GERRUND WENT FIRST, leading me straight down a long steep flight of wooden stairs. The steps creaked and swayed worryingly, but this was small onions compared to our recent travels and, to judge by the buzz of voices coming up to us, a great many men had been down them already and survived.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Gerrund checked and I nodded, though this was not how I had envisaged spending what should have been the first anniversary of Jack’s and my wedding.
Are you sure you’re sure? Hefty, ever the cautious one, double-checked and I nodded again, though I was not very for I disliked venturing underground at the best of times and this did not promise to be one of those occasions.
We reached the bottom and turned right into a cellar, concrete-floored and whitish-washed-walled with a low rough-plastered ceiling and dozens of lamps set around. Here the class of customer had risen. While not quite up to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot’s standards, there were a good many well-brushed toppers to be seen bobbing about. This was the night of champions, after all, and only those capable of laying large wagers had been admitted.
Above the buzz of animated conversation came the yaps, snarls and howls of a pack of unseen dogs.
‘Looks like we are just in time for the big one,’ Gerrund observed as a man in red-and-white striped trousers tucked into his tasselled Hessian-style boots, topped by a long white-and-red striped jacket, strode across the room followed by two lads carrying a large cloth-covered box, about the size of a tea chest between them. To judge from the way that they strained, whatever was in it was heavy.
‘That’s Bill Bradley, the landlord,’ Gerrund told me and went into action. ‘Make way for the lady,’ he cried, muscling through.
‘What sort of lady would enter here?’ a walrus-moustachioed gentleman enquired stuffily.
‘The sort for whom a true gentleman would make way,’ I retorted and he stepped aside reluctantly.
A younger man with beautifully waxed moustaches looked shiftily away.
‘Good evening, Crump,’ I greeted him and the Right Honourable Percival Crumpinton-Chove took his arm from around the waist of a girl who looked uncannily unlike Lady Crumpinton-Chove. He forced an uneasy smile. ‘She slipped and I was helping her to her feet,’ he explained utterly convincingly.
‘Feet?’ she cackled, giving his sideburns a playful tug. ‘Dint usually worked on those.’
The Rt. Hon. winced, more in embarrassment than pain, I suspected.
‘You are kindness personified, Crump,’ I commented, ‘and I do not doubt, bearing this evening in mind, that you will be kind to me too if ever I need a favour.’
The man was a wimp but he had two useful assets – wealth and powerful relatives.
‘Oh most definitely,’ he hastened to assure me and I moved on.
The ring, like most sporting rings, was a square. Surrounded by a solid wooden fence about four feet tall, it was already splattered with fresh blood, though some attempt had been made to smear it around the floor with a mop.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Bradley was announcing, ‘the moment for what we all do wait for. The unbeat, undispooted champion of the world two year runnin’ in a row. I give you the one the only…’ He flung his arms in the air. ‘Li’lllle TICH!’
Little Tich, the comedic star of the musical halls, might have disputed that claim, but he would have been gratified by the enthusiastic cheers that greeted the announcement. From the other side of the ring a door opened and six men pushed through in a column, each of them looking like he could survive a good few rounds with Sledgehammer.
Gerrund bent to put his mouth close to my cheek and for a bizarre moment I thought that he meant to kiss me.
‘The so-called Master,’ he hissed in my ear, and I saw the men part to reveal the infamous Mr Anton Gervey.
Physically, the man who had terrorised a great deal of East Anglia for two decades was unimpressive. He was not much taller than I and even less sturdily assembled. His hairless face was pinched and sallow. His nose was prominent, but his chin receded.
From his incongruous clerical hat to his patent leather shoes Gervey was dressed in black, the only contrast being a glimpse of white shirt behind a tidy cravat.
‘Is he in mourning?’ I asked, only to be told that he always dressed like that.
Inspector Hefty stepped forward boldly.
Anton Aloysius Gervey, he declared, I am arresting you on charges of extortion, blackmail and… Hefty paused to give his last word more emphasis. Murder. But the dapper detective had yet to find a way to make himself heard from inside my skull.
Gervey clicked his fingers. He had the hands of a child and it was difficult to imagine them wielding his notorious razor, though those who survived could testify to his effectiveness with it. The Master’s proudest achievement was to create the Suffolk Smile, a grotesque grin achieved by slicing off his victim’s upper lip.
A stocky middle-aged man stepped forward in a velvet-collared frock coat, carrying a black-and-tan terrier that could have been called Miniscule Tich without fear of contradiction. I had never seen such a short, slender example of the breed.
‘Won’t be pretty,’ my man warned.
‘Oh,’ I feigned disappointment. ‘I felt certain that it would be.’
Little Tich had been lowered into the ring and was trotting about, sniffing the barrier excitedly.
‘Let’s give him a taste,’ Bradley suggested and whipped off the cloth to reveal that the two lads were holding a cage.
About three-foot square it was crammed with a mass of live rodents, and I tried hard not to squirm as much as they were doing when the landlord raised a flap in the lid and plunged his hand straight inside.
‘I am amazed that he does not get bitten,’ I commented as he brought out a fat, wriggling rat.
‘Oh he gets nipped all right,’ Gerrund assured me and I saw that the tip of Bradley’s thumb was missing and the web of it cratered.
‘It looks nearly as big as Tich,’ I observed.
‘Don’t let that fool you,’ Gerrund said. ‘Greased lightning he is and jaws like a trap.’
‘And I thought you spent your spare time reading improving books.’
‘I do,’ he assured me. ‘Improving books on sporting form.’
Little Tich watched eagerly as his prey was held high over his head, struggling in the landlord’s fist, tail thrashing and long yellow teeth bared. The landlord let go and the rat fell, the dog leaping up to meet it and snapping while it was still in the air. A quick shake and he dropped the rat, neck broken, to the floor.
This was greeted with wild enthusiasm by the crowd. Sledgehammer had had to fight thirty-four rounds against Yankee Joe to get such an ovation. Little Tich’s handler leaned over and, taking him by the collar, lifted him out to hold him aloft again.
Gervey watched impassively, his arms crossed with his right hand under his coat.
‘And now,’ Bradley shouted over the hubbub, ‘the moment you all do wait for.’ At a signal from him, the lads lifted the cage over the barrier. The landlord fiddled with a catch and the bottom of the cage dropped, a squirming mass of rats falling onto the concrete. ‘Fifty on ’em,’ he declared and I shuddered as they scurried around the ring looking for escape routes. ‘Who wants more?’
It transpired that almost everybody did – though I did not express a preference – and a second cage was fetched.
‘One hundred rats,’ the landlord bellowed as they too were tipped in. ‘Anyone want get in and count ’em?’
Not surprisingly, there were no volunteers.
I stood on tiptoe, straining to reach over and prod a particularly large specimen with the tip of my parasol.
‘Have a care he doesn’t run up it,’ Gerrund warned.
‘Why are they so sleek?’ I asked, more used to seeing the bedraggled specimens that scurried from derelict buildings and drains.
‘He gets them from a breeder in Essex.’
‘They farm them?’
‘By the million,’ he probably exaggerated. ‘The sewer rats carry too much disease. They’ve had dogs die from a simple nip so owners stopped entering any quality animals.’
That took me aback. I was all in favour of killing vermin, though I wondered about the type of person who would find the process entertaining, but to raise creatures for the sole purpose of slaughtering them was sheer cruelty. Little wonder that there were calls to have the alleged sport banned.
Bradley clicked his fingers and the lads brought a blackboard. It was in two columns.
‘The left hand is how many he kills in five minutes and the right is the odds,’ Gerrund told me, ‘but I don’t need to explain those to you, milady.’
I took a look at the figures.
‘He’s offering eighty to one against Little Tich killing them all in that time,’ I noted and Gerrund tipped his bowler back.
‘He can offer a thousand to one for all I care.’ He flipped his hand dismissively. ‘It can’t be done.’
‘Two crowns says he cops for sixty,’ a skinny man in a round fur hat said, handing five shillings over.
‘A sovereign says the same,’ a whiskery gentleman called.
‘I’ll have a bit of that,’ Gerrund joined in.
‘Where did you get ten shillings from?’ I asked after he had laid his bet. ‘I must be overpaying you.’
‘No danger of that,’ he replied without rancour, for we both knew that I had taken him on when nobody else would and gave him more than the going rate. ‘My winnings from brag.’
‘Why is Gervey not backing his own dog?’
‘He’ll have backed him all right,’ Gerrund assured me. ‘But Bradley couldn’t stand for the kind of wager he would lay. Besides, Gervey will be taking his slice of the profit.’
‘What is the least time in which that Tich could dispatch them all?’ I enquired.
‘The record for a hundred is five minutes and twenty-eight seconds by a dog called Jacko,’ my gambler’s encyclopaedia replied, ‘but that’s held for thirty years now and some say the clock was fixed to run slow.’
I called my fiancé Jacko once, I recalled, though he had turned out to be more of a rat than a dog.
I took another look at Little Tich. He was straining in his handler’s arms desperate to return to battle.
‘Then it is about time that the record was broken.’ I pushed my way over. ‘Five pounds says he kills the lot.’
‘Don’t, milady,’ Gerrund urged.
Bradley snorted. ‘Save your money, gal.’
‘I am not a gal,’ I said, bringing out my notecase, ‘and I am entitled to place a wager.’
The landlord turned away.
‘Here.’ Gerrund grabbed his sleeve. ‘Don’t you show your back to milady.’
‘Take the stoopid mare’s lolly,’ somebody urged from across the ring and a few others joined in. No bookie was supposed to turn down a bet. I followed his gaze across the ring and saw Gervey incline his head a fraction. Bradley stuck out his hand angrily for my notes.
‘He’s never so reluctant to take my rhino,’ a young toff complained.
‘I reckon she knows something,’ his companion declared. ‘Here Landlord I’ll venture a pound on that.’
‘Me too,’ another voice added.
‘Stick ’im in, Cecil,’ Bradley yelled holding up a stopwatch. Gervey gave a nod and the handler virtually threw his dog into the ring. ‘All bets closed,’ Bradley announced to widespread disgust, but there was no time to argue as everyone’s eyes fixed on Little Tich.
The terrier set to work the instant he landed, tossing the nearest rat aside and clamping his teeth on the next without pause. The rats scattered but Little Tich was on them, breaking their necks with an efficiency that any hangman would have envied. I had not thought it possible for such a small dog, but twice he took two rats at once. At the same time as he was killing them, Little Tich seemed to be herding his prey to the sides. Some tried to scramble up the barriers, but there were overhanging ledges on the corners and no shortage of volunteers to knock those who made it up the sides back again with their canes. Others scrabbled frantically at the floor in hopeless attempts to burrow to safety. One rat he had grasped by its hindquarters managed to twist and bite Little Tich on the ear, but I doubt the dog even felt it. He was in a frenzy of slaughter, launching himself with undiminished vigour into the last group, huddled in a corner.
‘Stop the watch,’ somebody yelled.
Bradley affected not to hear but Gerrund strode over and snatched it from him, pressing the button at the same time.
‘Blimey!’ he marvelled, staring at the face. ‘Four minutes,’ he yelled, ‘and fifty-two seconds. A new world record!’
The crowd erupted. They had all lost, but they had been witnesses to a moment in history.
‘They int all dead,’ Bradley protested.
‘Show us a live one and I’ll give it a cuddle,’ Crump’s companion called back to great hilarity.
The poor girl must have been feeling dizzy, for he was holding her tightly again.
‘Give milady her winnings,’ Gerrund demanded and the landlord’s eyes flicked side to side.
‘I int got tha’ much,’ he whined.
‘Now,’ I said and lowered my voice, ‘before I tell them what you have been up to.’
‘Dint know wha’ you mean,’ Bradley protested, but he was busily sorting through his satchel as he spoke.
‘There’s somethin’ fishy goo on here,’ a fresh-faced youth speculated and the crowd began to mill around.
Bradley held out a wad of notes.
‘Do you really imagine I do not know what four hundred pounds looks like?’ I asked indignantly. ‘Or shall I make an announcement?’
‘My mistake,’ he muttered hurriedly, counted out the rest of his notes and added a fistful of coins.
It was still short, I suspected, but it was all he had. I thrust a handful of the money into my handbag and clipped it shut, passing the rest to Gerrund who put it into his satchel. I hoped that his lantern was out properly.
Gervey, I noticed, was already leaving through the back way.
‘Time to go,’ I told my man and we set off. The greater part of a hundred people had witnessed me collecting my winnings and a fair proportion of them would hope to take my prize from me.
A hand grasped my shoulder from behind so I did what any other well-brought up young lady would have done. I turned my head and bit it.
Next time bring a stiletto, Ruby advised but, fond as I had grown of the place, I was not planning on making a return visit. I raised my skirt and, Gerrund in my wake, cantered up the stairs.