping just inside the inner boundary ditch, and at the end of half an hour Dave eased off and dropped into a walk, and they returned to the western entrance.

  “How long have you been in the boxing game?” asked Toby, as they made their way downhill to where they had left the car.

  “Me? Oh, I dunno. Since my last year at school, really, I s’pose. We ’ad a P.E. master took an interest, so I joined a boys’ club and kep’ up with it when I left. Ven, abaht a year ago, vere was amacher bouts and I was picked for our lot at the weight—I was boxin’ welter-weight and it was on’y boys’ clubs—you know—and vis Mr. Gorinsky ’e come up after I’d fighted and arst me whether I’d like to turn pro.”

  “You never represented London or England in an international, did you?”

  “Cor, no! I ain’t international class, but I seen ’em on the telly, along wiv Mr. Gorinsky, and ’e says, ‘Wiv the right ref. you could eat that lot, boy.’ So I says, ‘As a pro. maybe I could, but vey’re flippin’ amachers and it don’t rest wiv the ref,’ I says. ‘Vere’s judges, and it’s a majority vote, and you got to keep it clean, else you’ve ’ad it.’ So ’e says, ‘Vat’s right, boy, you got to keep it clean, pro. or amacher. Vat’s the way we likes it in my trainin’ camp,’ ’e says. ‘Pro. fights is clean, too,’ ’e says, ‘nowadays.’ ”

  “ ‘Clean? See ’Enry Cooper agin vat bugger of an Eye-tie?’ I arsts ’im.”

  “That couldn’t happen over here,” said Toby. “How many professional fights have you had?”

  “Not a bleedin’ one, not yet.”

  “How’s that, then?”

  “Mr. Gorinsky don’t reckon I’m ready. Anyway, ’e only wants me to ’ave one fight before we goes over to the States. Says ’e wants to keep me dark. Says I’m a prospect, see? Wants to spring me on ’em. Part of the gyme, see?”

  “But will an almost unknown boxer get fights in the States? And just supposing you don’t win this preliminary bout?”

  “That isn’t my worry, is it? Mr. Gorinsky give me ten quid a week and all fahnd, and I ’as steaks and eggs and cheese, on’y I got to get me weight dahn, see? I reckon ’e’ve got me matched at light-weight over in the States, not welter, and vat’s why I got to fine dahn.”

  “You’re going to have this fight over here before you go, you say. Who with?”

  “I dunno.”

  Toby, suspecting that the boy was being exploited in some way, asked: “What have those men Maverick and Gracechurchstreet to do with your outfit? They’re not in the boxing game. I told you, didn’t I?”

  “Sponsors, so Mr. Gorinsky says.”

  “Oh, I see. They’ve got a vested interest in you, then? I guessed as much, and I don’t think it’s really in your boxing.”

  “I dunno what vey got. I never seen ’em till vey showed up at the pub the uvver day. I reckon vey’re puttin’ up the money.”

  Toby let it go at that. After all, he decided, it was really no business of his. All the same, there was an altruistic streak in his make-up which, had he chosen another profession, could have made him a good and responsible schoolmaster. He knew nothing of the dubious outskirts of professional boxing, but it appeared to him that there was something more than ordinarily fishy about the set-up at the Swan Revived. Gracechurchstreet had said nothing at the station house about having an interest in boxing, but he did need to stage a punch-up if he put on the play which had been outlined. Dave, Toby thought, was being used as a stool-pigeon. The chances were that he would be screened as the young Heathcote in the tavern scene and then ditched by the American. What Gorinsky’s plans for him after that would be, was anybody’s guess. On their next outing he asked:

  “What was your job, Dave, before Gorinsky took you over?”

  “Worked for me dad, but we ’ad a bull an’ cow, so I cleared aht.”

  “What was the row about, then?”

  “Dunno. Sommat or uvver. I forgits.”

  Apparently it was a painful subject. Toby accepted the implied tabu and led the conversation back to boxing.

  “Where will this fight be held?”

  “Ironbridge Baths.”

  “That’s somewhere over Hoxton way, isn’t it? When is it going to come off?”

  “Month termorrer.”

  “I’d like to come along. By the way, I’m not up to much—certainly not in your class, I’m sure—but if you’d ever like an extra sparring partner . . .”

  “I’d go light on yer. I’ll ’ave to see what Mr. Gorinsky got to say, but I wouldn’t mind a bit of a change. I gets sick of ’ittin’ old ’Arry. ’E don’t move ’isself, you see. The punchin’-ball is as much use to me as what ’e is—more, ’cos the ball comes back at yer, and ’e don’t, see what I man?”

  Having made the offer, Toby wondered whether he had made a wise move. True, he was heavier and probably, he thought, stronger than Dave. At the same time, Dave was being groomed for the professional ring, whereas he himself had never been anything but a useful amateur. However, it was impossible to back down. He did wonder, though, in what spirit Gorinsky and the trainer would look upon his offer, and to what extent Dave would hand out punishment if the offer was accepted. He need have had no qualms. Dave broke it to him most apologetically on the following morning when, having set out once more in the car, they left it on the edge of the stone-quarry north-east of Heathcote Fritzprior. They were on the far side of the dreaded woods and were jogging along a rough path over the heath when the verdict was announced.
r />   “You know what you said?”

  “Which time, Dave?”

  “Abaht sparrin’. Mr. Gorinsky won’t wear it. Swore at me, ’e did, when I mentioned it. I believe ’e’d of stopped me comin’ aht ’smornin’ if ’e’d of fought of it, ’e was so bloomin’ mad. So vere ain’t nuffink doin’. I can’t go agin ’im, not wiv ’im payin’ me and fixin’ me up, and all vat. Well, you know.”

  “Don’t give it another thought, Dave. I expect he guesses my efforts wouldn’t be much help. How do you like it out here? Easier than that climb up to Horsa Castle, what?”

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind so much if vere ain’t no trees. It’s the bleedin’ trees as gits me.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Oh, give over arstin’ vat! P’raps me muvver was frightened by one.” They jogged on for about half a mile, and then the boy added, “I started in arstin’ ’im for a ticket for you to see the fight, and when ’e said nuffink doin’, I reminds ’im you bin trainin’ wiv me, and ven I says as ’ow you offered to spar, and vat’s when ’e turns all narsty. Told ’im wot I fought of ’im, I did. Said you was a pal of mine, but ’e told me to shut me trap.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Dave. After all, he’s your manager, as you’ve just pointed out, so we’ll have to do things his way. He probably thinks you’d murder me, and he doesn’t want that on his conscience.” He did not see the expression on Dave’s face. They finished the rest of their training spin in silence and, still without another word from the boy except monosyllabic answers to Toby’s attempts at conversation, they drove back to the inn. Toby had just finished breakfast when there came a knock at the door. The ape-like trainer stood there.

  “Come from the boss,” he said, and handed over a piece of folded paper. “’E don’t need no answer.” The note was curt to the point of insolence and embodied a most unpleasant innuendo.

  “Thanks for assistance rendered, but the Kid don’t need any more road-work. We know he’s a pretty boy, but we don’t have cissies in this outfit, so kindly lay off him. Gorinsky.”

  Toby thought the matter over while he finished his breakfast and washed up. Something, obviously, had upset Gorinsky. Perhaps he thought that Dave had been pumped about the London bout. If it was so, and if it mattered all that much to Gorinsky, there must be something more behind it than Dave himself knew. If Dave had asked for a ticket for Toby to see the fight, and the request had angered Gorinsky, and Toby’s offer to spar with the boy had been refused, it looked as though something about the fight was not altogether above board. That Gorinsky was not licensed seemed the obvious guess.

  Toby decided upon three things. He would go over to the Swan Revived for his mid-morning beer as usual. He would make no reference to the letter unless Gorinsky or one of the others referred to it. He would not enter into an argument, if he could help it, if the letter was mentioned. By these means he would indicate, he thought, that he was not interested in whether he helped with Dave’s training or not; added to this, he would be behaving in a dignified and detached manner; further, he would not get himself embroiled in the sort of unpleasantness which, if he read Gorinsky and the trainer aright, could turn to violence. He had no desire to get himself beaten up by East End mohocks, and, at the best, it would be two to one, even if Harry and Dave kept out of it. He had no reason to think that, in the event of a rough-house, these two, who were on Gorinsky’s payroll, would come to the assistance of one who was not. Their neutrality would be the most he could count on.

  On one other matter he had also made up his mind. He would go to the Ironbridge Baths on the appointed day and find some means of getting in to see the fight. He reflected that he had some small standing as a journalist, and was sufficiently acquainted with some of the sports-writing fraternity, whom he had met from time to time in a pub they frequented, to be able to count on enough assistance from the Press to get himself admitted to the hall in which the fight was to be held. He was not dependent on Gorinsky’s goodwill. He would get into the baths hall in spite of him.

  With this determination firmly fixed in his mind, he stepped across to the Swan Revived. A rhythmic thudding from the floor above the saloon bar indicated that Dave was busy. Like many peace-loving and slightly introverted persons, Toby was capable, when he felt ill-at-ease or frightened, of putting on a show of bravado. To indicate his contempt for Gorinsky’s letter he decided to go up to the improvised gymnasium and, without words, to let the manager know that he despised him and was not afraid of him. He ordered his pint from Smetton and then said carelessly.

  “I think, if you’ll let me through, I’ll go up and see how the Moonrocket’s getting on.”

  “He’s skipping,” said the landlord.

  “He’s . . . ?” Thinking that Smetton was using the word in its slangy, metaphorical sense, Toby was somewhat startled. Smetton explained.

  “He’s doing his skipping exercises. Drives mother mad, that do. More than the sound of their feet on the boards when he’s at sparring practice.”

  “Oh—skipping! Yes, of course,” said Toby. “For a moment I thought you meant . . .”

  “Oh, no, they won’t be leaving here for another fortnight. Gone into Morchester, they have, Gorinsky and the trainer, to pick up the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Sparowe. What’s more, I don’t want her here. A boxing outfit is one thing, but a girl doesn’t have any place in it. Besides, there’s the arrangements. She’ll have to take Daffy’s room, and Daffy won’t like that.”

  “What’s happened to Harry, if the others have gone off without him?”

  “Playing the wag. Dolled himself up as soon as they went, swore the lad and me to keep it dark, and hired my car to go off all day on a toot. Said he was fed-up with country life and he knew the Kid would be all right with mother and me.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll go up and pass the time of day. I expect Dave’s a bit browned-off, too. He may be glad to see me.”

  The landlord raised the flap of the counter and Toby passed through and mounted the stairs. The door at the top was open and, as he entered the room, Dave suspended operations and tossed his skipping-rope into a corner. He was wearing boxing-shorts, a track-suit top, and plimsolls. Moodily he walked over to a stool and picked up his track-suit trousers.

  “Hullo, Dave,” said Toby, from the doorway. “How’s tricks?”

  The boy’s face brightened. He grinned, pulled on the trousers, seated himself, and replied,

  “Tricks is a bit of orl right. Come on dahn to the bar.”

  “Not going to break training, are you?”

  “I’m goin’ to ’ave me a beer.”

  “When the cat’s away?”

  “Ah, vat’s right. Say, Tobe, you knows wot you said abaht sparrin’. Wot abaht ’aving a liddle go? Gorinsky won’t never know, and you said you would.”

  “I don’t mind. You’ll have to be ladylike with me. I’m out of practice, and, anyway, I’m not in your class, I imagine.”

  “Anyway, you knows enough to keep away from me, I reckon, wot is more van ’Arry can do. ’Elp wiv me footwork, if you dances abaht a bit, see?”

  “I’m on, but you’ll have to postpone that pint of wallop. I’m not going to risk hitting a man who’s got a skinful of m. and b. washing about inside him.”

  “You won’t ’it me, Tobe. Won’t get the chance. All the same, p’raps you’re right abaht the beer. O.K., ven. Strip orf, and let’s get crackin’.”

  Toby went back to his house to get a pair of sneakers and his shorts. On his return he took off jacket, pullover, and shirt and picked up a spare pair of gloves. He yelled down to the landlord to come up and fix them for him and hold the watch. Nothing loth, Smetton called his wife in to look after the bar and took the stairs two at a time.

  “Wot you weigh in at, Tobe?” demanded the boy.

  “Eleven three on the bathroom scales this morning.”

  “You looks bigger. You peels well, Tobe.”


  Toby held out his hands for the gloves. Dave’s were also adjusted and Smetton, who seemed to be enjoying himself, struck a small gong. The contestants were about to set to, when Toby dropped his hands.

  “Put on your headgear, Dave,” he said. “You just might run into an unlucky wallop. It’s better to play safe. We don’t want accidents. And use your gum-shield, too.”

  “Cheese, Tobe!” protested the Moonrocket. “You won’t ’it me. You won’t come wivin a mile of me, don’t you worry!”

  “I’m not taking chances, Dave, so belt up and do as I say.”

  Before they were half-way through the first round Toby was beginning to be glad that he had insisted on the precautions. By the end of the round he was landing three punches to every one from the boy, and Dave, to his horror, was beginning to swing wildly and leave himself wide open to Toby’s scientific jabs. Worse than that, the boy was losing his temper. At the bell he slouched moodily to his corner and sat with his gloved hands dangling between his knees. His eyes were bent on the ground. Toby went over to him and said gently,

  “You’re chucking your chances away, man. For goodness’ sake keep your guard up, and lead with your left. You’re not a southpaw, are you?”

  “You’re too ’eavy for me, Tobe, vat’s my trouble. I’d ought to ’ave knowed.”

  “I’m too good for you, the way you’re shaping. Come on. Let’s have another bash, and for God’s sake stop running into my right! I can’t help but hit you, the way you’re going about it. Look, in that first round you thought I was easy, and so I ought to be. I haven’t boxed for months. But now you’ve got to try harder. I mean, I can box, you know.”

  “I reckon you told me the tale when you said I ’ad to go light,” muttered the boy sullenly. “Well, next rahnd I ain’t goin’ to go light no more. You’ll take wot’s comin’ to you.”

  “O.K. But don’t charge about like a blinking bull at a gate. Go all out, if you want to, and I’ll try to keep out of your reach. I used to box pretty regularly, but that was three years ago. You ought to be able to murder me, and you will, if you’ll only keep your head and remember what you’ve been taught.”