"I never heard of such a show. What a damned shame, sounds most instructive," I replied, enthralled.
"It didn't last long, I expect you missed it whilst you were in India keeping the foe from our throats. Actually, the whole thing turned into a bit of cause celebre, the matriarchs shouting indecency and getting into no end of a bother and, at one stage the police having to be called after some wretched blue-stockings mounted a demonstration. So, Gutteridge, having made a tidy pile, returned to his first love, The Fancy. In his day he was a fighter himself, then he promoted boxers and fixtures before lighting upon Shaw, training him to take the title - oh, you know the rest better than I do." I saw that Holmes was about to drift off again.
"I knew none of that - it's fascinating, but there's still no motive that I can see,"
"Oh, Watson, what more d'you need to know? There must have been friction between master and performer - some jealousy I expect - they can be touchy types these show-folk, you know. The knife wounds were from a long, thin blade, a poignard, not some ruffian's butcher's knife, precisely the sort of well balanced weapon that someone like Gutteridge would have owned. Also, they were tightly grouped, accurate, the work of an expert. If Shaw wasn't dead before he hit the floor, he was soon afterwards," Holmes paused and took another sip of tea. "I know what you're thinking, Watson, I can see you're as frustrated with all this as I am but really, I haven't the time to waste on such mundane matters." It was true, Holmes had been frantically busy with the Tartare Case - an affair of great intricacy much more to his taste than the crudities of the Noble Art. "That's why I sent Gutteridge away with a flea in his ear. There's something odd though; did you notice anything strange about him, Watson?"
"No, not really. Nothing beyond his unusually bushy moustache. Why, what did you see?" I asked, puzzled.
"Oh nothing, nothing; it don't signify. The truth will out very shortly, I’m sure of it. Some newspaper fellow will dedicate himself to it, Gutteridge will make a mistake - he'll try to use someone else as a carapace and that will fail. Then not even our friends from Scotland Yard will be able to avoid taking some action."
"I strongly suspect you're right, Holmes." My whole body was aching from the race against Trevelyan and the tumble I'd taken - I was even feeling the effects of my old wound in the shoulder - but my fascination with the case and my impatience with Holmes's lack of energy served to spur me on. "But I still don't see what Gutteridge's motive was."
Now, I still didn't know Holmes that well. We'd been sharing rooms for some time, we'd co-operated on a couple of cases and he'd been patient with my amateurishness. He'd also been kind to me in a rather muscular way when my black dog came to pay a visit and I'd seen that he found my rather more systematic approach to problems annoying. On the whole, though, we rubbed along well enough; I certainly hadn't expected this.
"In the name of all that's holy, Watson, if you won't take my word for it, solve the God-forsaken thing yourself!" In a flash he went from idle calm to violent storm, jumping up from his chair, hurling the paper to the floor and upsetting his tea. But the harmless tinkle of the china was made sinister by the almost complete silence of the explosion. I would have expected such physical energy to be accompanied by a bellow, a sergeant-major type roar, a clear expiation of frustration. But no, he didn't raise his voice at all. His words were low, sibilant, the curses made more menacing by the way they were whispered. He continued, hushed, "go to Gutteridge's gym in Vauxhall, beard the man and that froward creature, Amelia, Shaw's widow. Then, if you've still not had your belly-filled, go and see Crangle - The Beast himself - who may, indeed, have had a motive for letting Shaw's blood. Waste as much of your time as you wish and when you've still not had enough of such tommy-rot, come back and tell me - yes, tell me, the man who's solved crimes innumerable - what the answer is," and with that he strode from the room leaving me numb with surprise, I have to admit.
Chapter Two, Vauxhall.
"You couldn't get tickets for the Shaw-Poulter fight for love nor money, sir. I 'ad to go to a tout in Paddington before I could get me mitts on such a thing. Cost me three bob - three bob - an' it left Mrs Bowler an' the kid well short that week. Mind you, it were worth it. D'you remember how Shaw slowed poor old Poulter in the third with a jab to the guts? Took the wind out his sails, I can tell yer, then finished him in the fourth with a slap on the chin?" Bowler was striding along beside me in his great, nailed boots. There was something annoying yet comforting about the way that he clung to the old habits - he always marched in step with me and if I fell silent, he would make an irritating soft, tssk noise by blowing through his teeth as our left feet touched the ground in imitation, no doubt, of the tap of the drum. Not that you'd think he'd ever been a soldier. Even when we both served together in the old 66th out east, he was a colour-sergeant's bad dream; now he was as fat as grease and as ill at ease in a blue, three-piece suit of heaviest barathea as he had been in cotton khaki.
"D'you know, Bowler, I can remember very little of Shaw's early career except the choicer bits that the papers carried. I never saw a fight - I got tickets to his match with Sissons but never got round to going." The truth was, so many times in the last couple of years had I been plunged into a well of despair by the memories of Afghanistan that I'd missed many of the things that gave life its tang. Bowler, however, had been with me throughout the hell of Maiwand and knew all about my troubles, although he was far too polite to allude to it.
"He was a lad, 'im. Biggest punch in the Empire. He would 'ave showed that Beast of Boston what's what if only he’d got the chance," said Bowler, getting into his stride.
I'd utterly rejected the poor fellow at first, seeing him as an embodiment of all the horrors of my time whilst doctoring in the Army. I was horrified when he'd turned up on my doorstep with that Afghan temptress, Alyisha, on his arm and she with his ring on her finger. But I grew to enjoy his company as he tried to flee his own household as first one child and then another began to dominate their rooms in King's Cross. But Holmes thought I was far too pally with the man, expecting me to treat him more like a soldier-servant than the comrade-cum-handy-man that he'd become. Sometimes he'd be a little over familiar but then, I reckoned, he was probably entitled to be after all we'd endured together. And he never seemed to lack for spare time or ready change, either. Bowler professed to be some sort of part-time cabby, but I guessed that his wife was probably not the only bit of booty that had found its way into his blanket-roll after we left the locals to fend for themselves in Kandahar.
"All of that's true, Bowler, but now we need to find out who killed the poor fellow and for what reason," I answered as we swung down the South Lambeth Road towards Gutteridge's gym.
"We all know that, sir. It's this cove Gutteridge who knifed Shaw - least, that's what all the papers say and Mister 'Olmes too," he replied, the watch chain that he always wore swinging in time to the pace.
"Certainly, I've no doubt that's the case, but what's his motive and if it's so damn obvious, why haven't the police acted? Anyway, we shall soon find out. Here we are, smarten yourself up, now." We pushed the door of a low-roofed warehouse type place that was newly painted with a large sign announcing 'The Muscle Factory' and the profiles of two boxers hard at it. The gym was well lit and clean with a roped-off, raised ring in the centre and all the usual paraphernalia that I associated with such dens. Parallel bars lined the walls, medicine balls were dressed in neat ranks, there were punch-bags and weights galore and great, thick ropes hanging from the ceiling. Even if I'd had my eyes closed, I would have known where I was. It was the smell; that familiar sweaty-sweet reek that thumped my nostrils now in the same way that it had in similar establishments in every school, university or barracks that I'd ever been in. I can't say that I liked the stink - it spoke too much of exertion and exhaustion, but it had a homeliness about it that brought back so many memories.
"This is quite a spread, sir. Why, if this was the depot gym it would be humming."
"True, Bo
wler, but this isn’t the Army, this is Mister Gutteridge's place of business. Ah, look yonder, that must be his office and someone's in." Over in the corner was a small, wooden shack in which a gas light shone in the gloom of the late afternoon. Sure enough, as we walked over the sprung wooden floor, I could read a sign on the door, 'A Gutteridge Esqre. Trainer.' I knocked and went in to find the same, well made fellow whom I had last seen on the doorstep in Baker Street. Now he was sitting at a desk and he turned as we came in.
"We're closed, can't you read the sign?" said Gutteridge in the same, irritated tone that he'd used when we met just a few hours ago.
"I beg your pardon, we saw the lights on, Mister Gutteridge. Forgive the intrusion, but I'm John Watson and this" -
"Yes, I know who you are." I'd noticed that besom of a moustache before, it stuck out like a thorn hedge below a broken nose. "You're Watson, Holmes's man, in't ya, you're in the press almost as much as your hoity-toity boss-wallah. But who's this with ya?"
"I'd hardly describe myself as Mister Holmes's 'man'. I work with him to be sure and this" -
"I'm Bowler and I'm very much Doctor Watson's man. I was his man in Afghanistan and I still am," interrupted my companion, bunching his fists, thrusting out his chin, full of scratchy loyalty. I put my arm out gently to restrain him.
"I gather that Sherlock Holmes and you had rather less than a meeting of minds this morning. I've seen what the papers are saying, I know what Holmes is saying." I thought it would be useful to distance myself from Sherlock in the circumstances. “But I don't believe them. So, I've come to offer my help in clearing your name, for I reckon that if the papers were right, you'd have been in custody for quite some time already. And there's more to it than that. I suspect that you are just as keen to see the perpetrator, the man who killed England's finest boxer since the great Bendigo and a man whom only you could train to such perfection, face justice." None of this flattery was true, but I really was itching to find out why Gutteridge had done it and why the police were being so dilatory.
"Oh, oh, really? Your words bring more comfort than you can imagine, Doctor Watson," Gutteridge remarked, shrinking visibly as the tension left him. "You're no slouch when it comes to devillin' out the truth if the press is to be believed. Mister Holmes wouldn't entertain me - good as called me a murderer, he did - 'spect you know that. But I'd appreciate a chat if you've got the time?"
"That's exactly why we're here, Mister Gutteridge, may we sit down?"
"Course you can, move them papers," I found an armchair whilst Bowler shifted some magazines off a nearby stool. "You'll have a swally, won't you, Scotch or gin?" Gutteridge replied, welcomingly.
"Wel, it's a little early," I began.
"Scotch for both of us, if you please," Bowler finished.
"Yes, of course, give me a second," and while our host went to wherever he kept his drink Bowler nudged me and pointed.
"Damn me, sir. Is that who I think it is? Nice bit of stuff on the receiving end, an' all."
Bowler was studying a poster that I'd missed. The room, as might be expected, was decorated with bills and flyers for various fights and some athletic contests, but less obvious was a two foot by eighteen inch, highly coloured affair that announced that 'The Great Pierce' was appearing at the Winding Wheel Theatre, Chesterfield on 3rd July 1879 where those who chose to pay 9d could witness “acts of such breathtaking dexterity” with an artist's impression of what was clearly Gutteridge togged up in some sort of bizarre bull-fighter's costume brandishing a clutch of knives. But it was his target that caught my eye. The same artist was, I suggest, more used to illustrating the sort of printed entertainment most usually found in barrack rooms. His happy pen and brush had produced a siren so voluptuous, so innocently wanton, bound at ankle and wrist to a wheel and clearly in such a state of agitation that I could almost feel her heaving. Holmes had been right. If the reality lived up to the advertisement, I could quite see why there had been a rumpus - and in Chesterfield; imagine that! I had the utmost difficulty in tearing my eyes away from the damn thing when the Great Pierce himself returned carrying three beakers and a bottle.
"Sorry to keep you," he said and poured a generous tot and pushed the glasses towards both Bowler and me. Gutteridge drained his glass in one, refilled it, wiped his whiskers and then began.
"See, the Peelers can't lay nothing on me because I've got the perfect alibi. Ezekial Shaw was knifed sometime between six o'-clock and five an' twenty past on the 8th of December last. As you know, he was found by some casual passers-by who was on their way to a theatre - they'd no part of it - but he was still warm and there was such a lake of blood around him that the lady spoiled her boots, she did. Anyway, the police were soon there, found his purse gone and reckoned it was footpads until some busybody on Punch took a look at the post-mortem report. That revealed more stabs than a pin-cushion; the papers put two an' two together, made six and blackened my name," Gutteridge paused and sipped his whiskey.
"So?" Bowler asked, voicing my thoughts.
"So what?" answered Guttridge,
"What's this perfect alibi then?"
"Well, I weren't there. I was dining with a lady in her private apartments and she told the police and accounted for my movements not just then but for well into the evening, shall we say." Gutteridge leered rather nastily when made this declaration.
"So who is she then?" Bowler continued, bluntly.
"The lady who was entertaining me was a long term acquaintance of mine shall we say, who probably shouldn't have been quite so well known to me," Gutteridge replied, a note of most unattractive confidentiality creeping into his voice.
"Who is this bint?" Bowler asked, voicing my thoughts, albeit in his own style.
"No 'bint', I can assure you, Mister Bowler. She is one of the loveliest women you'd ever have the pleasure to meet," Gutteridge snapped back.
"Yes, yes, I have no doubt she's charming," I issued, trying to calm things down, "but it would help immensely to know who she is, especially if she can provide a caste-iron alibi for you."
"Well, no-one's meant to know," Gutteridge looked theatrically over both shoulders, "it's Amelia Shaw, the Champ's wife - well, widow now. An' before you ask, the police an't told the Press anything because they don't want to cause her problems - not her."
"But that's preposterous. You've got a perfectly solid alibi. I accept that it might lead to some awkward questions for Mrs Shaw, but" -
"I’m not so sure either sir that the truth should out. What self-respecting bluebottle's gonna blow the whistle on the missus of the most famous sportsman in the kingdom? Ain't it bad enough that Ezekial Shaw's been taken from us without dragging his wife through the mire as well? No, however they presented it, the public would see it as some sort of distraction for Scotland Yard's own recent failures."
"He's right," Gutteridge cut in, "you've put yer finger on it, Mister Bowler. It's difficult, though, because whilst all this suspicion rests on me and whilst I don't wish to compromise Mrs Shaw, I'm losing business. The gym's busier with newspaper blokes than what it is with athletes and boxers. But this is where you can come in, Doctor. If you'll take the job, I want you to find out who did it without getting Mrs Shaw and me into any more grief. See, we was going to wait 'til the fight was over and then elope. I know it sounds harsh, but we reckoned that Ezekial would be so taken up with the fight he was going to win, so full of puff after all the attention that he’d got during our training regime that he wouldn't notice. There'd been nothing between them for years, but if I stands up and announces how Amelia and me feels about each other and that we were about to do the dirty on the two-times champion of all England, we'd both be bloody lynched. That's why the police are keeping their grids shut. But, I'll tell you who did it, who had the motive and the means - it's bleeding obvious!"
***
"Fairly inventive, I grant you that, but it won't answer. I thought him quite odious when he was here, that shocking moustache and that odd pomade he w
as wearing - did you smell it, Watson?" Holmes was tinkering with chemicals again when I got back to Baker Street. I was probably being over-sensitive, I'm sure it wasn't ether at all, but that's what my nose picked up as soon as I came in through the door and with it flooded back the spectre of dressing stations, blood, wounds…oh, and a host of other nastiness. I was in two minds about not recounting my interview with Gutteridge, but I decided to and was slightly surprised when Sherlock put his pipette to one side and listened intently.
"Well, yes I did. He'd gone to town for sure, but I expect he'd done himself up to the nines in order to impress you. But, your giving him the right about face would hardly have increased his natural charm, would it - he was fine with me.” Even Bowler who had reacted to him so badly at first agreed with me that once the prime suspect had put his pomposity on the mantelpiece he'd actually become quite a pleasant sort of cove. And we both agreed on another thing too: none of his time in front of audiences had been wasted, for he was a damn fine actor. His lines were well rehearsed and delivered with a passion that was most plausible.
"Perhaps, perhaps. But let's just reprise the new pieces of information he gave you. The business about Mrs Shaw's reputation being of such crucial importance is just nonsense."
"Are you sure, though, Holmes?" I interrupted. "At first I agreed with you, but Bowler was emphatic about it and - let's be honest with ourselves - he understands the labouring classes much better than we do and the police would have the same attitude."
"Oh really, Watson. I grant you, the police may be hanging back out of some form of misplaced sensitivity, waiting for a new piece of cast-iron evidence, too scared of the Press to haul the creature in and make him talk as they might do with less celebrated cases. The idea, though, that they believe that Gutteridge knows nothing and they're sitting on their hands in the meantime is just piffle. Go and see Mrs Shaw - go and see the police too and make your own mind up." Holmes had left his noxious experiment now and was walking back to the other side of the room, his chin in his hand - a sign that I had come to welcome for it meant that he was concentrating. And for him to acknowledge that the Shaw case had to be solved in a rather more direct way rather than simply priming the newspapers and letting them so the rest was a distinct improvement.
Doctor Watson's Casebook Page 7