by Jack Tunney
"Remarkable!" gasped Mathews. "And the rest?"
"You carry the scent of your trade, sir, and I mean no offense in saying so. It is the smell of the sea and your lack of cologne as a masking agent indicates you are unaware of it. Familiarity blinds us to as much as it reminds us – thus you must have worked close to water for some time. Yet you do not have the gait of a seaman. A position on the docks is the only obvious conclusion. The cut of your clothes and the quality of the materials close these parenthesis. I will add my condolences, belated as they are, for the passing of your wife. Even though it was at least ten years ago, such wounds run deep."
"Extraordinary!"
"Mere observations. Nothing more."
"How could you possibly know about my Sophie?"
"Two sons. A tarnished wedding band embedded in your ring finger where once it fit comfortably – and no wife would allow her husband, a captain of industry, to go about town smelling of the sea in last year's tweed."
"Good Lord! You are a wonder, sir!"
Holmes nodded humbly. "The index of biographies was my start, the rest was mere deduction. With these preliminaries dispensed with, please let us proceed without my having to render explanations for all that has revealed itself to me since your arrival. When did you quit the Fancy?"
"Fifteen years ago," replied Mathews. "My legs for fighting had left me and the boys needed stability. The loss of their mother –"
"They were how old when this tragic loss occurred?"
"Nine and seven."
"So, you retired from the ring to rear them. What was the name of the firm you bought into with your prize money?"
"Gibson's. I went partners with the man, took over the concern when he passed seven years ago, leaving the concern in a state let me tell you. Broke my back doing what needed doing, so the boys would want for nothing."
"Very commendable. You taught them to box as well?"
"It was all I had to give 'em once I'd done what was necessary to secure the roof over their heads."
"The boys took to the sport?" asked Holmes.
"Not straight away. Fred did, in the end, and continues to this day."
"The Sledge?" asked Holmes.
"Right you are. Fred The Sledge Mathews." The man could not keep the pride from his voice.
"And Nigel?"
Pain pulled at his features as he was reminded of the son he had lost. "He learned it ready enough – a right stalwart study – only he lacked the fire in the boiler to take it further than the gymnasium. I want his killer found! Fred's all that's left to me, and whomever is behind this may make a run at him."
"You have suspicions as to the identity of the killer?" asked I.
"I do not. A father wants to protect his children is all."
"To that end," said Holmes, "I will ask you if you know what Nigel was doing in Camden at that late hour?"
"I could not guess."
"Was he there to attend McMurdo's benefit?"
"I told you he resented pugilism."
"Have you business with firms in that part of the city?"
"None, sir."
"Did your son hold a position in your firm?"
"He was dock foreman for a time. He was his own man."
"Thank you, Mr. Mathews," said Holmes rising from his chair. "We will be in touch."
"Don't you want to know more about the boy?"
"Very much so. And we should like to learn it from Fred to spare you in your hour of grief."
"I see. Fred's address is –"
"That won't be necessary."
"How will you find him?"
Holmes smiled enigmatically.
"Confound it! This is sorcery!"
"You will be hearing from us shortly."
After Mathews was gone, Holmes and I dressed for the street. Holmes found me eyeing the coat hanging on the rack near the door.
"It served me well last night," said Holmes, as he stooped over his desk to retrieve a revolver from the drawer. Mine was in my coat pocket. "We must return it of course. If you would be so kind as to throw it over your arm, we'll take it with us."
I did as he requested and found the garment sagged from something with some heft in one of the pockets. I plunged a hand inside and came out with a thick wad of paper notes bound by a rubber band strained to the snapping point.
"Good Lord, Holmes! It's a small fortune!"
"Indeed. If you would be so kind to set it on the side table there, we'll be on our way."
"Is this money yours?"
"Certainly not. I discovered it the pocket on the journey home."
"If it's not yours, we must return it."
"And so we shall," said he. "Let there be no mistake in your mind as to that point. For now, however, the side table, if you please."
For the sake of security, I placed the money in a drawer with a lock, pocketed the key, then draped the coat over my arm. My mind in a whirl, I led the way downstairs to the street.
FIFTH SCRATCH
"Do you not think parlour tricks were out of line at the man's hour of despair?" I asked Holmes from the hansom carrying us to Camden Town.
"Not at all. I am not immune to his loss and the helplessness he feels. Turning his mind to deciphering my parlour tricks, as you call them, may just provide some welcome distraction for his woes."
Occasionally, Holmes permitted one to catch a glimpse of what lay behind the stony facade of pure intellect and see plainly the compassion within him. "Holmes, you astound me!"
"Don't you start," said he, a smile playing about his thin lips. "I do not require you to be distracted, Watson. I would point out Mathews was not too distraught to lie when I asked him if he had business connections in Camden Town. And it was not all smoke and mirrors for the benefit of Mr. Mathews."
"Then you do know where Fred Mathews lives?"
"I haven't the foggiest idea," replied Holmes.
"Then where are going?"
"To see a man who does."
"That makes sense. What do you make of that wad of notes?"
He regarded me with his piercing gaze as he replied with finality, "Money is a tool. Nothing more."
Our destination was Forvanta House, a halfway house for retired pugilists. As most fighters plied their trade with all of the verve of youth and as much awareness of their own mortality, they more often than not squandered their winnings with high living only to be left penniless when unable to continue in their chosen profession.
Holmes and I were not strangers to the place which had been founded by Henry Dickens, a lawyer by trade. He was also a sportsmen, with a penchant for fencing as well as boxing, who carried on the tradition of philanthropy his famous father had begun. Here, in the residence Dickens established, former boxers could find lodgings and a guiding hand in choosing the next avenue of their existence.
"McMurdo's an old hand and will provide the information we seek," said Holmes after we had stepped down from the cab.
The streets had been transformed. In place of the dirt and the persistent fog, there was the illusion of cleanliness and brightness, an utter purity of new-fallen snow. The snow lay in heaps in the road. Men were scraping and shovelling the footpaths while people, huddled in thick coats and wrappers, navigated their way noiselessly around the workers. Absolute silence pervaded, replacing, at least momentarily, the roar and rush of wheels.
The trees presented an exquisite tracery of white branches against the dark red houses with gabled roofs brilliant against the clear sky. However the cold stabbed through our garments with precision, encouraging us to seek entry to the house and our boots tramped through the churned snow.
The establishment operated from a simple cement structure with a wall of the same material running in front of the street entrance for privacy. Holmes and I headed to the rear of the building, knowing McMurdo had taken a ground floor room temporarily as he made the transition from pugilist to average citizen.
We found him before a wagonette as he had a help
er – a large, florid man with the appearance of a fighter better suited to drink than the prize ring – were loading it with what meager possessions McMurdo had accumulated in his thirty-six years of life.
"I wish I could be of service, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said he, in reply to Holmes's query. He accepted a battered steamer trunk from his helper and fitted the weight into a spare corner of the wagon bed. "Only I'm off as you can see."
"You've found alternate employment, I take it?" asked Holmes.
"A fizzing toffken it is. Pondicherry Lodge's the name," McMurdo replied. "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto needs a bruiser to do a dewskitch on those that come looking for one. Imagine me for the monkery! Just as well. When an amateur can get the better of me, then it's time for McMurdo to move on. And it's move I must. Sholto's cracked the whip, he has."
The colourful bruises decorating his face, courtesy of Holmes the night before, only emphasized the man's life decision.
"I wish you every happiness in your new endeavour," said Holmes. "We'll not keep you a minute longer."
"Thankee, sir, thankee.," McMurdo received an all-set from the driver and his helper slapped him on the back as a farewell greeting. McMurdo shook our hands and climbed aboard.
"Big Ben's home today," said he, over his shoulder as the wagonette lurched away to join with the afternoon traffic. "He'll set you square. Long life to you both. Happy Christmas! Tallyho!"
This was welcome news as it necessitated we go inside to find the manager's office. The warmth was welcome as we made our way along the main corridor to a front room where the daily travails of Forventa House were dealt with.
A knock yielded a request to enter and we stepped into a narrow office with a roaring fire in the small grate across from the frost-rimed window. Benjamin Brophy was the overseer of the facility. Big Ben, as he was known during his days in the Fancy, was now simply called Ben by his close associates. He was a mountain of a man, having to turn sidewise to get through doorways, and possessed hands of uncanny strength and dexterity.
His imposing bulk, however, was set off by an open, generous face and a compassionate gleam in his blue eyes more akin to a vicar than a boxer. He rose and came around his desk with contrasting agility to his age and extended an arm thick as a python in greeting.
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," said he with his thick Irish brogue. "It's important business to get the pair o' you out t'see us wi' this bitter nip in the air, I'll wager."
"Always a pleasure, Ben," said Holmes. "If it's convenient, there's is something we'd like to discuss."
"Aye. There's always time for the likes o' you two."
We took seats around the hearth, Holmes and I stretched our frozen feet to the crackling blaze.
"Been a right hornet's nest of late," said Brophy. "Just saw me boy off for America, I have. Tim was feeling his oats. Sixteen year old and already a-yearning for adventure and a wife – in that order. So I sat him down. Told him if he wanted t'challenge himself, he should go to a wild land where rough play abounds." He eyed the marks about the face of Holmes. "Is it more training up that's needed, then? Step in the ring with the likes o' McMurdo, will ye?"
Ben Brophy had passed on a great deal of his fighting knowledge to Holmes in their sparring sessions these last ten months. Holmes, a natural athlete according to the former fighter, had been a quick study.
"It was a necessary experiment," said Holmes.
Brophy shook his head. "You would look at it like that, aye. That brain o' your'n could untie the Gordian Knot, Sherlock Holmes, yet you mess about with yer mitts and risk yer head. You've bottom enough to stand with any man so what's t'be gained, I ask ye? Yer heart and bowels will be the death of ye. Mark me!"
"But not today, Ben," was all Holmes said by way of reply. "And you have not been my only teacher, sir. But, when in Rome... "
Brophy's eyes twinkled knowingly and a half smile stretched his lips, then he said. "If it's not me germs of wisdom about the prize ring, what can I do for ye?"
"We should like to get in touch with Fred Mathews."
"The Sledge? He's a right walloper of a bruiser with plenty o' bottom."
Holmes nodded. "The very man. Have you an address for him?"
"I might at that. I've also o' warning for ye. The Sledge is a hard-tempered man. He's good wi' 'is mitts and will use 'em like as not if he don't like the looks of ye. You're not part of a police matter, are ye?"
"A crime has been committed," explained Holmes. "However we are looking into the matter at the request of Mathews Sr."
"Ah, so it was 'is boy fitted for an eternity box," said Brophy. "The papers actually got summit right. How 'bout that? It's good you're not working for the blue bottles as you'll get nothing from The Sledge if you were. Still, I'd recommend you not draw the long bow when you find him. He'll be out for blood, he will. And, until he knows exactly who's he's thirsting for, anyone's'll do. If you find him corned, do a scoot right quick."
Holmes was not put off by these warnings. "What we have to say to him won't take long. I do appreciate the warning about the man's drinking habits. Is he taken to over imbibing?"
"Not usually, and he'll cagg before a fight as part o' training" replied Brophy, "But with a brother dead, I'll not put it past 'im to be on the ran-tan. Watch yourselves."
"That we will," said I.
"If he's not at home, the Alexandra Palace is most likely where he's drinking."
"Excellent. Well, Watson, we've got a starting point."
"The papers say the body was found a stone's throw from the Stag," went on Brophy, leadingly.
"Indeed."
"Then you'll be wanting to steer clear of Ezekiel Tanner. He runs the Bald-faced Stag. A former rawsman like me. It's not my habit to put down on anyone, but the likes of Tanner makes it different. He knows life and is not a stranger to the Family."
"Really," said Holmes. "Has he ever been arrested?"
"Aye, he's worn the broad arrow," replied Brophy. "He'll get the boat if he's pinched again. Or capped if he's put in front of a beak. An' he knows it. Makes him careful and dangerous. You're downy, Holmes, but that only goes so far if you wind up matching wits with the likes of Tanner."
"Is the tavern a flash-house?" asked Holmes, ignoring Brophy's warning.
"Not so far as I know. Tanner's too smart to let the rackets come through his door. He knows it pays to keep a respectable front for his other trade. 'Im you most definitely will find at the fryin' pan as the betting there is somethin' t'behold, an' Tanner running book fer any and all competitions. A Mathews dead a stone's throw from the Stag? The Sledge'll have his eye on Tanner. I'd caution you agin gettin' 'tween both, but, seein' as I know yer won't listen, I'll save me breath."
Holmes indicated we best be on our way. We thanked Brophy for the address of Fred Mathews as we finished our tea. Holmes and I said our farewells and braced for a return to the icy roadways. A hansom presented itself after five minutes and we gratefully climbed aboard. Holmes gave the driver the address on Oval Road, which was not far.
Any hopes of having our discussion with the man were dashed, however, when we learned from the maid that Fred Mathews was not at home. Holmes pressed the comely young girl and learned Mathews had not been seen at home that day.
This was not unusual as pugilists tend to keep strange hours and company. We soon found ourselves stamping our feet on the cobblestones in vain effort of preventing winter from leeching the warmth from our legs. Our next stop was the train in order to reach the Alexandra Palace some six miles from the heart of London.
SIXTH SCRATCH
We arrived outside the Alexandra Palace to find the grounds crowded despite the blanket of snow over the sports fields and walking trails. We hurried along the sweeping approaches to the broad staircase leading into the long, two-storey building. Tiers of arches extended from the main entrance, ending at lofty towers.
Carriages milled before the doors, swaying as the horses shifted about in an effort to stay warm. The Palace had
been designed to accommodate 12,000 persons in search of entertainment and distraction, and there were at least that many milling about the great dome and the grand central hall, or climbing up or down the broad, steep exterior stairs.
We sought the Refreshment Department as it contained dining rooms, buffets, and billiard and smoking rooms looking out upon the snowy grounds. It was the ideal spot for a gentleman to imbibe while trying his luck with a wager.
Brophy had not been exaggerating. The smoking rooms were fragrant with fine tobacco being exhaled excitedly from men with predatory hunger in their eyes for quick gain. One group clustered at the windows, pressed up against the glass to see the results of the snowshoe races outside. Each game of billiards was hotly contested with fortunes riding on every shot. Smaller groups bet on cards, games of chance and skill. The clink of dice could be heard between the roars from various huddled gamblers.
In one corner, set off from the general revelry we spied a man who had to be Fred Mathews. Not only had he the shoulders and girth of a fighter, but his angular face bore some resemblance to Mathews Sr. while bearing out the marks of his trade.
"That's him to be sure. Let us get in with Mathews," said Holmes. "He will be our ticket to Tanner."
"Why not just strike up an association with Tanner directly?"
"I should like to come at him from a position of antagonism."
"Surely it's better to ingratiate ourselves into his company if we mean to get anywhere."
"No. I am convinced my approach will yield measurable results."
With that, Holmes strode up to where Mathews sat drinking beer and introductions were made.
"Off with yer!" he fairly roared. "I'm in no mood to muck about wi' the likes of you two."
"We are aware of your recent loss," said Holmes. "It is your father who has asked us to look into the death of your brother."
"Has the old man taken a sudden interest in family tragedies?" sneered Mathews. "Bit late, if you ask me. As for my brother, I've done yer job for yer. It's Tanner the Bastard that done him in and I'm here to see he pays for it."