Rivals in the City (3 page)

“Not that Scotland Yard are aware of.”

“What about former associates? She had a junior partner in the piracy scheme.” Mary’s mind raced ahead. Someone else who could set the stage, even before Mrs Thorold was on English soil…

“Ah, yes. He confessed to everything, but most unhelpfully died before his trial. We’re not aware of any other assistants.”

Mary nodded as the scene emerged clearly in her mind. “So you’re asking me to watch the prison, since Mrs Thorold will need to make personal contact with Thorold.”

“Yes. You’re the most likely to recognize her, having lived in her household.”

“She played the invalid matron to perfection throughout my time there. It was a genuine shock to see how she really spoke and moved when she thought herself unobserved.”

Anne nodded. “She is a formidable adversary.” The two women fell silent as they remembered Maria Thorold: accomplished dissembler, unhesitating murderer. Such a vengeful woman was unlikely to have a short memory. After a pause, Anne finally acknowledged what was only too evident. “I realize, of course, that you’ll be in an exceptionally dangerous position if Mrs Thorold learns you were the cause of her initial downfall. Mr Easton is also at risk, of course.” Anne inclined her head. “I believe you are in frequent contact with him?”

Mary nodded. More silence. Finally, she asked, “Where is Thorold being held?” Her thoughts went to Pentonville or Millbank prisons, so-called “model” jails, recently built on humanitarian schemes. They were tidy and orderly and clean. Nothing like her own brief experience of incarceration.

Anne’s hesitation prepared Mary for the answer. “Newgate,” said the older woman at last. “He’s in Newgate.” She leaned forward and touched Mary’s arm with a light, hesitant hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. I am deeply reluctant to ask this of you, but Mrs Thorold is an exceptionally dangerous criminal who remains at large.”

Mary nodded, her blood suddenly roaring, nearly too agitated to be contained by her veins. Of course it was Newgate. Where she had narrowly escaped hanging, after an ill-judged attempt to steal a piece of gold plate from a deceptively well-guarded house. Unbidden, the stench of its corridors suddenly entered her nostrils: dung and filth and fear. She forbade herself thoughts of the jail, blinded herself to memories of its dank cells. She tried, at any rate. And after several moments, a measure of logic asserted itself against terror. “Surely not Newgate?” she finally managed. Her voice was loud in the quiet room, but she didn’t care. “Newgate holds prisoners who haven’t yet been tried.”

“And those awaiting deportation,” said Anne, “neither of which is the case for Mr Thorold. I, too, thought this highly unusual and looked into the matter. He’s being held under a relatively obscure classification, as a person convicted of offences on the high seas.”

Logic had its limits, and Mary found this explanation of little reassurance. Fear still clawed her insides at the very word “Newgate”, and her memories of its dark interior remained vivid. She held herself as still as possible so that she didn’t curl into a ball. She tried to breathe slowly, focusing on the high, wide window of her parlour, the warmth of her own fireplace. She was her own woman. She was free.

When she recovered herself, Anne was saying, “I should count it as an enormous favour, Mary, if you were to accept this assignment. I know there’s nothing now to tie you to the Agency…”

Except gratitude, thought Mary. And memories. And very real affection for this woman, who’d rescued her from jail and changed her life beyond recognition. Everything in the world still tied her to the Agency … except her loyalty to James Easton, and their hopeful new partnership. She cleared her throat and Anne instantly became attentive. “Before I can give you an answer, Miss Treleaven, I must discuss the matter with Mr Easton. He is my business partner now.”

Something very like regret compressed Anne’s features, but she quickly smoothed her expression. “Naturally.”

It was only in that moment that Mary realized what else was wrong about the conversation: Anne’s use of “I”. When Felicity Frame had been part of the Agency, she and Anne had always spoken as “we”. Mary had always thought they meant the Agency as a whole, the collective of clever and unconventional women to which she was privileged to belong. But Anne’s use of “I”suggested otherwise.

“I realize this is an urgent matter and shall endeavour to give you an answer as quickly as possible.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” said Mary firmly, and rose. It was impolite of her, of course, all but demanding that Anne depart, especially with a cup of tea unfinished. But what was decorum compared to the problems she and James now faced? Her mind whirled. James was Mrs Thorold’s primary adversary in England, the essential witness in any case against her. Mary’s anxiety on his account was reasonable in its foundation, but distorted by emotion: it was unlikely that Mrs Thorold was already on his trail, ready to do him harm. It would be excessive to interrupt his work with a message, and she would see him in a few short hours. Logical as her thoughts were, they offered little comfort.

“I shall await your reply,” said Anne, recalling her to the present moment. “At any hour of the day or night.”

Mary nodded. “Thank you.”

She saw Anne down the zigzagging flights of stairs and into a hansom. The rain had stopped, the dank chill subsided. But as Mary closed the front door behind her, she shivered.

Three

The same evening

Near Leicester Square

T
he venue, if one could grace the place with such an exalted name, was a public house near Leicester Square and it was called, improbably, the Crown Inn. It stood a few doors down from the notorious Cambrian Stores, arguably the rowdiest and most violent pub in all of London. The Crown Inn was several degrees grottier.

Even from the street, James had the measure of the crowd: poor, male, drunk, aggressive. All about them, people simmered with pent-up frustration, a ferocity both tempered and stoked by their Saturday wage packet and a grim determination to make the most of the weekend. It was an obvious powder-keg, an exceptionally foolish place to be on a Saturday evening. They should never have come. James glanced down at Mary, noted the determined line of her jaw and said nothing.

Her boy’s costume was nearly perfect: the jacket and breeches well-worn, the boots just a few miles from falling to pieces. The only flaw was her hair. Instead of cropping it short again, she had covered it with a tattered cap. He hoped it wouldn’t get knocked off her head. On any other night, he’d have quietly insisted upon leaving. But something was different about Mary this evening. She was generally intense, focused – qualities they shared. But tonight, she was drawn as taut as a violin string. Tighter, possibly.

For Mary, this was clearly more than an irresponsible escapade. It was a compulsion that seemed to include an element of homage to her father, the paying of a debt. He could understand that. She’d concealed her family history for so long. Would have to continue to do so, at times. But this evening, it was time to explore it. His role tonight was simply to accompany, to acquiesce, to help her however he could.

There was a burly man at the door, taking money. “How much?” asked James, trying to peer inside.

“Tanner.” The man glanced at Mary with bored eyes. “And half-price for your brother.”

James was genuinely surprised. “Steep that, innit?”

The doorman shrugged and gestured with his chin at the seething mass of bodies packed into a stripped-down room. “House rules, take it or leave it.”

James dug into his trouser pockets – he’d left his billfold at home, along with his bespoke boots – and counted out ninepence. “Better be worth it,” he muttered.

Inside, their shoes scuffed against the packed sawdust that had been thrown down to soak up beer and blood. The Crown Inn wasn’t so much a pub as a boxing den that sold indifferent mugs of ale at inflated prices. It had nothing to offer beyond a large sparring ring, a few tiers of benches against each wall and a ceiling that amplified the spectators’ jeers and roars. The spirit within was heady. It reminded him of the festival atmosphere outside Newgate on a hanging day, come to think of it.

Boxing matches, both amateur and professional, were difficult to avoid in London. It was a city of casual brawls, where men – and the occasional woman – seemed to glory in stripping to the waist and locking horns. Boxing was a way to settle disputes, entertain one’s mates, earn a little money and let off steam, all at the same time. At the Cambrian Stores, the retired bare-knuckle boxing champion Nat Langham held prizefights at least once a week. The sight of professional fighters sparring for a cash prize often inspired patrons to fisticuffs of their own.

Thus far, Mr Ching’s idea was far from original. What set him apart, however, was his unapologetic use of Chinese fighting techniques, and – the truly reckless aspect that made James nervous – his deliberate stoking of habitual English racism in the current political climate, in order to drum up a crowd. If he fought well, he would soon be the most famous prizefighter in London. Either that or a dead man.

The benches, packed tight with squirming bodies, were already the site of several disputes about space and spillage. Navigating with his elbows, James found a suggestion of standing room behind a cluster of serious-sounding men who looked like experienced boxers themselves. The unheated room stank of sweat, but it was also warm, a rarity during this wintry autumn. James bought two overpriced tankards of ale and handed one to Mary, who smiled briefly up at him. It was much too loud for conversation so he scanned the crowd as he swigged the beer, plotting a couple of possible swift exits should the crowd turn too bloodthirsty for even Mary’s curiosity to endure.

After some time, there came an ear-splitting blast from a cracked cornet, and the big doorman announced, “Last call for bets! All bets to be made now!” A final flurry of activity – a handful of boys ran about, ferrying money from bettor to bookie – and then that infernal horn again.

“Gentlemen, working men, citizens of London!” announced a new man in a greasy top hat. “Tonight you are privileged to witness a truly unique spectacle: a boxing match unlike any other! Our foreign pugilist, the Chinaman Ching, makes an outrageous claim. He believes that Chinese hands and fists are superior to English ones! He claims that he can best any English challenger in an unarmed fight! Tonight, we shall put that to the test!” The man held out his hands for silence against the cheers and howls. “There will be three matches this evening, all against the same Chinaman. He asks a prize of only one pound for each victory, and promises to pay the same to any who beat him. The fighters will be unarmed, of course; we are Englishmen. But to allow the savage Chinaman a fair chance, to meet him halfway in his foreign ways, and to avoid what would otherwise be an execution – we will allow him to use not just fists, but feet!”

The crowd erupted into roars, half-approving, half-outraged.

“Men of London, the hour is come. We have our judges! We have our mighty, beef-fed, English prizefighters! Let us now see … the Chinaman!”

At this, there began a deep, feral sort of baying that seemed, literally, to shake the room. James felt the noise as much as he heard it, and the beer tankard vibrated in his palm. He noticed Mary craning her neck, her view blocked by a bobbing sea of heads and shoulders. He was just regretting that there was no step on which she could perch when she swiftly tipped out her drink, upended the tankard and stood on it for a better sightline. He hid a smile. He was a fool to worry about her so incessantly, a greater fool to accompany her here. He seemed doomed to foolishness where she was concerned.

It was difficult to see where Mr Ching might be coming from, for the room was so tightly packed that it was nearly impossible to budge. Finally, however, he spotted a ripple of movement begin at the far corner of the room: men turning, their wide-open mouths contorting in a nightmare display of dental neglect. Slowly, unhurriedly even, a black head bobbed through the crowd, picking its way towards the centre of the room – with resistance, James noted. Mr Ching stood a little below average height and he was being prodded and shoved and goaded by the feverish crowd.

At long last, he arrived in the relative safety of the ring, and James released a breath of relief he’d not known he was holding. Mr Ching was not thin, precisely, but lacked the squat, heavy musculature one expected of a pugilist. He looked steadily downwards, ignoring the hundred or so men screaming filth at him. He was dressed in ordinary worker’s fustian. James felt oddly disappointed; he’d expected the loose, silken Chinese costume of the illustration.

“Mr Ching!” boomed the impresario.

The Chinese man raised his chin. In that moment, James felt Mary tense beside him. He couldn’t see her face – she stood slightly further forward than he – but it was obvious from the curve of her neck, the tension in her shoulders, that she was struggling with strong emotion. He suppressed the impulse to stroke her back, pull her close. Instead, he forced himself to look at Mr Ching.

The prizefighter’s face was a clean-shaven oval, with prominent cheekbones and slightly wide-set eyes. He wore his hair cut severely short, like a sailor. His expression was difficult to read: calm, certainly, and somewhat disdainful as well. Or perhaps it was an excellent mask, and inside he was quaking.

“Lordy, he’s a runt,” said one of the men in front of them. “If I’d of known he was only the size of a dog’s fart, I’d of fought him myself, for an extra pound.”

“You’re better saving yourself for tomorrow night’s fight,” his friend advised him. “I seen some Chinamen fight, once. He may be little, but he’ll have some sneaky tricks up his sleeve.”

James hoped they were right.

The room was a cesspit of aggression – verbal, physical, emotional – all of it directed at Ching. He gave no sign of awareness, merely gazed into the middle distance, acknowledging no one. Only when the announcer bawled did he seem to hear, turning towards the man with mild-mannered politesse.