Rivals in the City (8 page)

Normal speech was trampled in their joint uproar. “Please!” James shouted, after a minute’s doomed effort. “I’m fine. I should like a wash, and then a peaceful dinner, if you please. I’ll tell you what happened afterwards,” he added.

“I say,” said a new voice from the first floor. “I do hope I’m not intruding. Ought I to come back another time?”

James stared up the flight of stairs. “Oh, it’s you, Alleyn,” he said after a moment. “Pay no attention to us. George likes a good bellow when I get home from the office.”

“Well, I couldn’t help but overhear his call for a physician. I’m at your service, as ever,” said Rufus Alleyn, in his unruffled way.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” muttered George. “Alleyn’s invited to dinner, and so are the Ringleys.”

James suppressed a sigh. The Ringleys – George’s fiancée, her parents and her two younger sisters – were far from his favourite people. They were pleasant, well-meaning and deadly dull. After ten minutes in their company, James was always tempted to climb out the drawing-room window. “Sorry, George, I did forget. Give me a minute to tidy up, and I’ll join you in the drawing room.”

“He’s your friend,” persisted George, under his breath. “I can see your forgetting about the Ringleys, but I thought you liked Rufus Alleyn.”

James flushed. Was he so very transparent in his preferences? “The Ringleys are excellent people,” he said. “I like them for your sake, George.”

Some of George’s obvious hurt faded, and he patted James’s shoulder gently. “Take your time,” he said. “I ordered dinner for eight. And Jamie…”

James turned to look at him.

“You would tell me if you were injured, wouldn’t you?”

James swallowed. “Of course I would, George.” He began to climb the stairs, making an effort not to limp.
I just can’t tell you why
.

An hour later, James sat in the dining room, a glass of wine at hand, wishing he was anywhere but here. It was a good house with comfortable furniture and cheerful company. Rufus Alleyn was a genuinely interesting chap, a physician who chose to work amongst the poor of London’s East End. The Ringleys were exerting themselves to talk of subjects other than hat trimmings and the weather. And Mrs Vine’s dinner menu was both delicious and bountiful. Yet the persistent ache in his ribs was a nagging reminder of the dangers just outside. James kept glancing at the clock on the mantel, wondering how rapidly he could shoo them all out of the house.

George had taken charge of the seating and placed James between the two eligible Ringley girls. Of course, thought James: Alleyn was invited to balance out the number of gentlemen, as well as the conversation. The Miss Ringleys were agreeable girls, comfortable, lace-trimmed bundles of dimples and ringlets, distinguishable only by their ribbons: Miss Polly’s dress was trimmed in pink, Miss Harriet’s in yellow. They were flatteringly, almost alarmingly, riveted by everything he said. James felt quite certain that if he observed that the night was dark, both would turn their fascinated gazes upon him and breathe, “Oh, how very true!” If only they felt free to speak their minds, he thought, this evening would be more enjoyable.

But enjoyable or not, it was a risk that made him feel stupid and culpable. He ought to have remembered the dinner party and insisted that George cancel it. He had been so miserably absorbed in his own difficulties – Mary, the Bank of England, the assault – that he’d not paused to consider the danger to which he was now exposing their guests. If Mrs Thorold was indeed on his trail, she might try to revenge herself by hurting those dear to him. George, the Ringleys and Rufus Alleyn were all part of his observable orbit this evening. He could only pray that they went unscathed, no thanks to him and his appalling selfishness.

Miss Polly Ringley broke his train of thought by angling her body towards him – close enough that he was suddenly, intensely aware of the rose perfume rising from her wine-warmed skin – and murmured, “Have you been to any interesting concerts or lectures in recent days, Mr Easton?”

“Why, yes,” he replied, after a brief hesitation. “This past weekend, I went to Leicester Square to see a Chinese pugilist.”

She was already smiling with expectation but his words caused her to blink and pause. “I beg your pardon, did you say ‘pugilist’?”

“I did.” To his left, he heard Miss Harriet squeak with anxiety. “It was most instructive. I’d no idea it was possible to spar so effectively with both hands and feet.”

The Miss Ringleys might have been lost for words, but Rufus Alleyn, sitting on Miss Polly’s other side, immediately leant forward. “I say, did you? I was called out on Saturday night to patch up a fellow who was unlucky enough to have challenged the Chinaman. Quite a job, it was. His right hand was so terribly smashed up that I was forced to—”

Miss Polly looked dismayed. “Mr Alleyn, I fear that my sister is of a delicate disposition…”

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Polly,” said Rufus, smoothly. “I’m afraid I allowed my professional enthusiasm to carry me away. I won’t go into the unsavoury details, but it was a long ordeal for my patient. Vicious little rat, that Chinese must have been. Or perhaps ‘rat’ is too small an animal. ‘Terrier’, maybe?”

James couldn’t suppress his irritation. “Why not simply ‘man’ or ‘fighter’?”

Rufus looked blank. “Well, they’re a smaller race…”

“They are still people. Certainly, they are more like us than they are like animals.”

“If you like,” said Rufus, clearly trying to humour James’s sudden ill temper. “I didn’t mean anything by it, dear fellow.”

James ground his teeth together. “I know.” He looked around the table at all the merry pink-and-white faces and thought briefly, bleakly, of Mary. She’d changed him more than he’d ever dreamed possible. He was no longer entirely at home with his peers, thanks to her. If he lost her now, what on earth would become of him?

Seven

Wednesday, 17 October

Newgate Street, London

O
n her third day as a strolling vendor, Mary found herself feeling oddly at home in Newgate Street. All evidence of Monday’s hangings had been cleared away, and only the looming wall of the jail reminded passers-by of the suffering within. Any shadow it cast over the street was mostly literal. The people of Newgate Street carried on their daily lives much like those in any other city street. There were the traders: butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers, and labourers of all descriptions who trudged through on their way to work. There were women aplenty, too: market-traders like Mary, sleepy-looking prostitutes at noon, the occasional apple-cheeked countrywoman, all agog at what the capital had to offer. And at each end of the street there was a coffee-stall where one could buy a mug of coffee and two very thin slices of bread and butter for a penny.

There were, of course, others: a one-legged beggar, rank and ragged, sucking comfort from a filthy bottle; an angry, chattering woman who stalked the street, lurching and screeching at anyone who looked in her direction; and the usual contingent of idling errand boys playing with whatever refuse approached the shape of a football.

And then there were the characters who embraced Newgate Street precisely because of the jail and the nearby Old Bailey. There was a gaunt man with long wisps of grey hair who paraded daily before the prison, crying at frequent intervals, “Repent ye and be saved!” There were the bookmakers, who materialized on hanging days to offer odds on everything to do with the execution: whether death would be instantaneous, how long the condemned might strangle before finally suffocating, what method Calcraft might use to speed his (or, occasionally, her) death, and even whether Calcraft might speak or sneeze as he performed his job. There was more variation of the food and drink vendors depending on the weather and, of course, whether there was a crowd gathered for an execution. At those times, there was a distinctly festive feel in the air, and the food reflected it: hot mulled wine, roasted nuts and lardy cakes, rather than the daily fare of boiled puddings and jacket potatoes. After Monday, Mary had exchanged her gingerbread for apples, to reflect the altered atmosphere.

One of the regulars who caught Mary’s eye was a slightly threadbare but respectable-looking lady who stood by the prison gates handing out tracts. Each morning, she arrived a little after ten o’clock with her basket of improving literature and spent her days meekly offering it to all who passed through the prison doors. She seemed inured to angry rebuffs, cold shoulders and the general chaotic rudeness of humanity.

Unusual
, thought Mary. A shabby-genteel widow – the lady wore mourning clothes – was an unlikely candidate for this particular type of religious obsession. Oh, she might earnestly desire the salvation of all souls. But to stand outside a jail, day by day, in highly variable weather? It seemed distinctly strange. Add to that the woman’s serenity in the face of screamed insults and obscene gestures, and Mary thought it possible that the widow was seeking something else entirely.

Could it really be this straightforward? The woman was tall, neither slender nor fat, and much of her head and face was conveniently concealed by a deep bonnet. She just might be Mrs Thorold. But truly, she might be almost any woman in London. What Mary required was a closer look.

Unfortunately, that was nearly impossible. A clear view of the widow’s face would require her to expose her own, and Mrs Thorold was not the sort of person one underestimated twice. As James had learned, she preferred murder to the benefit of the doubt. Furthermore, the widow hadn’t yet attempted to enter the building, so far as Mary could see. If she did, that might justify dramatic action. But for now, discretion remained the better part of valour.

She was taking another turn of the street, keeping half an eye on the tract widow, when she saw him. He was walking in her direction with swift, long strides, his head slightly lowered. His face was a good deal more battered than the last time she’d seen it: a swollen, yellow–purple eyelid and a short, wide scab across the opposite eyebrow were the most obvious injuries, but it was unmistakably Mr Ching. She halted and stared.

His chin lifted slightly and he met her eyes. He did not speak, merely held her gaze as he approached. He had nearly passed her when the words tumbled from her lips, entirely unplanned. “Who on earth could have beaten you in a fight?”

The merest suggestion of a smile. “You think I lost?” His steps slowed but he did not stop.

Mary cast a last glance at the tract widow, who remained serenely in position, and turned to walk with Mr Ching. “I suppose that’s a sloppy assumption. But I saw you fight on Saturday. Neither of the first two challengers landed a blow.”

“The last fight was against three.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “Three men at the same time?”

He nodded.

“But you won the fight?”

Another nod.

Mary scrabbled for a reasonable way to introduce herself, frame her questions. She couldn’t find anything remotely conventional, so instead she simply repeated herself. “I was there.”

“You said.”

“Dressed as a boy.”

“Is that a common English pastime?”

She almost smiled, but his question was quite serious. “No. It is … inappropriate for women to attend prize-fights. I came because my father used to practise your kind of fighting.”

He scanned her face again, carefully this time. “You are not Chinese…”

“Half,” she said defensively. “My father was a Lascar.”

“And he taught you?”

“He was going to. When I was older.”

He nodded. They walked on in silence for a minute, studying each other from the corners of their eyes. Mary watched for a flicker of impatience, a sign that he wished to be left alone, but he seemed remarkably accepting of her intrusion.

“What do you call your sort of fighting?” she asked.

“
Chu jiao
. As you saw, it is faster than English boxing. Uses all parts of the body, not only the hands.”

He must have learned it from childhood, to fight so well. “Did you know you could beat the three men in the last match?”

He shrugged. “Some men, yes. Some no.”

She nearly laughed with shock at such fatalism. It was difficult to imagine being so indifferent to one’s safety …
except
, a quiet inner voice reminded her,
you were once the same way. Before you cared whether you lived or died
. She looked intently at Ching, trying to glimpse signs of the same desperation within this familiar stranger. His face was handsome, beneath the injuries. And young. She realized with a jolt that he was not much older than she.

“Your father is still alive?”

That question would never cease to hurt. She tried not to wince, but her voice was not quite steady. “No.” She rushed on, to cover her emotions. “You learned to fight from your father?
Chu jiao?
” She thought she’d managed a passable mimicry, but he smiled.

“Not ‘choo jow’;
chu jiao
,” he corrected her, in just her father’s tone of gentle chastisement.

She caught her breath, her carefully repressed stock of memories threatening to tumble free. “I must go. Good-day, Mr Ching.”

His chuckle stopped her mid-stride. “You are indeed more English than Chinese.” He grinned, trying not to laugh again, but failing.

“I never pretended otherwise,” she snapped. The tears were still there, just beneath the surface, and her eyes stung.

“I took my stage name from the Qing dynasty,” he explained, still too amused for her liking. “I did not expect the English to know better. But you … your father did not teach you?”

She didn’t bother to answer the question. “What’s your real name, then?” she demanded, as she turned to leave. Not that she cared, but if she knew his name, at least she’d not make the mistake of seeking him out in future.

The look he gave her was deeply patronizing. “Lang Guowei. But English people have trouble with it, so I use the name Jim Lang.”

Mary stood perfectly still. She felt distinctly queasy. As a coincidence, this was simply too monstrous. It was like a stage play, when two long-lost friends blundered across a deserted heath in the middle of the night only to run smack into each other. She’d always been scornful of such theatrical contrivances, and here she was, living one.