Dear God, Tom thought. It wasn’t a prayer but an inward groan.
Suddenly, Charles Carrington began to weep. He did not try to hide his face or stifle his sobs the way most people did. He wept openly, unashamedly, like a child, letting his tears run down his face and stain his expensive-looking black morning coat. Tom couldn’t watch. He stared down at his hands, assaulted by his own conflicting emotions. Initially, he was merely shocked by Carrington’s unexpected breakdown. Then he felt disgust. Carrington was weak, pathetic. No wonder Julia didn’t respect him. Then, although he knew he must be insane for feeling it, Tom was jealous—jealous of the ease with which the other man expressed his emotions. It was no trap. He couldn’t know about Tom’s affair with Julia. Even a consummate actor would not be able to weep in the presence of the man who had cuckolded him.
After a few minutes, Carrington took out his pocket handkerchief, wiped his face, and blew his nose. He offered no apology or excuse for his outburst. “I’ve lost her,” he said, staring dully into space. “I always feared it, but I thought it would be more obvious—I thought she’d leave me and I’d never see her again. I didn’t expect it to happen gradually, in such a subtle way that I wouldn’t notice the signs. I didn’t think she would stay in the same house with me after she stopped loving me.”
Carrington leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor. “Ah, why hide the truth? She never loved me. I sensed it from the beginning of our marriage, but I thought I could win her love somehow—by buying her gifts, paying her compliments, treating her well—I don’t know. It seems ridiculous now. I’ve never been able to understand what would make her happy. The children made her happy, for a while. But then I’d catch her staring out of windows like a prisoner serving a life sentence. And during the past few months I’ve heard her crying at night in her bedroom.” His voice broke and he paused to collect himself.
“Have you asked her what the matter is?” Tom’s voice was hollow.
“Yes. She tells me it’s nothing, just woman’s troubles. I know she’s not telling me the truth. She won’t let me touch her anymore. I thought for a while she might have taken a lover, but I don’t think Julia would descend to that. She’s always tried very hard to do the right thing.”
As have I, Tom thought. But if that were true, what had happened to him?
A memory came back to him. He’d been seven or eight years old, eating a bowl of soup at the kitchen table. He had been ill and hadn’t been able to eat for a few days, so the soup tasted unusually delicious, even though his family was so poor that it was mostly water, with only some limp greens and a few pieces of potato. He hadn’t heard his father enter the room behind him, so when the force of his father’s hand hit the back of his head, he was completely unprepared. Down went his face into the bowl of soup, and his father held his head down, long enough that he inhaled some of the lukewarm broth, sputtering and flailing his arms in an attempt to right himself. Just as suddenly, his father released him and calmly walked out of the room, while Tom coughed the soup out of his lungs and wiped his face.
That day he made a vow to help people when he grew up. He would be the one to strike down those who hurt others and he would defend the ones who were hurt. He would meet violence with violence and would wipe the tears (and the soup, if necessary) from the faces of the innocent. He was only a boy, but he knew the difference between right and wrong.
Now, his childhood vow mocked him. He had taken another man’s wife for himself without a thought of what it might do to that man, or even to the woman and himself. He had injured all three of them, body and soul, and there was no way to undo the injury. He could not even admit what he had done for fear of losing his position in the church. He could not apologize to Charles Carrington.
“I don’t know what to do,” Carrington said, looking at Tom with despair in his eyes. “I don’t want to lose Julia completely, but it seems I already have. She must have shared some of her troubles with you. Will you tell me what I can do?”
“None of us can make those we love return our feelings,” Tom said stiffly. “All we can do is treat them kindly and try to think of their needs before our own.” He felt like a fraud, but he had to say something.
Carrington looked disappointed. “Can you offer me no consolation, then?”
“I can’t tell you what to do to win your wife’s heart, but I can offer you God’s consolation, if you will accept it.”
“Go on.”
“God tells us He will be with us in all our troubles. If you repent of your sins, you may rely upon His forgiveness and His peace. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says, ‘Come unto me all that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.’”
These “comfortable words” from the Book of Common Prayer had never felt less comfortable in his mouth.
Would Carrington choose to accept this consolation? Tom found himself hoping the other man would want to say the confession so he, too, could say it aloud. To confess in the presence of the person he had injured, even if the person didn’t know of the injury, would undoubtedly do him some good. But Carrington merely looked thoughtful and said, “I don’t know if I can believe that. I’ll think on it.”
Finally, Carrington took his leave. Tom remained in the office a while longer with the door closed and his head in his hands. He couldn’t have explained, even to himself, what he was feeling. His heart pounded like he’d competed in a footrace, his mouth was dry, and he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
Tom fulfilled the rest of the afternoon’s duties mechanically. He had succeeded in temporarily shutting off his brain, and nobody would have noticed any lapse in his competence. When he went home that evening, he was surprised to find a terse note waiting for him in Julia’s handwriting. It was neither signed nor addressed to him by name: I have taken care of the matter we talked about and don’t wish to discuss it again. The note and its implications chilled Tom’s blood, and he sat in front of his roast beef dinner, unable to eat.
The dinner hour stretched ahead of him, a dangerously empty slot of time. He thought about visiting various friends—bachelors only, of course, since few men’s wives would brook a last-minute addition to the dinner table. But not many of his friends were regular in their habits and trying to locate them would be an exercise in frustration. Paying a visit to the Thornes was another possibility. He was always welcome there. At the same time, he didn’t want to face Miranda’s piercing gaze. She knew there was something wrong, and he was using so much energy to prove to the world that everything was fine that he couldn’t risk her undermining his efforts.
In the end, Tom decided to pay a visit to a place he hadn’t been to for a long time. He had once promised himself he would never return, but this time he told himself he was merely doing his friend Alastair a favor. Checking up on Alastair’s errant valet was part of Tom’s public role, to reclaim those who had wandered into error.
He changed from his clerical garb into his most casual, nondescript clothes. In the process, he removed Miranda’s gold cross from around his neck and put it in the top drawer of his chest of drawers. It was the first time he’d taken it off since she gave it to him, but he didn’t want it to be lost or stolen. An ugly brown coat he’d kept for years completed the ensemble.
He took the Underground most of the way. When he finally reached the abandoned factory in the East End, he knew exactly where to go. The door at the back of the building was unlocked and he stepped inside, pausing as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
At the far end of the building, a group of men were watching two fighters in a boxing ring. As Tom approached the ring, walking past empty crates and stepping over broken masonry, he was enveloped by the smell of old leather, sweat, and an acrid odor he couldn’t identify. The two fighting men were unknown to him, but as one of the spectators turned to look at him, Tom recognized him at once.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in!” exclaimed Nate Cowan. “It’s the
Dagger. Where’ve you been?” He was a huge man with ginger hair and bushy whiskers.
“Nowhere in particular,” Tom replied with a shrug. He scanned the rest of the group, looking for Bert Gunn, whose presence would only complicate things. But Gunn wasn’t there, nor was anyone else he recognized.
“Wanna fight? God knows we could replace Jimmy with someone who’s got some life in ’im.” Nate turned abruptly to look at the smaller of the two men in the ring, a pale, skinny youth who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. “Jimmy, what the bloody ’ell are you doing? Let’s see some action!”
Jimmy didn’t look at Nate, but he seemed to have been listening, for he swung at his opponent limply with his right fist. The other man danced away from the blow easily.
“Whaddaya say?” Nate said, turning back to Tom.
“I don’t think so. I’m just looking for someone.”
“Pity. The Club could use you. Who’s the bloke you’re looking for?”
Tom was forced to acknowledge to himself the ridiculousness of his reason for being there. He had met Alastair’s valet once or twice, but he could hardly remember what the man looked like. “His name is Henry. He’s of middling height, a little stout, I think. In his early twenties.”
Nate raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for more information. Tom knew well enough that his description fit many of the fighters in the Club, and few of them used their real names. It didn’t matter. He had more important questions to ask, he realized, questions that might help him find out who had attacked him the previous autumn.
The Club had no official name. Unlike the amateur boxing clubs that operated under specific rules and regulations, the Club had begun as a group of young working-class men who needed to relieve pent-up energy after long workdays. Nate, who ran a public house, was the only one with formal pugilistic training and he’d taught the others. The casual recreation had evolved into its current form, and although Nate had toyed with the idea of registering the Club officially, he had a criminal past and didn’t want to be troubled with police or legal matters.
Tom had stumbled upon the Club as a youth of seventeen when he’d run away from home. He’d arrived in London with a small amount of money stolen from his father and a vast supply of arrogance about his prospects. He wanted to attend university but had no idea how to get there, and when the money ran out, he supported himself by fighting. By the time he met Osborne Jay a year later, he was ready to give up the rough life of a pugilist, but he never lost his taste for the sport. Even after he graduated from Cambridge and returned to London, the Club had drawn him back.
He used to spend every Friday with these men, feeling more comfortable in this environment, as much as he hated to admit it, than in the middle-class world he usually inhabited. The Club members didn’t know he was a clergyman—in fact, they knew nothing about him and didn’t ask questions. As Tom achieved higher positions in the church, from curate to vicar to canon at the cathedral, his visits to the Club had become less frequent, partly due to lack of time and partly because he was well aware that pugilism, especially in this casual, lawless, squalid form, was hardly an appropriate pastime for a man of the cloth. It was mainly because of his continued involvement with the Club that Tom had lost touch with Jay: his old mentor would be dismayed to find that his efforts to reform Tom in this respect had failed.
“Are Little Roy and Smiling Joe still part of the Club?” Tom asked Nate. Of all the fighters Tom knew, these men were the most likely to be involved in the attack on him.
“Nah. Little Roy’s been in the clink since last summer. Smiling Joe ’ad an unfortunate accident. Why d’ye ask?”
“I had an unfortunate accident myself last October. I was kidnapped and taken into the countryside, then attacked and left for dead. Did you hear anything about that?”
“You know that’s not our style.”
It was true. Most of Nate’s fighters preferred to settle scores openly, not covertly.
“Not even if they were offered money to do the job?”
“’Ow much?”
“I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”
“I’ll keep me ears open if you tell me ’ow to get the information to you. And if you join us and fight today.”
“No.”
Despite his refusal, Tom felt the old rush of excitement as he watched the fight. He liked the idea of pushing his body to its limits, of using it as a weapon. The sheer simplicity of a physical fight was compelling, too, especially in light of the internal struggle he’d been experiencing.
He focused on the fight and didn’t speak for a long moment, as the effort of restraining himself was like trying to rein in an unbroken horse. There were many reasons why he shouldn’t fight. The most convincing one was the difficulty he would have the next day at the cathedral trying to explain the injuries he was likely to receive. Another good reason was that he was out of practice and Jimmy’s opponent clearly was not. Stripped to the waist, the man was at least fifteen stone of pure muscle.
Nate was watching Tom out of the corner of his eye, grinning. Tom knew what he was thinking, but Nate was too clever to pressure him.
To distract himself, Tom asked, “How’s the Club faring these days?”
“Bloody awful. We’re down to twenty men, maybe thirty on a good day. They’re all joining the official clubs, wanna be famous prizefighters and win lots of money. Nobody wants to fight just for the fun of it anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’d hate to see the Club close down.”
“You can help keep it goin’, my boy, if you come back more regular-like. And bring your gentlemen friends with you. Your togs don’t fool me for a minute. I don’t know what you work at, but it’s probably summat important. Politics or government. You’re an educated swell, that’s clear enough.”
Tom didn’t reply, watching Jimmy take a vicious pummeling from his opponent. The two fighters clung together for a moment in a parodic embrace, then the larger man shoved Jimmy away. Jimmy fell to the floor of the ring with a soft thud, as if his bones had turned to jelly and couldn’t make a solid sound when they hit an unyielding force.
“That’s it,” said Nate. “Jimmy’s done for.”
Jimmy lay as if dead until a bowl of water was emptied over his head, when he slowly raised himself to a sitting position. As he was half carried, half dragged out of the ring, the onlookers clapped and cheered for his opponent, who merely shrugged and scanned the room. His eyes met Tom’s with an unmistakable challenge.
“Clive’s a new member,” Nate said quietly so only Tom could hear him. “A good fighter when ’e’s on the offensive, but ’e’s not as good at defending ’isself, nor is ’e very quick. You’d be a good match for ’im.”
“It’s been too long since I’ve fought. More than a year.”
“A man doesn’t forget ’ow to fight. Not when ’e’s as good as you. Clive’s already had one fight today. ’E’s tired. That should even the odds.”
Tom didn’t see how Clive could be all that tired after a fight that was so obviously in his favor. He was also at least ten years younger than Tom. Despite these warning signs, the force that set Tom’s heart pounding with excitement finally mastered him, and after a few minutes he stripped off his coat and shirt. Then he climbed into the ring with his opponent.
Nobody at the Club wore protective gear. Nate and his friends disdained the Queensberry rules, which had been followed in official fights and clubs since 1867. Among other things, the Queensberry rules required the use of boxing gloves and prohibited wrestling holds. Ignoring the rules obviously meant there was more likelihood of serious injury, but bare-knuckle fighting was true to pugilism’s roots, and as Nate liked to say, “If it was good enough for me grandf’er, it’s good enough for me.”
The fight began slowly, both men circling each other like cats, assessing their opponent’s skills before attacking. Tom tried a couple of jabs. Neither connected, Clive deflecting them easily with a bored expressio
n. The larger man’s slowness annoyed Tom. He realized belatedly that this was probably what Clive intended. He tried a more aggressive approach, making a direct hit in his opponent’s ribs. Clive retaliated with a punch to Tom’s head that sent him reeling. He staggered back but managed not to fall.
This success seemed to galvanize Tom’s opponent. He came at Tom like a steamroller, but Tom managed to evade him. Tom’s speed had always served him well in these fights. Great lumbering oafs like Clive might have more physical strength, but Tom could land more blows by darting quickly in and out of his opponent’s range. Which is exactly what he did for some time, foiling Clive’s efforts to flatten him.
“That’s the Dagger!” Nate yelled in the background. “Y’aven’t lost yer touch.”
Some of the onlookers echoed Nate’s encouragement, but Tom’s whole attention was focused on his opponent. The thrill of the fight was in his veins, the lust for blood, the most primitive instinct a man could feel. It was exhilarating.
Despite his belief that his focus on his opponent was complete, Tom was taken by surprise when Clive suddenly charged at him. The bigger man imprisoned Tom in a wrestle hold, nearly squeezing the life out of him. Then Clive hurled Tom to the ground with such force that the breath was knocked out of him. It was an agonizingly long time before he could breathe again, and it occurred to him that the Queensberry rules were not so bad, after all.
On the other hand, the fight would have been over if the rules had been observed, since it took longer than ten seconds for Tom to struggle to his feet again. He straightened up slowly, relieved that nothing dire had happened to his back, and regarded his opponent with narrowed eyes.
“’Ad enough?” jeered Clive.
It was the wrong thing to say. Tom’s exhilaration was replaced by a rage that felt like strength, and it drove him towards his opponent again. He was moving more slowly now, but he was still faster than Clive. He pummeled the other man’s torso with his fists, four, five, six blows connecting with satisfying impact. Clive’s attempts to shield himself from the blows failed, and he swayed on his feet.
Bear No Malice Page 14